#and then does she die before getting to do anything with that??

[thesafflelad]

Like, Carol's husband is about to die, and her first daughter is lost to a fate far worse. Speculative as it may be, she's likely acting out of desperation. Like, pure evil (or pure good) characters don't exist in Undertale nor Deltarune. Titans may be an exception: they either haven't been explained fully or are like traditional demons: they have human-like forms to try and appeal to human beings, but ultimately are fundamentally unable to do anything but reject what is good. That, or they're twisted angels, and whoever forms their fountain is their God," so to speak.

Asgore got so, so much shit for his actions, partly because Toriel dragged him for his grief-stricken choice (and damn-near everyone loves Toriel), and partly because it's implied that only children had fallen into the Underground. He made a stubborn decision out of grief to inspire hope that faded just as fast. He's a desperate man that wants his people to be happy... but tragically, more than that, he wants to give up. He does everything in his power during the fight to have you kill him or vice versa, and with the recent information of larger bullets dealing less damage, he really doesn't want to kill you. Unrelated, he does have boundary issues with Toriel, in both UT and DR. He still refers to her as "my wife," for crying out loud, promising to raise you with her without consulting her!

Flowey is just as broken, too. He's lived for what feels like millions of years doing anything he wants. He can't even die. He's lived the same life for so long that he's detached entirely because of the circumstances of his creation. Asriel was brought back to life in a flower without his soul. Imagine thinking every thought without feeling... anything. There's no chemical that releases for joy or despair or anything, and I assure that some people don't have to imagine. Flowey isn't evil because he can't feel anything; he's a villain because he prioritizes his entertainment over the lives of others, and he only does that because he is deeply, tragically lonely. Once he can feel again, he's still trying to kill who he thinks is his best friend, all because he's convinced everything is a game (I know the likely argument, but Flowey can't view Undertale metatextually). He's broken, alone, and has been without kindness from someone he knows for so long that he can't understand it.

Toriel isn't perfect. She's overprotective, stubborn, and unforgiving; hell, the way she talks about Carol speaks a lot to her character. Though Toriel has a vested interest in the wellbeing of hers and other children, she's known as particularly harsh to others. She's distant from others in her own way, not just physically, but emotionally in most dialogue (not with Sans but he's... weird in Deltarune.) In Undertale, the monsters of the Ruins are scared of her, almost in the same way criminals are scared of Mayor Holiday, and in that game, she only drops her life of resignation and feaux determined might(which parallels Asgore a lot) only when something the player has no knowledge of goads her to do something different. Like... guys, she probably figured out the One Soul plan in hindsight; she would've been just as stuck as Asgore trying to figure a way out for years, and even after she did... would she dare desecrate the souls of children she respected? Would Asgore dare?

Name a fic before 2018 where Alphys wasn't either killed off or had half her research replaced with Gaster's. If it exists, I'd like to read it. Dorked made a great video about her and says a lot of stuff better than I can, so watch it, please. DC;DW: Alphys has some flaws, yes, but she gets so overshadowed by other characters by the fandom and treated like this terrible, unforgivable person for years. She tried something, failed and changed the lives of dozens of Monsters forever, and had no idea how to rectify it, thinking she failed. If you had to tell everyone that your immortality experiment didn't produce the desired results, and that their loved ones will never be the same, I want to imagine having the responsibility of telling the people you think you failed. She's so ready for people to hate her, she's resigned herself to already being hated.

And honestly, going through all that... all wrongdoings in Undertale have a central theme, don't they? Accepting grief or loss, and desperation to cling to a life they knew. Asriel wants his best friend, Asgore wants the person who loved him most and his children and would rather die than live with killing another child, Toriel wants her children back and resents Asgore's path (partially because she would have taken it), and Alphys is so petrified by the only choice she has that she just doesn't act honestly.

Even in Deltarune, Susie is desperate to seem tough and aloof because she grew up as The Scariest Monster, either among humans or other, crueler monsters. Ralsei is a liar because he's frightened that things will fall apart if everyone knows too much. Berdly is so focused on how he's perceived that he'd rather punch down than reveal he can make mistakes. King doesn't want to be abandoned and holds resentment for the people that left him behind. Queen says plainly that she wants to rule the world to give everyone an escapist fantasy, doing only as designed. Tenna just wants people to watch him again, and doesn't try to genuinely kill you until he literally gets told that his audience won't watch anymore. Jevil's mind broke and he thinks himself free from reality. Spamton's mind broke and he's very consciously aware of his limitations and would literally steal the soul of the only person that's ever been kind to him to have agency again.

So... Deltarune's main characters up to this point all have a bit of desperation in them. It's congruent with the theme to believe Carol is the same way. It'd be accurate to assume that unless the Knight is also Carol, a mini-titan, or some secret thing we don't know, that they're just as desperate as well. The more evil and violent the actions, the more desperate. The more scared they are. Honestly, with control freaks, most of the time they're like that because Something Went Terribly Wrong And I Need To Be Able To Make Sure Nothing Goes Wrong Ever Again. It's an escapist fallacy that gives the person suffering some semblance of sanity at the expense of themself and others.

That, or my media comprehension is shit.

"[deltarune character] has gotta be evil" Hey. Hey. Have you payed any attention at all to the way toby writes characters. did you all forget when in like 2016 everyone was going crazy over chara being evil when theyre like. an actual child. and they literally tell you that their actions/dialogue in the no mercy route is a direct reflection of the way YOU act? Speaking of the no mercy route. all those times when characters would say things like "i think youre still capable of being a good person". like. i think its a disservice to these games to try to call any character outright evil. its always more complex than that.

[callmebyyourcallsign]

Touch and Go

Pairing: Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd x Pilot!Reader

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, soft yearning

Setting: Post–Top Gun: Maverick, new elite flight program

Summary: You're a rising star pilot hand-picked for an advanced tactical training assignment. Bob Floyd, calm, brilliant, and frustratingly unreadable, is your WSO. You trust him in the air more than anyone. On the ground, though, your hands brush a little too often. Your silences last a little too long. And Bob? He's already gone, in the quiet, devastating way he always does. Love is mutual, but unspoken. After all, you’re both professionals… right?

Word Count: 4,983

Bob Floyd has always been good at silence.

Not the awkward kind, he hates that, actually, but the kind that sits warm in your chest, wraps around your ribs like a seatbelt. The kind that lives in cockpits and libraries and back porches after midnight. The kind that feels like knowing.

That’s the kind you bring with you.

You talk a lot less than people expect from a pilot with your record. But when you do, it’s always something that sticks. A sharp little joke. A perfectly timed one-liner. Sometimes, if he's lucky, one of those honey-dripping nicknames you toss at him when the others aren't around. Flyboy, mostly. Soft and smug, like you know exactly what it does to him.

Bob pretends he doesn’t.

He's good at that too.

The first time you flew together, you turned around in your seat, grinned through your visor, and said,

“Don’t let me crash and die, Floyd.”
He’d blinked, heart skipping a full beat.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now it’s been months.

You know the rhythms of each other’s breath in-flight. You finish his checklists before he finishes speaking. You know when he tenses by the way his boot shifts under the floor panel, and he knows when you're fighting Gs by the subtle dip in your voice, still strong, still cocky, but just soft enough to make his heart ache.

And still. Neither of you has said it.

Neither of you has said anything.

This morning, on the tarmac, the sky’s the color of the Pacific, soft gray-blue, streaked with sunlight, like someone dragged their fingers through it. You walk toward the jet with your helmet under your arm and a lazy kind of swagger that drives him insane.

Bob is already waiting, running preflight. He hears your steps before he sees you.

“Morning, Flyboy.”

He turns, and God help him, you’re smiling. Not a big one, not like the ones you throw Rooster when you’re teasing, or the bright ones Phoenix gets when she’s kicking Hangman’s ass in a sim. No, this one’s just for him. Subtle. Real.

His hands pause on the panel.

“You’re late.”

You raise a brow. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, looks back down at the jet like it matters. “Wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

Your voice dips, warm like whiskey. “You calling me high-maintenance, Floyd?”

He flushes. Stutters. “No—no, I—”

You laugh, soft and surprised, like you didn’t expect to get that out of him so easily. “Relax. I like it when you're nervous.”

He says nothing.

What could he say?

I think about you every night before I sleep? I replay every flight, every brush of your hand, like it’s scripture? I’ve been in love with you since day three?

So instead, he climbs into the jet and double-checks your oxygen levels.

In the air, you’re like poetry.

You take corners like you’re dancing. Pull into dives with the kind of grace he’s only ever seen in nature, like birds or storms or the ocean at dawn. Bob watches you from behind, one gloved hand hovering by the throttle, the other pressing the radio.

“Looking good, Spook,” he murmurs.

You smile without turning. “Aww, Flyboy. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He swears he hears Hangman laugh over the channel.

Bob clears his throat and looks back at his screen. His heart is loud in his helmet.

After landing, when the others are walking ahead to the locker rooms, you fall into step beside him.

It’s quiet again. But that kind of quiet Bob loves.

“You did good today,” you say after a minute.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”
You bump your shoulder lightly into his. His stomach flips. He wonders if you can feel the way he leans into it just a little too long.
“You still nervous around me, Floyd?”

His voice is soft. “Always.”

You don’t respond, but your hand swings close to his, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

That night, Bob sits in his bunk with a journal he never shows anyone.

He writes down flight stats. Maneuvers. Fuel data. And then, in smaller handwriting, like he’s afraid the ink will betray him

She looked back at me before takeoff.
I think she always does.
I wish she’d stay.

Across the base, you lie still in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the A/C and the buzz of the vending machine down the hall.

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight.

Not with the shape of his voice still tucked behind your ear, and the way he always leaves a little extra space on the ladder, like he’s waiting for you to catch up.

You close your eyes and see his hands. Careful, steady. Always holding something invisible.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you.

-

The storm rolls in out of nowhere.

That coastal kind of wild, thick sky, wind like a punch, lightning cracking in silhouette. Half the squadron’s grounded before they even make it off the tarmac. And your jet’s tucked away in the hangar, warm and dry, but completely useless.

Bob pulls his helmet off with both hands, curls of damp blond hair sticking to his forehead.

“We’re not getting out of here for a while.”

You sigh, pulling off your gloves with your teeth. “Damn. And I was looking forward to fighting for my life at 30,000 feet.”

There’s a beat. Rain slams into the hangar roof like it’s got something to prove.

Outside, someone’s truck backfires. Probably Rooster’s. Hangman’s already making jokes. Phoenix is haggling over vending machine snacks.

You sit on a crate, tugging your flight suit down to your waist, tank top sticking to your skin.

Bob looks like he’s trying very hard not to look at you.

“You cold?” you ask, half-sincere, half-testing.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”

You smile, barely. "You always say that."

There’s only one truck back to base tonight. Everyone else finds a ride, Hangman with Coyote, Phoenix and Rooster squished into Payback’s ridiculous little Subaru.

You and Bob?

You get stuck behind.

It’s quiet now.

Stormy dusk bleeding into navy blue, rain still hammering the roof in a steady rhythm. Bob’s sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, flipping through the manual like he doesn’t have it memorized. You’re pacing. Slowly. Like something inside you’s moving too fast.

“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up.

You pause. “Not really.”

“Me neither.”
He hesitates. “But I brought one of those granola bars you like.”

You blink. “The cherry almond kind?”

He nods without meeting your eyes. Holds it out like an offering.

You take it.

You sit beside him, knees not quite touching.

Twenty minutes pass like a sigh.

Bob reads. You pick at the wrapper. He clears his throat.

“You ever think about what it’d be like... to not do this?”

You glance over. “Fly?”

“Yeah. The Navy. The pressure. All of it.”

You tilt your head back against the crate behind you. “Sometimes. Usually when we’re pulling 7 Gs and I think I’m gonna puke.”

He huffs a laugh. “Same.”
Then, quieter: “But then I think about days like today.”

You turn to look at him. “Rainy and grounded?”

“No.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Flying with you.”

Your chest goes still. Like the storm stopped inside you, just for a second.

You want to say something, anything, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

So you offer the granola bar back to him instead.

He breaks off a piece. Your fingers brush. He flinches, like the contact startled him.

You pretend you didn’t notice. Even though it’s all you can notice.

Later, the lights flicker.

You both look up.

“Power must’ve gone out,” you say, unnecessarily.

Bob nods. “Shouldn’t be long.”

You shift closer to him instinctively. Just a little. Just enough to count.

It’s quiet. Not tense, just full.

Full of things you haven’t said. Of all the times his hand hovered near your back when you climbed the ladder. All the glances across the ready room. All the almosts.

He speaks first.

“You ever think maybe—”
He cuts off. “Never mind.”

You nudge him with your knee. “Maybe what?”

Bob shakes his head. “It’s dumb.”

“Bob.”

He closes the manual. Sets it aside like it’s too heavy now.

“Maybe it’s not just flying I don’t want to lose.”

You look at him.

Really look.

The hangar light flickers again. Thunder cracks like a warning.

You say, so quietly it barely counts:

“Me too.”

And that’s it. No kiss. No confession. Just two people sitting on a hangar floor, sharing a granola bar, rain tapping the roof like Morse code.

But it feels like something.

It feels like a shift.

A holding pattern, sure, but maybe next time, you’ll land.

-

You wake up stiff, aching, and warm.

Bob’s jacket is around your shoulders, too big, sleeves bunched up to your wrists, the collar soft with wear. It smells like jet fuel and cedar soap and the weird, sweet nothingness that is him.

At some point last night, you must’ve drifted off on the hangar floor. He did too, slouched against the wall, one leg stretched long, the other bent, chin tucked to his chest.

The storm is gone.

The world is pale and quiet in the way it only gets just before sunrise. The kind of light that makes everything look like it’s waiting for something.

You don’t move.

You just sit there, wrapped in Bob’s hoodie, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squawk of gulls outside.

Eventually, Bob stirs. His eyes blink open, slow and owlish. He stretches, winces, notices you watching him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and gravel-soft.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He looks down at the jacket around your shoulders, then back up, slightly pink.

“Sorry. You were shivering.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s… Thanks.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say, gently:

“You always take care of me.”

Bob’s mouth opens like he’s going to deflect, say something dumb or self-deprecating, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods.

“You take care of me too.”

It’s quiet after that.

The kind of quiet that says everything’s shifted, but no one wants to startle it.

The truck finally arrives mid-morning. Phoenix hops out of the passenger seat and gives you a look like you good? You give her a look like later. Bob loads the gear like it’s muscle memory, avoiding your gaze but staying close.

When he helps you into the truck bed, his hand lingers at your back.

You think about that all the way back to base.

You don’t see him the rest of the day.

You both get assigned separate pre-flights, different trainers. You wonder if he’s avoiding you or just busy. You wonder why that stings.

Later, you find his jacket still folded on your bunk. He must’ve dropped it off during your briefing.

On top of it, a granola bar. Cherry almond.

Folded underneath, a note. Scrawled in Bob’s neat, awkward handwriting.

Thought you might be cold again.

I’ll be in the sim room tonight. Just in case.

You read it three times.

You don’t go.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because your heart is thudding too loud in your chest and you’re afraid if you see him, really see him, you’ll say something stupid.

Like don’t leave again.
Like stay the night.
Like I think I want you to kiss me.

Instead, you write back.

See you tomorrow.
Save me a seat.

You leave it tucked inside the pocket of his flight suit.

Bob finds it the next morning, just before warm-up.

He reads it, folds it up, presses it into the inside cover of his journal.

Then he smiles, just a little. Just enough to count.

-

The sim room smells like coffee and jet oil and a hint of someone’s off-brand cologne. You’re early. So is Bob.

He’s standing at the control panel, fiddling with his headset, glasses pushed up into his curls. The simulator’s screens are still dark. Outside, the sky’s starting to smudge purple.

“Hey,” he says when he hears you.

“Hey,” you say, voice lighter than you feel.

You take the copilot’s seat beside him. Close, like always. Closer, maybe.

Bob’s legs are longer than yours. One of them brushes yours under the desk. Neither of you moves.

The sim loads.

You start the mission. Standard approach, familiar territory. You and Bob in sync, calling coordinates, updating status, ticking boxes. It’s smooth. Too smooth.

And then, turbulence.

Not real, but simulated. Unexpected.

Your console flickers. You lurch slightly forward.

“Whoa—”

His hand flies out and catches you.

Fingers splay over your ribcage.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

You freeze.

Bob does too.

His hand stays there, warm through your flight suit, palm over your side like a tether. You turn your head. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, breath caught.

“Sorry,” he says, barely a whisper.

You shake your head, equally quiet. “It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

There’s something unsaid sitting heavy in the space between your mouths. Not even a breath away.

And then.

“Pilot One, altitude dropping—”

The console voice crackles, breaking the spell.

Bob pulls back like he’s been burned. His hand drops to his lap. He stares forward, ears red, jaw clenched.

“You good?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Fine,” he mutters.

But he’s not. You can see it. Feel it.

Neither are you.

You finish the sim. Land the jet clean. Call the end of the exercise with the same forced calm you use when your hands won’t stop shaking.

He logs the results. You shut down the system. Neither of you speak.

You walk out together, side by side, the hallway lit with that same bluish hum. When you reach the locker room doors, you hesitate.

“Bob,” you say.

He stops.

Turns.

Eyes soft. Scared. Hopeful. Tired.

You don’t say what you want to.

You don’t say you can touch me again.
You don’t say I wanted you to keep holding on.
You don’t say I think about you all the time.

You just say

“Thanks. For catching me.”

He nods, slow.

“Anytime.”

You part ways. Locker rooms. Showers. Briefings. Dinner.

But when you’re lying in your bunk later that night, wrapped up in the same silence you’ve carried all day, you touch your side where he held you.

Like maybe the shape of his hand is still there.

Like maybe it always has been.

-

It’s weird, not flying with Bob.

Not wrong, exactly. You’re a professional. He’s still on base, still training, still just a few hangars away. But it feels like the air shifts without him in the backseat, like the jet flies fine but not quite right. Like muscle memory tripping over a heartbeat.

The switch wasn’t personal. Scheduling conflict, maybe. A re-routed assignment. You didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. All you know is when you checked the flight log that morning, someone else’s name was listed as your WSO.

And his name was missing.

Your new WSO is capable. Sharp. Quick on comms. He does everything right.

But he doesn’t know how you like your patterns called out. Doesn’t echo your thoughts mid-maneuver like Bob does. Doesn’t glance up at you through the canopy after a perfect landing like he’s proud of you in secret.

You miss that.

You miss him.

Bob’s been quieter, too. Around the locker room. The mess. Even in briefings. He’s not avoiding you, exactly, but he’s not seeking you out either. The silence between you has stretched, uncertain and loaded. Like you’re both waiting for the other to say something first.

And neither of you does.

You catch a glimpse of him two days later on the tarmac, post-run. He’s halfway through a bottle of water, sleeves rolled up, curls damp with sweat. There’s a red mark on his jaw, helmet, maybe, and his eyes are on the horizon like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You open your mouth.

You almost call out.

But then your new WSO claps you on the back, says something loud and dumb, and Bob flinches like the sound hit a bruise. He walks away before you can stop him.

That night, you find yourself in the hangar.

It’s mostly empty, just a few shadows and the hum of after-hours maintenance. One of the jets, the one you flew today, is parked under a dim light.

You rest your hand on its nose cone and stare at the stars through the open bay.

“Miss me already?” a voice says behind you.

Your heart lurches.

You turn.

Bob’s standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.

You try to joke. “You wish.”

He half-smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

That quiet hits you hard.

You swallow. “Why’d they pull you from the rotation?”

He shrugs. “Said they needed me to run backup sims. Training the newer guys.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

Neither of you says what you’re thinking.

Makes sense. But it sucked.
Makes sense. But I wanted to look over my shoulder and see you.
Makes sense. But nothing else felt right.

You sit on the edge of the wing. He stands next to you.

The hangar is all hush and echoes.

Then he says it, softly

“I don’t like not flying with you.”

It’s not dramatic. Not even particularly romantic. But it hits you harder than anything has in days.

You nod, slowly.

“Me neither.”

There’s a long pause. Then

“I’m sorry,” Bob says.

You look up. “For what?”

“For leaving you in the air without me.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

“I don’t feel steady without you,” you whisper.

His breath catches.

Then, gently, he leans his arm against yours. Barely a touch. But it’s enough.

“I’ll be back in your backseat soon,” he says, voice low and certain.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, you feel your heart start to level out again.

-

The base wakes before dawn, but you’re already tangled in thought, and maybe a little frustration.

Bob didn’t show up to breakfast.

No text, no word. Just silence that hums louder than the engines on the flight line.

You sip cold coffee, eyes on the muted chatter of the mess hall, but all you can hear is the thrum of your own heartbeat, tight, impatient, restless.

He’s been distant since the hangar night, like there’s a wall he’s building brick by brick, and every time you try to reach him, the mortar’s fresh and unyielding.

Later, you’re suiting up for another sim run. Your new WSO is ready, calm, competent , but he isn’t Bob.

You glance over at the empty seat beside you, where the cockpit light never flickers without him.

You fight down the ache curling in your chest, because this mission is important. Because professionalism means showing up even when your heart is jamming on stall warning.

You taxi down the runway, engines roaring to life, but it’s the silence in your headset that’s deafening.

Mid-flight, something goes wrong in the sim, a sudden mechanical failure on the enemy’s side. Your fingers tighten on the stick, muscles tense, and instinct takes over.

“Bandit at your six!” you bark into the comm.

“Copy that,” comes a voice you don’t recognize. It lacks the familiar edge you crave.

You’re scrambling, trying to shake the imaginary tail, but inside you’re scrambling for Bob, his voice, his steady calm, his fierce presence.

A bead of sweat runs down your temple. You miss him.

Hours later, back on the ground, you find him in the briefing room, eyes dark and jaw tight.

He’s barely spoken all day, swallowed behind a mask of professionalism.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly. “We need to talk.”

He looks up, startled, like you broke some unspoken truce.

“What about?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “This… us. The distance. The silence.”

Bob’s gaze flickers, like a storm barely contained.

“It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

You cross the room and stand in front of him, heart on your sleeve, voice shaking but determined.

“It is that simple. We don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

He looks at you, eyes searching, and for the first time in days, you see the truth shining beneath the surface:

He wants this too. But fear is tying his hands.

The air between you thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he sighs, low and rough.

“Why is it so damn hard?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

You smile, bittersweet.

“Because it’s worth it.”

And just like that, the dogfight shifts from the skies to your hearts, a battle for courage, for honesty, for the quiet, messy beauty of letting someone in.

-

The squadron’s quiet buzz hums through the ready room, but all you feel is the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs.

Bob sits beside you, closer than before, but the space between you still tastes like a question unanswered.

You both know that whatever was there last night, no, whatever’s been there for months is waiting to be named. Waiting to take shape beyond stolen glances and tentative touches.

You glance at him. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the briefing screen, but you see it, the hesitation. The part of him that’s still afraid to cross the line.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice barely above the hum of the room.

He turns, eyes meeting yours, surprised but steady.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say. “The almost, the maybe, the silence.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

“I know,” he admits. “But it’s not easy.”

You nod, heart pounding.

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

The briefing ends, and you walk side by side to the hangar, the sun filtering through the windows casting long shadows that seem to reach for you both.

Your fingers brush, light, accidental, but this time neither pulls away.

“Why did you stop coming around?” you ask quietly.

Bob’s eyes flicker, vulnerability softening his usual edge.

“I was scared,” he confesses. “Scared of what this could mean. Scared of what I might lose.”

You stop walking, turning to face him fully.

“You won’t lose me.”

His gaze drops to your hands entwined, then back to your face.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says. “Not with you.”

You smile, something gentle and fierce blooming in your chest.

“Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s take the risk.”

That night, the base hums a quieter tune.

You find yourselves on the roof, under a sky strewn with stars, vast and endless, like the possibility before you.

Bob reaches for your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and you squeeze back, steady and sure.

You don’t need words.

The silence between you says everything

This is the beginning.

You lean in slowly, breath mingling, hearts racing, and for the first time, the line you’ve both been afraid to cross becomes the bridge you’re ready to walk.

-

The morning light seeps softly through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. You wake before Bob, your fingers still laced with his, the warmth lingering like a secret promise.

His breathing is slow, steady, a rhythm that somehow feels like home.

You watch his face, the way his brow smooths, how his lashes flutter, delicate and vulnerable. It’s a side of him few get to see, and it makes your heart swell with something deeper than you expected.

When Bob stirs, his eyes open to meet yours, wide and raw and honest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep and something more.

“Morning,” you reply, voice barely a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile bubble you both inhabit.

There’s a long pause, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of everything you don’t say yet.

Bob’s hand tightens around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles like a question.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, eyes searching yours for forgiveness or understanding.

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He smiles then, slow and shy, like he’s afraid to believe it’s real. And maybe it isn’t perfect, maybe it’s messy and uncertain, but it’s yours.

Later, the base feels different.

Every glance between you carries a new weight, every touch lingers longer.

You walk down the hallways with a secret shared just between the two of you, like you’re part of something no one else understands.

During briefings, you catch Bob’s eye and see the spark that’s always been there, only now, it’s not just longing; it’s something steadier, more fierce.

After drills, when the adrenaline fades and the world quiets, you find your way to each other again.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the wing of the jet, the sky a brilliant blue canvas.

Bob sits beside you, helmet set aside, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Ever wonder what it’d be like,” he says softly, “if we didn’t have to keep it all so guarded?”

You turn to him, heart quickening.

“I do,” you confess. “More than anything.”

He laughs quietly, a sound full of warmth and relief.

“Me too.”

For a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of you, breath mingling, laughter light and free.

And then, almost without thinking, Bob’s hand finds yours again, fingers weaving together like they belong.

That night, in the quiet dark of the bunk, you lie awake, the afterglow of the day wrapping around you.

It’s not fireworks or grand declarations, just a steady, simmering warmth, the kind that roots deep and promises more.

You don’t need to say the words aloud.

You already know.

-

The day starts normal, but the air feels heavier, thick with the kind of silence that’s waiting to snap.

You and Bob are prepping for a joint training mission, the kind that demands every ounce of trust and synchronicity you’ve been building. But underneath the routine checklists and briefings, something feels off.

Maybe it’s the way Bob’s eyes flicker away when you glance at him. Or how his jaw tightens just a little too much when the instructor calls out formations.

You want to reach for him, steady him like he’s steadying you. But there’s that wall again, the one you thought you’d chipped away with every quiet moment.

The mission begins with familiar drills, engines roaring to life, the world narrowing to speed and precision.

You’re locked in your cockpit, the steady hum of the jet syncing with the pounding in your chest.

Bob’s voice comes through the comms, clear, but clipped.

“Ready when you are.”

You respond, heart thudding.

The sky blurs around you, adrenaline sharp and bright. You move together, two halves of the same pulse, perfect in motion.

But when you land, the air is still thick with unspoken words.

Later, in the dim glow of the briefing room, you catch Bob alone, staring at a map like it holds the answers.

“I messed up,” he says without looking up.

You step closer. “What happened?”

He swallows, voice tight. “I lost focus during the run. Missed a call. Could’ve put us both at risk.”

You shake your head. “We all mess up.”

“But this—this felt different,” he admits. “Like I’m carrying more than just the mission.”

Your heart clenches. “Bob…”

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and vulnerable. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of what this means—us.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re enough,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline.

That night, the tension hasn’t lifted, but something’s shifted.

You find yourselves sitting side by side, neither speaking, just sharing space.

Bob’s hand finds yours again, tentative but desperate.

And in that quiet grasp, all the fear and hope and longing swirl together.

It’s messy.

It’s real.

It’s yours.

-

The base is quiet in the early hours, a fragile calm that feels almost sacred.

You’re leaning against your jet, the dawn light soft against the glass. Bob slides in beside you, the world outside still waking, but beside him, time slows.

His eyes catch yours, no words needed. The space between you is charged, filled with every unsaid confession and yearning.

“Talk to me,” you finally whisper, voice trembling just a little.

Bob’s gaze drops, then lifts again, steady, sure.

“I’ve been scared,” he admits. “Scared of losing control. Scared of what this means. But mostly... scared of losing you.”

Your heart twists, but you reach for him, fingers threading through his.

“You’re not losing me,” you say softly. “We’re in this together.”

He smiles, small, genuine, and it breaks through every wall he’s built.

The jet rocks gently as he moves closer, breath mingling with yours.

“I want you,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “Not just when the world falls apart, but when it’s quiet. When it’s real.”

You lean in, the distance dissolving, lips brushing in a hesitant, trembling kiss that blooms into something fierce and tender.

In that kiss is everything, the fear, the hope, the long nights and silent battles.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels different.

Brighter.

Clearer.

You rest your forehead against his, breath mingling, heart pounding the same rhythm.

“We don’t have to have it all figured out,” you say.

Bob nods. “No. Just... this.”

Outside, the sky is vast and endless, a promise of more flights, more moments, more love.

And inside this small cockpit, you both know you’ve finally found your safe place.

Ao3

[foxviant]

Not Your Fault.

summary: After a devastating loss, Joel Miller seeks comfort in your arms, battling guilt and grief as you hold him through the storm. Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader. Word Count: 1k Warnings: Emotional guilt, past character death, self-blame, mild language, hurt/comfort, soft intimacy

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He never does when things are bad. The kind of bad that has him slipping through your door long after sunset, eyes hollow, jaw clenched, like he’s holding himself together by threads.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re at the table, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea when you hear the door click shut behind him. You look up, but Joel won’t meet your eyes. He pulls off his jacket like it weighs a hundred pounds and tosses it across the back of the couch. Then he just stands there, shoulders tight, hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You speak gently. “Joel.” His eyes finally lift to yours, and it hits you whatever happened today, it’s more than just a bad run. It’s eating him alive.

Without a word, he walks over to you. One step. Then another. And then he’s dropping to his knees beside your chair like he’s been punched in the gut, like it’s the only way he can stay upright without falling apart. Your breath catches.

“Joel, what—”

“I lost her,” he says, voice broken. “The kid. Tess and I—we were watchin’ her. She was just a kid. Too small for this world. And I let her die.” You reach for him instinctively, your hand brushing through his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s bracing for something. Like he expects you to pull away.

“She got caught in crossfire,” he mutters. “I was five feet away. Five. I should’ve—damn it, I should’ve done somethin’.” You kneel in front of him, hands cupping his face gently, forcing him to look at you.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. His voice rises, raw. “How can you say that? I was right there, and now she’s gone. Another kid, gone because I didn’t move fast enough.”

The silence after that is thick and aching. You’ve heard that tone from him before low, jagged, the same one he used the night he told you about Sarah. But this is worse. This isn’t memory. This is fresh. Bleeding.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him in, holding him so tightly he finally lets out a sound—a broken, stuttering exhale that catches in his throat. He buries his face in your shoulder, clutching the back of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“She was just tryin’ to help,” he mumbles into your neck. “Wanted to be brave.” You stroke his back, slow and steady, grounding him. “She would’ve died even faster if you weren’t there. You know that.”

“She was too young,” he says again. Like he’s trying to argue with fate itself.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just hold him. Let the fire crackle behind you both. Let him grieve. Joel doesn’t cry—not really. But this is as close as he gets. His breath shakes against you, his hands gripping tighter, like he thinks if he lets go, the ghosts will catch up.

Finally, after what feels like hours, you whisper, “You can’t save everyone.” Joel pulls back, eyes red but dry. “That’s what people say when they’ve given up tryin’.”

“No,” you say firmly. “It’s what they say when they’ve done everything they could and still had to survive it. Like you do. Every goddamn day.”

His stare holds yours like he’s searching for something.. punishment, maybe. Or permission to let go of some of that guilt. You reach up and smooth a thumb under his eye. “You’re not a monster, Joel.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like one.”

“You’re not.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t come here to make you hold all this,” he says, eyes falling to your hands. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m glad you came,” you reply without hesitation. “I want you to come to me when it’s this bad.” He lets out a breath. Almost a laugh, except there’s no humor in it.

“I just wanted to see you,” he admits. “Didn’t want to be alone. Couldn’t be.” Your chest tightens. You nod, then guide him gently toward the couch.

“Come here.” He follows, almost sheepish now, like the weight of being cared for is too much. But when you sit down and open your arms again, he comes willingly. He settles into you, his body warm and solid and tired.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. “You don’t have to be strong with me. Not always.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the way he softens, the way the tension in his back eases by inches. The way his breathing steadies into something calmer.

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you whisper. “You’re allowed to hurt.” Joel murmurs something you can’t quite catch maybe your name, maybe just a thank-you but you don’t press. You hold him a little tighter, pressing a kiss into his hairline. And for the first time tonight, he lets go just a little.

[dammit-tazmuir]

I really don't think ambivalent is the right word. He doesn't watch the nun die and go, welp, that happened. He dissociates. His memories through that section get fuzzy and scattered. He's moving mechanically, numb in the way of someone who doesn't know how to process everything they're experiencing, watching everyone else die with that same blank resignation, silently gathering up their souls alongside hers, hers that he'd been so desperate to hold onto, and marveling at how it feels like no one even notices him here? (Did they really not? Because they very much did still drag him out to shoot him. Were they shooting and missing, or hitting such non-vital areas he healed like Nona, and in his stupor he didn't even notice?)

But either way, Y E A H, there's the rest, too. They moved in with him immediately when everything went down, separately from G— giving the other three space. Ten thousand years later, they're still bickering about who loves him more and which of them he loves more. Every other death made him shut down with numb grief, but watching theirs is The Part Where I Hurt You.

And yeah, honestly. I think you're right. Her words as she kills him didn't have to be that. She could have given Augustine's flat "no, John" in the second she was already sliding her hands in. She could have said nothing. She was already in his arms. And when she takes him apart, there's millions of reasons to be devastated, millions of their people after all, but there could have been even a tinge of bitter satisfaction alongside it, and there's not. Critical Mercymorn who has trouble not wearing her heart on her sleeve shows no anger through this. She did what she had to do, what she didn't want to make Augustine do. The sin needed to be hers.

This is the woman whose immediate next plan was to go drop herself in the nearest sun, and was upset by Augustine telling her that was no longer on the table. She saw death as a release from their suffering, and John is just as miserable as any of them. (See: The time Harrow catches him ruminating on the BoE attack and he gets embarrassed, and "It was always I when God ideated failure, as if the rest of you weren't accountable for anything" / "God is a dream, Harrow" / him spiraling into a mid-life crisis after losing everything at the end of HtN / etc.)

She asked him to look right into her eyes— into Cristabel's eyes in her face— and tell her he loved Cristabel. And I do think it hurt more that he does, and I don't think "forgive him" means letting go of her pain or anger and moving on, but this is the Eighth House Saint. I can absolutely see "I forgive you everything, Lord" to mean that she's trying to put her love above her pain, that she wants him to know in this final moment that in spite of what she's doing I Still Love You, that she's trying to make reparations and absolve him in a way. He can't very well keep carrying his guilt if he's dead.

Because that's the thing with John. The Lyctors still love him. Cyth isn't even first-gen and is offended by the suggestion she hates him; she's loved that man for 10,000 years, they all did. Alecto still loves him. Harrow, in spite of everything, still loves him, and has zero fear of him. Gideon, despite everything he did to Harrow before she ever met him, despite her being the saddest girl in the whole world, wants to love him. Pyrrha's been saving a Herald bullet for him but I'd be willing to be she has at least some mixed feelings too. It's to a point that hearing the name Alecto isn't what takes Nona apart. Kiriona says her name over 500 words before and she doesn't immediately react. What takes her apart is specifically "John loves Alecto." They are one soul and that soul is filled with limitless love.

And what could ever hurt more than being betrayed by someone you still love, who you know still loves you and everyone else he hurt, and knowing that neither your love nor his will ever be enough to make things okay?

no denying how repeatedly linked harrow and mercymorn are (tricky & wretched of john to entrust harrow to the person who also had a nun in their equation, and tag ianthe onto someone connected to franticide) but ortus’s declaration towards the end of the book applies more to mercymorn than to harrow — who do we blame when the one we lost is both the victim and the killer? where does that hate go, can we really stomach it? these words a bullet that grazed but ultimately missed harrow, because she could never allow herself to hate gideon again. so she hates the person hating whom is second nature, self blame as familiar as breathing. but mercymorn had resisted leading that emotion to its source, and she lived beside this grief's river mouth for 10k years, and she held that emotion close, but slightly to the side.

mercymorn, shrill, critical, unlikeable pink haired mercymorn rattles my brain because female rage can sometimes work like a bargain. scraps and empties, bruses and falsehoods, anything to placate, to pacify, to pin that rage in place for a little while longer. was there really no other way? was our mission truly worth it? did you love cristabel?

and there was another way, and the mission was not worth it. and god never liked cristabel. the second time she died, mercymorn was there to pick up the pieces, but the first time god left her body and soul alone, bloody and shattered on the cold floor. did that mercymorn, - not mercymorn the first, but the first mercymorn - find cristabel? did she go into that room where he'd left her because she checked for her everywhere? did she go on to die herself for john with ignorance or radical acceptance?

the unloveable mercymorn dooming all the nine planets because she was an atheist in love with a nun; someone who loved god well enough to die for him twice, and did not love mercymorn well enough to live for her once.

and god did not even like her.

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns Part 12

@crowleythesexydemon

PREVIOUS

I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

2k Words or around there, I added more to a part and didn't have to energy to change this, we'll live

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

Bucky was pacing. Not just pacing. Broodingly stalking back and forth by the jet, jaw clenched so tight it could crack steel. The mission hadn’t even started, and he was already spiraling.

Two months. Two. Whole. Months.

Without you. Without even being in the same time zone as you. Without hearing you laugh at John’s dumb jokes, or stealing glances of you curled up with Bob on the couch like the human embodiment of serotonin. Without maybe-accidental-maybe-on-purpose touches in the hallway. Without your camera flash lighting up the living room. Without-

“Relax, Snowflake,” Alexei boomed, slinging a massive duffel over one shoulder. “It is just eight weeks. You won’t die. Maybe.”

“I’m not-” Bucky muttered.

“You’re sweating through your shirt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in love and spiraling, my friend. It is very sexy, very dramatic, but not subtle.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Honestly? You do look like someone just stole your favorite knife.”

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s just the timing. I was gonna- I thought maybe-”

“Yes, yes,” Alexei said, grinning like a man who’d just won the lottery. “You thought maybe you’d finally say something to her before the world separated you. Very movie moment. Except now? You’ll mope like broken dog in the snow for two months. Classic.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You should.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because if she doesn’t feel the same-”

“Then you will know. And die. But at least honorably. Like warrior.”

Bucky groaned. He glanced toward the hangar entrance, heart stuttering - because there you were. Wearing a hoodie three sizes too big (probably John’s), holding two travel mugs, one clearly for him. You always did that. Always thought of him. And now he couldn’t breathe.

You reached them with a sleepy smile. “Did you think I’d let you leave without caffeine?”

He managed a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Bring me back something fun,” you said. “A knife. Or a grenade. Or, you know, souvenirs.”

Alexei elbowed Bucky hard. “Now’s your moment.”

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said to you, too quickly.

“You okay?”

And then it just blurted out. Like his body betrayed him.

“I’m in love with you.”

Silence. Your face froze. Mug halfway to your mouth. Eyes wide. Alexei’s jaw dropped. Ava audibly choked on air.

And Bucky? Bucky panicked. Turned on his heel. Power-walked up the jet ramp like the thing was on fire. Didn’t look back. Didn’t breathe.

“Bucky?” you called behind him, stunned.

But he was already disappearing inside.

“YOU SAID IT!” Alexei bellowed as he entered the jet, nearly snapping a seatbelt in half in his excitement.

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, forehead buried in his hand.

“I mean, you ran away immediately, like scared deer, yes - but! You said it! My matchmaking magic worked!”

Ava flopped down in the seat across from him. “So. What now?”

“I die,” Bucky said flatly. “I die slowly, horribly, wondering for two months if I just ruined the best thing in my life.”

A pause.

Alexei: “Excellent.”

Meanwhile, you stood frozen at the bottom of the ramp, still holding the mug he hadn’t touched.

John strolled up beside you, yawning. “Did he finally crack?”

“…Yeah.”

“What’d he say?”

“I think he said he’s in love with me.”

John blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s-wow. So. What are you gonna do about it?”

You didn’t answer. But a small smile tugged at your lips. And the mug still felt warm in your hands.

Bucky stared at the glow of the tablet screen in the dim tent light, blinking back fatigue. Coordinates. Intel briefs. Tactical layouts. All of it meant to keep him focused on the mission. Instead, all he could think about was you.

The way your hair had fallen across your face during that mission. The stolen polaroid. That half-second before the door blew open. And, most impossibly, that confession - forced out in panic as he boarded the jet.

I’m in love with you.

Why did he say it? Why couldn’t he have waited? Why was he so damn stupid?

Alexei caught his glazed expression from across the table. “Nyet, Bucky. You do not look like man prepared for covert ops. You look like man stuck in love story that is slowly killing him.”

Bucky grunted. “I’m fine.”

Alexei snorted. “You are not. Every time your comm buzzes, you jump like trapped cat.”

Bucky rubbed his temples.

Ava, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes.”

“Not-”

“Yes. You have.”

Bucky gave in. “Look,” he muttered, voice low, “I don’t know if she even wants me to have said it.”

“You said it,” Ava reminded. “That’s something.”

He sighed. “I don’t know if she knows what to do with that.”

Bucky stared out at the fading sunset, heart heavier with every passing day. Two months. Two months of silence, panic, hope, fear. Two months of waiting to see if he’d wrecked everything with five words. He wasn’t sure what scared him more: the confession or the wait.

The jet’s wheels hit the runway, the familiar rumble filling Bucky’s chest like a long-lost heartbeat. Two months away. Two months too long.

Alexei was already bouncing in his seat beside him, grinning like a kid on Christmas. “You survived! You look alive-ish! And maybe- just maybe- you will finally get to tell her again.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t remind me,” he muttered, eyes scanning the hangar.

And then, there you were. Standing just outside the tower doors, arms crossed, looking… tired. And impossibly beautiful. You caught his eye, and for a moment, the entire world shrunk.

As Bucky stepped off the jet, you were already rushing toward him, a tentative smile breaking across your face. “You’re back,” you said simply.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

The rest of the team swarmed immediately - John and Yelena arguing over who’d won the latest arm wrestling match, Bob practically vibrating with excitement, and Alexei already plotting “welcome back” parties in his head.

Bucky felt his heart hammering for reasons beyond the mission.

The team gathered together, laughing, joking. And Bucky was stuck in the middle, watching you.

You were your usual radiant self, teasing John like a sibling, dodging Bob’s near-adorations, and sharing sly smiles with Yelena and Ava.

He wanted to talk to you, to say everything he’d bottled up. But John and Bob seemed to conspire nonstop for your attention, and Bucky’s words caught in his throat.

Later you found Bucky alone on the balcony, staring at the city lights.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you said softly.

He finally let himself exhale. “I have. But I’m here now.”

You smiled, a quiet warmth in your eyes. “And I missed you.”

Bucky’s heart skipped.

“Me too.”

Bucky stood by the window in the common room, heart pounding like a war drum. You were nearby, laughing at something John had just teased you about.

Now or never, he told himself. He took a deep breath and moved toward you. “Hey,” he said, voice low but steady.

You turned, eyes bright and warm. “Hey.”

You stood there, words hovering between you, charged and unspoken.

Bucky tried again. “I-”

Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the moment.

“Bucky! Sunshine! You must come with me!” Alexei appeared like a tornado, arms waving wildly, dragging a giant, garish box decorated with hearts and glitter. “It is time! Time for Thunderbolts’ Greatest Romantic Evening!” he declared with grand flair.

You blinked, stepping back, amused.

Bucky groaned inwardly. “Alexei, what are you doing?”

Alexei grinned, unbothered. “Helping you! You want to win her heart, yes? Then we do this!”

He thrust the box at you. Inside, a chaotic jumble of candles, ridiculous love-themed decorations, and an embarrassingly large stuffed bear.

“Alexei, no,” Bucky started, but it was too late.

John chuckled nearby. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Bob hovered, eyes shining with a mix of adoration and confusion.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, this will definitely be a night to remember.”

Bucky sighed, realizing Alexei’s brand of matchmaking was impossible to resist, and maybe not all bad.

Alexei declared the common room off-limits to everyone but the “romantic committee.” That committee was basically everyone - who all had varying degrees of enthusiasm and terror about what they were about to unleash.

Bucky watched, utterly mortified, as glitter, rose petals, and fairy lights were strewn across every surface with wild abandon. Alexei was the ringmaster of chaos, barking orders and brandishing a tacky “Love Is In The Air” banner.

“Sunshine will be impressed. No woman can resist such glorious effort!” Alexei beamed.

You walked in, eyebrows raised, trying to hide a smile. “Are we sure this isn’t a prank?”

John nudged you. “Alexei’s idea of ‘romantic’ usually ends with a small explosion or an emotional meltdown.”

Bob was perched nearby, holding a giant heart-shaped balloon and grinning like he’d won a jackpot. Every few seconds he glanced at you, who was trying not to laugh at his puppy-like devotion.

Yelena and Ava exchanged amused looks, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Bucky stood by the door, cheeks burning.

Alexei clapped his hands. “Now, Bucky! You must say something! Tell her your feelings. Show her you are worthy!”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’m pretty sure she knows how I feel.”

Alexei narrowed his eyes. “No! She needs drama, my friend! Romance! Passion!”

Before Bucky could protest, Alexei handed him a ridiculously oversized bouquet of flowers - one so big it almost knocked him over.

Bucky smiled awkwardly. “I just wanted to say… I missed you.”

Before he could add more, John tossed a glitter bomb that exploded overhead, showering everyone in sparkles.

“Perfect!” Alexei laughed. “Romance!”

Eventually, the party was finally winding down. The wild glitter bombs had settled into a faint shimmer on every surface, and most of the team had retreated to their rooms or the common areas.

Bucky stood in front of his bedroom mirror, frantically brushing at his clothes and hair, trying to get every last speck of glitter off. The sparkle stuck stubbornly to his sleeve, and his jaw tightened in frustration.

A soft knock interrupted him.

“Bucky?” Your voice was gentle.

He turned to see you leaning in the doorway, eyes curious and warm.

“I thought you might still be awake.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile, wiping a patch of glitter from his cheek. “Yeah… just trying to get this crap off.”

You stepped inside quietly, closing the door, your gaze flickering to the wall across from his bed.

Rows of Polaroids, carefully pinned up. And every single one was you. Or the two of you - laughing, fighting side-by-side, sharing stolen moments, stolen smiles.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

You moved closer, he stood beside you.

“Did you… really take all these?” you asked softly.

He nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I guess I’ve been… collecting moments.”

You reached out, your fingers tracing one photo where you were both grinning after a messy mission.

Bucky’s heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, each beat louder than the last. It wasn't just nerves - it was everything. Weeks of stolen glances. Months of silent aching. Every second spent pretending he didn't want you this badly.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glimmering, searching his face like you were trying to memorize it. Like maybe you were scared this moment might vanish if you blinked.

He opened his mouth, breath catching on the egde of a word that didn't even exist yet. But he never got the chance to speak.

Because you moved first.

You surged forward, hands fisting the front of his shirt like you were done waiting, like you needed him now or never. Your lips crashed into his, fierce and desperate, sparking a fire that had been smoldering for far too long.

His world narrowed to the press of your mouth against his, the sweet heat of it, the shocking force of want finally unchained.

Bucky groaned against your lips, a sound that rumbled from deep in his chest, primal and raw. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in like he needed proof you were real, like he was scared you'd disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.

The kiss deepened in a rush of breath and movement. Your bodies fit together like you'd been made to meet like this - like your bones had been aching to collide. His lips moved against yours, hungry, reverent, starved. You moaned softly into his mouth, and it lit him up like a spark to dry tinder.

You moved closer, arms snaking around his neck, pulling him flush against you. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again. Darker this time - needier.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he gasped into your mouth, his breath stuttering. You took the opening and licked into him with slow, claiming strokes of your tongue, tasting him, teasing him.

He parted for you without hesitation. Like surrender was inevitable.

And it was.

Every touch, every breath, every shift of your bodies screamed the same truth: this had been building too long to be anything but inevitable.

Bucky tightened his grip, hands sliding up your back and pressing you to him like he needed to feel every inch of you- Like he'd waited lifetimes for this exact moment.

And maybe, in his own way, he had.

But then he pulled back slightly, breath ragged. And he looked at you like you were something holy.

“I can’t,” he said, voice shaking. “If you don’t feel the same…” His eyes darkened, vulnerable. His hand came up to cradle your face, metal fingers surprisingly gentle against your cheek. “It would break me. Completely.” He swallowed hard, a fragile hope blooming.

Then, the sharp buzz of the alarm pierced the air.

Bucky pulled away reluctantly. Looking between your eyes for a moment, then taking a step back.

“Duty calls,” he muttered, fingers fumbling to grab his gear.

The team was already assembled when you and Bucky arrived, adrenaline replacing any lingering quiet.

Val stood at the front, her voice steady but urgent. “We’ve got a hostage situation in a remote facility - high risk, high reward. Extraction and intel recovery are priorities.”

John cracked his knuckles, smirking. “Looks like we’re back in business.”

Bob’s face lit up, eager as ever.

Alexei grinned wider than anyone should be allowed.

Yelena and Ava exchanged quick glances, readying their gear.

Bucky’s eyes locked with yours across the room. No words needed, just a shared determination.

[ponlypone]

MOVING FORWARD

Haha hey so I finally make a tribute for the arc I absolutely love from Re:Zero.

As you can see, the concept is as simple as: Those who face the imaginary Reinhard are the ones "who wish to 'save' him." While those who face other sides are ... well, they have their own agenda.

Also, I've just listened to a song that really suits Felt a lot in this arc; that's what inspired me to make this art:

"That's right. What I've always wanted to be isn't a mere heroine, but a hero who goes to the rescue." –––Suisei Hoshimachi "Stellar Stellar"

It's obvious that Felt doesn't fit the mold of a typical heroine or princess. Well, maybe the 'I've always wanted to be' is rather inaccurate because Felt's desire to relieve Reinhard's burden is only developed later on after a year of bonding. (but what can I do. It's part of the lyric LOL). But anyways, the way I see it, she is definitely the "hero" in this story. Simply because she has the desire to 'rescue' Reinhard.

Felt doesn't fight Aldebaran because she wants to get herself a good name to better her reputation for the Royal Selection nor because she particularly resents him, but because "she has the power to fight off the imminently approaching peril and for the sake of her one and only Knight, who bore the duty of being the first one to hasten into such situations." –––quoted from Arc 9, Chapter 18

So ofc I gotta draw her in a way that makes her look like the protagonist here. She's been getting a lot of highlights, after all! (Deserved)

Moving on from Felt-sama... Let's talk about Yae.

I give her a bloodshot, bombastic side-eye because, since day 1, this gurl has been wanting to kill Felt. She even puts Heinkel and Felt together because she hopes they'd kill each other. Her only leash is Al's demand to not have anyone die, ngl.

Now, Aldebaran.

Reinhard to him is simply like a lid to his extreme methods. He needs him alive, but does he care about Reinhard's well-being? Hell nah. Bro is simply one of the tools in his grand plan.

Roy Alphard.

[ashamed, tiny voice] Wow I don't really understand bro actually...! That's why I only put him behind Al and make him far from being the focus of the art, like "hehe this dangerous lil gremlin who is one of the trump cards for the antagonist."

Heinkel.

Aaah ofc he MUST look troubled. Bro has been extremely conflicted here and there since the beginning of this arc. I'm definitely not a Heinkel expert but even just reading his feelings and circumstances, you can definitely tell that he's currently being in complex situations innerly and outwardly. But yes, he is one of the rescue gang..! But let's put him rather behind because he is sneaky sneaky. If anything, I can catch glimpses that he genuinely still cares and loves Reinhard... Man . . .

Wilhelm.

Yknow, he is added rather later in my art draft. Was about to draw him lying on the ground, but no space, also skill issue. So I'll just draw him standing (because lying down will ruin the composition consistency too). Anyway, he is super beaten up from his fight with Yae and Alcanica, not to mention Heinkel's surprise stab. So far, he is out of commission; that's why this one of Reinhard's rescuers is facing downward, with frown tho. Because his last words before losing consciousness was literally something like, "Heinkel you stupid son. Bruh you think your method can save Rein??"

Smh. Honestly these 3 (Felt, Heinkel, and Wilhelm) need to just sit down and have a nice talk around bonfire while eating skewered fish whatever and discuss the best way to save Rein. (I knew it. There is none. Tappei told me btw).

Lastly, Reinhard.

In this art I sure want to emphasize his "resignation" to fate/what the world expects from him. He doesn't object; he doesn't even show effort to run away or break free from his duty. To him, this is something he /must/ do, and that's why he's closing his eyes, absolutely resigned and accepting. He doesn't even wish to be saved. His own feelings don't matter at all before his sense of duty.

Shadow hands are obviously Witch of Envy's to depict their longlasting battle.

As for the halo around his neck, it's Od Lagna (Thanks to @j2x3e for the idea btw!). Sure, he is the saint, the antibody to all the shitty things in Re:Zero world, but apparently, this monster can also feel things, and I can't even imagine how taxing it is to deal with Witch of Envy's overwhelming attacks, nonstop, no rest, can't even have his focus decreased a single bit or else world destruction is guaranteed. Soooo this saint, finds the halo suffocating, choking his freedom, even though he doesn't realize it, or maybe doesn't even allow himself to feel that way because he feels undeserving to let personal emotions cloud him. Thus why, even bloodied and surrounded by harming elements, his face is peaceful just like sleeping! :D Closing his eyes, closing himself from all the possibilities, just keep doing his duty.

Anyway, it's been so long since the last time I got so hyped and excited over a story. Thank you, Tappei.

[drhedicalhalpractice]

Okay fuck I've got more to say on the subject of how Wilson thinks House feels about him instead of just tag ranting (though I'll have to repeat some of that tag ranting) because holy shit my dudes.

As a basic premise, from the very start of the show, it is very clear to us the viewer that House has this best friend who is very, very important to him. That's just never a secret – House, who actively pushes everyone away, doesn't want to interact with patients, pretends he doesn't care about people, never tries to hide that he cares about Wilson. This is both towards Wilson himself and to other people – sure, maybe he doesn't come right out and say it, but it's so very clear in so many things he does and says.

Here's some scenes (very much from memory and out of chronological order, please bear with me) that highlight this very clearly:

After Vogler gets Wilson kicked off the board and Wilson accuses House of not thinking that their friendship (or Wilson's job) matters enough to him to give that speech. House started out making light of the situation, kind of twisting it into a joke, refusing to take accountability etc. but the moment Wilson says that, he immediately sobers and just straight up admits that no, actually, they do matter ° I remember being very surprised by this because this is only in S1 and I didn't expect House to be this sincere with Wilson ° Hell, the pilot had someone asking Wilson if House cared about him and Wilson was like "I don't know", so I took that as an indicator that House doesn't show he cares. But as it turns out, this is very much a Wilson problem, not a House problem!

The "You DOSED me!" conversation. 11/10 one of the most hilarious scenes in the show, but also! House is understandably upset that his best friend is depressed and he didn't know about it, but Wilson straight up tells him to stop acting hurt because he doesn't actually care. This is wild to me because everything in the way House talks suggest that he isn't just mad because he missed a puzzle piece, he genuinely wanted Wilson to tell him about this, but Wilson didn't trust him with it

Living together in Amber's apartment post-Mayfield. Wilson thinks he can't talk to House about his grief after Amber's death and prefers to talk to her instead of talking to House. Even when House directly offers/asks him to talk to him instead, Wilson outright rejects him and tells him that talking to him doesn't make him feel better but talking to her does. ° Amber is dead, she will not reply to him, yet Wilson considers this more of a comfort than anything House would offer him. Except, House is carrying so much guilt about Amber's death, I genuinely feel like he would've made an effort to be supportive in this instance ° In fact, at the start of S5 before Wilson leaves, House even says, "I know you're not [okay], but maybe I can help." and Wilson doesn't even acknowledge it (instead just proceeds to tell him that he should have been alone on that bus, good lord)

Two instances I clearly remember where they're arguing about things House genuinely seems insecure about in their friendship: ° When Wilson moves out of Grace's place and back into a hotel because he doesn't think it's a good idea to move back in with House, House asks him if they're okay despite all of it. His expression in that scene actually takes me out because he looks so sincere and the insecurity behind it is very badly hidden ° "Does it bother you that we don't have a social contract?" The fact that House feels the need to ask this and make sure that Wilson is fine with their dynamic speaks volumes imo

Honestly the entirety of the episode Wilson (S6E10). "If you die, I'm alone." All the trying to push Wilson to grow a spine and not let Tucker take advantage of him. Sitting by his bedside both as he wakes up from surgery and then again while he's recovering from the surgery. In fairness though, Wilson doesn't outright deny that House cares about him in this one.

During the roadtrip to House's dad's funeral. "And there's the foundation of our entire friendship. If you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist." – "Hey, there were 3000 people at that convention. You're the one I thought wasn't boring." imagine being told that out of 3000 people there, the man who notoriously does not care about anything that doesn't intrigue him, picked you specifically to be his friend and has been obsessed with you ever since, and somehow rewriting that into a bad thing??? The way he says the "if you hadn't been bored" part sounds accusatory and kind of bitter, when that's just how friendships get formed sometimes? Wilson, what the hell are you on

The entirety of S8 following Wilson's cancer diagnosis is basically one huge declaration of love from House. But to be fair, I think by this point, even Wilson realizes that (...mostly, even though he still somehow interprets it as a "House needs me so he doesn't want to lose me" kind of thing instead of just fucking accepting that maybe the man just loves* him and that's why he doesn't want to lose him, god) *love being used non-romantically here, even without Hilson goggles on, they just undeniably love each other, however you choose to interpret it

All of this just makes me wonder what the hell Wilson's got wrong with him that leave him so completely and utterly unable to fathom that House could possibly care about him, despite the fact that House very explicitly shows him over and over. Wilson is usually so good at reading House and figuring him out, just not when it comes to himself, apparently. Dude has some serious issues and I am so very intrigued by it <3

[beef-brisket]

Lucifer: You haven't told me much about your son.

Adam scoffed: Which one?

Lucifer: Abel. First victim of murder, huh? That's uh- impressive. Well, it's not impressive - just... sad. It's a horrible thing that happened. He didn't deserve it.

Adam: You don't even know him. How could you be sure he didn't?

The king sighed and fiddled with his pancakes: Children are innocent. They don't deserve hardships-.

The first man smiled: Well, you made sure of that, didn't you?

Lucifer: Adam. Please-.

Adam spoke before shoving a bit of pancake in his mouth: I'm just saying! I didn't sound hostile or anything, just... making conversation~.

Lucifer glared: You're being an ass. No matter what happened in the past between us, Abel didn't deserve that. Neither did the rest of your children.

Adam: Yeah. And your kid didn't deserve it either.

Lucifer: ...The fuck are you talking about?

Adam: She doesn't deserve comfort, safety, security- a fucking bed. When you and Lilith fucked everyone over. It was both of your faults and you went on to fucking live it up. You've never faced any hardships. Even though everyone else is a fucking victim of your bullshit... but that's how it goes, victims suffer while the one who deserve to hurt do the opposite.

Lucifer glared: You don't know what your talking about.

Adam: Oh. Don't I? You sure you want to go there, bud? Do you want me to bring up all of those meetings you made fucking Hell? Like seeing you and her wasn't bad enough. You two had to act like assholes. And you both loved how miserable I looked... didn't give a fuck about my kids then, did you? So don't pretend to give a fuck now.

The king jumped up when Adam stood and started collecting his things: So- that's it? You're just going to say that bullshit and then run away?! You dont know anything anout my life in Hell! Or Lilith's life- or Charlie's life! The only vendetta you have against Lilith and I is because we fell in love-!

Adam: I don't give a fuck about that! You fucking left me! Alone! For two fucking years! And you never came to check on me- or see me- or anything! You acted like I didn't fucking matter! Like all that time we spent together meant nothing to you! We'll, news flash cunt face, it meant the fucking world to me! Do you know how quick I would have left Eden if you just- EXPLAINED shit to me?! Gave me an hour of your fucking time?! What hurt, Lucifer, was the fact that you didn't come back for me, but you came back for her! A bitch you didn't even know! You didn't come when my rib was being torn out! Or when I cried for you! Or when I stopped eating! You didn't come when the angels forced foor down my fucking mouth...! No, you came back for her. Not me. And just when I was starting to trust her, to open up... you two come and ruin that to.

The king stood there, his eyes wide, his heart racing. He's had plenty of arguments with Adam... but this one felt different. Different to the point where Lucifer didn't know how to respond.

Lucifer: I- how many times- can I apologise-?

Adam: Thousands! Millions! Too bad your apology isn't worth shit! Do you really think you can throw an "I'm sorry," whenever the fuck you want and expect me to get on my knees and fucking blow you?! Thank you?! Praise you?! Maybe in Eden I worshipped the ground you walked on... but not now.

Lucifer: I-... I don't...

Adam: You said Abel didn't deserve to die... does that cross over to me?

Lucifer: W-What-?

Adam: Abel wasn't the first victim of murder. And my other son wasn't the first murderer. Eve gutted me fifteen years after we were banished... I preyed to you. Which almost made me fall to Hell. And look. You didn't even care. I'm going to work, y'know, for angels that don't know my name, better than sitting her with an ex angel who didn't care enough about me to go out of his way to check on me in two years. Later, shorty. Don't wait up.

The king watched Adam walk out the door.

Hell's Missing the Devil

@beef-brisket

Lucifer wasn't sure if he had heard Sera correctly but the serious tone and look on her face told him that yes she was in fact serious.

Lucifer: I'm sorry.... What?

Sera sighed, she sounded annoyed: We will put an end to the Exterminations and in exchange you will be up in Heaven as a prisoner.

That..... Didn't sound ideal.

But neither were the Exterminations.

He didn't understand, wasn't the whole point of him falling so that he would never see Heaven again? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

Unless...... There was more to it.

Sera: Think about it. Come back here tomorrow when you've made your choice. Make the right choice for once.

He scowled when she left. What a bitch.

Lucifer did think about it and that's when it dawned on him.

With Lilith gone and now Lucifer, Charlie would have to step up and rule Hell. Which meant that she wouldn't have time to run her hotel.

It was underhanded and sneaky..... It was so Heaven.

But by doing this....... He would be saving his daughter too. He didn't trust them not to go after her one day.

Charlie: Dad you can't.

Lucifer: Sweetie, I..... I know this isn't ideal but it's for a greater good.

Charlie teared up: What am I supposed to do without you!?

It was different when he was just holed up in the manor, at least she knew he was safe at home.

But in Heaven? Lucifer was considered a traitor. Who knows what they would do to him.

Lucifer hugged his baby girl tight: Y-you'll be okay...... I love you.

Charlie: ...... I love you too.

She didn't want to let him go. There had to be a way to bring him home.

The next day, Lucifer went to the embassy where Sera was waiting.

Sera: So?

Lucifer sighed, this felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else to do to keep Charlie and their people safe.

Lucifer: Alright.......

Sera: Good.

She snapped her fingers and a pair of silver bracelets appeared on his wrists and Lucifer suddenly felt very drained. They must be blocking his powers.

With another snap, handcuffs with a chain appeared as well, Lucifer walked with his head down through the portal with Sera.

He would have laughed when he heard Peter freaking out. But any amusement left him when Sera said who he would be staying with.

Sera: You'll be under Adam's watch.

It felt ironic in a way.

Lucifer felt like he had been handed a death sentence as Sera handed his chain over to the first man.

[pesky--dust]

Guys. I’m so weak. I couldn’t sleep thinking and crying because of teacups and Abigail (but also about Mischa and Clarice).

I know that everyone knows these things but let me get this all out of my head (hopefully).

Teacups are one of the most important recurring motifs of the show. Movies accustomed everyone to the fact that Hannibal Lecter is horrendous cannibalistic serial killer and that’s of course true, however I don’t remember anything about teacups/china from there, but it is in fact in the books. Hannibal is passionate about Stephen Hawking theory presupposing that if the universe starts to contract, then time should reverse.

The show’s famous quote was inverted from the book (“Occasionally, on purpose, Dr. Lecter drops a teacup to shatter on the floor. He is satisfied when it does not gather itself together”).

In the show he says he isn’t satisfied when the teacup does not gather itself together, because he does wish it would gather itself together, because he feels remorseful about Mischa’s death and if the universe would start to contract, then the smashed teacup should get itself back together again, and it would mean that he would go back in time to the moment where Mischa is still alive.

And he tries to deceive fate.

In the book he tries to do so by using Clarice but the effect he gains is not the one that was his original plan, if I can say so, however he is still happy with that anyway, as you can tell by “For many months now, he has not seen Mischa in his dreams”.

In the show he uses Abigail for that. He faked her death. Everyone thought that she was dead but it turned out that she was alive. He did it! He turned back time! The teacup did gather itself together! Right? Right???

However, feeling angry about Will, he decides, “Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment. When the teacup shatters.”, and that moment for Abigail is the moment, when her father took her hostage and wanted to kill her. Of course, Will shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs then, but he was so shaken that he couldn’t put the pressure on her wound properly. If it wasn’t for Hannibal, she would die on that kitchen floor (and she also knew that!).

So Hannibal cut her neck in the exact same place as Hobbs. Because the teacup actually was midair the whole time, seconds before smashing, if it wasn’t for him.

Abigail was not his Mischa. She was Will’s Mischa. The child Will had to lose in order to truly understand him and his pain. Hannibal hoped to turn back time but you cannot do it with the teacup that is leaking from the very beginning?

Thank you. All these thoughts made me cry from midnight to two in the morning.

[liberalk1tsch]

Both Katniss and Peeta had to deal with their mothers not totally acting like normal mothers would when their children are being reaped. Katniss's mom knows Katniss gave up on her but a normal mother would do something like say I love you or squeeze Katniss's hand before leaving when she thinks her daughter is going to die.

oh absolutely. it’s something they quietly have in common from the jump. both of them walk into one of the worst days of their lives already knowing their mothers won’t show up for them emotionally.

peeta’s mum says outright that district 12 might actually have a winner this time — and she doesn’t mean her own son. like imagine hearing that. there’s no comfort, no affection, just detachment and cruelty dressed up as practicality.

and then you’ve got asterid. she shows up for the goodbye, yeah — but not in the way katniss needs. she holds her daughters but doesn’t offer anything of herself emotionally. no “i love you,” no “i’m proud of you,” not even the kind of physical intimacy that might suggest she’s about to lose her child. katniss ends up managing the conversation entirely — giving prim survival tips, begging her mum not to shut down again, trying to hold them together even as she’s about to be marched off to her own televised death.

what really cuts deep is that katniss does say “i love you” at the end. and only then do they say it back. it’s like she has to take the emotional lead, even now. like she always has.

so yeah, neither of them gets the kind of parent a child should have in that moment. they’re both emotionally orphaned in a way. it’s not just about being reaped. it’s about realising, in that moment, that if this is it, your mother’s last words to you are still going to be something you had to pull out of her.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Idk why I did this but... enjoy & bonus - I teach you how to do a basic analysis/decode meanings faster by my thought process.

🎤 CAST COMMENTARY - "Colors" by Halsey

(ft. Satoru Gojo, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna. Mentioned Megumi Fushiguro)

filed under: you shouldn’t let men have opinions, but here we are.

GOJO (too loud in the group chat):

ok first of all i just wanna say i’d kill to be described as a lilac sky like that is peak gender

second of all. this song? this song is what it feels like when ur the manic pixie dream boy and the girl wakes up one morning realizing she’s cold and alone and all u ever gave her was serotonin-colored smoke and withdrawal.

the boy in this song? he’s ME. but also I would never treat her like that. but also if i did. she’d still love me. bc charisma.

TOJI:

nah this is about a broke addict who thinks feeling sorry for himself makes him mysterious.

girl thought she could paint over rot.

ended up stained.

GOJO:

wait wait WAIT no bc toji you ARE him. “you’re ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece”? that’s literally what ur fangirls say when u kill people with a smile.

and let’s not ignore the 28 years old thing bc you didn’t even make it there and that’s foreshadowing

TOJI:

i wasn’t addicted to pills i was addicted to violence that’s different

also 28 is a fake number. real men die at 27 or disappear into domestic irrelevance.

SUKUNA (voice like wine and ash):

This composition is not a love song. It is an elegy.

The boy is already a corpse, embalmed in melancholy. She touches him and becomes a pallbearer of his suffering—

and calls it god.

You were red and you liked me ‘cause I was blue…

Such mortal poetry. She did not desire him.

She desired to be desired by him.

To be transformed into something more beautiful than herself.

But purple, alas, was not to his taste.

A union too honest.

Too alive.

He preferred decay.

GOJO:

sukuna what the HELL that was so unnecessarily deep who taught u Tumblr syntax??

also real talk this is literally megumi’s worst fear LMAO. emotional intimacy?? colors??? nah bro’s gonna “everything is grey” himself into an early grave

SUKUNA:

The brat lives in grayscale because it requires no courage. Color demands vulnerability.

TOJI:

he gets it from me.

i just don’t monologue about it.

GOJO:

ANYWAY the part that KILLED me was “i know i’ve only felt religion when i’ve lied with you.” like. that’s such a me line. spiritual awakening but make it horny and sad?

SUKUNA:

She does not know god. She only knows grief. She has confused the two.

TOJI:

she’s not confused

she’s codependent

GOJO:

guys be honest do u think she ever gets over him??

like do u think she dates again or does she just trauma spiral for five years and make niche embroidery accounts where she cross-stitches his initials in different shades of blue

TOJI:

she dates again but only emotionally unavailable men

so yeah basically she never gets over him

SUKUNA:

She dreams of resurrection.

But builds her altar in the ruins.

GOJO:

ur literally a war crime in human form and still said that prettier than a YA novelist on a deadline

TOJI:

don’t feed his ego

he already thinks metaphors count as moral superiority

GOJO:

ok but last point. this whole song is a warning.

you think you’re the main character but turns out you’re the background shade that ruins the painting

and the person who loved you?

they tried to turn trauma into art.

but it bled through the canvas.

SUKUNA:

All mortals bleed eventually.

But some—

do so beautifully.

Now the real analysis I did before that scene -

I know nothing about Halsey nor is this my favorite song or anything, this is just an objective from my perspective, so don't see this as a hate post 📯

Colors is a track soaked in psychological nuance, poetic fragmentation, and a painfully intimate portrait of loving someone who’s drowning—and pulling you under with them. It's not just about heartbreak. It's about the subtle erosion of self when you love someone who's deeply, fundamentally unwell.

Core Themes:

Depression & addiction (coded in “blue”)

Romantic idealization & disillusionment

The slow bleed of codependent identity loss

Unreciprocated emotional labor

Love as transformation—and rejection

Key Lines & Their Psychological Weight:

“Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so / You said your mother only smiled on her TV show”

You're introduced to a man emotionally neglected, disconnected from his family, and probably emotionally unavailable because of it.

The “mother” smiling only on TV implies a performative affection in the household—suggesting deep emotional repression. A man raised without warmth, who doesn’t know how to give it, only mimic it.

“You’re only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope / I hope you make it to the day you’re 28 years old”

This is addiction. The speaker is observing the self-medication, the chaos, the looming sense of early death.

“28” is specific—past the infamous 27 Club. There’s an unspoken grief that’s pre-grieving, the helplessness of watching someone spiral and being too in love to walk away.

“You’re ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece”

Classic trauma bonding. Loving the broken parts. Romanticizing them.

This is textbook for those with anxious-preoccupied attachment—thinking your love will “save” them, because you see the art in their damage. Even if they never see it themselves.

“Everything is blue / His pills, his hands, his jeans”

Color psychology:

Blue = sadness, numbness, overdose, death. But also: longing.

His entire existence is tinted with this depressive fog. Even things he touches or wears are soaked in it. It’s not just his mood—it’s his aura.

“I’m covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams” = the speaker is absorbing his pain. She’s becoming blue by osmosis. A bleed-through of trauma.

“Everything is grey / His hair, his smoke, his dreams”

Blue was his body. Grey is his spirit.

He’s not just sad now—he’s empty. He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t feel. He’s devoid of color. Depression has moved from emotional to existential.

“I know I’ve only felt religion when I’ve lied with you”

This is where the speaker reveals her wound: he was her transcendence.

Not God. Him.

Love isn’t holy here—it’s carnal, dishonest, and desperately needed. It’s not salvation. It’s a substitute for it. A cult of him.

“You said you’ll never be forgiven 'til your boys are too”

His sense of worth is tied to collective guilt—maybe for something they’ve done, maybe just for surviving.

Survivor’s guilt? Addiction group? Brotherhood and trauma?

Either way: he refuses healing unless the whole damn house gets to rise. And he never believes that’s possible.

“You were red and you liked me ‘cause I was blue / But you touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky / And you decided purple just wasn’t for you”

This is the kill shot.

She changed herself to merge with him.

Red (him) + Blue (her) = Purple (the compromise, the union). (bro this is a coincidence but please hallucinate that Gojo made me do it lmaoo)

But then he rejects it. Not because it’s bad—but because it’s not what he thought he wanted.

This is the fate of so many empathic people who try to heal others—they shift, mold, blend… only to be discarded the moment they stop being a fantasy.

Psychological Readout:

The male subject is emotionally unavailable, likely depressed, possibly an addict, and emotionally stuck in childhood wounds. He can’t commit, can’t feel, and doesn’t know how to receive love.

The narrator is an emotional caretaker—a textbook codependent with a savior complex, deeply sensitive, probably with a history of neglect herself. She sees beauty in broken people and thinks it’s her role to mend them by becoming what they need.

Their dynamic is toxic, but tragically familiar. The more he disappears into his fog, the more she paints herself in his colors—until she disappears too.

Conclusion:

"Colors" is not a breakup song. It’s a funeral for identity, a memorial to martyrdom in the name of love.

It’s what happens when you fall in love with a ghost, try to hold it—and vanish alongside it.

The song is a psychological portrait of codependent erosion: the high of being “needed,” the slow horror of losing yourself, and the final abandonment once you’re no longer palatable.

She loved him in full-spectrum.

He only ever saw blue.

Now what do you think? 😏

[fidenciocryptidcreechur]

Love this

Types to be "nonchalant" because they only beg 40 times

ACE (unironically thinks this is him being nonchalant due to how intensely he felt but also he low-key lacks full self awareness in that he knows the action as desperate and he would have made fun of anyone else but he will die before he admits that's how he is. His unawareness is only because he doesn't want to look into it, unironically thinks this is him being nonchalant but if he took a quick sec he'd know),

Sebek (somewhat like Ace, he unironically thinks this is the bare minimum however he thinks this is what everyone should do if they're serious about earning their place, he's doing what he can and he's not doing half assed anything),

Malleus (mr world ending overblot cause my dad is retiring would consider begging 40 times light work how dare you), cater (slightly self aware but like he genuinely could go bigger, this is his tame level of desperate, he will go harder),

ROOK need i explain... That's just how he's gonna act tbh

He knows he's not being nonchalant, perhaps he's even being extremely chalant, he is still gonna beg 40 times he's just self aware.

Jack (he knows what he's doing, he knows how he's acting, he knows, but he really really does care and he can't afford to lose someone just cause of his tsundere tough guy facade)

RIDDLE (he is unwell and can't stand the idea of losing someone and the thought of losing one of his few connections, his few loved ones, sends him into despair. He's fully aware what he looks like and what he is acting like- his mother did quite the job ingraining the idea of what perfect behavior she wanted but he really really can't stand the idea of losing you. He's lost enough connections because of enforced standards and propriety, he will beg. Self aware he's not being nonchalant but he doesn't care)

Azul (he's sobbing on the ground I'm so sorry, i can't be convinced he wouldn't crumble and get desperate in a scenario where someone he cares about and doesn't want to break up with tells him they're gonna leave him but he does have a chance to get them back. Like he's immediately becoming unwell.)

[a-cipher]

a man stands at the literal door of death and says "I want to live" and he's hated for it.

[brionysea]

if stranger things 5 comes out and they're like 'omg! the upside down has been a product of someone's dark and twisted mind this whole time! it's... WILL!' I'll immediately lose interest

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns Part 9

@crowleythesexydemon

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I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

1.2K Words

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

Bucky was in the kitchen, minding his own business with a glass of water and half a protein bar, when the front doors slammed open like someone had kicked them.

Correction: someone had kicked them.

“I win again!” Yelena announced, arms up in victory, staggering only slightly.

Behind her, you were clinging to a coat rack like it might save your life.

“Yelena,” Bucky said slowly, “what the hell-”

“Victory, Barnes,” she said, grinning. “Two vodka bottles, three cocktails, one suspicious flaming shot, and your little sunshine just tried to drink me under the table.”

You pointed at Yelena with deep conviction. “She cheats. She’s Russian.”

“I am better,” Yelena countered proudly.

You groaned and peeled yourself off the coat rack. “I’m gonna die.”

“No you’re not,” Bucky muttered, stepping in before you could faceplant. He caught you around the waist and whoa. You melted into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You smell safe,” you mumbled into his chest.

He blinked. “That’s… nice?”

Yelena saluted. “She’s your problem now,” she said and strolled off humming “Toxic” by Britney Spears.

Bucky managed to get you into your room with only two near-death wobbles and one time you accidentally hit the wall and apologized to it.

You flopped back on your bed with a groan.

“You want water?” he asked.

“No.”

“Ginger tea?”

“No.”

“You want to keep your liver or…?”

You groaned louder. “Stop being so nice. I’ll fall in love with you.”

His breath caught. Hard. But you didn’t seem to notice - eyes closed, one arm over your forehead like a tragic 18th-century poet.

He knelt beside the bed, watching you with cautious affection. “You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

You opened one eye. “You’ll still be here though?” Then - before he could stop you, before he could process it, you leaned forward.

You kissed him. Just a quick, warm peck at the corner of his mouth.

And then you promptly face-planted onto your pillow and muttered something about “space horses” before falling asleep.

Bucky sat there like he’d been hit by Thor’s hammer.

The next morning you walked into the kitchen looking like you'd lost a fight with a blender. Yelena handed you a bottle of coconut water and a fist bump.

John said, “Hey, starshine. You look like someone who made bad decisions and worse friends.”

You groaned. “Someone put a hit out on my skull.”

Bucky was already making toast for you.

You looked up, sheepish, as he slid the plate in front of you. “Hey. About last night…”

He paused. Heart leaping. Maybe-finally-

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said. “I was so drunk. That was… just drunk me being dumb.”

Bucky smiled. Not because he was okay. But because that’s what you do when someone pulls the rug out from under your whole heart.

“No worries,” he said, soft. “Didn’t even register.”

“Oh thank god,” you exhaled. “I’d hate to make things weird.”

Too late, he thought. Way too late.

Bob walked in just in time to sense the emotional tension and announce: “Something sad just happened, didn’t it?”

Alexei followed behind with waffles and said, “It is fine. We will fix it. With matchmaking and carbs.”

And Bucky? He sat in silence, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just tasted something perfect, only to be told it didn’t mean anything at all.

You hadn’t meant to find the box. You’d been looking for an extra patch cable for your comms unit. Bucky’s gear was the neatest of the team’s (which wasn’t saying much - John once stored grenades in his sock drawer), so you’d poked into his cabinet, meaning to just borrow and leave a note.

What you found was a metal box tucked in the back, labeled in faint, near-faded Sharpie: “Journals. Old.”  You didn’t open it. Not at first.

You’d picked it up, and weighed it in your hands. Thought about how heavy it must be to carry your whole life like that - years, maybe decades, of someone who never really let anyone see past the armor.

And you hadn’t meant to snoop. You hadn’t. But there was a photo tucked under the lid, half-sticking out - like it had been placed there and forgotten.

You pulled it free. And saw yourself.

Or more accurately: yourself, blurry and mid-laugh, seated on the common room floor surrounded by empty takeout containers. Bob had snapped it, clearly. And next to you - Bucky.

Looking at you. Really looking. Like you were gravity and he was just… orbiting.

Your heart caught.

At that exact moment Bucky was pacing outside the rec room while Alexei and Bob scribbled on a whiteboard:

“OPERATION: COURTING SUNSHINE”

“I can’t do this,” Bucky muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“You can,” Bob said, drawing a stick figure holding flowers and then labeling it “You but handsome.”

“You are a super soldier!” Alexei exclaimed. “You have faced Hydra, aliens, and American bureaucracy! You can ask a girl to coffee!”

“Not this girl,” Bucky mumbled. “This one makes my hands go stupid and my mouth stop working.”

“She kissed you!”

“She apologized for it!”

“She was drunk, Bucky,” Bob reasoned, kindly. “She probably doesn’t remember how soft you looked after.”

“Soft?!”

Alexei placed a meaty hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We will make her fall in love with you.”

“Please don’t.”

“It is already happening.”

Later in your room, you were still holding the photo when someone knocked. You shoved it under your pillow like a teen hiding contraband and opened the door to find - of course - Alexei.

He beamed. “Walk with me.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“No.”

He led you down the hall like he was walking you to a secret treasure. Which, honestly, with Alexei, was entirely possible. When you got to the training floor, he stopped, looked both ways, then whispered, “It is time.”

“For…?”

“For Bucky to begin his courtship.”

You choked. “I- what?”

“He does not know I am telling you,” he said cheerfully. “But it will help him feel like he has agency.”

“Alexei-”

“Just… let him be awkward. Let him bring you tea. Let him say something strange and broody that means ‘I like you.’ He has been trying to impress you with his knife-throwing skills for a month.”

Your mouth fell open. “That’s what that was?”

“He is very subtle,” Alexei said proudly. “Like tank.”

That night you sat curled on the couch in the common room with a book and a vague sense of unease. Not bad. Just… buzzed. Something was coming.

And then - Bucky walked in. Not in stealth mode. Not with his usual “if-I-don’t-make-eye-contact-I-can’t-be-emotionally harmed” energy. No. This time he came in carrying two mugs of tea. And he sat beside you. Not too close. But closer than usual.

“You like lemon, right?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yeah. You remembered?”

He nodded. You sat in silence. He fidgeted. Took a sip. Set the mug down. Then said, too fast, “You doing anything Saturday?”

You stared. “…Uh, probably not?”

“Cool. I mean- not cool that you’re free, just- ...cool, ‘cause I thought maybe we could-” He paused. Frowned. “Never mind. That sounded less stupid in my head.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re asking me out?”

“…Yes?”

You tilted your head. “Like a date?”

“…Yes?”

You nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Just, maybe make sure Alexei doesn’t show up with a boom box.”

“No promises,” Bucky muttered.

You sipped your tea and nudged his shoulder.

And from the hallway, Bob fist-pumped silently. Alexei wept into a sock like it was a tissue.

[arolesbianism]

Time for more eternal gales isat au, this time featuring Sier as Isabeau, creating a sprite I can never use next to Aris’ because despite my best efforts it would make them look tall