#anyway if you wonder why grant is the way that he is...this would be why

[intrepidacious]

time after time [10]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.2k

chapter warnings: another mystery gets revealed; canon-typical violence; grief; angst and miscommunication but also a surprising amount of fluff; oh, and time-fuckery. i've missed my time-fuckery 😈 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's not friday but i got a new haircut and we're in the endgame now (if you'll excuse the pun) so let's do this

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

ten: about time

You liked the anonymity the big city granted you, even though most days, New York felt almost crushingly huge. The crowds swallowed you up and spat you back out again, feeling dizzied and hollow. Sirens wailed and traffic buzzed and life around you hummed in constant cacophony.

But more people meant a better chance of flying under the radar, and that was exactly what you wanted.

No, what you needed.

Even more so now that you were back in the vicinity of the limelight.

"You know," you said as the building caved in on itself, walls going up in flames one by one. "Sometimes I wonder why anyone still lives in this place."

Sam snorted.

"Seriously," you said, taking your place between him and Bucky again. "Rent is outrageous, the streets are crowded, and every other week another catastrophe happens that insurance companies will weasel their way out of covering. So what’s the point?"

"You didn’t grow up here, did ya?"

You weren’t used to Bucky reacting to your rhetorical questions at all, let alone without venom in his voice. Most of the time, you were sure he tuned you out entirely.

"Why," you said in lieu of answering.

He shook his head. "I’ve been gone a long time and there’s a lot of things that changed, but there’s a feeling you get … that’s still the same. Can’t find that anywhere else."

Like home, you thought with a familiar pang in your heart.

"Can I ask you something?" you asked, kicking a pebble as you were walking. It flew across the sidewalk, landing just in front of Bucky’s shoes. He stepped over it.

"Is there a world in which you’re not gonna if I say no?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

He frowned, clearly not having expected that kind of question. But it tugged at you still. Always had, like a whisper in the back of your mind; what if you chose wrong? What if you irreparably ruined the way things were supposed to go? What if—

"I don’t," Bucky replied.

"Me either," Sam said. "I mean, millions of possible worlds and this is the one we get? I don’t want that to be fate."

You turned towards him. "What if the other options are way worse?"

"Like what? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I’m having an alright day."

"Don’t wanna think about how we might all be puppets pulled by invisible strings with no free will to speak of?"

"Y/N," Sam said, the levity from his tone missing now, tilting his head.

To your right, Bucky’s hands were clenched at his sides, his back very straight. Shit.

A wave of guilt rushed through you, unexpected and brutal, thoughtless, "I didn’t—"

"It comes down to choices," he said, very calmly. "What we are and aren’t able to do. What we know. Who we trust."

You swallowed heavily and dropped the idea of attempting a redo. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t have worked, anyway. "You know, Steve said something similar when I asked him once," you said instead. "About people and choices."

Bucky pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "I bet he did."

Maybe fate, in that one case, would’ve been a kinder option.

For a second, you tried to imagine a universe in which the past had worked out differently; where the Soldier never inhabited that dark place at the edge of Bucky’s mind.

You would’ve gotten along great, you know.

You tried to imagine it for a moment; meeting him back in a time before, walking through the streets of New York City side by side in silence with an easy smile on his face. You doubted he ever smiled at all now.

Besides, there was no point in imagining universes that never would’ve been, anyway. Out there, there was a world in which he’d died a happy man, years or decades ago, and you … you’d still have been alone, just as you were now, floating between realities. Staring at thin air and wondering about what could never have been. That was the only thing constant in your life, the one certainty amidst mediocre decisions and timeless space.

Maybe fate was just an ugly torture; or a sorry consolation.

"Right," you said as the wall of journalists rounded the corner. "I’ll see you back at the Tower."

Bucky clapped Sam on the back. "You got this, Cap."

"You’re both assholes."

You dispersed in opposite directions, and you pulled out your headphones as you headed towards the nearest subway station, putting your playlist on shuffle.

"A long, long time ago … I can still remember how that music used to make me smile …"

It punched the air out of your lungs, and for a moment you stopped in the middle of the street, the world around you pausing in shock. Your vision blurred as slowly, movements and noise returned around you, people bumping into you and cursing as you stared at your screen, the song stuttering back to life note by note.

To your own surprise, you found you were smiling.

Happy accidents, indeed.

* * * * *

It’s never happened, you tell yourself. You’ve gotten quite convincing over the past half hour. Dodge Sam’s kicks, feign to the right, ignore the fact that you just kissed Bucky.

Your rush of Sanctum-induced energy has burned down to a simmer at the very back of your mind again, and even though you should probably examine that and its implications, you’ve not been able to focus all morning.

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not going to say anything about it because it’s never happened.

Why, then, when he says your name, does it make you want to bolt?

"Y/N," he says again.

You let out a breath. "Barnes."

This was a mistake. You should’ve just stayed in your room. Should’ve packed your things and just left, moved to Canada, or maybe asked for asylum in Kamar-Taj. Surely, Wong would’ve taken pity on you a second time.

Then again, what good would any of that have done? The loop would never let go of you that easily.

The symbols around your wrist tingle, and you fight the urge to scratch. You can feel that Bucky is staring at you, but you can’t look at him. You can’t.

"You done?" you say with faux lightness. "Don’t worry, I know which towel to take."

Pretend is what you’re good at. No matter how tiring it is, you’ve done it all your life. There’s no other way to cope with realities that are no longer real.

Unfortunately, Bucky’s never been inclined to let you get away with lying. "Stop it," he says now.

He sounds tired.

You slip out of the ring, keeping your head down, refusing to yield, "I’ll see you for coffee?"

His hand closes around your wrist and you freeze mid-step. "We need to—would you please look at me?"

You square your shoulders and finally turn to face him. His eyes are wide, intense, pinning you down like you’re a rare kind of butterfly. Your heart skips a little, and you hate yourself for it.

"We need to talk about this," Bucky says.

You hide a wince. "Do we have to?"

"Yes! You—" His cheeks are tinged a soft shade of pink, but you can’t tell if it’s from his run or frustration. You’re certain he’s never looked at you like this before, bewildered and almost betrayed—"You kissed me."

The sentence drops a chasm between you, reality mended against its will. It’s not real, but it was; and you’re not the only one that remembers.

"I know," you say quietly.

The admission conjures the memory again in even more horrific detail. You can still feel the way his entire body froze up against yours, blood curdling in your bones as the scene replays over and over again. You’ve only just started to become friends on equal terms, and now you’ve gone and thrown something like that at him.

What a colossally stupid thing to do.

Bucky’s hair is mussed, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly. He searches for something on your face, and you cannot tell for the life of you what he sees. "And it reset the loop."

You blink. So that’s what this is about. Inadvertently, you’ve found the most ill-timed literal loophole of the century. No one died during the last Friday; you didn’t even have to go on the mission or throw yourself off a building. The solution, it appears, is as simple and as complicated as a kiss.

Truly, there couldn’t have been a worse way to make him aware of your feelings.

Then again … what does Bucky know, really? Nothing. He’d caught you in a moment of weakness, is all. A temporary madness. Not a big deal at all. So why make it one?

Your feelings aren’t his burden to bear.

"Look at it this way," you say, with a too-bright smile. "We found a way around you catching a bullet at the end of every day. It’s not like it has to mean anything."

You want to take it back almost as quickly as it comes out, but there’s no way for you to take back the things you say anymore. You both know that, and you let it hang in the air for a while.

Bucky swallows. "Well, did you know that this would happen?"

You want to laugh. Out of all possible reactions he could’ve had, you didn’t see this one coming. "How on earth would I have known that?"

His eyes flit between yours, confirming your honesty. "I don’t know, I’m just—this is a lot to process."

Ah. Ah.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste iron. "Take your time, then," you say and turn to leave, but he still doesn’t let go of you.

"Twe—Y/N, come on, give me five seconds here."

"No, it’s fine." An odd kind of hurt rushes through you, making every sentence come out sharp and poisonous. "I love the fact that you were immediately willing to jump off the roof every day but the thought of us kissing is something you need to think about. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me."

"I know that," Bucky says, his flush darkening, "but call me old-fashioned in that I don’t generally like kissing people transactionally."

So you’re people now.

"You’re old-fashioned," you confirm, freeing your hand from his grip. "This isn’t fun for me either, okay? But since this is literally a matter of life and death, I think it’s a damn good compromise. We don’t have to make this a whole thing."

"Well, maybe it should be a whole thing."

"What does that even mean? This doesn’t change things, not really."

"This changes plenty. You think you like me, don’t you." It sounds like an accusation.

You take a half step towards him. "Why are you saying it like that?"

"Because you don’t, actually."

With a pang, you remember before. The constant bickering, the passive-aggressive notes, your rolling eyes and his glaring. Before, when your feelings were easy and surface level, when developing a crush on James Buchanan Barnes would have seemed as likely as receiving a Nobel prize.

Or unraveling reality because he took a shot that was meant for you.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have taken you this long to decipher what had tenderly started a very long time before Bryant Park. It was there already, in every time you’ve waited for him first thing in the morning, in every cup of coffee and desperate attempt to save him. You see him stone-faced in the quinjet, picking the lock of the public library, guiding you over broken pieces of glass on your bedroom floor, sitting down on the couch next to you, every version of him on this day already so deeply nestled into the very core of your heart that it’s hard to believe it might’ve ever been otherwise.

And so you say, "Of course I do."

"No, you don’t," Bucky says, that tick in his jaw reappearing. "This is just—I don’t know, trauma bonding."

For the first time since the loop started, you actually do want to kill him. "Oh, get a grip, Barnes."

"We’ve never spent this much time together—"

"We fucking live together—"

"—let alone the fact that this whole situation is a nightmare—"

"—and even if we didn’t, I don’t understand what your problem is right now—"

"—so you’re bound to think there’s more to it than—”

"—and also can you stop telling me what I think?"

You stare at each other, unblinking, both of you daring the other to break the silence. Finally, Bucky relents.

"I’m just saying that you wouldn’t be … acting this way if we weren’t the only two people that are aware of what’s happening to us."

You shake your head, slowly. "That’s not true."

His logic is flawed, but can you fault him for that? You’re used to being the person that remembers; you’ve had so much more time to make up your mind, on Friday and all the days that came before.

"You can’t stand me, remember?" Bucky maintains, his back straightening. "Because I do."

"Things changed."

"No." He presses his lips together. "No, not this. You’re wrong. You don’t … like me."

Your shoulders slump, but you don’t look away from him, even as your cheeks burn. "I do."

Even as he backs away from you and your heart aches so badly you want to scream, even as his wide eyes freeze over, slowly, as he regards you in all your fucked-up, sweaty glory. Expecting rejection doesn’t take away from the pain as it happens in real time; and yet, you find yourself meeting it with your head held high.

Somehow you know that even if you had access to your powers right now, you wouldn’t reach for them.

"You can’t do this to me right now," Bucky says, voice devoid of any emotion. "It’s not real."

You let out a joyless laugh and step up to him again. This time, he doesn’t retreat; only watches you with careful, vacant eyes as you put a hand right over his heart. It’s racing under your touch. "Does this feel not real to you?"

He swallows. "It’s temporary. This world is falling apart."

It always is, you think. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you blurt, "We should go out, then."

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. "What?"

"Out," you repeat, your cheeks flaming. "While were not getting shot at."

"Are you—are you asking me on a date?"

"I’m not actually sure," you say, dropping your hand. "But I can’t keep letting you die, I just can’t. And if that’s the way that you … that we …"

You’re being stripped naked under his unwavering eyes, and you just don’t know what it means. The band around your wrist hums lowly through your blood as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palms.

"If we want to figure this out—whatever this is—we should spend more time together."

"Time," Bucky repeats tonelessly.

"You know what I mean. I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll find out we’re never going to get along, but at least I don’t have to watch you die for a couple of loops. Like I said, it doesn’t have to be a big deal," you reiterate, your throat tightening. "Other than you not having to get shot every day. And who knows, maybe we’ll end up as friends after all this."

"Right," Bucky says, frowning. Not budging. The tips of his ears are burning.

There’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s keeping himself from saying something else.

Tell me.

Hope is a terrible, dangerous thing, and it only gets people hurt.

"Fine," he says at last. "Let’s try."

* * *

"Big lesson number one: All the time travel in the world can’t make someone love you."

Out of the corner of your eye, you steal a glance at Bucky. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes calmly focused on the screen, his expression neutral, his back very straight.

You keep twisting your rings around your fingers and waiting for the blood to stop rushing quite so loudly in your ears.

Your run of terrible ideas, it seems, continues on as you pretend to be invested in the movie while hyperaware of Bucky’s presence next to you. The two of you are next to each other on the same couch, much like you were during the fireworks; only this time, you’re very careful not to touch.

This is what you get for stupid suggestions: awkward silence and the sinking feeling of regret. After all, isn’t more time stuck together kind of the last thing the two of you need right now? Shouldn’t you be doing something to try to end this, once and for all?

Because although you’ve already spent a lot more time with Bucky during these past couple of Fridays, you’ve not done it aimlessly since you lost an afternoon at Bryant Park.

That look on his face he got during that loop is long gone, lifetimes away, and you can’t decide if it’s better or worse that he doesn’t even remember getting it in the first place.

Still, it’s remarkably similar, in some ways. The quiet ease you feel next to him, despite it all. The slight frown between his brows as the movie continues blabbering on in the background. This mix of uncertainty and reassurance rushing through you, making your heart rate go up.

Tell me. What? What did it mean, then? What would it mean, now?

It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It cannot mean anything. You’ve established as much.

Alpine slinks around the couch table and jumps up onto the sofa next to you, pawing at your arm until you let her climb into your lap. She doesn’t settle, exactly, but she keeps tracking the movement of your hands with her head. It distracts you for a while, and you smile as you readjust your position to scratch her head.

She smells a little like Bucky.

"This is so stupid," you finally say. Normally, it’s easy for you to poke fun at the inaccuracies of time travel movies, but this one is … different. You’ve always had a soft spot for it, even though you could never point out why. Maybe it’s the underlying melancholy of its rules that connects to the very core of you.

Right now, though, the characters on screen are having marathon sex and you want to die.

"You’re the one who picked it out," Bucky reminds you, taking a sip of his coffee.

And yeah, fine. In your defense, though, all of his suggestions were at least seventy years old and you had to veto with something to avoid another Hitchcock, or worse, a silent film.

Alpine is still restless in your lap, tapping the inlets in Bucky’s arm like they’re a piece of thread she’s playing with. Without warning, she jumps right over, landing in the crook of his elbow with feline precision.

Unexpectedly, Bucky winces, picking her up with his other hand and putting her down on the floor. She lets out an accusatory cry, bumping her head against his leg.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"It’s fine," he hisses, looking the opposite of fine. "It happens sometimes. It’s the, uhm." He rolls his shoulder. "Not all the connective tissue healed properly."

"Can I do anything?"

"No, it’s okay. You might wanna just … this is kinda gross."

He grabs the metal arm by the joint and gives a sharp twist. With a whirring, metallic sound, it detaches from its socket, fingers frozen in their strain. It thumps onto the space between you on the couch, and Bucky sighs as the weight disappears from the old scars hidden under his shirt. He doesn’t look at you as he rubs the aching muscles, his jaw tensing even more at the pressure.

You watch him as softness blooms painfully in the pit of your stomach, warm and fond and impossible.

"I’m disappointed," you say at last, your voice cracking ever so slightly.

His fingers halt for just a moment before digging into his skin even more tightly. "I know it’s not—"

"I’m waiting for the gross part," you interrupt him. "I thought you’d have blood bags installed that were gonna explode or something."

An incredulous huff of a laugh escapes him. "That’s your definition of gross?"

"Don’t forget I’ve watched you die literally dozens of times," you remind him, tracing the golden lines laced through the vibranium. It seems less invasive, now that they’re not attached to him. "And I like your arm," you add quietly.

Bucky keeps looking at the screen, but you know he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye. You can feel it.

"It’s grotesque," he says.

"It’s impressive," you correct, absent-mindedly reaching for his pinkie. "But that tracks."

He stays silent for so long, you almost start to believe he’s not heard you at all. Finally, though, he clears his throat and asks, "Is he ever gonna tell her he’s a time traveler?"

It takes you a moment to remember the movie. "I don’t think so."

Bucky nods, producing the small notebook he always carries from his back pocket. "He’s a dick."

You snort and return to your side of the couch. "I know, right? We can watch something else if you want."

"Nah, it’s fine." He flicks through his notebook, jotting something down in the back.

"Do these keep?" you ask when he pockets it again.

"They don’t," he says simply, redirecting his attention to the screen.

You hum, attempting to lure Alpine closer with a shiny bit of chocolate wrapper. She’s decidedly uninterested.

"Were you so bored with the play you decided to ask me to marry you afterwards?"

"Something like that."

"I haven’t even asked," Bucky says and you flinch.

"Huh?" you say, a little shrilly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh. Yeah. Mostly normal again, I think."

His gaze flits to your hand as it goes to play with the pendant around your neck before returning to your eyes. "Anything … weird?"

You kissed him you kissed him you kissed him you—

"Not really." You clear your throat.

"I think you’re right, by the way," Bucky says.

"About what?"

He keeps staring straight ahead, his pen tapping against his thigh. "It doesn’t have to mean anything."

Even though it was your suggestion in the first place, it stings a little. You can’t help it.

"If Wong’s right, we’re already running out of time," Bucky continues. "We can figure everything else out once we’re out of this loop, but for now we should just focus on getting this right."

You hesitate. "You’re making it sound like we haven’t been doing just that all along."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know."

There’s something you’re missing staring you right in the face, but the problem with going through the same day so many times is that you’re running out of things to do. There’s only so much to do in these limited few hours you get before it all starts over again, because everything apart from the two of you stays the same every time.

Bucky’s arm glints in the morning sun like it’s threaded with gold string, his shoulders relaxed, and a different memory stirs in your mind.

That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked.

"What would you normally be doing right now?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You trying to get rid of me already?"

"No. I’m saying you’re usually more unpredictable."

"Thank you."

"Not really a compliment. Sam has more going on on every given day than the two of us combined, but at least he’s consistent. You’re the one with no hobbies."

"What do you do for fun then?"

"I … Fuck you."

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he blushes.

"So, say there’s no time loop today, no mission, you have no memory of any of this shit. Normal July 4th. Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?"

"Before you remembered, when I didn’t tell you that you were going to die, you always disappeared for hours every morning. And then after Sam’s speech, you were gone again until the mission."

It’s another piece of the puzzle that you’re still missing.

Bucky contemplates you, taking another sip of coffee. His mouth does the little twitch again. "And you’re telling me you’ve never asked me that before?"

"Oh, I did," you reply. "A lot. I also tried following you once and you called me a shit spy."

"Well, you are." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice when he reaches for his arm. "Get your shoes, then."

* * *

It’s a long train ride down to Brooklyn, but it doesn’t feel like it. You manage to get a seat after a few stops, and because Bucky hasn’t said a word to you since you were standing on the platform, you take to watching the people around you.

It’s exciting, in a way, to be in a new space for the first time in a while. Not to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You’ve been making little pockets of time for yourself every now and again, walking different routes home after getting coffee or varying the time at which you leave, but it’s not the same as venturing into a different part of the city. There’s been too much going on for you to have even considered that.

"Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?" you ask after a while, when he has to step over your legs to make room for a stroller.

"Now where’d be the fun in that?" he answers, and then he turns silent again.

A small child is hugging a Mickey Mouse plushie to their chest and pointing at the window, wailing loudly. A girl with a septum piercing and at least three tote bags over her shoulders manages to maneuver a cello case and a scooter onto the carriage, leaning both against the back of some seats before taking out her phone and calmly starting to scroll. An elderly lady watches the whole affair, mumbling to herself disapprovingly, then resumes her knitting.

You catch Bucky already looking at you when you glance up at him. Something about it makes your cheeks heat and turn away quickly.

You remember that his government-issued apartment used to be somewhere near Flatbush, and you have a fleeting thought that this might be where you’re headed, even though that doesn’t really make sense. He still doesn’t make any attempt to move when you pass it by, continuing to stare out the window, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around the handrail above your head.

Finally, the train rolls to its last stop, and you make ready to get off with the rest of the passengers.

"Coney Island, huh?" you say as the heat on the platform slaps you across the face.

"Coney Island," Bucky repeats affirmingly. His hands are back in his pockets, and he doesn’t elaborate, even though you notice the significance in the way he says it.

Two words titling another subchapter in the mystery book that is James Buchanan Barnes.

You follow the masses streaming towards the water and a sigh dislodges from your throat. It’s been way too long since you’ve properly heard the ocean.

The beach is already swarming with people despite the fact it’s not even noon yet, filled with raucous laughter and music playing, but the sound of crashing waves is unmistakable. It fills you with a sense of longing, though for what you’re not sure.

Bucky keeps his hands tucked away as the two of you stroll along the boardwalk, dodging people left and right, until you have to grab hold of his sleeve in order to not get pulled away. His shoulders tense slightly, but he lets you, leading you towards the pier as if he, too, feels the pull coming from the sea.

You can’t figure out the look on his face. It’s like a weight has fallen off him when you left Manhattan, despite the crowds being considerably more dense down here, and yet there’s an anticipatory tension to his frame that you’ve only seen him assume in combat.

You clear your throat and he washes his face off it. "Is it usually like this?" you ask.

"It used to be not quite so bad," Bucky says, which isn’t quite what you asked. "Not this loud at least."

"What?" you shout teasingly. It earns you an eyeroll.

Thirty, you think. Took him long enough.

"We used to come here every summer," he continues, bending down to pick up a perfectly round pebble from the side of the road and weighing it in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. "Ate hot dogs until we were sick. Rode some of the rides if we could afford it. You know them fortune teller automatons? My sisters were obsessed with that."

Maybe you should recount the days you’ve been stuck in the loop, because this feels like an early birthday present. You hold on tightly to his sleeve, not wanting to interrupt the unusual flow of words. Bucky’s smile is miles away. Decades away.

"Becks came with us every year on the fourth, even when she was little. The twins never liked crowds much, but Rebecca loved it all. The noise and the excitement." His mouth tilts up in a grin. "One year, she was desperate for one of those giant stuffed teddy bears you can win," he says, nodding at one of the booths up ahead, "but we were all down to our last couple’a dimes, so she pretended she didn’t want it after all. Steve went, 'Hold on a minute', and he somehow won her that damn bear with two shots."

"Always the hero," you say quietly. Somehow, he hears you through the commotion.

"Yeah." He stops walking, then, leaning against the metal railing of the pier, letting the people flow past you. "The two of us would come here every year before the war, rain or shine, unless one of us was sick."

Nostalgia makes him seem younger, despite the tired eyes and the stubble on his cheek; or maybe this place is its own sort of time capsule and he’s just filling in that space he used to occupy.

"He kept it up." You’re not sure if you should tell him at all, if it helps or if it only makes this day a little more painful. But you figure that if it was you, you’d want to know. "During the Blip, he was always gone for his birthday. Only came home in the evening, I never asked why, though. I figured he just wanted—what?"

Bucky’s snickering. "You know today isn’t actually Steve’s birthday, right?"

"What?"

"He panicked during one of those press tours they had him do in ’41, said his birthday’s on the fourth. Everyone just ran with it without double-checking." He shakes his head. "I mean, Captain America born on Independence Day? The headlines practically wrote themselves."

"But—when’s his actual birthday then?"

"January 4th. Punk made himself half a year older than he actually is."

You laugh. "Of course he’s a Capricorn. That makes so much sense."

Bucky looks at you with raised eyebrows. "Was that a cap pun?"

You shove his arm and immediately regret it when your elbow hits vibranium. "That was terrible," you say. "The point is, he didn’t forget about your tradition."

"That was a while ago, though. 'Specially for him." He ducks his head. "I don’t know. I just wanted to see if …" He huffs mirthlessly. "Don’t think I’d even really want to see him. Not sure what I’d say to him if I did."

"How about, 'Hey, I’m stuck in a time loop, nice to see you?'"

He smiles as you lean against the railing next to him, your shoulders almost touching. "He’s done with that life. It’s fine."

You don’t know how he bears it. Being left behind already hurt bad enough for you, and you only knew Steve a couple of years, or maybe not at all. It sounds too painful, to be forced to keep wondering what if.

"I disagree," you say.

The silence that follows should be heavy, but the sea swallows it up; and so it floats. Around you, life goes on. People are shouting and fighting and laughing. Over at the boardwalk, a couple of buskers are just starting their set. A familiar melody drifts up to you, and it makes your heart ache a little, even though it’s not sad at all. It reminds you of Nat’s smile.

You watch the shadows that you cast over the water and you think, Dance with me, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t want to ruin this moment.

So instead, you close your eyes and you breathe it in.

* * *

You spend what feels like hours at the pier, ebbing and flowing alongside the crowd in companionable silence, the only two people alive that are aware this day is like a snake biting its own tail; beautiful and sharp-teethed.

"Do you think we should head back?" you ask finally.

"You wanna head back?" Bucky says in lieu of an answer.

"We should. What if something happens to Sam again?"

He watches you, contemplating something for a moment, before he says, "He’s not gonna go without us today."

Torres’ message comes back to your mind, the lack of urgency in it. It seems, in the beginning, you’ve gotten a lot of things wrong, and you’re only just starting to chip away at those miscalculations.

Another memory, again of that day in the park.

I’m good, I didn’t end up going …Wanna just go home?

Home.

If the mission doesn’t have to happen today but you always go anyway …

"Do you ask him to go?"

He doesn’t answer, but you know his face so well by now.

"Oh, Bucky."

"Mission’s the easiest way to shut my mind up." He laughs dryly. "So, you see. Nothing about this is your fault. I pushed the first domino. Everything else happened after that."

You tug on his sleeve until he looks at you. "If I’m not allowed to blame myself, then you aren’t, either." Something twists in your gut. "Does that mean we’re not going on the mission today?"

The other question, the one you’re not asking, hangs in the air. Bucky swallows.

"It’s still early," he says.

"Right." You turn around and lean against the railing, looking at the booths on the other side of the pier. "Well, we’re here."

"I’m not riding the Cyclone with you."

You shudder. "Yeah, no thanks. Do people actually willingly go on that death trap?"

"Some idiots do," he smirks.

"Well, that’s not how I’m gonna go down, so no. I was thinking something like that." You point in the direction of one particular stand you walked past earlier.

Bucky follows your line of sight. "I thought you didn’t want any shooting today."

"That was before I saw that I could win a giant stuffed dragon."

"You know you can’t cheat, right?" He falls into step besides you with familiar ease, his hands back in his pockets.

"Let me rephrase that. That was before I saw that you could win me a giant stuffed dragon." You smile innocently and he laughs.

"I got banned from these things in ’36 but I’m sure you got this, sweetheart."

You nearly trip over your own feet as heat spreads in your chest. Bucky turns and looks at you in amusement.

You force yourself to ignore it, even though your heart is beating wildly. "That’s such a brag."

"Maybe I just want to see how your aim’s coming along."

Not at all, as it turns out. You walk away from the shooting gallery fifteen minutes later with a little plush keychain that looks like a sleeping bear, pouting.

"You could’ve helped me out," you grumble. "Instead of acting like they have your picture still up there ninety years after the fact."

"You never know. Besides, this is … cute."

"Oh, shut up, Barnes."

The keyring clacks against the back of his hand as it magnetically sticks to it. Your fingers brush as you keep holding onto the little bear. Bucky shakes his head.

"Besides," he says, gently tugging you along with the keyring still stuck to him. "You couldn’t have kept him."

He’s not wrong. Everything around you is set in stone in a way that permanence itself has lost all meaning. How can things ever be expected to change in a closed experiment?

You look around and marvel at all these lives around you, happening in just this way every single day in this loop, and yet this is the first time you’re truly aware of them. All these small, magnificent people around you, and yet it still boils down to the two of you.

"Listen, Y/N …" Bucky clears his throat, not looking at you as you keep walking. "There’s a dance to these things, and I’m not … you and me, we’re not …"

His cheeks are a dark shade of pink.

"I don’t think I follow," you say slowly.

"No. Of course. It’s just that … you should know …" He trails off again, mumbling something in Russian.

Your head is already whirring from the constant noise of the past couple of hours, but your heart is pounding faster again, something irrational like hope spreading wild and dangerous in your chest. He regards you with a sidewards glance, his eyes darkening like you’ve seen several times before now, the corner of his jaw twitching in that way of his; and so it’s easy to say it.

"Tell me."

You’ve asked him over and over, time after time, and you still haven’t gotten an answer. Weeks, months of this question that’s entirely meaningless in the grand scheme of things and yet refuses to leave the back of your mind.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, like the words are on his tongue but he needs to contain them just a little longer. His eyes trail over your face and off to the side, settling on something with a frown. "You have a …"

Thinking it’s a bug, you look at your arm and blink.

There, just below the elbow, someone has written four words in careful, slightly wonky letters. You don’t have to twist your arm to read them; you’ve done it many times.

No self-deprication. Скажи ей.

Familiar and slightly smudged under the heat of the afternoon sun, like they’ve been there all along. Like you’ve never washed them off your skin at all.

Memories meant for other timelines.

"Sorry." Bucky exhales slowly, then drags his other hand through his hair. "Think you’re up for another stop?"

Once again, you’re no closer to finding out what on earth he’s wanted to tell you all these times.

"Depends," you say, reminding yourself that you have no right to be disappointed. "Is there going to be coffee?"

"I’ll buy you some on the way." He takes a look at his wristwatch. "We have one last stop."

* * *

When you get to the cemetery, the sun is just setting on the horizon and the gates are locked. It doesn’t faze Bucky in the slightest. He just continues walking along the fencing until he reaches a couple of newspaper boxes lining it.

"After you," he says.

You stare at him. "No."

"Yes."

"You realize this is so illegal, right?"

Bucky shrugs. "I’ve done this dozens of times and they’ve not caught me yet. I’ll give you a lift."

"Again, I hate your ideas."

You place your foot into Bucky’s interlaced hands and only wince slightly when he propels you up. You come to a wobbly halt on top of the box, grabbing onto one of the spikes to keep your balance.

Bucky’s arm brushes your side when he climbs up next to you and nimbly jumps down on the other side of the fence. You sigh.

"You couldn’t have just busted the lock?"

"Probably." He opens his arms. "Come on. I’ve got you."

With a murmured curse, you take the leap. You crash into him, stumbling, his hands steadying your shoulders. You inhale involuntarily, letting yourself be surrounded by his presence for a moment before stepping away.

"I got it," you mutter.

You walk in silence as Bucky leads your way. Above your heads behind you, a passing N train rattles by.

It’s a beautiful sight, even though it’s sad. Rows upon rows of gravestones lined up as far as the eye can see, with paths crisscrossing between them.

Finally, he halts close to a spot in the shadow of an evergreen tree. You step up next to him to read the names on the stone, recognizing only the last one right above the inscriptions on the bottom.

REBECCA PROCTOR BARNES, 1926-2024

You remember the time right after he moved into the Tower; the odd hours, the baking, the candles, the silence, the long hair. The tear in his shirt. Your heart twists in regret, your mouth dry.

Bucky’s lips move with words you don’t hear, and then he pulls off his gloves and takes something out of his pocket, bending down. You recognize the pebble he picked up at the beach. He puts it down on the gravestone, then straightens again.

You reach out for his hand and squeeze it in silent condolence. Instead of letting go, he interlaces your fingers. His hand is warm.

Several minutes pass before he tugs on your hand again, pulling you to a bench a few steps back. You’re not sure what to say, and so you stay quiet, biting the inside of your cheek until Bucky bumps his shoulder against yours.

"I think this might be the longest time you’ve shut up since I met you."

You scowl at him. "I was trying to be respectful."

A small grin flits across his face. "There’s a first time for everything."

Another train passes resoundingly, an oddly mundane sound in such a solemn place; still, it adds to it, in a way. It makes you think of putting your loved ones on a train, then waving them good-bye; just for now.

"Where are your parents?" you ask softly.

"Back in Indiana. They moved to take care of my dad’s parents and then stayed to manage the house and all that." He closes his eyes. "I’ve not been there since I was fifteen years old, but I still remember the way the trees smell in summer right after it’s rained."

"And the twins?"

"Mira got married, moved out of state, died while I was in cryo. Jo was in a car crash in ’58. Apparently, she drove races."

You settle your head against his shoulder. "Did they have children?"

"Miriam did. I have a great-niece who’s an architect in Seattle."

"Fancy."

"Right?" He sighs. "It was always Becks and me, though, when we were kids."

"Do you come here a lot?"

"Not as often as I thought I would. But it’s good to remember things."

"Tell me about her."

You can hear his smile when he speaks again, and it’s almost better than seeing it. "She was exactly the kind of little sister you’d read about in novels. Pigtails. Sweet. Annoying as hell." He chuckles. "One time when she was nine, she ate so much cotton candy she was sick all over Steve’s shoes. And that made him sick."

"Gross," you comment, which makes him huff in amusement. Good. "You must miss her a lot."

"Yeah. I do." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "You’d have liked her."

The admission blooms in your stomach, warm and wistful at the same time. "Somehow, I don’t doubt that."

"Do you have siblings?"

You sit up straight again. "What?"

Ask me tomorrow.

"What?" Bucky asks.

"Why did you ask me that?"

He looks at you like he just can’t figure you out. "I don’t know, it seemed appropriate."

"It’s just … you asked me before. In the loop."

"I have?" His brows knit. "Is it important?"

You hesitate, then shake your head. This day has been full of surprises you can’t make sense of; what’s one more? "I guess not."

"Well?" He looks at you expectantly.

"When I grew up … let’s just say super powers don’t exactly run in the family."

It comes out slower this time, your memories of the past, and Bucky listens just as carefully. You twist your rings around your fingers, over and over again.

"When you can do what I can do … even with my family around, I never felt like I could actually be a part of them. They never really understood what my powers meant and I … I think it scared them. Which I get now, after a shitton of therapy, but try explaining to a six-year-old why her dad never really talks to her."

"That’s horrible."

"I know. But I’m fine now." Strangely, unexpectedly, you find that you really mean it, too. "And then after that … I mean, you know. Those five years I had at the Compound were the first time I felt like I had a real family. We were all kind of broken together."

Bucky stays silent but you can tell his attention is still focused on you.

"I wasn’t in a very good place when you and Sam found me. I’d just lost everything. But then … that mission happened, and I was needed again even though you despised me—"

"I didn’t—"

"—but the truth is, fighting with you was the most fun I’d had in a long time."

"Ditto." He’s still looking at you as if he’s searching for something. As if he didn’t know all your secrets now. Finally, he looks away, clearing his throat. "It’s getting dark."

You nod. "Give me one second."

He watches you let go of his hand and walk back towards Rebecca’s grave, pulling out your keychain and setting it down as well. It looks like the little bear is resting its head on Bucky’s pebble.

The look on his face is heartbreakingly unreadable when you return, and it makes your insides clench in desperation. You come to a halt in front of him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"We won’t make it ’til midnight," you say.

"Probably not," Bucky agrees.

"And I don’t want to have to go on that mission."

"Me neither."

Your eyes lock.

"Are you going to lose your mind again?" you say quietly.

He looks at the ground between you, hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket again. "No promises."

You swallow heavily. The anticipation makes you near dizzy, even though you’ve agreed that this doesn’t mean anything.

Your breath still hitches when his lips fan over yours, barely touching at first, just hovering, testing the waters. Like either of you have anything to lose. It’s making your stomach flutter.

In the end, you’re the one who leans in properly. You intend for it to be a short peck, but it’s just too tempting to linger, careful, soft, slow. He tastes like your coffee order: a little sweet and a little bitter.

You could see yourself becoming addicted to it.

The thought makes you break the kiss, your hands still on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.

Bucky’s eyes open heavily, dark and blue and confused. His cheeks are flushed. "We’re still here?"

You are. You’ve made a fool of yourself. He’s going to die, anyway.

In a panic, you take a step backwards, blinking, wrapping your arms around yourself. Between one blink and the next, you realize you’re sitting in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Your lips are still tingling.

* * *

Something has shifted.

You can feel it in the air, humming like it did at the Bleecker Street Sanctum, vibrating with something akin to anticipation. The colors of the astral plane, warped and peculiar as they always are, feel sharpened, more insistently vibrant in their hue.

What now? the walls seem to ask, curling towards you as soon as you’re not looking at them directly; a presence hovering over your shoulder, close enough to feel its strange, otherworldly heat.

You reach for your necklace and feel its magic pulsating slowly and steadily, reassuring you. These ghosts cannot harm you in here; not yet, at least.

And yet, you feel this place quivering with kaleidoscopic impatience, straining against some invisible malevolence unraveling its very core with needle-pointed talons.

Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime.

The symbols around your wrist are prickling, and when you examine them more closely, you notice they have started to lift off your skin, sitting there loosely like a worn-out bracelet.

"Y/N!"

Between one blink and the next, you’re squinting at an unforgiving midday sun, and you tumble backwards against a solid chest. Bucky’s arms come up to steady you as you take a gulp of air. It feels like you’ve been holding your head underwater.

"What are you doing up here?"

Slowly, confusion settles into your bones as you take a look at your surroundings. Somehow, you’ve gotten up to the roof again.

"I don’t know," you gasp, twisting in his hold. You can feel your pulse rushing through your ears. "I don’t remember."

You’ve not been able to forget anything in decades, and now it’s like that easy cord of memory has been snapped at some point between the astral plane and here. Gone, like that time has never existed in the first place.

Bucky studies you carefully, his face sober. His hands firm around your forearms, grounding you. It’s what does it, you’ve realized. The loop doesn’t snap back as long as you’re touching.

That doesn’t mean anything, though.

The important thing is, you’ve not woken up blood-soaked in nearly a week.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

For a moment, the sky turns wild behind his head; you smell magic and fire as purples and greens and oranges swirl around in lazy, misty clouds, the stars glittering impossibly at the corner of your vision.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens and it all fades away until nothing remains but the intense blue of his eyes. You wonder if he might’ve noticed the colors, too, if he’d just looked away from you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah, that’s a good call."

His gaze flickers down and then leaves you, and it makes you want to restart the loop right then and there. Or at least have him look at you like that again.

It can’t mean anything and you know that, but if hope kills him, then let it break your heart into a million pieces. You welcome the ache. It’s much better than the alternative.

Curious, how you used to feel like you’ve known him for so long, through textbooks and newspaper articles and anecdotes told on long Campus nights. It’d always been hard for you to recognize the person from those stories in the man who was living just a few doors away from you and emptying your fridge. Hell, most days it was difficult to even imagine him capable of a smile.

But things are different now.

Over the course of this one, endless day, you’ve met a side of Bucky you’d barely believed existed before. A gentler person than he usually lets on, even towards you. Funny, too. Stubborn and capable, vicious, loyal, brave. So much more than meets the eye at first, not just the memory of a person, but a real, breathing, flawed, wonderful human being.

He’s got no clue, you think, how easy it is to fall in love with him.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

You stare back at him, and a shiver runs down your spine. His brow starts to furrow, and so you nod. "Sure."

There’s no time to overthink this, especially not if time starts acting up again. And so you ignore the nausea in your stomach and the fact that, when Bucky holds the door up for you, the sun catches one of your rings in a way that gives it a soft emerald sheen for just a second. When you try to reach out for your powers, anyway, there’s that same surge of emptiness you’re already so familiar with.

Another fluke, then.

Or even more things that are starting to slip through reality’s cracks.

"So you’re both stuck in a time loop," Sam says skeptically.

"No way," Peter pipes up, eyes wide and astonished. "Like Palm Springs?"

"Really? Palm Springs? What’s wrong with Groundhog Day?"

"What, like—like the musical?"

Sam looks at you accusingly. "Who’s the kid again?"

"You gotta get with the times, bud," Bucky smirks, absent-mindedly scratching Alpine between the ears.

"That’s the million dollar question," you reply, turning to look at Peter. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg, his gaze flitting between the three of you. "Because whenever we tell you about this, you’re not surprised that we know you, you’re surprised we remember you."

He chuckles awkwardly. "Is there a difference?"

"There is," Bucky says.

"You’re not aware of the loop," you continue, tilting your head, "so you might be a symptom of it starting to break down."

"Thank you?"

"It would explain why you think we would know you. Maybe you’ve slipped in through some other part of the multiverse."

"Oh," Peter says, blinking. "Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—no, that’s not what’s happening here."

"I know this is a lot."

"It’s not. I mean, I get what you’re saying but this is not a multiverse problem in—the way you’re thinking."

You’re starting to get a headache. "So you are aware of the time loop?"

"No! That’s all—wow. I’m, uh, look …" He coughs, sitting up a little straighter. "So we’ve actually—it’s a bit more complicated than that because, well, there was this—"

"Ever been to Germany, kid?" Bucky interrupts.

All three of you turn to stare at him. Alpine continues to clean her paws.

"I … yeah, once," Peter replies, a curious look on his face. "Through an internship, why … why?"

Bucky nods, his expression unreadable. "He’s a dead end."

"Hey!"

You glance at Sam, but he frowns at Bucky, too. "How do you know that?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Wanna share with the group?" Sam deadpans.

"I’m good."

You rub your temples with an exhausted groan. If Peter doesn’t have anything to do with the loop brushing against other realities at all, you’re quickly running out of ideas. And time.

You manage a vaguely apologetic smile when Peter comes up with an excuse to leave, then continue to stare blankly at your own hands, twisting your rings around your fingers over and over again. They remain relentlessly black.

What’s the point, you think, and not for the first time. What the hell are you supposed to do when every path you start on leads you back in a damn circle like that stupid snake swallowing its own tail?

It used to be a comfort to know you’ll make it out of the loop somehow, but geez, you’d love to be as certain you’d succeed in not destroying the whole multiverse in the process.

Unfortunately, that outcome seems less likely with every Friday that passes. You’d have to make your move soon, but you don’t know what it is. You don’t know how. Even with the majority of the pieces of this day laid out, you still can’t make out the big picture. You don’t have all the answers.

So what’s the fucking point?

"Okay," Bucky says, leaning over the back of the couch until he can look at your face upside-down, "what the hell is going on with you?"

* * *

"I really don't think this should be our priority right now."

"And I think I definitely want a distraction," you say. "How do you feel about sage green?"

"I don't recall," he says pointedly, and you immediately regret your new honesty policy.

"I'm fine, I promise," you say, putting another paint bucket into your shopping cart. You’ve decided that since nothing fucking matters, you’re going to repaint the living room. "Careful, or I'll start thinking you worry about me."

"Will you stop pretending like you don't know I do for one second?"

You ignore him, staring at the shelves intently. "How about lilac?"

"Y/N," he says in that tone.

"Bucky," you echo.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" you ask, choosing a particularly ghastly shade of canary yellow just to spite him.

He grabs the wiring of your shopping cart to stop you from escaping into the next aisle. "Look at me."

So you do. "I’m fine, Buck."

It’s just that you’re skirting towards an emotional breakdown the likes of which this loop has never seen before. No big deal.

"What are we doing here? Literally, why are we here?" The metal squeaks as it dents between his fingers. "What are we even trying to do if you won't let me in?"

"What do you want me to say?" you ask in exasperation. "That I'm terrified? That I don't know what's happening? You know that already. I've never been an enigma to you. I remember every detail of my life in full technicolor, and it's been exhausting, but this … forgetting things, that's worse."

"You think I can't relate to that?" Bucky says, and your fingers twitch. Old habits.

"That's not fair."

"Neither is you saying we’re in this together and not acting like it. Why are you still trying to carry everything on your own?"

"Because it’s my responsibility—"

"No, it isn’t," he interrupts. "Even if I did die that first time, it still wouldn’t be your responsibility or your burden."

"Burden?" you say thinly. "You think your life is a burden?"

"Twelve."

There's a pull in your stomach at the old nickname, even though you know its intended meaning now. It's making you realize he hasn't used it since your trip to Avengers Campus. "Don’t Twelve me right now."

"Where is everyone?"

You turn around.

The aisles surrounding you are completely empty, like the few other shoppers that have been in here with you have just vanished off the face of the earth. You frown, leaving the cart behind to look around the corner. The store feels bigger, somehow, now that no one else is here. Your steps echo on the laminate flooring; in the distance, there’s some tinny music playing through the speakers, but there’s no other sound.

"I don’t like this," you say.

"Stay right there," Bucky says, stepping up next to you.

You scowl at him. "Did you just pull a gun out of your pocket? Do you always bring that thing when you go shopping?"

"I don’t," he says. "Do you usually wear your tac suit?"

"I’m not—" You look down. "Okay, something is very, very wrong here."

The aisle has grown in length, like you’re walking through an endless, brightly lit tunnel lined by bare shelves. When you look back, it stretches just as far in the other direction, the exit barely visible on the horizon. In a way, it’s very dreamlike, reality warping to create this odd alternative of itself.

"Stay behind me, at least," Bucky says, raising his weapon. He’s still in his civilian clothes, but a stern look has washed over his face.

"In your dreams, Barnes."

He rolls his eyes.

There’s only one way to go and so you continue walking, the aisles crossing yours continuously seemingly leading nowhere. Finally they disappear altogether as the shelves morph into a sort of avenue which shrinks down even more, the lights dimming. Your feet hit granite.

"This is impossible," you say.

"I think this is what Wong meant," Bucky replies grimly.

"We need to go back right now," you say, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s only darkness and stone. "Bucky—"

He pushes you out of the way as a shot sounds through the tunnels, and one moment later you’re swarmed by white jackets on all sides. You curse, rolling to the side and reaching for the knife on your thigh. It’s not there.

"We need to get out of here!" you shout, using your fist instead. Your pendant pulsates around your neck, but when you reach for your powers, there’s still an invisible wall barring you from using them.

"I thought you wanted to pick out paints," Bucky yells back.

"I don’t understand why you’re so mad about the—"

"I watched Groundhog Day."

If it could, time would freeze. You’re begging it to. "No."

"Yeah," he says, shooting at a white jacket. A spray of blood speckles their uniform. "It’s funny. A little fucked up, if you asked me, but when you get to the crux of it—"

"We’re not having this conversation again," you say, punching another one of them in the face. "We’re not."

"Why not?" Bucky demands. "I’d love to have been a part of it as well."

You let out a frustrated scream. "It’s not gonna work like Groundhog Day."

"You don’t know that. Unless you’re not telling me something."

"For fuck’s sake," you yelp, barely evading a knife aimed at your stomach, "do you really think I’d keep it from you if I had slept with you?"

Bucky twists the gun out of someone’s gloved hands and shoves it into yours. "You’re keeping something from me and I want to know why."

You’re back to back now, both of you trying to catch your breath. With the moment of surprise gone, your opponents are circling you now, waiting for your next move.

And you find yourself breaking.

"Your ma liked Voltaire," you say. "Your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip and your favorite coffee order is mine. If you drink it black, you do this thing with your mouth that I’ve never seen anyone do, and it’s weirdly sweet." You let out a breath. "You have a fucked-up sense of humor, which I think is great, and you watch Hitchcock movies even though you don’t particularly enjoy them, which is just so stupid, and I’ve never met anyone who gives better hugs than you. Satisfied?"

You can feel him straighten behind you. "You’re deflecting," he says.

With a frustrated groan, you shoot at the next white jacket breaking formation. "Maybe I want things to be as simple as a damn movie as well, but they’re not. It’s fictional. Four o’clock!" You duck and Bucky hits the one coming from the side over the head with his arm. "It’s a bunch of writers coming up with a bullshit idea of love saving everyone’s problems once again. The girl falls in love with the guy, the loop ends, la-dee-dah-dah, day over."

"Yeah, that’s way more absurd than what’s happening here."

"Well, clearly it’s not fucking worked out so far, so if you have any other suggestion, I’m all ears."

A beat passes.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to stay vigilant. It’s out there now. You need to get out of here.

Bucky sounds very far away, even though he’s right there with you. "What are you saying?"

Your vision swims slightly, and you blink through it. Shoot. Kick. Protect. "Don’t," you say, shaking your head. "Don’t play stupid with me right now, I swear—"

"Y/N—"

"It doesn’t matter, alright? It doesn’t change shit because we’re still stuck in this nightmare that keeps getting worse, and it doesn’t matter what I feel because you don’t feel the same way anyway, and I’ve just been trying to—"

"I do."

You fall silent, staggering on your feet at the emotion in his voice.

"I do," he repeats. "I have."

"What?" Your voice cracks on that single word.

His magazine runs out and he throws the gun away, cursing under his breath. "You think every movie should be ten minutes shorter, as a rule. You don’t really like your job, but you’ve also never sat still for a minute in your life and you’d rather be miserable than ask someone else for help when it comes to money or, well, anything. You hate being alone with your thoughts, but you also wouldn’t admit that with a gun to your head."

Like magnets, you turn at the same time, reaching for each other. There’s blood on his nose. Your hands are shaking.

"I’ve been in love for you for months now and it’s been literally fucking killing me."

Tell her.

The tear falls.

"So stupid," you whisper.

He looks at you in that same way he has countless times before; you’ve never been able to put your finger on the emotion in his gaze, but now you know. You know.

And then a shot rings in your ears and you sit up in bed, the sun in your face, music blasting,

"—when I’ve known this all along—"

Your door slams shut behind you as you run across the hall to the elevator, repeatedly hitting the button to go down.

"Are you okay?" Sam shouts from the doorway just as the doors ping open.

"Fine!" you shout back, naked feet almost slipping as you hammer on the button to go to the lobby.

You can’t wait for Bucky to get back. You’re going to have to find him. Surely, he can’t be that far from the Tower anymore. Maybe you should’ve changed out of your pyjamas, you think on your endless way down, besides, you don’t know at all which direction to go, unless—

The doors slide open to reveal Bucky on the other side, panting. His blue eyes lock onto yours immediately, mirroring your own feelings of terror and hope.

"You still remember, right?"

"Yeah," he says, and your last resolve crumbles to pieces.

You both move at the same time.

It’s a little like having your powers back, because the world around you stops and ceases to exist. Nothing else is real except Bucky’s arms coming around you and pulling you into him, his mouth crashing into yours, your back pressing against the elevator wall.

Nothing about your previous brief, careful kisses could have prepared you for this one. It’s desperate. Neither of you is holding back anymore, all things laid out in the open and expressed in every starving touch. You want to live in this moment forever, breathing him in, swallowing every sound he makes.

When you finally have to come up for air, you involuntarily tighten your grasp on his hair, your eyes shut tightly, afraid you’ll be zapped right back to your bed. Instead, you feel Bucky chase your lips with his own, breathing heavily, his arms still steady and firm around you.

You look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, soaking all of him in. "Don’t let go," you whisper.

He steps even closer until your chests are fully touching, and he catches you easily when you wrap your legs around him.

"Never," he mumbles into your mouth, and then he kisses you again.

* * * * *

There was a package on the kitchen table.

It was addressed to you, which was concerning since you hadn’t actually ordered anything. Even if you had, you’d have used a fake name and had it sent to a p.o. box.

You’d rather be overly cautious than risk getting caught over a clothing delivery.

It wasn’t a very large package, only about the size of a shoe box. Still, you didn’t know what to make of it. You just stared at it from a safe distance.

"Are you gonna open it with your mind?"

You flinched slightly at Bucky’s voice right behind you. "You did this," you said sharply.

He crossed his arms, looking at you with something like a challenge in his eyes. "Do you wanna look inside before you kill me?"

Frowning, you ripped the package open to reveal a metal container. When you put it down on the counter, the locks unlatched with a low hiss. Inside, there were six simple, perfect black rings in differing sizes.

You turned to Bucky again. "What is this?"

"They measure fatigue. At least that’s what they’re supposed to do. May I?"

You were stunned enough to nod without thinking, watching him take one of the smaller rings out of the box. He reached for your hand and slid it onto your pinkie. It was a perfect fit, cool against your skin, just like his vibranium palm. You could feel your pulse rushing in your ears.

The ring turned a beautiful emerald green on your finger.

"Mazel tov," Bucky said. "You appear to be awake."

Your mouth was very dry. He was still holding your hand. "Who did you tell about me?"

"No one. Only that I know someone whose abilities are tied to their energy, and who could use a way to track that more easily." He dropped your hand and leaned against the counter, observing you. "So you’ll be able to tell how many redos you can manage without fainting."

Your thoughts were racing, confusion and awe taking the place of your left-over anger. You put another one of the rings on and watched it turn green on your finger.

"Thank you," you finally whispered. "You don’t know what this …"

Bucky nodded as if he did. "Consider it a peace offering."

"You—this is—can I hug you?"

He looked stunned for a second, stunned and maybe something else, but then he tilted his head and you wrapped your arms around him before he could take it back. It was a bit weird at first, awkward and stiff, until then he carefully put his arms around you, too, gently pulling you in.

Oh, you thought, this is nice.

Bucky’s head was touching yours and the scent of his shampoo made you slightly dizzy. When you let go of him, there was a strange look in his eyes, one that made you take half a step back with an embarrassed chuckle.

"You’re a good hugger, Barnes," you said.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look away, either.

That’s what made you do it: that look. You didn’t know what to make of it, and suddenly you didn’t feel ready to let go.

"Consider it a peace offering."

You looked at your hands. The ring on your pinkie had maintained that glorious shade of emerald green, but the other had turned black. You laughed a little.

"This is incredible," you told Bucky earnestly. This time, you didn’t stumble over your own words. Instead, you watched his face. "Can I give you a hug?"

It wasn’t just surprise that passed over his features, but you couldn’t pinpoint the other thing. His arms enveloped you again and you sighed a little, burying your nose in his shirt until the warm smell of him was all you breathed in. It was just you and him in that moment, and your ever wandering mind was strangely soothed by that thought.

You didn’t let go when you had last time. You just stayed where you were with your eyes closed, letting Bucky rub the lightest circles on the flat of your back. He could probably feel your heartbeat, but for some reason you didn’t care.

"For the record," you mumbled after a while, "I’m thankful, but I’m also still annoyed with you, so this doesn’t change anything."

You could feel him hold back a surprised chuckle and it made you giddy even as he drew away.

"Wouldn’t expect anything else, doll." He takes another step back as if he’d only just noticed how close you were still standing. "Anyway, at least now we’ll know whether bringing you along will actually be useful."

And there it was, albeit with the usual venom in his voice. Maybe he really did mean it as a peace offering. You were willing to believe it for the time being.

"You’re a strange man, James Buchanan Barnes," you said quietly, shaking your head. Hiding your smile.

"Says the time witch."

You gasped in mock surprise. "Did you just call me a witch? Does that make me one of the Big Three?"

Bucky groaned. "It’s not a thing."

You ignored him. "I want a giant black hat for my birthday so I can scare little kids on Hallowe’en. Ooh, and a cauldron. Sam!" You turned to face the opening door. "Bucky finally admitted it!"

"Admitted what?"

"That I’m one of the Big Three!"

"Big three pains in my ass, maybe," Bucky muttered, the tips of his ears turning red.

"There’s just three?"

"Shut up, Sam."

You slipped on the rest of your new rings in delight and watched them each turn a slightly darker shade of green. The one you’d put on earlier stayed black, though, at least for now, as if to remind you the moment had happened.

It wasn’t breaking your promise, you told yourself. After all, he hadn’t shared anything with you at all. If anything, it had been the other way around.

It was just going to stay yours until you figured out what it meant.

chapter eleven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also fun fact, my chapters are long enough to crash my drafts whenever i try to post so if you made it to this point, please do consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog. i don't get anything else out of writing this, and i really do love every single one of them.

[seelestia]

✧ i'll show you (if you'll let me).

⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )

#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }

#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.

#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡

© seelestia on tumblr, may 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

★ 〜 masterlist.

will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.

you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.

and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?

(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)

but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.

(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.

time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?

time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

ticklish.

the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.

there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.

“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.

there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.

“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.

“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”

his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.

you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!

every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.

“mwah, mwah, mwah—”

“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”

(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)

will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.

(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)

the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.

if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.

(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)

veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.

mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”

at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.

looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?

✧ a moment among the stars:

“...yet another headache.”

as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.

you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.

a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.

(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)

veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”

oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.

you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.

“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.

“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.

(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)

“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.

“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”

“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”

(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)

“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”

“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.

“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.

(your heart skips a beat.)

will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.

how mysterious.

but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?

your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.

pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.

(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)

the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.

fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.

(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)

if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.

as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?

(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”

sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.

“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”

you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.

he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”

or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.

(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)

“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”

“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.

most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.

“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”

you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?

(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)

will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?

after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?

but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.

(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)

dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”

(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)

sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.

(it remains persistently.)

when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.

when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.

(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.

but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”

you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”

he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.

“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.

“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.

“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.

dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.

“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.

(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)

“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”

“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.

“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.

(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡

[fairyysoup]

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

[earthsparked]

It just slips out as you climb out of Optimus’ enormous hands, cupped supportively around you. Thanks, dad!

Across the room, Ratchet drops a wrench with a ping and clatter onto the concrete. Jazz bursts into cackles and hoots of laughter. Bumblebee bzzts and hides his face behind his mask, also laughing but trying not to let you see.

You freeze, cringing like you’ve never cringed before. You did NOT just call this military-robo-Pope older than your entire species, “DAD.” You did NOT just call this mech, who is effectively your boss as a cultural ambassador to an entire alien species, “DAD.”

Except you did, and your face is flaming red as you slowly turn to him, apologies springing to your tongue as you imagine with a sinking heart the thrashing you’re going to get from your human handlers when they find out you’ve insulted the leader of the Autobots. Oh god, the Decepticons are going to take over your planet because your parents divorced when you were young and then your father died and it’s been so, so long since you had anyone in your life who made you feel like Optimus does, safe and cared for and wanted. You had started to take it for granted, how gentle he was with you, how it healed something deep inside you every time he picked you up in servos you’d seen rip into Decepticons as if their armor was tinfoil.

You didn’t even feel a flicker of worry anymore in the moments Optimus, a being the size of a living building who could crush you by accident, moved around you with thunderous, titanic footsteps. And when he moved you with the confidence of a father absent-mindedly tugging their toddler out of the way of danger.

You’d gotten too used to it, had come to crave it. And now you went and ruined everything and - no, you have to fix this RIGHT NOW.

I, I’m so sorry, it’s a human thing, sometimes we get words wrong, I apologize sir. You can’t look him in the optic. Maybe he’ll take your lowered eyes and dipped chin as the act of apology, submission, desperation it is. Your heart is pounding and even in the cold air of the base, nervous sweat is breaking out on your skin.

-He’s silent. Why hasn’t he said anything?!

You hold your breath as Optimus’ huge shadow falls over you, and his servo moves closer. One finger bigger than your entire body brushes under your chin, tipping your head up so you have to look at him. Dreading what you’ll see, you capitulate.

And he’s -

The look on his face is not like anything you’ve ever seen. No, wait. You’ve seen it once. When Bumblebee was badly injured, and Optimus stayed by his side around the clock until he was out of danger, talking to him in deep, soft warbles and trills of a language you didn’t understand.

Why is he looking at you like that?

You are welcome, ambassador, is all he says, but you don’t miss the way he lets his servo stroke gently - fondly - brushing your hair out of your eyes, before turning and walking away. Leaving you on the scaffolding that leads to your office, as his footsteps reverberate through you.

He speaks to the others, briskly interrupting their joking, wrangling them like a herd of cats as he changes the subject to the patrol assignments. You look after him, a series of complicated feelings bubbling up in your chest, none of which let you get a word out. Eventually, you turn and make for the shelter of your office, to hide yourself in emails and reports.

Unaware as you go, due to the increasing distance between you - of the tendrils of energy reluctantly wisping away from you where Optimus’ powerful EM field had wrapped itself around you, as intuitively and automatically as it had wrapped around his sparklings so many millennia ago.

You couldn’t pick up on what he was thinking - not yet, anyway, you were sharp and intuitive and empathetic. But he had to wonder, how shocked would you have been to know, as he went about his duties, part of his processor was taken up with thoughts of how fortuitous it was that both your species had found something they needed, in this alliance of mechanical and organic life?

How long had it been since he’d held something small and soft and so alive, so precious? Was it ever since he had doomed his people to a slow extinction?

Such thoughts were kept strictly to himself; these organics are sentient, deserving of respect, and you are an adult by your own people’s reckoning, even if his spark aches with a painful warmth now to know you feel this connection, too. Even if you seem even less willing to acknowledge it than he is - and he will follow your lead. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

The others aren’t fooled; that laughter had been directed at him, though he doubts you realize that. They know him too well, see his solicitous treatment of you for what it is, what it really means in their society.

Ratchet huffs and comms him on a private line.

Just tell them. You’re not going to chase our allies away because you’re going broody. And it’s not good for your systems, fighting those subroutines every klik. I doubt it’s good for them, either.

Optimus pings him a thank you and a message not as sardonic as he could have made it. Your wisdom is appreciated, old friend.

Ratchet gives him a Look with his EM field, but Optimus keeps the talk to business. Not fooled for a minute. Knowing he’s not the only one keeping a sensor or three trained on the little being in their nook, just across the way.

[krysmcscience]

It’s finally done, guys – five whole pages of Narilamb AU comic AND MORE be upon you! (If you have trouble reading any of the text, view the full-size! These pages are huge!)

Yeesh, this took forever. <:)

There’s probably a ton of inconsistencies and anatomy/perspective wonkeries, but this was mostly just comic practice, so Oh Hekkin Well, Lol <:D

(Yes, I am aware the Gateway’s door isn’t present in the Afterlife, and the actual way in is just a pentagram portal. Yes, I put the door in there anyway because Artistic License, i.e. it felt more impactful for there to be a prison door of sorts to walk through to freedom, rather than just a bland boring portal on the ground. 😠)

anyway, i hate backgrounds so much lmao

Alternate ending and a buttload of bonus art under the cut, followed by goofy AU rambles and headcanon stuff:

I’m calling it the Revival AU. It’s not all that creative a title, and someone else has probably used it already, but I am too lazy to really care, LOL

Alternate ending page, which you will Definitely need to view the full-size for, Whoopsie Daisy:

The alternate ending was actually the first ending I finished things off with, because I had a brief badbrain moment where I forgot the emotional beat I initially wanted the comic to end on, and I tend to write comedy, anyway. I later remembered and drew out the proper ending, but I preserved and finished this one, too, because it still makes me giggle.

They had to go back for the followers off-screen in the AU’s real ending. And by ‘they’ I mean just the Lamb, because they weren’t about to ask three newly freed cats to go back into what used to be their prison. The Lamb DID spend some time watching Narinder and the bois enjoying the outdoors first, though:

In other news, here’s the Lamb and me making fun of my anatomy-drawing ‘skills’:

Meanwhile, if you’re wondering why the Lamb is just a-okay with how things went down vis a vis Their Murder, this bonus comic should answer at least some of your questions:

Ah, yes, also this is how they get engaged outside of the alternate ending. Forgot to mention that bit. XD (I already refuse to believe that Narinder is capable of flirting normally, so why would his initial marriage proposal be any better???)

Oh, and before any of them get a chance to actually head back to the cult grounds, there is one potential problem:

And by ‘problem’ I mean something Narinder intends to ignore for At Minimum a thousand years. Cuz he’s a petty bitch like that. :D

what do you mean i drew the lamb too tall compared to the background? clearly they’re standing on top of baal and aym lmao, why else would you think those two aren’t in this one??? (aym and baal got way too excited about finally being outside, you see, and their silly modes are nothing to sneeze at)

And, speaking of heading back to the cult grounds, I’m sure y’all would love to know how the Lamb’s followers felt about the brand new change in management:

It all went better than expected. <:D Tiny ramble now, feel free to skip down to the next comic.

Before you ask, no, the Lamb does not have any actual powers anymore, other than the immortality Narinder definitely grants them. The Red Crown just thinks it’s funny to suggest otherwise, and Narinder does nothing to discourage this. Also, the Lamb and Narinder aren’t actually married here yet, but, uh. Pretty safe to say that particular ritual directly follows the events of this comic. XD

Given how quickly he mellows out in canon, Narinder probably chills out a lot in this AU once he’s in charge of the cult, too, if only because 1.) He’s finally free, and 2.) He’s equally smitten with and distracted by the Lamb. He’s definitely in charge at least 95% of the time, though, because the Lamb never actually wanted to be a cult leader and, now that their time as a vessel is done, they just want to be a normal(ish) sheep who’s wholly devoted to their hot new divine husband.

Some followers do still have some valid concerns about these two being together, though, which I’m sure at least a few of you might share…

Unfortunately for any such concerns, the Lamb is a bonafide masochist in this AU. :D

They’re also 100% a sub, obviously

Anyone at all: Your relationship is problematic and potentially toxic

The Lamb: fuck yeah it is, it’s so hot~ OuO

Here’s just the last panel, made transparent for whatever nefarious purposes y’all might have for it:

Additional exchange Narinder and the Lamb have at some point, probably after the Lamb does a fatal whoopsie while out on a mission trip or in response to things getting a little too sadistic in the bedroom, ahaha:

Look, there is a very important distinction between life and death, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re probably not worthy of being the God of Death, anyway. (At least, according to Narinder, and ONLY Narinder.)

Last but not least, have these shittens:

~Such creative naming conventions I have utilized, lololol~ :D Anyway, there's a few deets on them in the rambles down below.

The rest is all ramble, so before I get to that, I’ll just say – likes and especially reblogs are very much appreciated!!! :D If you happen to really really REALLY like my stuff, meanwhile, I do have a link in my bio to my ko-fi page, where I’m accepting commissions and donations if you’re especially generous… ÓuÒ

Now, BE FREE IF YOU AIN’T DOWN FOR READING MY GOOFY RAMBLES

First ramble is re: Baal’s question of ‘Did it really work?’, since I didn’t feel like expanding on it in the comic proper, and it’s arguably pretty vague? He doesn’t ask because he doubts Narinder or his capabilities, exactly, but because neither Baal nor Aym have ever actually seen their god at full power before (he’s still technically not at full power here, either). It’s not expressly stated how soon the brothers were brought to Narinder after his imprisonment, but whether it was early on or after a length of time for Shamura to (somewhat) recover from his attack, he must have already been weakened, since I have no doubts that there was a huge battle that accompanied the Bishops working together to trap him. So, between that fight with all four of his siblings, sharing his power with a variety of vessels over time, and being chained immobile for a thousand years, he must have been severely weakened by the time he lent the Red Crown out to the Lamb, which would have only weakened him further.

I like to think this is how the Lamb is able to defeat him if they refuse to be sacrificed, despite how it took all four Bishops working together to subdue and chain Narinder in the first place.

All that aside, the three cats have been trapped in the Afterlife for so long that Baal also wanted verbal reassurance that they are all, indeed, actually able to leave it now – something that I headcanon isn’t possible without a significant amount of power (i.e. the Red Crown’s cooperation with its bearer/vessel).

(On a semi-related note, I don’t headcanon Aym and Baal as twins. I like sweetheart big bro Baal and snarky little goth bro Aym too much to have them be that close in age.)

Ah, teeny thing: If you noticed I switched up the art style for Narinder on the second page, that was intentional. It's sort of a visual indicator that there has been a Big Change for him - that being, how much power he has after sacrificing the Lamb. As for why I changed up his arms in the grass rollin' pic, I don't really subscribe to the notion that his arms are spooky bones because they're horrifically injured (beyond chain-chafing scars, that is), but rather just because he's the Bishop of Death, so he can change how normal-to-spooky they look at will. At some point I might doodle out how I imagine his appearance to range between least to most eldritch... 🤔

Next ramble, regarding Narinder’s feelings towards the Lamb...he was initially too focused on being freed from his imprisonment to form any real attachment to them. They were a tool for his use, first and foremost, but he did notice their intense devotion towards him. It was impossible not to notice, because the Lamb was always very happy to see him, even if it was because they died during a crusade (yet again). He wasn’t originally planning to revive them once he was freed, either, because he saw no real point to it – after all, they were already dead when they first met him, just as any other mortal would be when meeting him in the Afterlife, so death has very little real consequence in his eyes. But, once the chains were off, and it really sank in that he stood to lose the most devoted follower he’s ever had, he decided…why put their soul to rest for good or leave them stuck in the Afterlife when he could just as easily revive them again? And why not reward them for their hard work, anyway? Not only would it cost him nothing by comparison, but the future devotion that could come of it would surely make up for his (bare minimum) effort in reviving them.

He wasn’t expecting to get a full dose of that devotion and a smiling face so soon after killing them, though~ :3c (because the Lamb is a bonafide freak, and not-so-secretly into the fucked up power dynamics going on here, lol)

I should mention here that I am firmly of the belief that any non-god/vessel who crosses through the Gateway and into the Afterlife just straight up dies. So, Aym and Baal? Also straight up dead, from the second Shamura brought them through. Their souls were just never put to rest so that Narinder could have some company – if only according to Shamura. Narinder kept the two around mostly out of bewilderment, because honestly, who are these kittens, and what is Shamura’s game here, anyway??? They never even explained anything, they just tossed these kittens into the Afterlife and LEFT!!! At any rate, Aym and Baal being dead is how I explain why their souls apparently become lost in the void if they’re killed, along with the added complications required to revive the two because of it.

So, with those deets in mind, and given a bit of time, if Narinder hadn’t chosen to revive the Lamb, and also hadn’t chosen to put their soul to rest, they still would have woken up at some point, despite being as straight up dead as Aym and Baal. Who, don’t worry, were also properly revived while Narinder was waiting for the Lamb to wake up. Because I am also firmly of the belief that, first, the dead cannot leave the Afterlife without the use of a ritual/relic (and can't stay in the living world for long regardless), and second, dead followers’ devotion isn’t anywhere near as potent as that of the living, given how much more the living stand to lose.

Final ramble, regarding the Lamb’s feelings towards Narinder, and why they’re so devoted to him…

Well, you don’t spend most of your life on the run with your steadily-dwindling herd, trying to evade the ongoing genocide of your species, without becoming a little fucked up in the head. Maybe a lot fucked up in the head. Life is suffering, so might as well have fun with it, right? Maybe start finding death and pain to be kind of hilarious, even a little bit hot, once everyone you know and love is dead and gone, leaving you all alone? And maybe after that, there’s something comforting in how, despite the cold, cruel uncertainties of life, at least you can always count on the inevitability of death, patiently waiting for you until your very last breath? Who knows. Either way, as soon as the Lamb was killed, and they learned that the literal God of Death was offering them a second chance at life and vengeance via effective immortality, they were 100% ride-or-die-devoted all at once. Turns out death is kinder than life – go figure. (Of course, it helps that Narinder is 100% their type.)

They weren’t put off by Narinder’s thinly-veiled sadism or manipulations, either – they’re not too different in those regards, albeit opting for vastly different methods. It’s a very ‘two sides of the same coin’ sort of deal. In order to stay alive once they were made the last of their kind, the Lamb had no qualms with using others to their advantage, and that did not change once they were revived and expected to run a cult. They didn’t care for the position of authority, though – being a sheep and all, they’re much more of a follower than a leader, and thus greatly appreciated Narinder’s need for control. With how they had to keep on their toes for so long, the Lamb was also pretty good at reading people by the time they died, so they could recognize that a lot of Narinder’s posturing was just that – posturing. Dude’s 95% bluster and only 5% bite. He could obviously be vicious when he wanted or needed to (the Bishops' injuries were clear proof of that), but underneath his outer layer of cruelty was a generous layer of tsundere, and underneath all THAT was a soft squishy middle sibling velcro cat in desperate need of attention and affection.

(Which, for the record, he Did Not feel comfortable getting from Aym and Baal – Narinder still has no idea why the fuck Shamura sent them to him, beyond acting as keepers at best or trying to sabotage his attempts to escape at worst. Which, he thought HE sabotaged in turn, by guiding the kittens into being his devoted disciples instead. He thought he was very clever for it. ‘I outsmarted Shamura!’ he thought, despite that there was never anything there to outsmart. ‘What do you mean, Shamura sent your kittens to me for company?’ he demands of Forneus later. It may or may not lead him to pull Shamura out of Purgatory just so he can shake them and scream about how they should have Fucking Explained that!!!)

But, getting back on track as to why the Lamb was so willing to be sacrificed, I cannot stress this enough – if you pay even a minimal amount of attention to what he’s saying, Narinder is REALLY NOT SUBTLE about his intentions. ‘Death is of little consequence.’ ‘Followers are for you to use to your advantage.’ ‘Sacrifice a follower to absorb more power.’ So, yeah, the Lamb knew exactly what would be expected of them once the other Bishops were dead. They knew Narinder would expect them to die for him one last time. But, after all, death is of little consequence (not to mention hot), so when the time came, they wanted to see him freed, even if it meant oblivion for them in the end.

He’d given them a second life, and the ability to avenge their kin, and they felt indebted to him for that – so, while they were still pretty glum about the possibility that they might not get to see him free of his chains, nothing beyond their devotion and debt to him mattered. They never wanted all the drama and expectations that came with the Red Crown’s power, anyway, so, better for Narinder to have it back so that he could deal with it. What he did with the Lamb afterward would be up to him, and seeing as he was their god, they’d accept his decision gladly.

Were they in love with him by that point? Oh, obsessively so, but only in the devotional sense – romance was nowhere on their mind nor radar. That is, until he unexpectedly revived them again, told them he still needed them, and then offered down his hand to help them up.

The Lamb fell HARD for him in that moment. :3c

And now, a tiny shitten ramble. Lu and Li are twins, because sheep tend to have those a lot, and are conceived not long after the Lamb and Narinder’s marriage ceremony. Lu is the minutes older one, but Li is much more mature. I have put no further thought into these two, other than that they are utter menaces, birthed by the Lamb, cling hard to both their parents but especially Narinder (who spoils them rotten), and they are both genderfluid, using whichever pronouns/names they feel like at any given time. They are also both intersex, same as the Lamb, who was initially infertile up until Something Something Vague Magic, which I have also put no further thought into ¯\_(シ)_/¯

oh, and before anyone tries to suggest i headcanon this AU’s lamb as trending more female due to them giving birth or whatever, no, no, a thousand times no, they might have a vag, but they've also got a dick, and even if it's not as big as they'd like, they still know how to use it

Finally, the very tentative name for the Lamb in this AU is Yazdi, which is really just another name for the Baluchi breed of sheep XD (Not that the Lamb is this specific breed, I just didn’t like any of the other sheep-related names I found, ahaha...)

THAT’S ALL FOR NOW (collapses into an exhausted pile of goopy limbs)

[jasmineoolongtea]

― i like the way you kiss me . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .

― the ways in which they kiss you when you aren't actually together yet ₊˚⊹♡

contents: gojo x gn!reader, geto x gn!reader, nanami x gn! reader, choso x gn!reader, megumi x gn!reader, yuji x gn!reader, yuta x gn!reader, headcanons/brief drabbles, slightly suggestive for some of them if you squint a/n: just some headcanons i wanted to write after listening to i like the way you kiss me by artemas plus i needed a short writing break from my risk - megumi fic that i've been working on. hope you guys enjoy this !!!

gojo satoru kisses you like he misses you already despite barely being apart for more than a few hours. it didn't matter to him that he just saw you moments ago. that was nothing more than a trivial fact to him, just like the fact that you two still weren't actually together yet, in the grand scheme of things. why should he be waiting any second longer to feel your touch on him? he was never good at being patient anyways.

"missing me already huh?" you murmur against his lips, his hands securing you against him as he pinned you against the brick wall of the restaurant behind you two.

he scoffs at your comment. "oh shut up." his lips are on yours again in a matter of second. you weren't going to lie, you were enjoying this. to see someone so powerful like gojo satoru yet so susceptible to your presence to the point where he couldn't wait anymore to have your lips against his. with his flushed cheeks and slightly puffy lips, you want to forever immortalise this image of him in your mind. silently, you thanked whatever was out there that he decided to forgo his sunglasses tonight as their absence allowed you to truly appreciate the beauty of his eyes, even being able to notice the tiniest specks of what appeared to be gold in his pupils.

as he tilts his head to the side to better fit his features against yours, you swear you can feel his every breath with how flushed his chest is against yours. you even earn a soft groan from him when your fingers dance across his undercut, taking your time to run your hands through his snowy locks.

you're glad that his eyes are closed right now, getting a ticklish sensation as his long eyelashes kiss the expanses of your cheeks with the slight flutter of his eyes so that he isn't able to notice how the red blush that was once contained on your face has now expanded outwards to the tip of your eyes. he bites at your bottom lip gently, as if asking for permission to go further and you grant his request with a faint gasp of your own.

"noisy, aren't we?"

"oh shut up."

geto suguru kisses you like you're his already. the way he snakes his arms around your waist and presses his lips against yours only makes you sink further into his touch. if he wasn't holding you up right now, you would probably melt into the floor just from his proximity alone. you've been dancing around the issue for a few months now, fleeting touches in a dark room, longing glances across the room. it was all fun and games for both of you, seeing how long you could drag out this game of teasing and temptation until the other had enough. you thought you were doing pretty well. that is, until he decided to show up here again and well, just imagine the feeling of his lips against yours wasn't enough anymore.

you've always wondered what it would feel like to card your hands through his raven tresses and now, with your fingers tangled in up there, you can safely say it was better than you could have ever imagined. if it wasn't you who was the one messing up his hair, he would have some choice words to say about it, but as of right now, that was the least of his concerns. right now, his priority was seeing how long it would take for him to become consumed by his desire for you and it seemed like he wasn't going to last long. not with how you would let out a low whine every time his teeth grazed your lips or with your wandering hands taking this opportunity to explore the expanses of his well-sculpted back.

you feel like you've just had your breath stolen from you with how heavily you were panting against him, your faces flushed with want and kiss-swollen lips as evidence of what had recently transpired between the two of you. neither of you make the move to break apart as he leans down to ask.

"so what does this make us?"

nanami kento kisses you with so much restraint it only incites you to try and break down his defences further. his kisses barely feel like pecks, leaving you to subconsciously chase him for more every time he pulls away. he doesn't dare to try and do more, to push the boundary further. not only are you not technically together yet but also he's afraid. not of you, but rather of what would happen if he let his resolve fall and indulged in his selfish desires for what would be the first time in a long while.

he stops for a moment, his face barely hovering centimetres above from yours as his eyes flicker between your slightly agape mouth and your half-lidded eyes, watching him closely as you try to anticipate his next. he couldn't tell which one was drawing him in more at that moment. his breath hitches momentarily when he feels a soft tug at his tie, your right hand absent-mindedly toying with the edges of it as you place your other hand against his chest as if attempting to brace yourself against him. he couldn't tell but your legs felt like they were about to give out at any second with how every single cell in your body felt electrified with the amount of desire and anxiety coursing through your veins.

silence dragged on for what felt like ages, both of you unmoving in your positions until you muttered under your breath. "kento..." your voice was barely above a whisper but at that moment, it turns out that he was not as strong in his resolve as he thought he was with that being all he needed to dive right into you, fully untethered this time as his lips crashed against yours.

kamo choso kisses you like he's scared that this will be the first and last time he'll ever get to do so. there's so much fear and hesitation in his movements yet at the same time, you can feel the fervour and passion that is pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against you. his hands are hovering around your figure, scared to fully let himself hold you as if he's worried that the moment he makes contact, you're going to snap out of whatever daze you're in and run away from him. you aren't going to do that of course, if only he knew how long you were waiting for this to happen. as you feel the cold of the concrete wall against your back, the two of you part, albeit reluctantly, from each other to catch your breaths.

"..are you sure?" he asks breathlessly. his pupils are blown wide open as his eyes seemingly turn into infinite purple voids, watching your every movement unblinking.

you run your fingers across the back of his neck, toying slightly with some of the loose black strands that were clinging to his skin. he looks pretty like this, you think to yourself. he looks at you so eagerly, so soft and pliable in your hands, as he nervously awaits for your response.

"never been more sure."

fushiguro megumi kisses you like you're the air he breathes. who would have thought someone so famously reserved like megumi had it in him like this? you aren't given long to ponder on that thought as his lips are against yours once again, moving in sync with an imaginary rhythm as you frenziedly grasp at the material of his shirt in a weak attempt to try and ground you against his closeness to you. with every slide of his lips past yours, you're pretty sure that he's simultaneously taking and giving you back your breath which you previously thought would be impossible to do but are now sorely proven wrong.

you're not even a lightweight or anything when it comes to alcohol but you're pretty sure you're drunk on the feeling of him the moment his mouth was on yours. much to your surprise, the spikes that he calls his hair are actually pretty soft as you run your hands through them, a soft tug at the hair beneath your fingers drawing out a barely disguised groan from him. you giggle softly against his lips at his reaction and he silences you with another kiss, not that you were complaining as you ardently respond by tilting your head off to the side slightly to grant him better access to your face. your eyes are closed but you can imagine the half-hearted scowl on his face with how his brows furrow in the way that they always do against your forehead.

even though it was barely minutes ago, your mind is hazy as you try to remember the circumstances that led to this situation right now. it was probably a stupid argument that you guys got into, like the two of you usually do, and somehow that resulted in him wanting to prove his point more unconventionally. you give up on trying to recall the details as you can feel your face start to burn up as one of his hands start to wander down to rest against your hips.

"so," he pants, the heat of his breath is warm against your lips. "does that prove my point?"

itadori yuji kisses you eagerly, trying to savour every single moment of his lips against yours. you could feel the excitement basically pouring out from him with each movement of his lips against you, even eliciting a giggle from him that reverberates against your mouth as your noses bump against each other. it's a messy, disorganised sort of kiss with you being sure this is the third time you've accidentally grazed your teeth against his. fortunately for both of you, you're all way too engrossed and intoxicated on the sensation of the other's lips to care.

every time one of you tries to catch your breath, the other tries to chase your lips as they attempt to recapture that feeling again. as your arms encircle his neck, pulling you close to him, you're pretty sure you can feel him groan quietly against your lips with his hands reaching up to cup your face. with a deep sigh, you sink into his warm embrace, taking the moment to fully breathe him in like your life depended on it.

one of his hands falls from your face and gives a tentative squeeze at your waist to which you gasp quietly. taking this opportunity, he breaks apart from your lips and presses a flurry of kisses across your face which earns him a wide grin from you as you half-heartedly attempt to defend yourself from his sudden kiss attacks.

if you knew that a simple, experimental peck on the cheek could earn you this, maybe you should try to do this more.

okkotsu yuuta kisses you like you're a dream come true. hear him out. he never thought that he would get to experience touch like this ever again in his life, nevermind it coming from you in this manner. to him, you were what sweet dreams were made of, so ethereal, so delicate and so much better than whatever could exist in such a cruel world like this. but once again, defying all his expectations, you were here right in front of him and your lips were on his, faster than in the blink of an eye.

cradling the back of your head with his hands, he leans into the feeling of your lips against his as the two of you move in sync with each other. as if the moment couldn't get better, it was as if your lips were perfectly moulded for his or vice versa. he didn't care which way it was, all this fact did was solidify the thought in his mind that you were sent down onto earth from whatever heavenly plane people like you come from just for him to bask in the presence of.

his eyes are closed for two reasons. one, because he's scared that if he opens his eyes, this will be nothing more than a dream that he has to wake up from and two because he's pretty sure that if he was able to see you in your flushed, kiss dazed glory, he would explode on the spot.

despite being able to tell how badly he's been wanting to kiss you, he doesn't let it overpower him, instead taking the upmost care to make sure that you were still unharmed, treating you as if you were some piece of delicate china that could break at the slightest of wrong moves. while it was nice, you were feeling particularly greedy in that moment. you wanted more.

right as he breaks apart for air, you're already back to pulling him closer than humanly possible at this point by the collar of his shirt and you find that you're rewarded with a soft gasp escaping from him as your lips find each other again, this time with a renewed sense of desire and want.

[hwajin]

☆°. — burn me | hhj

genre: smut

pairing: nerd!hyunjin x afab!reader

wc: 3k

cw: wax/ heat play, dacryphilia, hyunjin is insanely needy

author's note: this hyunjin is @astraystayyh 's and hers ONLY. (she holds a gun to my head forcing me to say this)

You had wanted Hyunjin to speak to you. To reach out to you, to tell you things about himself. You knew he was shy, and you liked that about him. You liked when his ears shot red because you gave him a simple compliment, to his new computer set-up, or how very eloquently he helped you out with your Statistics homework. You liked how his body jolted when you touched him, when your fingers tickled him featherlight while he was studying, head deep in a book. You liked it even more when you teased him beneath the table when you dined out, a leg of yours creeping up his trembling one, and when he looked at you as though you were crazy. As though you were doing something so very forbidden, as though he never wanted you to stop.

But you had told him that you wanted to know more. That, yes, you could often read his face, his eyes, his body as it was, that he was an open book regarding his feelings, his preferences – sexual or not – his moods; but that it wasn’t enough. You wanted him to tell you if he was having a bad day, if he was struggling with the pressure he put on himself. You wanted him to tell you if he was feeling good, when you let your fingertips dance delicately across his stomach, tracing the lines of his faint muscles, wondering where they came from with the lack of exercise and the hours spent in front of his computer. You wanted to know if there was something he wanted to do, he craved to try, dreamed of at night. What he thought about when he lay alone in his bed, on nights you couldn’t spend together, what went through his mind when he closed his eyes and touched himself. You wanted him to spell it out. To tell you. To get past his futile embarrassment and open himself up to you.

You were looking at the package in your hands as you were sitting at the edge of Hyunjin’s bed. Perplexed. Curious. The water hitting the tiles in the other room reminded you that your boyfriend would take a while to come out, always preferring long showers, always waiting for the stream to turn cold before he considered reaching for the towel; so you were left figuring out the contents of the package yourself.

Wax. Massaging wax. Wax which looked too… sensual to be put on his windowsill and lit on romantic evenings. Wax which he had ordered for different purposes, you were sure.

And you knew you were right when Hyunjin, not fifteen minutes later, stood in front of you, stuttering, flushed, the redness on his cheeks spreading all around, his glasses still fogged up from the condensation in the bathroom. It didn’t help his embarrassment that he had chosen to only throw around a towel over his waist; you liked that. You liked that he deemed clothes as nihil after his showers; you both knew that whenever he was done studying, long past midnight, clothes would discard themselves from your bodies in mere minutes, anyways. You liked that though he was shy, he granted himself to you in a certain way, gifted you a part of his vulnerability. That he wasn’t afraid to be loved by you.

“Listen, I wanted to tell you…”, he started. But he didn’t make it far. Words failed him, the heat on his face distracted him. He couldn’t even look you in the eyes; and you hadn’t even said anything. You had only watched him, knowingly, before he had sat down on the bed, next to you, face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. Mumbling apologies you giggled at, because “Why? You did nothing wrong?” You couldn’t help but tense at the sound which escaped him at that, a faked sob, a deep whimper, something between that and an embarrassed laugh before he bent his body further into his arms. Hiding himself. Exposing himself. Because the skin on his back moved with him as he did, and you wanted to touch it. Because the skin on his stomach folded into million creases, tummy soft and protruding, and you wanted to kiss it.

“No, but I feel like I should have told you, before… before I just order something you might- like- end up not being into. And…”, he looked at you then, barely. Glanced at you from beneath the confines of his arms, glasses sitting on his nose crooked. The look in his eyes when he struggled to find the bravery to speak, to admit. “I’m not even sure I’m into… wax play; heat play. Whatever. I wanted to… try it. On myself- by myself. Before we tried it together.”

You chuckled, and he closed his eyes in pained expression again. You could say you had never seen him so crimson, but that would be a lie; you saw him so crimson every day, whenever you tickled a confession out of him by kissing the lobe of his ear, or when you sighed out how good he felt when he found himself hovering over you, inside you. Quite frankly, you saw him dripping in red more than you saw his actual skin, and it made you chuckle at him again.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, love. And you don’t have to- like, know exactly what you’re into to tell me it’s something you wanna try. We can experiment together.”, you said while sliding closer to him along the mattress. You felt the heat of his body radiating over to your own, and you nudged his shoulder slightly with your head. Made him glance at you again, from the side. You smiled at the smile he granted you, giggled then, to soothe him some more. Your shy lover. Your lover who bore secrets so erotic and deep you feared to never get behind them all in this lifetime.

“And besides, it’s more fun together.”, you ended with a playful wink, and Hyunjin’s whine turned into a laugh, and it sent a shiver along your neck, behind your ears.

It’s how you found yourself over his body. Watching his limbs spread across the bed, his fingers digging into the pillow beneath his head, the knuckles white. It made his arm tense up, made his veins shine blue in the relative darkness of the room. Ignited only by candles. Smelling only of vanilla. And his body. And sex.

When the first drip of hot wax had spilled on his naked body, close to his navel and so red against his pale skin your eyes had fluttered, Hyunjin had hissed. He had jumped in his place, a big palm reaching for you and long fingers digging into your flesh. You had asked if he was okay; he had looked almost concerned, and you’d been sure he’d tell you to stop. To just try something different. That it didn’t feel like he’d imagined it to. But then he’d raise his head a little, and his eyes had searched for yours; and you knew he had loved it. You knew that a little more of this, and he’d be a puddle in his own mattress, a wet, whining, desperate puddle in your hands.

Now, his lips were as red as the dried wax all across his body. Scattered here and there, two drops on his collarbone, perky and bony whenever he moved. Three drops on his chest, dangerously close to his nipples; he had whined particularly loud at those. The drops formed a path to his sex, scattering the skin there the most. On the lines by his abdomen, the dips in his hips, pooling there. Cracking at his thighs because he moved so much, squirmed under you uncontrollably. Hyunjin had spread his legs somewhere in the process; he was so needy, so lost in chasing after his pleasure that he lost himself, found himself in your eyes and grew bashful. You had taken the opportunity, had seen the supple flesh of his inner legs, so close to his darkened erection, that you let a few drops fall there. And Hyunjin had screamed. He had bitten the back of his hand, remembering the other students in the dorm. Had forgotten all about them in a manner of seconds when you did it again, let wax meet the sensitivity of his skin, and he had cried your name. Had writhed and groaned into the pillow beneath him. Had struggled finding his glasses when he’d lay on his back again.

You watched his bent arm, the way he was digging his fist into the space between the pillow and his hair. Struggling. Whining. Constantly whining; he wasn’t ever quiet now. His eyes were shut, making his face crease and contort, his teeth fletched, so the feeling of heat on his biceps was a surprise, and he yelped at it. It trickled closer to his armpit, and when it tickled, he shivered. A moan so throaty ripped through the room that you felt your clit throb, your stomach twist. And then Hyunjin sobbed, in frustration, or in pleasure, or due to sensations even deeper, emotions even greater. He sobbed, dryly, because he seemed overwhelmed of what else to do, and it made you kiss him. You bent down to peck his chest, to nibble at his collarbones. You kissed his neck, licked it, breathed in the scent of the vanilla candle there, of his sweat. You tickled his jaw with your breath, as hot as the wax, or hotter, felt him pant, felt him whine. You kissed his chin wetly, with an open mouth, leaving traces of you everywhere, traces of spit next to the traces of wax, a body traced in love. Because his body was made for it. To be loved, adored. To be destroyed and put back together.

It was when you kissed his lips, red and puffy and spit-laced and bruised, that you noticed the wet on his pink cheeks. The tears behind his glasses, past his eyes. You halted in your tracks.

“Babe, you okay?”

Eyes shooting open, and Hyunjin caught you off guard when he looked at you; eyes flooded with desire, with you. Bloodshot, reddened. Everything was red, you saw it everywhere on his body. And he nodded. Frantically. Desperately. You didn’t need to ask if he wanted you to stop, you could read it on his face that “Please, please, whatever you do, don’t stop. Never stop.”

So you pulled back again, a smirk tugging at your lips. And Hyunjin flushed when he saw it. You took hold of the candle again, hovered it over him. He watched it. The anticipation made the man suck in a breath, and his abdomen hallowed out. You let wax drip into the dip it created, liked the way it nestled there. As if it belonged there. As if he was made to be painted, to be pleased like this.

„Does it hurt, baby?“

A whine from his mouth, and the glasses on his nose sat so deep. He was sweating, wet all around, and the piece of metal just didn’t want to stay where it belonged. You liked it. Would never, not after half a year of being with him, get tired of the way he fixed them. Though he didn’t now. Now, his glasses where the last thing on his mind. Hyunjin shook his head, then he nodded. Then he shook it again. He couldn’t look at you. He was too shy to.

“N-no… yes. I- hmm… I don’t know- fuck-“

Fingers digging into the mattress, finding your flesh then, marking you with the tips of his fingers, with the sharp of his nails. Mindlessly, he was clinging onto you without knowing he was. Because he needed you. Because his body was calling for your own.

“Why are you crying, then?”

Another tear of his fell gen his temple just as you let another droplet of wax meet his skin; it was so close to his sex, tangling with his pubes as it trickled further down that you were sure it pained, but his reaction was heavenlier than anything you could have imagined; a cry of your name and he sobbed it, every syllable, every letter. More tears were rolling past his eyes. He was calling out to you, for salvation, for more, for less, for everything. And the muscles beneath his skin were trembling; you believed you could see it. He was vibrating, he was hot. He was red all around; his erection the most aggressive tone of them all, the white precum so pearly, so white in contrast. You wanted to lick it off.

“I- I don’t know. Because- fuck, ohh my god-“, heavy breathing, heaving chest. Hyunjin knew you better than leaving the question unanswered, though. Was too eager to leave a question simply hang in the air. “Because it feels so fucking good.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. He reddened deeper when he said it. The sweat on his forehead thickened when he said it.

“Yeah? Does it?”

He nodded, nodded and nodded so hard his glasses dared to fall off. He didn’t care. He continued nodding, until you chuckled. Then he looked at you. His eyes were so clear, so shot with pleasure. They were saying everything his mouth couldn’t, was shy to. You shivered in his gaze; how could a man so beautiful be so unaware of it?

“And because- because I’m so embarrassed.”

He whispered the words. He looked at you so intently; because he knew you’d ease him off. He was aware that his shame was futile, that it was never justified. And you knew that a part of him liked it. That sometimes, a man as smart as him enjoyed to turn dumbfounded in your hold. That the lack of thoughts, the struggle to find words when he was around you, reminded Hyunjin of the effect you had on him. It reminded him how much you liked it; when he started stuttering, when he forgot what he was talking about, when his only affections, his only obsession was you.

You chuckled, face smitten, lashes batting at him. He whimpered, bit the back of his hand when he felt the wax near his erection. It was so hard. And he was so close; if you didn’t touch him soon, he thought, he would come undone without any contact at all.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed about feeling good, baby. You can let go when you’re with me. Don’t be shy about feeling good when you’re with me.”

Hyunjin thought this was his demise. His hell and heaven simultaneously, that it was in your hands he would die, in your hands he would be reborn again.

He pleaded you. Silently first, then with a trembling word; he needed you. He had never needed you more than now. He put his embarrassment to the side, took to heart what you always wished of him; to tell you what he wanted. To tell you what he needed.

“You, babe. I need you, I can’t, I- fuck, please, baby, please. I need to feel you, please.”

You had never heard him beg this way. Had never seen such lust in his eyes. You had never been so wet, not for him, not for anyone. He had the ability to break you, and he wasn’t even aware of it. Laying in the nude before you, traces of wax and spit and love on his body, and he didn’t even know you were as obsessed with him as he was with you.

Your panties and shirt were discarded quicker than either of you could look. You were hovering over him, and Hyunjin swore your pussy was hotter than the wax, than the fire burning it down. Before you sank down on him, he stopped you, numb fingers caressing your waist. He whined, writhed. He couldn’t look at you, he mumbled something. It wasn’t until you put a thumb on his chin and made Hyunjin look at you that he reddened, again, always reddening. He was breathing heavy when your eyes met. So heavy that you felt the warm condensation of it on your fingers. It was shaky, he was shaking.

“I’ll come. Like, right away. I’m already coming, I think.”

The confession knocked the breath out of your lungs. For someone so shy, so bashful about the slightest touch, the most innocent contact his words were always marked with an eroticism so great, so honest. No one had ever talked to you the way he talked to you; despite his shyness, despite his hesitations.

You assured him, kissed him, pecked his lips. They were hot, wet. They were dripping with his love for you.

And then you positioned yourself above him, and when you took hold of his base to guide him against you, when you felt him slide past your wetness and into you his hands dug into your flesh, so deep into your waist it hurt, but you didn’t mind it. It was his face you were focusing on; heavenly. As though he had found heaven. He was coming, hard, jolting his trembling hips against you; he was merely grinding against your pussy, against your clit, not much penetrating even, and yet he looked as though he had never felt a pleasure bigger than this. Eyes rolling back, violently. Lip bleeding between his teeth. Spit spewing when he cursed deeply, throaty. Sweat running down his temples, your waist because his palms coated you in it. In him. His scent, his wetness.

And you watched the red traces on his body. The pale colour on his cheeks, the feverish one on his lips. The deep, sensual one on his chest and stomach and abdomen, the bit on his biceps, the dried and flaked red wax. Only memories of it remaining when you’d wash it off later in the shower, when the morning sun would almost come out again. When you’d kiss him there later, after he’d come down, in the spots the wax had been, to soothe skin, to comfort him. And the wax would stand by his nightstand, proof and witness of the past hours, of Hyunjin’s desire, of your love.

@es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @ppiri-bahng @cherrrywon @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @junebug032 @noellllslut @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife @astraystayyh

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

talking about married ladies, it is quite interesting that georgina doesn't wear a ring! if you look at princess leah, she has a ring on her left hand's ring finger; but if you look at maleanor, who's also married, she wears a ring on her right hand's middle finger! this makes me wonder if different races have different wedding ring customs! personally, it made me think that merfolk just dont wear rings as proof of marriage; in the little mermaid prequel, for example, ariel's mother and father wear no rings despite being married (i think???) anyway, i hope we find out more about this what do you think? are there any other married characters that come to mind?

I don’t have any comment on the actual Disney characters and whether or not they wear rings and in a consistent place after marriage; I’m of the opinion that even if I checked this, details that are true in the Disney versions do not always translate over to Twst. We also can’t tell what are animation errors or not, especially granted that it’s usually the lower budget sequels or prequels that show married characters.

Traditionally, a wedding ring would be worn on your left hand’s ring finger (fourth finger from the thumb). The only Twst parent to be wearing a ring like this is Queen Leah.

As someonetwisted said, Maleanor wears a ring on her right hand's middle finger. This could be indicative of different races having different traditions when it comes to where their wedding ring is worn--however, because we have seen so few married fae + merpeople and no married beastmen to compare to, it's unclear whether this is the case or if Maleanor's ring is just something she wears as a sign of opulence as a princess.

The only other fae I can think of is Baur, but it's not obvious if he was married or not at the time of Lilia's time as a general. Even if Baur were married during that era, his armor would make it difficult to wear a ring:

This is probably also why the Dawn Knight wears no ring. However, I do believe that if you extract the in-game assets, he is shown to be wearing a wedding band under his armor.

Lilia, who is a single parent and never got married, of course wears no ring. (It would also be odd to pass as a high school student while you’re wearing a wedding ring/j)

Then we have Dylla and Eric Venue, who may have been married at one point or (for whatever reason) are no longer with their partner. Neither wear rings, which could be because they never actually married or have split up with or lost their spouses in some other way. It could be something practical though?

For Dylla, a ring might get in the way of her truck driving and delivering goods. She may not want to wear something “fancy” for such a physically demanding and casual job. For Eric, a celebrity, he wouldn’t want the public to know he is already taken or has been with a woman in a physical capacity. This is especially the case because Vil doesn’t want people to know about their familial connection and claim he only has his success due to nepotism.

When it comes to parents who are happily married, there's the Clovers (from the Heartslabyul manga!) and Mr. and Mrs. Shroud.

You can't see Mrs. Clover's hands, but Mr. Clover appears to wear no ring. I'm going to assume Mrs. Clover is the same. Again, I see this as a practical thing. Wearing a ring while making baked goods seems unsanitary.

Mr. and Mrs. Shroud wear gloves, but no rings. I'm not as certain about this one, but maybe Mr. Shroud avoids wearing a ring due to workplace professionalism? He does seem to be the more serious one of the duo.

As for Mrs. Shroud, maybe she foregoes the ring (despite being so love-dovey) in case it gets in the way of her job...? I'm not sure how tech stuff works, but my thought is that this would be to avoid the metal or gem of the ring interfering with whatever she's inventing in case they come in contact. Or maybe she just wants to match with her husband?

The only married merperson we know of right now is, of course, Georgina, who wears no ring:

One proposed (kek, get the pun?) reason as to why this is is that every race has different traditions or customs to indicate being taken. However, I wonder if there's another reason...?

If you look at the true form of a moray eel merperson, they have webbed fingers. This would make it extremely difficult to wear a ring. (I should point out that the more humanoid merpeople, like the Atlantica Memorial Museum guards, do NOT have webbed fingers, so it would be possible for them to wear rings.)

It seems tedious for morays to keep a ring prepared just to slip on every time you visit the land. It also feels like a small thing like the ring would be easily washed away by the waves. And how frequently would you be going to land, anyway? Would this extra effort be worth it??

I also think it’s entirely possible that Georgina doesn’t wear a ring because it goes against glove etiquette. Yes, there is such a thing 😂

In glove etiquette, you are not supposed to wear a ring over your gloves. This just is not done, I’m assuming because it can mess with the fabric. (Besides, rings are measured to fit your finger, without taking gloves into consideration!) It’s also not advisable to wear rings under your gloves, as this would ruin the smooth silhouette with an unsightly lump.

Another component of glove etiquette is the length: shorter gloves are appropriate for cocktail parties and more informal occasions, while gloves that extend past elbow length (which is true of Georgina’s outfit) are for formal occasions. Since Georgina does appear to be formally dressed and in attendance for an acquaintance’s pre-wedding festivities + is a well put-together woman, it’s not too far-fetched to assume she doesn’t have a ring on in order to conform with the etiquette.

We probably won’t see Mr. Leech this event, but maybe in a future one! That’s probably when Floyd gets his “hometown” (a bit of a misnomer, since Ultramarine City and Maquillaville aren’t Jade or Vil’s respecrive hometowns) SSR. I always thought that Jade took after his dad since Mr. Leech stresses the importance of proper dress and attitude… but hey, maybe he’s got a bit of loose cannon in him like Floyd??

[monstersflashlight]

PriDEMONth

A/N: It’s Pride month and y’all know I love some good queer rep every day of the year, but I wanted to make something for a collective a bit less represented, mainly for myself. So the demon in this story is asexual, but not sex-repulsed. Because, surprise surprise, asexuality is not all about having or not having sex! Anyway, asexual rep, yay! Happy pride everybody. <3

Demon x gn!reader || size kink, tail play, bondage, dirty talk, nipple torture (kinda?), dom/sub, (light) edging, (very light) choking, (very light) degradation

You’re staring at the empty space over the pentagram when the candles start to flicker and the air starts to crackle with energy. You can almost feel it in your skin, and when the demon appears in the middle of the room, you let out a gasp.

The demon in front of you is big as hell, his horns reaching the ceiling as he looks around bored, eyes returning to the big book between his hands, as if he can’t be bothered to even scan his surroundings. You, on the other hand, can’t take your eyes off his towering figure.

“Sorry to inform you that you summoned the asexual demon, you are now on the waiting-list for a succubus or incubus of your liking, please…” He starts in the most boring tone he can manage, but gets shut down as soon as he looks down and sees you looking up at him with big eyes and something akin to wonder in them. “What?”

You want to tell him a lot of things, but what comes out of your mouth is: “You are… You’re perfect.” You look down embarrassed, trying to stutter an explanation while also sounding like a cat caught your tongue.

“Breathe, little dove. We don’t want you dying, do we?” His teasing tone makes a heat pool at your lower abdomen.

You comply, taking a deep breath and starting your explanation again: “I asked the witch for a summoning spell, and she assured me this one would bring me what I wanted the most… And you are here.” You want to tell him that he’s your deepest fantasy come to life, but you bite your tongue. That feels like too much.

“Well, as I’ve told you. Your spell was to summon a sex demon and you summoned asexual ol’ me. I can put you on the waiting-list and someone will be with you shortly…” He tries to argue again, smoke appearing around him as he tries to leave.

You let out a panicked: “Wait!” You aren’t sure why you’re stopping him, but he makes you feel secure in a way, and again: deepest fantasy.

He sighs and the smoke disappears. “What do you want, little dove?” There’s a hint of tenderness in his tone, and it makes your heart race.

“What if… What if I want you?” You ask.

He huffs, amused. “I’m not going to fuck you. I have no desire to do so.”

“But what… What about other things?” You ask, looking down, embarrassed. You aren’t sure you wanted to be fucked anyway. You just need… you just need to stop thinking.

“What things?” He asks, a brow arched and a smirk playing on his lips. He looks so much like a naughty demon that you almost swallow your tongue.

You try to focus for a second to tell him what you really want, but you stutter, too ashamed to accept it fully. “Could you- Would you, like- Could you tie me down? Maybe. Maybe- Maybe- Maybe help me get out of my head?” It’s the worst explanation you’ve ever given, but he seems interested enough. At least he’s not looking at his book anymore.

“I’m listening.” You struggle to keep talking as he chuckles. “What do you really need, little dove?” The pet name doesn't help your nerves, but there’s something about his demeanor that makes you trust him.

“I need to stop thinking,” you confess.

His smile is downright predatory. “I can grant you that.”

“You- You can? You want to?” You stutter. He looks you up and down and nods slowly, licking his lips with a forked tongue that sends shivers down your spine.

He snaps his fingers and your clothes are gone. You let out a choked gasp. He snaps them again and you are hanging in the air, ropes around your ankles and wrists, your body suspended in a cross position as he stares at you.

He hums appreciatively as his eyes trail down your naked body. “Mmmm. I like when humans are so easy…”

He’s talking more to himself than to you. You can’t avoid stating in response, “I thought… I thought you didn’t feel attracted to humans, or any other creature for that matter.”

“I don’t. But I enjoy some power play every once in a while. I like knowing I have you at my mercy. I like knowing I can drive you insane and bring you pleasure like no other.”

You don’t have time to answer before he’s everywhere.

He’s all over you. His tail is touching every part of your body but your genitals, his nails are leaving faint scratch marks all over you, and your brain is short-circuiting trying to understand if what you’re feeling is pain or pleasure. It’s overwhelming in the most incredible way. The second you let out a loud scream, his tail is quickly filling your mouth and then your throat. You choke around it and he chuckles.

“Such a hungry little dove. You play all innocent, but you love to be corrupted, don’t you?” His words send another wave of pleasure through your body as you moan around the tail in your mouth.

His attack on your senses is so intense you can barely keep your eyes open, but the way he’s glaring at you makes you want to watch him. It’s almost like he’s compelling you to look at him. You’re so mesmerized by his dark eyes that you barely feel his claws pinching your nipples so hard until you’re crying around his tail and your whole body seizes as you come undone.

His tone is condescending as he coos at you. “Awww, how cute. You can cum just from that? Such a little slut for me, aren’t you, little dove?”

“Hghg,” you try to agree around the tail inside your mouth, but the sound is just a guttural moan.

“Can you do it again? Can I drive you wild again for me?” You try to nod, but the hold on your neck is too strong to move. “Don’t move, little dove, you’re not in control here, are you? I’m going to break your mind with pleasure, I’m going to make you feel so good you’re going to become literally insane.” You nod again, and he releases your throat.

His tail goes back to fucking your throat, and his claws find your sides, scratching lightly as they trace a pattern over your sore nipples. He gives you no rest, though, pinching them roughly as you swallow around his tail. He’s chuckling as you start moving your hips again, searching for a relief he’s not going to offer.

“If you want it you need to find it yourself, little dove. Be a good human and cum untouched for me, again.”

You don’t think you can do it, you don’t think you can cum like that again. He’s only scratching and caressing, pinching and fucking your throat until your brain is empty once again. You can feel the edge of pleasure running up and down your spine. It’s as if your body can’t figure out if you enjoy what’s happening or not, like it doesn't know if it’s pleasure or torture… But your brain is too out of it to figure that out.

You’re just so close to reaching whatever was crawling at the edge of your conscience, but he pulls out his tail, and you moan. You try to reach forward to lick it again before he stops you, his hand on your chest.

“Not so fast, little dove.” You whimper, drool escaping your mouth and falling to your chest as he looks you up and down. “You’re so close, I can taste it in the air…”

You nod fervently, making him laugh as his tail slaps the side of your thigh, making you scream as he pushes two fingers into your open mouth. You suck around them, and his tail finds your genitals. He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t either. You suck on his fingers until you gag, and he pulls back, just to do it again.

Your eyes are closed, unable to stare at him without feeling the world crumbling around you, but when his tail touches your most sensitive area, you open your mouth as big as possible in a silent scream as pleasure that feels so good it hurts rocks throughout your body.

Then darkness claims you, and you accept it with a sigh of relief, melting into nothingness.

You wake up on your bed, arms and legs sore, your whole body feeling like a huge bruise and the smile on your mouth so big you can barely feel your cheeks. It only gets better when you turn to the side and see a little note that says “Summon me if you need to disconnect from reality again.”

[dem-obscure-imagines]

The Lighthouse Vol. 1

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Fandom: MCU

Note: Howdy. Finally finished it. I really love how this one turned out. Very domestic fluff, forced proximity type stuff. Bob is so very dear to me, so I hope you enjoy it. I will also be posting this to my Ao3 for easier navigation; right here.

Summary: After the battle with Thanos, getting dusted for five years followed directly by another battle with Thanos, you were more than content living in your small, small town on the coast of Maine, overlooked by a beautiful lighthouse. Your life was perfect, you thought. Quiet, sure, but perfect. Until Bucky Barnes showed up on your doorstep with Bob Reynolds in tow.

Warnings: canon-typical drug mention (Bob’s former drug use), mental health discussion (but nothing super super serious; Bob has depression and Bipolar), little bit of canon-typical violence as a treat, some swearing.

Word Count: 29k (Split into Two Volumes, Vol. 2 here)

Reader Is: Female (only mentioned a few times, I think, I tried to be vague-ish), late-twenties

An Unexpected Bucky

“Crashing against him like…like a wave on the…no. No, that’s so bad,” You murmured to yourself, finger repeatedly tapping the backspace key. Maybe writing a book was harder than you thought it would be. How had Scott Lang pulled it off, you wondered. Granted, Scott’s book was an autobiography and you were dabbling in fiction, which was harder, you were sure.

You took a long sip of your drink. Something warm and caffeinated to power you through the next chapter or so, you hoped.

Outside, there were actual waves crashing against the actual shore, not too far from the little east coast house you called home. It was a dreary kind of day, the sky full of clouds. It wasn’t supposed to rain, but you wouldn’t be surprised if it did. You didn’t mind. The rain helped you think sometimes, and god knew you could use it.

Your eyes scanned the last paragraph you had, fingers itching for the next words. Sometimes, it was just so hard to let it flow. And you weren’t exactly in the ideal position to be writing a kissing scene, let alone anything steamier than that, given how long it had been since you’d partaken in any of those activities. Maybe you’d have to read some and come back to it.

Before you had the chance to decide, your phone rang.

You didn’t get many calls these days. Not important ones, anyway. Mostly spam concerning your car’s extended warranty or robo-calls from those scam Avengers Insurance agencies. No one was going to cover your car if it got smashed by the Incredible Hulk. That was merely a risk people took living in New York, you were afraid. It was why you’d moved away. You’d seen something on the news the other day about some new incident out that way. A giant, looming shadow that had been, miraculously defeated. Once you knew you didn’t need to head out to help, you’d turned it off. You hadn’t done much hero work lately; you were probably rusty anyway.

Instead, you’d picked a quiet life in Seaberg, Maine. Left New York and hadn’t looked back.

You picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, kid. Your doorbell still broken?”

“Congressman Barnes, good to hear from you. And yeah, I think it is. Why, do you know a guy?”

“Nah, but could you come open the door?”

Oh. That changed things. You slipped off of your barstool and straightened your shirt out, glancing down at yourself. Yeah, your oversized tee and your Stitch pajama pants would have to do, you supposed. You unlatched the door, undoing the three locks holding it shut and pulled it open to find Bucky, looking different than he’d looked in the news circuit since he’d been elected. A little rougher around the edges.

Still, he smiled when he saw you, pulling you in for a hug. “Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m good, Bucky. How are you?”

He hesitated. “Loaded question. Can we come in?”

We? Sure enough, when he stepped to the side, he revealed another guy, standing there in his shadow, a mop of curly brown hair hiding some of his face. He waved, hand swallowed up by the sleeve of the sweater he was wearing. From underneath the curls, a pair of kind, curious eyes peered out. Harmless, you ruled. Utterly harmless.

“Hi there. Yeah, uh, come on in.”

The aforementioned guy followed Bucky into the house, dragging a small orange suitcase behind him. You raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. You knew answers were coming.

Bucky made himself comfortable. Opened your fridge, grabbed a bottle of beer from the door of it. Used that fancy vibranium arm to crack it open with a hiss.

“How’s Congress?” You asked, sitting back at your island.

He huffed a laugh. “Done with that now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was a quick term! What happened?”

“You been watching the news?”

“Here and there.” You shrugged, stirring your straw in your drink. You glanced at the guy again. At his suitcase. He wandered a little further into your house, drawn to your shelf of DVDs. “What’s going on?”

“You hear about the, uh…incident in New York last week?”

“Some of it. Shadow guy or something. Seemed like it was handled and I didn’t get a call, so I figured…”

Bucky tilted his head towards the guy, eyes saying everything his words didn’t.

Your eyebrows furrowed, glancing over at him. He was crouched in front of the shelf, reading the names of the movies off of the spines. Utterly, utterly harmless. And yet…

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. We’re renovating the Tower. He needs a place to lay low for a few weeks. I figured I’d see if you had any objections. I know you have a guest room.”

“The Tower? The Tower? What the hell…?” You knew you’d been checked out for a few weeks, but that was news.

“Yeah, so that’s the other bit.” Bucky took a sip from his beer. “We’re starting the team back up. We could use a healer, if you’re up for it. I know you seem very…comfortable here, but…” He pointed to the decor you had up. “It’s nice, by the way. Looks really nice.”

“Thanks.” You looked at the guy again, and he was looking back this time, sitting criss-cross on the floor in your living room. He gave a pleasant smile.

“I’m Bob, by the way. You’re (Y/N)?”

“Yep, I’m (Y/N). Nice to meet you, Bob.” You turned back to Bucky. “Is he…like you used to be?”

“In a sense, yeah.” Bucky nodded. “We don’t know the extent of it, but you’re the expert.”

“No, the Wakandans were the experts. I was the contingency plan. You do know that, right?” It was true. They were the ones that had broken through Bucky’s mental conditioning. You were just there to put him to sleep. You were a healer, among other things. One of your abilities lulled people unconscious, which came in handy when the Winter Soldier was on a rampage.

“Well, I called. They’re kind of dealing with something over there. So…”

“I’m next on the phone tree. Well, I’m honored you thought of me. I haven’t heard from anyone since…well, since Tony’s funeral, really. We’re all scattered to the winds now.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I’m serious, though. They’re all very green. We could use someone with a little experience.” He said.

You exhaled a long breath, looking around at your things. Just pack it all up? Just leave? Snip the roots you’d put down and go? And then you looked at Bob again, who had moved on to inspect your collection of Wii games, nodding to himself as his eyes skimmed over Mario Galaxy and your Just Dance collection.

“Oh wow…” He murmured, looking impressed.

“I have a job here. I’d need someone to help me pack all this shit up. I’m not leaving my records and my Legos in Maine.”

“I’m sure Bob would love to help you downsize. He likes organizing stuff. And I’ll bring some help to get it all moved in two weeks.” Bucky offered, giving that little expectant look that you were sure had all the dames in the forties swooning over him. Yes, Bucky, whatever you say, Bucky. It was unfair, really. No wonder he’d won the election, even though you were pretty sure he’d killed JFK.

You gave another sigh. A more resigned sigh. You shook your head, not as your answer, but just in spite of yourself. Chuckled, even. “Yeah, alright, fine. I’ll put in my two weeks. And I’ll have a list of groceries I want in that pantry the second I step over that Tower threshold.”

He grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Greener Pastures

You swore every cart in this grocery store had at least one shitty wheel. It was a rule of the universe, you were sure. Still, you steered the cart up and down the aisles, letting Bob guide you. Everything the two of you would need for the next two weeks. So far, this included lots of mac and cheese, some chips and queso, a bag of baby carrots and dip, a few assorted snacks, some microwave popcorn, and a package of Oreos.

“What kind of pasta do you like?” You asked, eyes scanning the shelf.

“I’m not picky about that kind of thing. The spirals are fun, though.”

“Spirals it is.” You put a few boxes in the cart.

After the grocery store, you stopped at the rundown little theater at the end of the main drag of town, where you worked. Bob followed you into the lobby, looking around at the old marquis mounted to the front of the concession stand. You marched over to the managers’ desk, where one of your favorites was on duty. Leah.

“You seeing something today?” she asked.

You shook your head, grimacing as you handed over the slip of paper that sealed the deal.

She frowned. “You’re kidding. No. Noooooo. This feels like divorce papers.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” You shrugged, giving a sad little smile. “Greener pastures, I hope.”

“The bookstore poached you, didn’t they? I know you’ve been wanting a job there forever, but they’re never hiring.”

“Actually…I’m moving. It’s kind of last minute, but…I figured I’d put my two weeks in in case it doesn’t work out.”

Leah scoffed. “Pfft. Like we wouldn’t just hire you back anyway. You’ve been here for years.”

You nodded, glancing back at Bob, who was looking at the posters of upcoming movies. “Yeah. Feels like home here. But…I’ve gotta go back. I’ve been avoiding it too long.”

“Thought you’d say that. Well, I’ll let the GM know. Good luck with the move. I’m sure I’ll see you again before you leave.”

“Thanks. Come on, Bob. We’re all set here.”

“Alright.” He nodded, hands in his pockets, following you out the front doors. He climbed into the passenger seat of your car. You buckled up, turning the radio back on, adjusting the AC. The groceries were piled in the back seat, but nothing was frozen, so it was probably fine.

Out of the parking lot and onto the main drag of town, you passed several storefronts, people milling about, waving at each other. It was a small town. Everyone really did know everyone. And though you’d been an outsider when you’d moved there, you weren’t anymore. Instead, you had some friends, you’d like to think. Members of the community who you depended on for certain things.

The guy you bought your chives from at the farmer’s market, the old lady that ran the used bookstore, the guy at the record place who held the really cool ones until you got a look.

“This place is really nice.” Bob said quietly, watching the windows go by. “A lot of flowers here. Cool lighthouse.”

“It is. It gets really touristy in the summer, but…you came at a nice, quiet time.” You said, putting your blinker on and making a turn. “Anything else you need while we’re out?”

He shook his head. “I brought most of it. Thank you, though. For the groceries and stuff.”

“I was getting low.” You shrugged. Your modesty didn’t seem to get rid of the smile on his face, though.

Once you were back home, he helped carry the groceries in. The guy was…well, stronger than he looked, frankly. Bucky hadn’t explained everything there was hiding beneath his surface, left a lot of that for you to figure out, but you could add super strength to that growing list. With everything brought inside, you showed him up to the guest room so he could get settled while you put everything away.

It was a small room, the walls painted blue. There was a framed painting of a lighthouse you’d gotten at an art fair the previous summer, a set of dark blue sheets and a plush comforter. There was a small TV perched on the edge of a mahogany dresser. It had been decently cheap secondhand due to the large scratch on one of the legs.

“There’s a bathroom through that door there. I’ll show you how to use the shower. Feel free to put stuff in the drawers, I don’t care. And if you get cold, there are blankets tucked in the hope chest at the end of the bed.” You said, pulling open the lid to show him.

He nodded, committing the information to memory. You showed him the shower, like you promised, which was relatively straightforward compared to other models you’d operated, and then left him to his unpacking, heading downstairs.

It didn’t take long to put everything away. In fact, by the time you were done, the water on the stove had just started to boil. You poured in a box of mac and cheese. The noodles cooked, you drained them after, and added them back to the pot with some butter, milk, the cheese powder, and a hearty spoonful of queso, stirring it all together.

“That smells really good.” Bob smiled, padding down the stairs, hair wet from a shower. He had changed into yet another oversized sweater. You were beginning to think that suitcase of his was just full of them.

“It’s just mac and cheese. Thought I’d keep it simple for night one.” You replied, sliding the pot off the hot burner, turning the dial down. You handed him a bowl and a spoon, serving yourself first and leaving him more than half of the pot.

You walked down the step and a half into your living room, flicking on the TV. There was a channel that just ran animated movies all day. You didn’t have the full rundown on Bob or whatever trauma was hidden behind those kind, sad eyes, but kids’ movies were usually a safe bet with most folks, so you let it run. You figured he’d let you know if Monsters Inc. was too intense for him.

For the most part, you ate in silence, the sounds of your forks on the ceramic bowls quietly percussing in the small room. You wanted to say something, but didn’t know where to start with…all that, so you didn’t.

When the bowls were empty, you took them back to the kitchen, slipping them in the dishwasher. You soaked the pot, returned to the couch. It occurred to you that you should put some time into finishing your projects. The crafts you had been putting off. Some of them probably wouldn’t survive the move to the big city. Well, that, and you’d lose all motivation once you set foot beyond the confines of Maine. Your giant crochet blanket was as good a place to start as any.

You pulled it out of the storage ottoman in front of your armchair, setting to work. It was a nice, thick blanket, made of giant, fluffy yarn. The hook you were using for it was a massive plastic one, rather than a smaller, traditional one. 

Bob glanced over at you every once in a while, curious. “Is that knitting or crochet?”

“This is crochet,” you explained, holding up the stitches as though it would help. “Knitting is two sticks, crochet is just one. I can do both, but…honestly, crochet is kind of easier. It works up faster, too. But knitting is better if you want something…more substantial. Like socks or something. Tighter, closer stitches.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen yarn that big,” he said with a chuckle, looking at it.

“They call this ‘blanket yarn.’ It’s the big guns.”

“I can see why. Does that take long?”

“If you keep at it? No. But I am a master procrastinator, so…you’re gonna see me do a lot of random hobbies these next couple weeks, get everything wrapped up.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

You worked for a while longer before you noticed him shaking a little. You glanced over, eyes scanning him for symptoms. You didn’t mean to; it was the healer in you. Finding a problem, fixing it.

“You okay?”

“’M fine.” He reassured, offering a soft but unconvincing smile. He considered for a moment before trying again. “I, uh…get the shakes at night. I’m okay. They’ve been better lately.”

You put the blanket aside, putting in a stitch marker. “Can I try something?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, uh, sure. Yeah. Try…what, exactly?”

“Did Bucky tell you what I do?”

He shook his head, curls waving in front of his face, making him look so soft and small.

“I used to be the healer on the team. It’s why he left you with me. Come sit here.” You pushed the ottoman further away from the armchair, patting the cushioned seat. He obliged, getting up and crossing the room, sitting there, gazing up at you with those curious eyes. You sat on the chair just behind him. “I’m gonna touch you a little, okay? Let me know if it’s too much and I’ll stop. People find it overwhelming sometimes.”

“O-okay.” He nodded, shoulders hunched.

You watched the way his muscles seized ever so slightly. Tensing and untensing. Withdrawal, for sure. He was probably a few weeks clean. From what, it wasn’t your place to ask. But you could help, at the very least.

Deep breath in. 

You focused, reaching in for the first time in a long time. A gentle white glow bloomed from your chest, your palms. Sometimes you forgot how bright you were. Other times, your inner light was stretched across the ceiling, dancing like an aquarium. 

You reached out, hands extended, smoothing across Bob’s shrouded shoulders, down his arms. The moment you made contact, he let out a long breath, head falling back as he looked up at the reflections of your light, blocked only by the imprint of his shadow. His tremors stopped, muscles relaxing.

“Ohhh.” He exhaled, melting beneath your touch as your hands worked, fingers digging into the knots on his back, the tension around his neck. The energy combined with your expert touch was enough to put even the Winter Soldier on his ass. Speaking from experience.

After a few minutes, you pulled back, letting your glow fade back to neutral.

“Better?”

“How’d you…do that?” He murmured. He wasn’t shaking anymore, eyes scanning down his arms, honed in on his fingers.

“Lots of practice. It’s not a permanent fix, but it’ll help you sleep, at least.” You promised, getting up from the armchair and walking around to get a look at his face. His eyes were half-lidded, that soft, sleepy smile cemented onto his features, it would seem.

He nodded, taking a long breath and letting it roll out of him. “Thank you. For that. For…everything, really. It was really nice of you to let me stay here. You definitely didn’t have to, having it just kind of sprung on you like that.”

You shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. If you need more, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll do this for you every night if you need it.”

He chuckled, tilting his head, catlike amusement on his face. “Don’t tempt me with a good time. That was…wow. I’ve never been to a massage place or anything, but I have to imagine that’s five-star service right there.”

You laughed at that. A genuine, honest-to-god laugh. Huh. That was new.

“Anyway, I think I’m gonna head up for the night while I’m still all drowsy and stuff. Don’t wanna blow it.” He stood, straighter than he had the whole time he’d been there. He was kinda tall, apparently.

“Have a good night, Bob. My room is just down the hall if you need anything.”

He smiled. “Alright.”

And as he walked up the stairs to the second floor, it occurred to you that…maybe having a roommate wouldn’t be so bad. Honestly…maybe you’d been kind of lonely? All this time? Odd how that happened.

Well, one way or the other, you had one now. With any luck, the two of you would make it through the next thirteen days unscathed.

I mean, one could hope, right?

Local Honey

You made a concerted effort to wake up a little earlier the next morning. You didn’t know what time Bob would, and you didn’t want him to be alone on his first morning there, so you got out of bed, got dressed for work, and sat at the island in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal, typing away on your laptop.

He didn’t come down until ten or so, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was wearing a pair of pajamas with fish on them. You couldn’t help but chuckle a little. This was supposed to be the most dangerous guy in the world? You didn’t buy it.

“Good morning.” You said, giving a welcoming smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock. Those waves outside are something, huh? Like a free noise machine.” He stretched, yawning. He opened the cupboards, looking for breakfast. He found it relatively quickly, picking a packet of oatmeal. He explored a little, looking in the other cabinets until he found a bowl and a spoon. “Can I use this honey?”

“Mmhmm, go for it.” You nodded. “I get it at the farmer’s market. The guy who does it is local. It’s supposed to be good for your allergies, eating local honey. Gets you used to the pollen or something.”

He brightened at that factoid. “I never knew that! Makes sense, though.” He stirred the oatmeal mix together with some water and popped it into the microwave to thicken. Once it came out, he drizzled some honey on top along with some banana slices. “Can I sit with you?”

“You don’t have to ask. Make yourself at home,” you said. “Sit where you want, eat what you want. If we run out of something, we can just go get more. That said, I have work at noon. I’ll be back sometime around six. Are you gonna be okay here alone?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He nodded, making a perfect scoop of his oatmeal. “Do you want me to do anything while you’re gone? Like…laundry or something?”

“No, that’s okay. Thank you, though. I should get my schedule today, too, so we can figure out how much I work these next few weeks. Shouldn’t be much. It’s been really slow.”

“Seems like a fun job. Movie theater.”

“It is. I get free posters. Free tickets. Half-off snacks. It’s a decent gig. Doesn’t pay much, but…”

“I get it. I was a sign-spinning chicken as a summer job.” He confessed, giving a self-depreciating chuckle. “So, you know…”

“Sounds warm.”

“It was. A very sweaty experience.” He shrugged, face morphing into that little earnest smile of his. “I’d much rather scoop popcorn, I think.”

***

And scoop popcorn you did. Work was rather uneventful. Slow as all hell, in other words. Nothing good was out, so your only customers were a handful of old ladies trying to haggle for a lower ticket price, which was not how that worked at all.

“Heard you put in your two weeks,” one of the managers said. “Why’s that?”

“Going back to New York. One of my friends,” Bucky Barnes, aka the former Winter Soldier, “is…looking for a new roommate,” healer for his new Avengers lineup “and…I’ve missed it, I guess.” You said with a shrug. 

You didn’t miss the city. You did miss…being part of something. Now that the seed had been planted in your head, and you’d slept on it, you were coming around on it. Living in the tower. Having a built-in…family, or something similar. A team, at the very least. And Bob was nice. You hoped the others would be the same, whoever they were. You still refused to read up on it, for fear of psyching yourself out of it.

After work, you hit a drive-thru and headed home, setting the bag and two drinks on the island. You almost did a double-take when you saw the shoes in front of the door until you remembered you had a house guest.

“Bob! I got dinner!”

He came around the corner, grinning. His sweater of the day was green. It suited him. He eyed up the bag on the counter. “I could have made us something.”

You ignored the flutter your heart did when he said that. You couldn’t remember the last time a man had offered to cook for you, in any sense of the word. “Oh, that’s okay. I never feel up to it after work, so I just figured…”

“Nuggets?”

“I got ranch and barbeque.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“How was your day? Get up to anything fun in my absence?”

“Nah, not really. Just explored the house a little. Watched a movie. You have a lot of board games.”

“I collect Monopoly boards. I collect a lot of things, actually, which is going to be our main project…starting tomorrow. I need to sit down.”

“Long day?”

“Boring day. Thursdays are always slow as hell.” You replied, kicking your shoes off. You walked out into the living room, setting up a pair of TV trays, for once grateful that you had more than one. “What do you want to watch?”

“Oh, I don’t really care. You can put on whatever.” Bob sat down in front of one of the trays, pulling his feet under his legs as you distributed the food. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yeah, of course. I should have texted, but then I realized when I clocked out that I don’t have your phone number.”

“I don’t have a phone. They said they’d get me one when I go back.” He said softly, as though he didn’t believe the words. You wondered why.

“Ah. Gotcha, okay.” You nodded. “I can set up my iPad here. Text it from my phone. And you can use it to message me back.”

At that, he gave a genuine smile. “Yeah, that works. Thank you.”

“Quit thanking me. I’m just trying to be a good host to my guest.”

He chuckled, shrugging. “Right. I’m just not used to it, is all.”

You could tell he meant it. And it broke your heart. You didn’t know what all he’d been through on his way to you, but you knew this boy was not used to kindness, even though he had all the kindness in the world tucked behind those sparkling eyes.

“Get used to it.”

“Okay, deal.”

***

That night, you were a little restless. One of those nights where you just toss and turn, and then readjust your blankets, flip your pillow, and toss and turn some more. But you swore, one of those times, when you sat up and opened your eyes just the tiniest bit, that there was a shadow, looming in the corner of your room.

Two glowing yellow eyes.

When you lit your hand—a common alternative to a flashlight, in your case—there was no one there. Just a hoodie hanging over your closet door.

So you laid down and went to sleep.

Knight of Cups

Rain pitter-pattered steadily on the roof the next morning. Dreary gray skies floated beyond your fluttering curtains. The perfect day to stay inside. Really, the perfect day to begin the impossible journey of weeding out the junk in your house.

You got dressed, pulling on a striped shirt and a pair of overalls with a bee embroidered into the denim. That, you’d done yourself. You let your anchor necklace settle between your collarbones, adjusting it with your fingers before heading downstairs.

It took a while for Bob to come down. He gave a sleepy little chuckle, hoping to distract from the bags beneath his eyes. It didn’t work. But you didn’t ask questions. You had to trust him to come to you if he needed help.

The two of you ate breakfast. He kept fixating on your honeybee and he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face, that soft, soft look in his eyes.

“I did it myself. The bee. Embroidered it.”

His smile widened. “Really? You embroider?”

“Not a lot, but yeah. Got a kit on clearance at the craft store.”

“It looks great. I couldn’t even tell.” He murmured, eyes sliding from the bee up to meet yours. “Looks super professional. What, uh…what’s the plan today?”

“I figured we’d tackle that bookshelf first. The big one.”

“Aye aye.” He took your empty plate and rinsed it off, setting it in the dishwasher.

You got your hair out of the way and walked over to said bookshelf, planting yourself in front of it, hands on your hips, eyes scanning the spines. It was a large shelf, had come with the house. It was made of an old rowboat. Wide and sturdy, absolutely filled with books, almost floor to ceiling. Not to mention the knickknacks scattered about. The stray Funko Pop or action figure.

A tiny plastic Winter Soldier stood guard in front of your leatherbound copy of the Hobbit. Bucky would get a kick out of that.

“Where do we start?” Bob asked, suddenly behind you.

You jolted a little, turning to look at him, hand slapped over your heart. You chuckled a little. “Jeez, you’re quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You grinned, turning back to the shelf. “I’ll, uh…go grab some boxes. I think we’ll just stick to the classic keep, trash, donate. You can start taking stacks of them off the shelf and I’ll start sorting.”

“Got it.”

The two of you split. You rummaged around in a closet and found some empty tubs, dragging them back out to the living room, where Bob was stacking books on the coffee table for your consideration. He stopped in his tracks, wound up for a second, and then sneezed like a kitten.

Most dangerous man in the world my ass. “Sorry. It’s probably pretty dusty over there. I’m not great at staying on top of it.”

“’S fine.” He rubbed the end of his nose, scrunching it in an attempt to get his sinuses back in order. “You got a lot of, uh…vampire romance there.”

“I had a phase.” You chuckled, scooping most of them into the donation box. You saved a few of the good ones, though. It continued like that, Bob bringing you an armful of books at a time and you would split them up accordingly.

“Aww, man, Animorphs, I used to read these all the time!” He grinned, looking at the art on one of the covers, finger tracing over Rachel’s transformation into a starfish.

“You can have them if you want. I’ve only got a handful and they’re all out of order. I never did read them all.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah, knock yourself out. I’ll get another box.” You said with a grin, walking out of the room with yet another box that you set in the corner of the room. You used a piece of tape and a Sharpie to label it BOB, which he grinned at, setting the small set of paperbacks inside.

“So uh…How do you know Bucky?”

“Old friend.” You replied, gathering your words as you flipped through a pile of murder mysteries, choosing to part with most of them. “He, uh…right, so…Sam found me, actually. Sam Wilson. Scouted me out back in…well, it was before the blip. Bucky was brainwashed by HYDRA and worked for them for a while. So I was there to…put him to sleep, basically. I can’t undo brainwashing, but I can mellow someone out.”

“Yeah, you’re good at that. Damn near knocked me out with it.” He said with a chuckle.

“I was hitting you with Level 2 waves. When I get up to like a 5 or so, it would indeed knock you out.” You replied, meeting his eyes. “So yeah, I went with Bucky to Wakanda while they untangled his mind, in case things got out of hand. Fought Thanos, got dusted, and then everyone split up and it’s been radio silence since then. I keep tabs, but…not enough, I guess.”

“And that’s why they sent me here, then, I’m guessing. So…you can knock me out if I…you know…if the other guy makes an appearance…?” Bob asked softly. You could tell it had been on his mind.

“Other guy?” You asked, genuinely baffled for a moment until you remembered his shadowy counterpart. The one you’d seen on the news. The floating black silhouette with the cape and the glowing eyes. The one who was supposedly standing right in front of you. “Right. I mean, I guess so. I also just like to think I’m good company.”

You shuffled through another few stacks of books, sorting through things. Books you were never going to read, books you had read and didn’t like very much, all went into the donation box. Maybe you were in the mood for it, or maybe you really were more of a pack rat than you’d previously thought, but it was…easy to part with a lot of it now, with either hindsight or the free time to finally go through it.

Every once a while, you’d walk over and set one in Bob’s box, stuff you thought he would like, but he spent some time in front of the donation box, too, picking things out for himself. It brought a smile to your face, him crouched there, searching for treasures.

“Tell me about yourself.” You said suddenly.

“What do you…want to know?” Bob asked, sitting himself down cross-legged on the carpet. “I don’t know much about my…powers or…”

“Oh, no no no. Tell me about…you. Like, um…what’s your favorite color? Favorite movie? That kinda stuff.”

“Oh. Uh, blue. And Finding Nemo. I…grew up in Florida. I hate rollercoasters. I threw up in a haunted house one time. I’m afraid of heights. I like sitcoms, but I have trouble remembering stuff that happened in the early seasons. I like to read. Hence the uh, stack I’m collecting here. I hope you’re not donating these anywhere important. I’m poaching all your good picks.”

“Nah, take whatever you want. The rest are going to the used bookstore in town. She gives store credit for them, so we can pick up one or two new ones while we’re there, if you see anything you like.” You reassured him.

“What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Favorite color, movie, all that stuff.” Bob insisted, eyes glimmering.

“Yellow. Movie is tough. I love a lot of movies. Probably Howl’s Moving Castle right now.” You replied, grabbing the last of the books from the shelf. You tucked the Hobbit along with the tiny Bucky into the Keep box. You’d give them to him when he came back. “I’m from New York. Lived there most of my life. I like the quiet life, though. The waves on the shore, the familiar faces. In a big city, everyone blends. You’re the tiniest drop in the biggest bucket. But here…I could go down a whole row of shops and tell you the names of every shopkeep. I know all the old ladies in the farmers’ market.”

He nodded like you’d said something profound. “I…yeah. That drop in the bucket stuff. I get that. I like it here, too. Little town. It’s easier to…breathe.” He turned one of the books over, reading the back of it before tucking it into his box. He couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off of his face, looking at his haul. It made your chest warm. “Thanks for these. And don’t tell me not to thank you because these are a gift, not standard host stuff. I’m allowed to thank you for that.”

You laughed, nodding. “Alright, fair. And you’re welcome. We might need to get you a bigger box. I’ve got a lot of shit in this house. I have no doubt you’ll pick up some more trinkets by the time we leave.”

He grinned. “Promise?”

***

Once the books were sorted, Bob helped you load the boxes of outgoing copies into the back of your car. He was…stronger than he looked. You tried not to read too much into it. You didn’t want him to think you were sizing him up as a threat. You were sure those looks were the ones he was hoping to escape in your middle-of-nowhere little town.

It wasn’t a long drive. Just a few minutes down the road, further down the coast. You parallel parked with ease.

“Okay, now that is a superpower.” Bob said, impressed. “I’ve never seen anyone do it that easily before.”

“I’ll give you some pointers before we leave.” You chuckled, slipping out of your seat and checking both ways before stepping into the street, walking around to the trunk of the car and grabbing a box. Bob followed you through the front door, the little bell above the door jingling as you did.

Inside, was the coziest bookstore in the world, to be sure. Suncatchers in the windows reflected little rainbows on every surface. It was low-lit, but fairy lights and a handful of lanterns made up for it, illuminating the place with a glow that could only be explained as magic, you were sure.

The shopkeep was an eccentric old lady named Earlene, who had a beaded glasses strap hanging around her neck. She was wearing a loose tie-dye blouse and more rings than you could count, big giant hoop earrings attached to her ears.

She was who you wanted to be when you grew up.

“Well, if it isn’t our glowing girl herself. How the hell are you, (Y/N)?” Earlene asked, motioning you into the shop, arms open wide. You set your box on the counter, slipping around the side of it to hug her.

“Doing great, Earlene. Brought some new stock for you.”

“I see that. You cleaning house or what?”

“Something like that. Heading back to New York for a while, I think.” You confessed, putting it out in the open. Ripping it off like a Band-Aid.

She frowned at that, shaking her head. “Damn. It’s always the good ones. You’re gonna visit, though? My niece got me on that…Instagram.”

“Oh, I will add you for sure.” You promised. “And I’m sure I’ll visit.” There was some rustling behind you, Bob looking at the shelf of classics.

Earlene pointed with a manicured finger. “Is this one the boyfriend?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No. There is no boyfriend.”

“Well, there should be. You’re a beautiful young lady and you aren’t getting any younger.” She said, earning a laugh from your companion, who set the box of books he had on the floor in front of the counter.

“Earlene, this is Bob. Bob, this is Earlene.”

“Think of me as the town wine aunt. Well, great-aunt now, I suppose. I’m not getting any younger, either.”

“She hosts Tipsy Tarot nights once a month.”

“And I promise you, honey, that Knight of Cups is coming in any day now.”

You scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I like your shop.” Bob said, pointing to the lights. “Really cool vibes in here.”

“Well, thank you, Bob. Take a look around. With all these books (Y/N) is unloading, you can take at least a few.” She said with a grin.

“I’ll go get the last box.” You volunteered, heading back outside to get the last one out of the trunk. When you returned, Bob was crouched in front of the classics shelf, looking at the cover of something. Frankenstein, you were pretty sure.

Earlene motioned you over towards the counter with a curled finger, beckoning, not unlike a witch in a children’s fairytale. You followed anyway, standing behind the counter with her. She took one of your hands in hers, reaching into her pocket to hand you a small, rectangular box. You knew from the cover art alone what it was. A tarot deck. A classic, vintage, Rider-Waite tarot deck.

“Earlene, I can’t, this is—”

“This has been sitting behind that glass counter for years, hon. Trust me. No one in this town wants it. Take it to the big city with you. Find your Knight. They say it’s good luck to have your first deck given to you.”

You held it carefully, turning it over to look at the other side. Warmth welled up in your chest, and a soft little sigh was all you could do to stop it from welling up in your eyes as well.

“Thank you. I’ll treasure them.” You promised.

Earlene squeezed your hands, getting a little misty herself. “I know you will. Now, you better be good in that city, glowing girl. I don’t want to see you on the news.”

Bob laughed at that and you shook your head, giving a sardonic little smile. “No promises.”

***

You sat on the living room floor that night, doing a facemask when Bob walked into the room, fiddling hands swallowed up by the soft cotton of his sweater. Rain pitter-pattered on the roof still. Light and delicate. He tilted his head, looking at you curiously.

“You’re green.”

You giggled, nodding. “I am. Clay mask. I’m not huge on the skincare stuff, but it helps sometimes, with all this salty sea air.”

He reached up and rubbed his face. “Huh. Should I be doing that too? Not important. Anyway, uh, I was just, uhhhhh…” He paused for a long time. You could practically see the dialogue options scrolling behind his eyes before he finally settled on one. “Heading up to bed.”

“Okay. Good night. Let me know if you need anything.” You told him, almost expectant for him to say more.

He didn’t though, just nodded, gave that soft sleepy smile, and said, “Goodnight.” He padded up the stairs back to his room. You listened to the rain in his absence, staring up the dark hallway, watching as the light clicked on and then off again. You smiled softly.

You hoped he was finding some peace and quiet in your little town, even if it was just for a little while.

The Beacon

The rain put you out like a light that night. You slept in the next morning for the first time in what felt like forever, woke up peacefully to the birds chirping, sunlight stretched across your pillowcase.

Something sizzled in the distance. Smelled like breakfast. You grinned, slipping out of bed and getting dressed before wandering down the stairs. Bob was indeed standing at the stove, cracking an egg into a sizzling hot pan. You watched as he scrambled them, stirring them around with a fork. He wasn’t super confident with the movements, but he was doing good.

He glanced up at you as you stepped down into the room, eyes almost glittering as he took you in. “Morning. Just making us some breakfast. I’m not much of a cook, but I can make eggs.” He hissed as he lost focus, hand grazing the edge of the hot pan. When he pulled it away to look, though, there was…nothing. No redness, no burn. Just his hand, as it was before. Odd, you thought.

“Does it hurt?” You asked, taking a step closer.

He shrugged. Lied. “A little.”

You reached out, letting your glowing palm smooth over the spot, giving him the tiniest bit of energy out of habit, clearing up the pain as easily as someone wiping a whiteboard.

He smiled a slow and earnest smile, those thick eyelashes fluttering down over his ocean eyes. “Thanks. Cool trick.”

“No problem. Thanks for breakfast.”

He chuckled and gave a shrug, stirring the eggs around again. Once they were cooked, he plated them up, bringing them over to the table and setting them on your thrifted placemats. You sprinkled some salt and pepper on yours, sipping some morning tea.

“Hey, um…I saw on the calendar you work tomorrow. I can cook dinner, if you want. So it’s nice and warm when you get back. I make a mean pasta.” He offered, poking his eggs with a fork. He bit his lip, eyes locked on the edge of the plate, flicking up to yours after a long moment.

You smiled, nodding. “We can go to the farmer’s market today, get some veggies.”

His face broke into a grin. “I’d love that.”

***

You led Bob up the rows of local vendors, pulling a little wagon behind you. He browsed thoroughly, hands playing with the ends of his sleeves. You picked out your favorites at the honey stand, a few more bottles than you usually did. The old man who ran it, Mr. McAllister, raised a bushy gray eyebrow.

“Stocking up there, (Y/N)?”

“I’m moving back to New York, actually.” You explained, giving a shrug. “So I’ll need some for the road.”

He frowned, but added another jar of honey to your bag with a wink. “On the house. Safe travels.”

You smiled softly. “Thank you.”

It was like that at every booth.

The guys you bought your chives and onions from with the awesome handlebar mustaches. The girl at the crochet booth. The longest stop was at the tea booth you so adored. The middle-aged woman that ran the booth motioned you closer, slipping a brown beaded bracelet off of her wrist and onto yours.

“Tiger’s Eye. For good luck in the big city.” She said.

You gave her hand a squeeze, thanking her for it. It was always the small town ladies that turned out to be witches, but the magic was appreciated nonetheless.

And as much as the locals loved you, they also loved Bob. He wandered the booths, asking questions, weighing tomatoes in his hands, feeling them to find the good ones. The Chive Brothers gave him a chive to chew on, which he did, munching it like a farmer with a piece of straw.

“Is this the boyfriend?” The old lady selling earrings with her granddaughter asked, motioning to Bob, who was asking the honey vendor about his bees.

You shook your head, watching him fondly. It wasn’t impossible to see why they’d think so. Especially when he turned around to catch your eyes from across the aisle. He pointed excitedly to some candles made from beeswax.

You grinned and followed him over, putting a hand on his arm to let him know you were standing there.

“They’re made of the beeswax they collect.” He said with a grin. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just thought it was cool.”

“You want one?”

His eyebrows shot up, looking like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “What? Oh, no. I’m fine. I…I don’t have…”

Bob had come into your home with that suitcase and only that suitcase. He didn’t have any money on him. Didn’t even have an ID. You still weren’t sure what to make of him, where he’d come from, what he’d been through to get to you. And of course, Bucky was never one for thorough explanations.

Without missing a beat, you looked at the candles on the table. “Well, what scent do you want?”

“You don’t have to…you’ve already done so much for me, it’s just a silly candle.”

You shrugged, handing Mr. McAllister a ten dollar bill. “Well, then tell him which one you want.”

Bob rolled his eyes, a reluctant grin tugging at the edge of his lip. “Alright, fine. I’ll take the eucalyptus one, please.”

***

The foghorn blared across the waves, the sound of it echoing for miles. In the distance, the lighthouse, spinning like a top, around and around and around. Its light stretched into the fog, arms reaching out towards the harbor. One big ship slugged through, crawling. A towering shadow. Two discernible lights roved. Like eyes.

You sat on the back deck, watching, knees curled up to your chest, chin resting there. You were glowing at a Level 3. White, dancing light, licking at your form like flames. Rainbows refracted on the beechwood railing. You took a long breath, letting it roll out of you, floating off into the fog.

The back door squeaked as it slid open and you turned, light dampening back to neutral.

“Hey.”

“Hey. You were…glowing.” Bob said, planted in his spot just inside the doorway.

“I do that sometimes, yeah.” You turned your head, ear tucked against your knees. “Wanna sit, or…just stand there?”

He chuckled, walking out onto the deck and sitting next to you on the back step. “Do you, uh…glow often?”

“Sometimes. I get headaches if I hold it in.”

Bob nodded. “Bucky called you Beacon. Kinda thought he said ‘bacon,’ actually. But…Beacon, like…lighthouse?”

You met his eyes, amusement flickering across your face. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

His curls rustled as he shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, I know the stuff you told me about like…helping Bucky and stuff, but…”

“The name didn’t really stick. Beacon. It was all we could come up with. I had a shirt with a lighthouse on it and…that was that.” You explained.

“So, you’re named after the shirt? Just like…”

“Well, I glow, too. Pretty bright, if I get all worked up. I, uh…live this close to one in case of that, actually. If I needed to get away. Glow super bright. Far enough away from people, hidden in plain sight. That, and the rent is super cheap because of the—” The foghorn blared, causing you to chuckle, pointing vaguely in that direction. “That. Because of that.”

He laughed, nodding. “Good trade-off, I’d say.”

You stared at the swivelling light. The other beacon. “I hope you never have to see me like that.”

He looked bewildered. “Why?”

“Well, it’s…kind of blinding, really. Like staring at the sun.” You breathed. “My lower glow is healing and gentle. When I’m all bright like that, it…hurts people.”

“Bad people, though.” Bob thought about it for a long moment. “I think it’d be kinda pretty. Like…well, like a lighthouse.” He shrugged. “We’ve gotta find you a better name than Beacon, though.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips. “We’ve got some time to workshop it.”

The Stray

There was nothing you enjoyed less than trying to explain ticket prices to old people. If your theater ran a promotion one time, they’d come around expecting that price forever because of an ad they saw on Facebook. And you’d had that conversation about twelve times that day. In addition to being yelled at because a boomer got confused over which theater he was supposed to be in. You were right. He was wrong. But that never seemed to matter in the end; not to them.

You ducked into the backroom and sent a text to your iPad, checking in on Bob. It was the longest day you’d left him alone for. A 9 to 6.

“Hey, buddy. Everything good at home?”

You didn’t see his reply until a few hours later, when it was slow enough to slip into the back again.

“I am good :) See u for dinner :P Bring your appetite, glowy lady.”

You laughed, unable to wipe the smile off your face as you typed your reply. “Is ‘glowy lady’ an official name pitch or…?”

And he sent back, “Do u not like it? :(”

Giggling, you typed another quick text. “I’ll add it to the list for consideration.”

One of your coworkers pushed through the swinging door between the counter and the backroom, looking you over. “You back on the apps again?”

“Huh? No. Why?” You replied, clicking the phone off and tucking it into your back pocket again.

“I haven’t seen you grin at your phone like that since you were dating. You got a hot date tonight or something?”

A warm flush spread across your cheeks, down your neck. “Nah, my, uh, houseguest is making dinner tonight. That’s all. He’s funny.”

“Funny, huh?”

“Yeah, funny. Sweet.” You shrugged, ignoring the swarm of butterflies that had kicked up in your stomach. Swirling and swirling.

“How’d you meet this guy again?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“Sounds like more than that now.”

A smile tugged at your lip, unable to defend yourself, really. “Getting there.”

***

You pulled into your driveway at a crisp 6:15, and for the first time in a long time, your house smelled like home. You opened the door, kicking your shoes onto the mat.

Bob was standing at the stove, using a wooden spatula to stir together a pasta dish in a casserole pan, chopping up chunks of softened cheese and stirring it in with the cooked tomatoes and herbs.

“Almost done over here.” He said over his shoulder. “How was work?”

“Long. And bad, also. Lots of cranky customers. I’m better now, though. That smells good as hell.”

“It’s not hard. I can teach you.” He poured the noodles into the dish and stirred them in the sauce, making sure everything was coated.

You watched him move, a fond smile crossing your face. He was wearing your apron, his hair tied back in a scrunchie you’d left in the living room, the ends sticking out all choppy because of the length.

And it was wrong. It was so wrong, but you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining walking up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and burying your face in his shoulder. You tried to convince yourself it was because you’d been living alone for so long. You’d been single for so long, but the truth was, it was just something about him. Those soft eyes. He looked at you like you were glowing all the time. Like you were made of starlight.

But you doubted Bob was in the headspace for that kind of thing. Which is what made it feel so wrong.

He scooped out two bowls, motioning to the table he’d set with your leftover Halloween napkins and a few forks. You grabbed a drink from the fridge and slipped into the seat across from him.

“How was your day?”

Bob smiled, giving a shaky shrug. “Fine. It was good. Got some reading done. Kept hearing something by the back door, but I went to check, and I didn’t see anything.”

“Mmm, I’ll check it out later.”

“I know I keep saying it, but, uh, it’s really, uh…really nice here.” Bob said, poking around his pasta. He took a bite, smiling shyly.

“It is, isn’t it?” You ate some, too, the taste of the homemade sauce enveloping your tongue. “This is really good. Thank you for cooking for me.”

“Yeah, of course. You, uh…had a lot to work with. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a…fridge full of food.” He said it so easily, but you could tell he meant it. That made it sadder, you were sure.

You didn’t know what to say to that, eyebrows furrowing together.

He saved you the trouble. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine. I know how that…sounds. I…I’m doing a lot better now.” He took a long breath, holding it before letting it out. His eyes slid across the wall, over a cross-stitch tapestry of a pirate ship. “I like it here.”

“We can still visit. I’m planning on leaving some of the essentials here. We might need a safe house every now and again. I like it here, too.”

He seemed to make peace with that. That he could come back. “Cool. I’d like that.”

After dinner, you boxed up the leftovers, a little less than half the pan, and helped with the dishes. Bob wiped down the counters, stopping when he heard something outside the side door. He turned, peering out the window.

“I don’t see anything, but I swear I hear a—”

Bob was interrupted by a crisp Meow.

You smiled, turning away from the sink and walking over towards the cupboard, opening it to reveal a container of kibble. You scooped a heaping cup of it and opened the door, motioning Bob over. “You’re not allergic, right?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

You pulled the door open and there he was, Reginald the Lighthouse Keeper, the local stray. Immediately, he was against your ankles, rubbing his little cheeks against whatever skin he could find. You reached down, scratching behind his ears as he meowed insistently.

“I know, I know.” You walked out onto the step, pouring kibble into his little metal bowl, sheltered from the somewhat frequent rain by the awning above the door. “Here you go.”

“Whoooo is thisss???” Bob asked, face awash with affection as he looked down at the skinny orange cat with the big brown eyes, eagerly gobbling up the kibble.

You snatched up the second bowl, walking into the kitchen to get him fresh water from the sink and returned to find Bob crouched there, petting him, cooing babytalk. “That’s Reginald. He’s the local stray. Beloved pillar of the community.”

“Why doesn’t anyone take him in?”

“Oh, we’ve all tried. He doesn’t want it. Prefers to wander. But we all take care of him, make sure he’s not…eating too many birds, you know. And the local vet keeps him up to date on his shots.”

Bob pet him, hands confident for perhaps the first time since you’d met him, from his head, down to his tail, the end of it curling around his wrist. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “I love cats.”

“I think he loves you.” You grinned, leaning against the doorway. It was true. Reginald purred like a motor, leaning into Bob’s palms, nudging against his hand any time he dared to stop his motions.

“Animals are like that, you know. Just…bottomless, unconditional love. He just met me and already, he loves me.” Bob chuckled, petting his little head. “It’s hard not to love them right back.”

That was how you were starting to feel about Bob, really. You just met him. And yet…

Nothing Scary

It was another quiet day in Seaberg. After breakfast, you stood in the living room, stretching out your back and staring at the shelf where you kept all your records. Surely some of them could go, right?

“Records, huh? You have a lot of them.”

“Yeah, I’m a pack rat. We can do my CDs today, too. Maybe the DVDs.”

“Big day.” Bob nodded, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. “Let’s do it.”

You pulled out each milk crate, evaluating each album with care as you sorted them. These were a lot harder to part with, but you did find a few that you didn’t resonate with anymore. Some, you’d have to leave here at the house, you decided, but there were a good few you wanted to bring to New York with you.

Of the losers, Bob did snag a few for his box. One of them, he very carefully slipped out of its cardboard and set it on your little turntable, dropping the needle. It crackled for a moment before swelling to life. An 80s soft rock album.

You grinned, watching him sway. “Bruce Springsteen?”

“I just love this song.” He admitted as the sound filled the room with warmth. Or maybe that was just the smile on his face.

And that was how it continued. You discarded records and Bob would scan through them and take songs on a test drive, listening to how they sounded. Some of them, he scrunched his nose at and put in your donation box. Others, he slipped into his own with that fond little smile on his face.

After the tenth box, you stood and stretched, twisting the tension out of your back. Bob put another song on, the familiar sound floating from the speaker. Dancing in the Moonlight, from an album of assorted 70s hits.

“Love this song.” You murmured, shoulders shimmying almost beyond your control. Your feet followed suit.

Bob chuckled, unable to drag his eyes away. Like a train crash, you were sure. And though you expected him to stay planted there, watch you make a fool of yourself, instead he wandered further into the room, following your lead. You giggled, dancing beside him. You offered your hand and he took it, spinning you around, which caught you off-guard. He had moves, kind of. Awkward moves, but moves no less.

He took one of your hands in each of his, pushing and pulling your arms to the rhythm of the song, eyes sparkling. You may have been the glowing girl, but he was glowing. Happy and unashamed.

At the end of the song, he let go of your hands, sweeping into a bow, curls falling in his face. He straightened up, cheeks flushed. “I, uh, I’m gonna get a drink.”

You stood in the empty living room as the next song kicked on, your heart racing still from your little activity. Well, that and other things. You’d…never seen him look so free before. Like while the music played, all of Bob’s baggage was far, far away, and he was just…light.

He came back into the room with two glasses of ice water and handed one to you. You took a few generous sips before setting it on a coaster on the coffee table.

“We should do something tonight.” Bob resolved. “See a movie or…?”

“There’s a drive-in not far from here.” You chimed. “I’d take you to my workplace, but we don’t do late showtimes on weekdays and we won’t be done organizing all this crap until like seven minimum.”

“Nothing scary?”

“Let me check.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket, pulling up their website to see what they were showing that evening. “Nope, nothing scary. 80s movies double-feature. Back to the Future and Weird Science.”

“Oh, sweet. That sounds fun. Maybe pick up some food on the way?” He suggested.

You nodded, lips curling around the words before they spilled out. “It’s a date.”

***

It took hours, but eventually, you’d weeded through all the media in your house and Bob had a giant stack of DVDs in his box. The rest, you took to the thrift store on your way out of town. It was a little chilly tonight, so you packed a hoodie, and tucked the blanket you were still crocheting into the back of the car to work on during the movie.

You hit a drive-thru at the burger place at the edge of town and then drove the ten or twenty minutes out to the drive-in. It was further up the coast, in a big empty field on a hill. You were sure anyone who lived anywhere near there got a free show every night, even if they couldn’t hear it.

You paid admission at the gate and then backed into your favorite spot, in the middle of one of the middle rows. Not too close, not too far. Off to the right side, there was a concession stand and the bathrooms, which were housed inside a building. It was nice. You hated porta-potties.

Bob grinned, looking around. “I’ve never been to one of these before. Didn’t know they still did them, actually.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat! They show good stuff sometimes. And the popcorn is super cheap. Bathrooms are right over there.” You told him, opening the car door and walking around to the trunk. You pulled it open, making sure the car was off properly so the battery wouldn’t drain, and arranged a few blankets and pillows, making the ideal nest for a double feature.

Bob carried the bag of food around and set it in the middle, slotting the drinks into the cupholders on either side, up by the tiny back windows of your SUV. He pulled out his fries, eating the few that were left. He’d started on them on the drive over, while they were still hot.

You ate too, making quick work of your burger, taking intermittent sips of your soda, so that by the time the movie started, you had your hands free to work on your blanket.

Bob took his time, savoring every bite, sucking the salt from his fingertips before moving on to the next thing. He took a long sip of his milkshake and then sat back for a bit, hands folded on his stomach, leaning back against the pillows. He watched as you worked on the blanket, using a massive, plastic crochet hook to weave the fluffy stuff together.

He reached a tentative hand out, touching it. He gave one of the rows a squish, eyes lighting up at the feeling of it between his fingers. “Woah! I did not expect that to feel like this.”

“They’re nice as cushioning. I made one for one of my college chairs to sit on. Made it like, twice as comfortable.” You told him.

“You did college?”

“Mmhmm. Just barely finished before I got a call from Sam Wilson. Creative Writing, which does me a lot of good out here, you can imagine.”

“Creative Writing.” Bob repeated. He chuckled, shrugging. “I mean, this seems like as good a place for it as any. This town feels like it was plucked straight out of a romance novel. Must help with the writing. The…vibes of it.”

“You’re telling me. I keep emailing Hallmark, but they don’t seem to want to film anything here. Missed opportunity.”

He laughed at that. “I, uh…never did college. Kinda…dropped out of high school. Been thinking about getting my GED, but…” He gave that shy little shrug that was so common when he was opening up about something rough. The ‘hey, it’s fine’ shrug. But you could always tell it wasn’t fine.

“I’m sure that’s something that could be arranged. When we get to New York.” You said, tilting your head.

He nodded, giving a strained little smile that you couldn’t quite decipher. It was about either the GED or New York, but one of the two was stressing him out, so you decided not to press it further.

The trailers started up and you glanced at the convenience stand. There was a short little line formed there. “You want popcorn?”

“I could go for popcorn.” He agreed, grateful for the change in subject.

You reached into your wallet, handing him a ten dollar bill and telling him to get whatever he wanted. He returned a few minutes later with a big popcorn and a bigger smile, settling back into the car. It rocked a little as he settled his weight, getting comfortable again. He set the tub of corn between the two of you, snacking idly as the trailers gave way to the intro of Back to the Future. You couldn’t help but grin as Marty got blasted back by the massive speakers in Doc’s garage.

It went by pretty fast. The movie and the blanket. You finished it about halfway through, knotting the end and weaving it in with your hand, pulling it through loops until the little tail disappeared into the fluff.

Bob glanced over, impressed. “Wow, you finished it!”

“Only took me like four months of procrastination.” You chuckled, folding it in half and draping it over the seats behind you, so it would be softer to lean on.

“Hey, better late than never, though. I couldn’t do something like that.”

As the movie continued, you could feel Bob’s train of thought veering off course. He was getting lost in thought, that contemplative little frown on his face. You watched, clinical. Scanning for the same signs you used to look for in Bucky. That there was someone else sitting at the steering wheel. But that wasn’t the case. He was just thinking. Spiraling, even. About what, you weren’t sure.

When you reached into the popcorn bucket, your hand brushed his and—

You were somewhere else now. 

Shoes crunching through the snow as you approached the light streaming through the trees. Headlights. Screaming. They were screaming your name, the ones that were conscious.

“Hello?” You looked around, cold, cold air nipping at your cheeks, snowflakes catching in your tangled hair. “Hello?”

There was someone standing in the trees, watching. You searched, but couldn’t find them. You knew you were alone. Yet, the screaming persisted.

You picked up the pace, pushing past winter-soaked pines and unforgiving trunks, and then—

Sorry. I’m sorry. (Y/N)? A long sigh. Always making things worse…

Like being underwater. You pushed through the tunnel vision, resurfacing. You blinked a few times, taking a big breath.

Bob was leaning closer, staring at you, blue eyes blown wide with worry. The streetlights over by the concessions cast warm shadows on his face. But shadows no less. He peered out from behind his soft curls, waiting for you to say something.

“I’m okay. I…wow. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He breathed, sitting back a bit, tugging his sleeves down over his hands so it wouldn’t happen again. “Sorry. I-I don’t know how to control it. It’s just—”

“It’s okay.” You reassured, voice soft and even. “It’s okay. I…didn’t know you could do that.”

His fingers curled beneath the fabric of his sweater. He gave that sad little shrug again. “I…I’m…not really sure w-what all I can do, actually. ’S all kinda fuzzy, still. I thought it would come back to me, being out here, and some of it has, but…some of it, I’ve only seen footage of. I don’t…remember doing it.”

You nodded, listening. You reached out gently, touching his sleeve. He stared at your hand like he was afraid he’d burn you through his sweater, but he didn’t move. Sat frozen, letting it happen. 

“It’s okay.” You repeated again. “It’s okay.” Then, because he still had that look in his eyes, like he was bracing for impact, “No one is mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

That one took. He blinked. Breathed a little. Nodded, some of the tension rolling out of his shoulders. He managed the tiniest smile in the world, but it was still a smile, and you could tell it was a real one. “I needed to hear that.”

You gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I know you did.”

***

That night, as you laid awake in bed, you heard some rustling downstairs, shuffling around in the kitchen. You rolled over to look at your alarm clock. 2:22 in the morning.

The footfalls sounded up the stairs, extra loud on the creaky one. He stopped in front of your door for a long moment, hovering. You could almost feel his energy there through the door. 

And then it passed, retreating back into the guest room.

Relieved, you laid back down, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you knew that hadn’t been Bob, precisely. Exhausted, you quieted the voice, closing your eyes and going back to sleep.

Tags: @eywas-heir, @honig-bienchen, @thek8archive

[arciam]

Underrated JayVik moments/lines (18/∞)

"I was supposed to die."

(I can NOT get over how absolutely livid he looks.)

I always did wonder what precisely Viktor meant by that.

Because although we are led to believe that the main reason for his ire is that Jayce broke his promise to destroy the HexCore, not only would this line be entirely unnecessary for that, but this is the line that sees the focus fully on Viktor's delivery and expression (whereas his comment on Jayce's broken promise is instead "shot" from behind, with the focus falling squarely on Jayce's reaction).

All this - and adding to it how inherently striking a statement it is to tell someone you were supposed to die in the first place - goes to put a much heavier emphasis on this line over the other one, really. But why?

I believe it is because (though their parting was likely already inevitable at this point due to additional factors such as the HexTech weapons) it is in fact a crucial part of what informs Viktor and Jayce's disconnect in this scene. As I see it, one of the various ways Jayce goes wrong here is in dwelling on the HexCore and interpreting Viktor's disapproval as solely targeting Jayce's failure to "cling to principle", when the scene direction already told us he was supposed to have paid closer attention to the line above instead.

So, since the show insists - let's unpack this, I guess.

To me, the key to understanding is the question I posed in the very beginning; the question of which of Viktor's two possible deaths this line is actually referring to - his prognosed death by disease or his de facto death in the explosion (neither of which Jayce was "supposed to" avert by using the HexCore). And after some consideration, I think the answer is this:

It makes precious little difference to Viktor - and a world of difference to Jayce.

Let's take a look at the situation from their respective points of view:

"Promise. Me."

When Viktor made Jayce promise to destroy the HexCore, it's not like he wanted to die (even his suicide attempt was more of a bid to escape his guilt and despair than a death wish), but he was coming to terms with the inevitability of it. He may not know that he has only hours left to live here, but at this point, what's the difference really?

And then, something extraordinary happens:

While we don't get to see it, it is heavily implied - both by the way Viktor saying "We have to make it right" is played over the image of Silco reading Jayce's request for parley, and of course, by how he and Jayce end up presenting it to the council together - that this negotiation for peace with Zaun is a joint endeavour.

After all of the lonely struggles Viktor fought over the course of acts 2 and 3, he spends his final day working united with Jayce the way they used to be, and his final moments seeing his people be granted independence through his and Jayce's own efforts.

With him dying - or at least being knocked unconscious - instantly in the explosion, this was the "roll credits" moment of Viktor's life, and he would never have to learn how everything went to shit.

If your death was inescapable anyway - what moment could have been more beautiful to leave the stage?

...Only to wake up in a body horror nightmare, standing less than human before the person you needed to trust more than anything having broken his promise to let you die on your own terms.

"I was supposed to die." - Why did you put me back here just because you could?

"Okay... Okay. I promise."

When Jayce promises to destroy the HexCore, he doesn't want to, but he would hate to deny Viktor's plea even more. And I do genuinely believe he would have gone through with it, too.

However, imagine how exactly Jayce is interpreting what is being asked of him in this moment. To a staunch optimist like Jayce, while a devastating blow, this is not the end of all hope. This is not a DNR.

In a way, it is merely a "back to square one" - the prospect of spending however many months remain working urgently to find a different solution, perhaps. But more importantly:

It is the solace of still having those months.

(If nothing else, then just to prepare emotionally. As someone who lost her father to illness young, believe you me when I say that having the time to prepare for what's coming is invaluable.)

Jayce is not imagining the death he is unwittingly promising Viktor here to be a sudden, frantic thing. Bloodied and dirt-streaked amidst rubble and smoke, his body cast aside and broken against stone like another piece of furniture that happened to stand in the way of the blast.

Jayce is not imagining ever looking at Viktor's corpse in a state that suggests he never mattered at all.

And Jayce - no matter what Viktor thinks his promise should entail - did most definitely not promise to be able to keep his head cool and his heart detached in a situation so far removed from anything he was ever expecting to handle when he gave it.

"I never asked for this!" - It was never fair of you to ask me for this!

Speaking of fair: that's another thing I want to touch on real quick.

Because even though Viktor acts like it should have been a matter of course for Jayce to accept Viktor's death, I have often wondered what Viktor wouldn't have been willing to do if their roles were reversed; if it was Jayce caught in the blast instead. (After all, Viktor knows he is a doomed man, but not Jayce. That's not how it's supposed to go.)

Now, I don't know that he would have gone full Singed, but luckily, we don't have to know. The show tells us exactly what Viktor would do to save Jayce's life, over and over again if need be.

Forget breaking a promise - how about breaking the very fabric of time and space itself? I know we often talk about Viktor as being the one "doomed by the narrative", and while that is true, make no mistake:

For whatever it's worth, Jayce was "supposed to die" too.

If not in the snow storm, then perhaps by his own hand, or through the Glorious Evolution. All of which Viktor simply... refuses to let happen, cosmic integrity be damned.

Long story short: In Jayce's defence, your Honour - Viktor is equally unwell about him.

Additional thoughts I didn't know how to include:

The idea for this entry is very closely tied to this video edit I made (although in a classic "chicken or egg" situation, I wouldn't be able to say which inspired which first), so if for some reason you'd like to see these themes put in a music video format - there you go.

For more on "Jayce is the one doomed by the narrative", please do read this meta by @zecroswe. While I don't agree on every detail, I absolutely see the vision and highly recommend giving it a read.

I've been wanting to expand on Jayce's POV on the necromancy thing ever since part 2 (where I said Viktor "knows that Jayce broke his promise to destroy the HexCore, but not of the wide-eyed desparation with which he scrambled for any way at all to save Viktor"). On that post, @luciansuir made a comment that I really want to include here because they kinda nailed some of my thoughts all the way back then:

Jayce fumbled so bad that he pulled excuses like “maybe the HexCore wasn’t so bad, maybe Heimer was wrong” Man how was that ever about the features of HexCore? Of course Viktor was convinced that you experimented with his death and treated him as a sample. Just tell the truth that you were so desperate and couldn’t bear the thought of losing him

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[scribbledswans]

✦ slivers of heaven

At the end of the day, 007n7's life was full of the atrocities he made others suffer through. In the middle of the night, your arms are a cage that makes him wonder what he did to deserve you.

WARNINGS: Fluff :3 this work is also up on ao3

He truly believes doesn't deserve this. Cradled in the loving cage of your arms, 007n7 watches you rest peacefully. Your breathing is slow, and calm: reminiscent of the ocean lapping waves against the shore. The tide of your chest meets the beach of his arms when you sigh and pull him closer. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, little strands of your hair tickling his face as he breathes you in. He doesn't deserve this, but you give it to him anyway— the little slivers of heaven you grant him, tucked away neatly behind closed doors. Out of everyone, he was the one that got to share your affections.

007n7 couldn't bring himself to ask why, as though the burden of telling him would make you change your mind. After everything— all the chaos he caused in his life, all of the stories told about him— you still choose to love him. He would do just about anything for you if it meant retaining that. Luckily, you don't ask him for much. Asking to share a bed tonight was the most you'd ever asked of him, in fact. He feels your hand trace down to his lower back, and he looks up at you, your eyes lidded with sleep. 007n7 pulls away slightly, trying not to disturb you, only for you to pull him back in with a little huff. One of your hands goes to cup his cheek, drowsiness slurring your words as you speak, "You're starin' at me." He leans into your touch, melting against your hand. You're warm, so warm, it feels like he's been cold his whole life and he's finally stepping into the sun. "Admiring you. I don't get to see you this peaceful." 007n7 responds quietly, kissing your palm, "Go back to sleep, my love. I'm still here." You hum fondly, and press a kiss against his forehead. Butterflies flutter into his stomach when he kisses your cheek in return. When you giggle a little bit, he smiles sheepishly, basking in your laugh. "C'mere," You say, peppering his face and neck with gentle kisses.

He makes a small, startled sound, feeling his heart soar at the affection. It's a saccharine feeling, something he finds himself yearning for at times of high stress. The feeling of your hands on the nape of his neck or tangled in his hair, your soft lips against his— all of it. Being alone with you feels like a cruel god's final blessing, something he better not take for granted or it'll be ripped away suddenly and never come back. 007n7 carefully tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, kissing your jaw gently after. He notes the way you shiver at his touch, and the way you pull him closer. God, he used to think he could trade off being loved for being hated, as long as he was known at all. Back then he was wrong, dead wrong. Being loved like this- by someone as kind as you? he wouldn't trade it for anything else. "I don't deserve this kind of love." He whispers into your neck, quietly hoping you don't hear him. You murmur back. "I think you do." And for now, that's all the reassurance he needs. To know that you'll give him this, despite the atrocities of his life, that's all he needs. He nestles his face closer to your neck, savoring the feeling of temporary peace that covers him like a blanket. Whatever he did to deserve this, he's glad he did it. Your breathing becomes steady, slow, and he figures you've fallen asleep again. He blinks slowly, feeling that same peaceful sleep wash over him with time. Thoughts of having met you in life cross his mind like shooting stars. If he had met you when he was fathering coolkid. Maybe you wouldve been able to prevent all of this. That night, 007n7 dreams of a life domestic and sweet.

That night, he dreams of you.

[wntrswolf]

love mirage

✧ pair: benjicot "davos" blackwood (fancast) x freader!secret-lover-betrothed-to-a-bracken

✧ theme/warning(s): slight/implied smut, angst, forbidden romance, star-crossed lovers. — (all characters mentioned are of age!) 18+

✧ word count: 1.8k

✧ author's note: hello! this is my first writing! this one-shot was spontaneously written as it was meant more for self-indulgence but i thought why not share it to others who also has a current obsession with the rising blackwood character, right? :-) anyways, reading fics under the benji tags manifested many scenarios in my head, and gave me inspiration to write something. lastly, forgive me for any possible grammatical errors, i still am an amateur in fictional writing. enjoy!!!

It was the dead of night. The sky had been painted in its darkest hue, the moon stood nearly at its peak, offering its gentle glow along the riverbank. The distant chatter that could be heard during a long day's labor was no longer present, replaced by the solemn silence of nature's symphonies—the flowing river, the rustling of leaves as they danced in breaths of wind, and the lullabies of insects as they clicked and buzzed.

The forest was no stranger to you; befriending the woodland for the passing moons. You often wondered if anyone would, or had, grown an inkling of your periodic disappearance following the hours of supper—what others would think of your father’s only daughter growing a rather sudden interest beyond the walls of your family's stronghold. You always made your way out stealthily, though his words echoed in your mind,

“You are our only hope, daughter. Do not fail us.” A stark reminder of your duty, which would soon bring honor to your family's name.

If it means anything, you knew it was wrong from the start. You had never intended anything as such to happen. For the name of a nobleman was bound to yours, yet your lips would chant whispers of another.

Time became irrelevant right before you met him on this cool summer night. There the young man stood, one hand steady on the hilt of his dagger, ever vigilant should danger lurk in the tranquil embrace of the silent woods; his tense body relaxing upon the sight of your cloaked figure before him—a beacon of familiarity. You had planned to tell him about your betrothal tonight.

Although it was not much longer that you would find yourself a whimpering mess under the Blackwood boy. Your sighs mingled with the saccharine words Benjicot spoke, adding harmonies of moans and gasps of pleasure in the serenity of the haven you both made. You often feared getting caught but Benji assured you in these remote lands, he doubted anyone would be near enough to witness anything— not even the treacherous act you both selfishly indulged in. You still pray to the Gods that they grant you both the favor that no eye spies this clandestine meeting; and the many before.

You never really questioned yourself on why you couldn't confide in your father about your betrothal; had you already envisioned the conversation—mayhem would ensue. It was simple, it was the decision he made—securing your family's position through a marriage pact, a political alliance they called it. Duty, you thought yet again.

You didn't know what, or whom, to shift the blame on—or maybe it was the complexities of guilt. your guilt. You knew the inevitable, yet your selfishness, your greed, your immature desire for love; tainting your rationale. Or that maybe you should feel resentment that your father and the Lord of Stone Hedge, Humfrey Bracken regarded their relationship as close as to being kin. Maybe then you would have the strength to ignore your obligations, this once.

You cursed yourself for thinking the way you did, and you cursed the Gods for the decades-old rivarly between the ancient houses—a hatred and feud born long before either of you were born; beyond your father's time, and his father's before him, yet its roots grew, multiplying the petty divide among those that followed after them.

It made you question what started the war between the two in the first place, as sin begets sin begets sin; however, unwavering was the tryst between you and Benjicot—untouched by the strife and grudges.

He knew. You were aware of his knowledge with the woven webs you had with the Brackens; about your father's bond with the red stallion lord. Your thoughts do not come to a plausible explanation as they endlessly spun in your mind.

And all it took was Benjicot's hips to lower into yours, silencing these whirling thoughts.

Your cloak drapes over you, offering its warmth from the breaths of wind, coming from the riverbank. It spared the watchful eyes of the forest spirits from your unneeded bareness. At your side, Benjicot lays as he adjusts his breeches.

“There’s a war soon to come,” he says as he stares at the sky, hands behind his head, ”And I ought for you to know that given the growing wars, you have not left my mind since.” he nervously confessed.

You hum in response, the weight of his words settling heavily in the quiet of the forest. "I fear what lies ahead, Ben" you whisper, your voice barely above a murmur, filled with both longing and apprehension.

He turns to you then, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that spoke of unspoken promises and uncertainties. "No matter what comes, my love for you will endure." he vows, his fingers gently tracing the contour of your cheek.

You turn your head and sit up, feeling around for your discarded garments to dress.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, sitting up, his expression betraying confusion at your abrupt reaction. 

"No, it's not that." you breathed out, your back faced to him. It was this very moment you had feared since the first: the inevitable.

"Well, did you not finish as I had?" he ventured in jest, a playful side of him that you loved. "Or is it because I professed my love for you?", hoping his declaration had not caused you to pull away. "Trust me, I will make sure there's nothing—"

"My betrothal..." you did not let him finish, "it's to Aeron Bracken." you said, still facing away from him as you rose from the ground. You picked on your fingers picked in nervousness of his next response. The weight of your confession hung heavy in the air.

At first he thought he had not heard you clearly, as if the world had gotten awfully quiet. It was when you repeated once more, realizing his ears did not fail him as his blood got hot—of you saying the name whom ignited an unexplainable fury in him.

"Aeron Bracken," Benjicot repeated in disbelief of your sudden confession, "The Bracken twat, eh?" — the very same Bracken he encountered in fresh conflict, near the mill's boundary stones. Although he did not show it, the tension in the air was strong enough to burn and linger its flames; his knuckles turning pale as he clenched his fists at his side.

"A craven false king follower... is bound to your name, to you." he chuckles incredulously. 

He paced in the clearing, his footsteps heavy as he turned to you. "And what are you to do about it?" He posed the question, pain plain upon his face, though hope bled through the mask of his composure. Deep down, he already knew the answer. He could scare tell if asking you such question was to self-inflict torment, or just a desperate need to face the harsh reality of your confession— not a difference between the two really.

You finally turned to meet his gaze, "It's my father's decision," you explained softly. "I... I cannot defy it." You stood before him, as your tears glisten in the faint light. Torn between love and duty.

"Ben," you pleaded, your voice shaking. "You know the stakes. It’s my duty. My family's honor—” 

"Fuck honor!" he interrupted, his voice thundering through the forest. He strides towards you, "It was long gone the very moment we first met—" he huffed out. He knew in his heart that despite the love he developed towards you, the tangled web of your kinship with the Brackens would soon unravel the bond you shared— still, he gambled with the odds, just as you had.

He had ever hoped that the old Gods would bestow the blessing of his fervent wishes—that it would be you, not some other maiden, whom he would take to wife. He often dreamed of you bearing the heirs of his house, growing gray together, and watch as your blood flow through the veins that would carry on his legacy. Yet, it was only ever a distant dream.

You reached out to him, to calm the storm raging within him, but he jerked away. "Tell me, then," he challenged, stepping closer with fire in his eyes. "Where do your loyalties lie, beyond this," he motioned between the two of you. "Are you suggesting that your father, and even yourself, are to declare for the usurper cunt of a King?" he whisper-yells to you. “Or is this some sort of arrangement with those Bracken fucks, to get back at us Blackwoods, simply just using me as a pawn, 'cus you know I'm now Lord?" His words spitting at you like venom;

“Oh, you know where my loyalties lie," you spat, your voice filled with heartache, "But I won't stand for you questioning my integrity nor my family's honor to secure a future." You glared at him as your heart stung with hurt, "And to accuse me... I would not dare to commit something so heinous even if i could; I'm not cruel, Benji."

Benjicot's jaw clenched, shaking his head as he stood facing the river, incomprehensible words muttered under his breath.

"I never asked for this," you whispered, tears welling in your eyes. "But I have responsibilities. We both do." you sniffled, swallowing the tension of your throat away, "And I know you know..." you wiped your tears, "we know... that this was bound to occur, sooner or later, Ben." your voice was barely audible, even with the deafening silence the forest came to be. "There's a war coming."

The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken words and the weight of impossible choices.

Benjicot stood before you, his expression torn between love and anguish. His hands trembled as he gathered his scattered belongings, his movements reflecting the turmoil in his heart. You mirrored his actions, silently picking the remnants of what you felt is to be your last fleeting moment of happiness.

"I swear it," he finally spoke, "would that we were not bound by the enmity between our folks, I would have already vowed myself to you. Long before your father would have you promised to another."

His words pierced your heart with longing and regret, the bitter truth of your circumstances hanging between you like a veil of sorrow. “And I would have gladly accepted it,” you replied with a heavy sigh. "—my Lord."

The Blackwood male nodded, his gaze fixed on yours, filled with a depth of emotion that mirrored your own. With a heavy heart, you both silently acknowledged the futility of your love.

Benjicot turned away first. The distance between you both grew; and his silhouette became one with the dark forest.

You knew that somewhere, amidst the pain and heartache, you would find a way to carry on—a life of uncertainty but fraught with duty. As you walked away from the happiness and love that the forest had given you, the ache in your chest spoke of a love that was lost but will never be forgotten. It would be a bittersweet reminder of what once was, and what could never be again.

[moonchild9350]

Chosen One

Pairing: Angel Felix x fab reader

Genre: fantasy au, romance au, angst, smut-18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: dubcon, stalking (in a sense), coercion, oral sex (f receiving), god awful amount of kissing, dry humping, nipple play, p in v penetration, creampie (don't), squirting, cum tasting/swapping, big cock felix,

Notes: this is sort of a continuation of a previous fic I did. You do not have to read the other one in order to read this one as they are stand alone. But, if you'd like to do so, you can here. Anyway, spooktober continues! the ending is sorta up to interpretation.

If you enjoyed this, consider a like, reblog, or comment as it makes my day ♡

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024)

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allen Poe

Felix arrived in front of a tall, golden door, the frame so high he had to crane his head back to see the end of it. He took a deep breath, placing a hand over his heart, willing it to slow. He pushed open the door, pushing with all his might, grunting as the large door creaked and groaned, slowly opening with his effort.

He was summoned here by his master, for "a little talk." Whatever that meant. Once inside, Felix brushed off his hands on his gown and walked to the throne that sat at the end of the hall, eyeing the man seated there. The walk seemed long, each step ringing out in the empty room. He could have teleported to the throne, but he felt odd using his powers in front of such an all mighty being.

Once there, his master smiled and opened his mouth, his voice projecting loudly, each word enunciated so Felix would not misinterpret his message.

"Felix, you are needed on the mortal plane, to help out a girl who is contributing to the chaos of the cosmos. Make her happy however you need to."

Felix listened intently, his eyes large at the request. He finally received a mission, something he hasn't been granted in his thousands of years being here. Felix nodded and bowed, humbly accepting the quest before turning on his heels and making his way to the large door once more.

He needed to get to get back to his quarters where he can look upon his conquest. He must succeed if not for himself but for the peace of the cosmos as well.

--

Once in his quarters, Felix walked to the middle of his room and waved his hands, watching as the air rippled until a picture came into focus. He gazed into the depths, his eyes darting to and fro until he found who he was looking for.

There he saw you, his assignment, to help change the cosmos. He watched as you sat on the couch next to a man, your arms wrapped around his waist as you looked lovingly into his eyes. He smiled at the prospect of love, his lips turning upwards at the sight. He wondered why he was assigned to you, as everything seemed good, you seemed happy.

It didn't take long until he found the reason why. He watched as turmoil fell upon you, the arguments, the uncertainty. He watched as you locked yourself away, crying in the darkness, asking for things to change. That you would give anything for things to not be as they were.

But what confused him even more, was how in the next moment you would be happy again, smiling, laughing, loving, with your boyfriend, as if nothing happened the day before or the day before that. He couldn't understand the magnitude of your emotions, what went through you mind as you experience the rollercoaster called life.

Felix saw you through the depths, watching as misfortune found you again and again. He continued to watch as you screamed and cursed, your face and your actions a mixture of anger and sadness.

He felt something stir in his heart, a feeling he's never felt before. It was almost suffocating, but not in a bad way. He felt as if he couldn't breath, his heart rapidly beating as his eyes trailed you, watched you day after day.

His heart took pity on you, and the cruel fate life had dealt to you. He felt he needed to change that, after all it was his duty. But, he felt like there was something more, that he was destined for you in this deep expanse we call the cosmos.

That was the first year that he watched you.

From that day on, he made sure to watch you, to see if you had healed or was trying to heal, to see if life had dealt you a different hand. He was dismayed to see you worse than before. You seemed exhausted and on your last leg. Your eyes seemed dull, your face pale in comparison to before. You had lost that lust for life.

That was the first time he decided to visit you on the mortal plane. He took you under his wing, showering you with love and care, making you feel as if you were the only thing that mattered...and to him you were.

After your encounter, he saw that you were happier, your smile reaching your beautiful eyes once more. Felix was happy that he was able to help, to give you a part of him that will live within you forever, that would light your heart aflame. You thought he was but a dream, an apparition come to grace your dreams and fill them with happiness.

He was far from it however. Instead he was an ethereal being, living within the cosmos, his task to watch the mortals below, and in this case you, and ensure they followed the path of their dreams and ultimately happiness.

Felix continued to keep tabs on you, as you went through life, your days filled with happiness which slowly turned to despair. Felix was torn once more, his heart sinking at your plight. This time he watched as your heart was torn in two, as you experienced betrayal by the closest people in your life.

He thought you deserved more, seeing through the tough facade you wore, knowing that you had the sweetest core beneath the mask. Felix wanted nothing more than to help you break free, to become fully who you truly are.

'Alas, it’s time I pay another visit,’ he thought. He made preparations immediately to visit the mortal realm once more and ultimately you.

You were having a shit week which was nothing new. Life seemed to throw curveballs your way with no break in between, and today was no different.

You had to go pickup the last of your stuff from your ex boyfriend's apartment, a task you were dreading to do, not wanting to see the insufferable bastard. You hurried toward his apartment complex, your head down as you made your way through the throngs of people. You had your headphones in, music blaring, so you could ignore the world, wanting to get back home as soon as possible.

Stopping at a street corner, you awaited the light to signal for you to walk. You watched as cars zipped past, their speed whipping your hair in front of your face. As you moved the hair out of the way, you thought you saw someone you knew on the other side of the street.

They were standing at the edge of the sidewalk, staring straight at you. He looked at you with a smile on his face before he beckoned you over with a finger, the digit pointing and bending slowly.

You looked around to see if anyone else noticed the strange man, but everyone seemed to not notice the strange person at the other end of the street. When you looked back to where he was standing, he was…gone. You blinked your eyes once, twice, but the strange man was gone, like he disappeared in thin air. Shaking your head, thinking you were seeing things, you mad your way to the other side of the street, the light having turned green.

You had no other odd run-ins with the familiar person on your way to the complex, allowing you to make it in record time. You checked your watch and silently rejoiced, as your ex was probably still at work.

You quickly went in and grabbed your stuff and left, not giving the place you called home for the last five years a second glance. You sighed as you began your journey back to your apartment, the bags in your hands weighing you down. They weren’t heavy per se, but uncomfortable as the straps dug into your shoulders.

“Need help with that?”

You snapped your head toward the voice, a startled look on your face. There was a man standing in front of you, his hands behind his back as he stood against the building wall, staring at you.

You looked at his face, your breath catching. Your eyes wandered from his gentle, brown eyes to the hundreds of freckles lining his face, to his beautiful heart shaped lips. He looked familiar, but you had no idea where from.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you love,” the man said, his voice deep but soft like velvet.

You felt your heart quicken at the sound of his voice, the little hairs sticking up on your arms. You shook off the weird feeling you had deep down, listening to your heart instead of your gut.

“It’s ok,” you replied, giving the man a small smile.

The man smiled back and then gestured to your bags once more. You wanted to keep walking, but you felt mesmerized gazing at his beautiful face.

“Sure,” you said handing over one of your bags.

The man took the bag from you, your fingers brushing against his with the transfer, causing you to gasp and quickly pull your hand away. Turning toward the sidewalk, you watched as the man began to walk. You stared after him confused, warning bells going off in your head. How did he know you were going to continue in that direction? You could have crossed the street, as you were back at the intersection.

Ignoring all reason, you jogged to catch up, your bag swinging behind you.

“So, recent breakup?” the man asked, as he turned to look at you, curiosity on his face.

You were silent for a moment wondering how he knew.

“Uh..yeah.”

“Mmm. I’m sorry. He wasn’t a great guy though.”

You both walked in silence, as you were stunned and not sure what to say. How did he know? Does he know your ex? You really should have grabbed your bag from the man and ran, but instead you continued to walk side by side with him.

“Who are you?” you finally asked.

The man looked at you, his eyes wide at your question. However, after a moment, his features softened, his eyes taking an almost pitying look.

“I forgot you wouldn’t remember me. I’m Felix.”

Once you heard his name, you felt a warmth spread throughout you, starting in your fingertips, spreading through your arms and legs and eventually your heart, the name sparking something within you, even though you weren’t sure why.

You shivered despite the warm feeling and said, “Why would I remember you? We’ve never met…”

Felix ignored your question and continued to walk. You both walked in silence, neither breathing a word. Despite the silence, you felt at ease, feeling comfortable with your companion. It didn't take long for you both to reach your apartment.

Felix stopped and opened the door, pausing to allow you to walk through. You stepped over the threshold and made your way to your apartment. Felix smiled as you unlocked your door and opened it, revealing the dark space of your abode.

“You can just leave the bag there,” you said, pointing to the empty space by the door.

You dropped the bags you were carrying and walked to the living area, Felix right behind you. You kicked off your shoes and reclined on your couch, sinking into the pillows behind you, a heavy sigh leaving your lips.

“Thanks for your help Felix,” you said, turning your head to look at the mysterious man.

He nodded his head, a gentle smile on his face. You felt awkward, not sure what to say or do, so you continued to stare at Felix. Despite the awkward moment, you felt calm, the feeling familiar, just on the tip of your memory.

Felix looked deep into your eyes, memorizing once more the brown orbs, so beautiful in his sight. He lifted his hand to brush your cheek, watching as the warm flesh filled with red at his touch. You were beautiful, such a precious person in his life. He felt the need to care for you and show you his love.

He reached his arms out and brought you closer to him, wrapping you safely within them, feeling your body loosen in his hold. He smiled, happy that you were succumbing to his charm, just like last time.

You clutched at Felix’s shirt, breathing in his scent of vanilla…and something else you couldn’t quite place. You felt safe in his arms, the embrace familiar. As you sat there, you realized there was a picture in your mind, the scene similar to this one, almost like deja vu. The more you tried to focus and uncover the hazy picture in your mind, the more clear it became. You gasped, looking up at Felix, your eyes widened in shock.

Felix chuckled at your reaction, happy that you were finally connecting the dots. He’s awaited this moment for so long and now he finally has you again. He can finally show you his love for you.

You couldn’t look away. Your eyes were locked onto his face, as they examined the freckles that littered his cheeks, his eyes, even all the way to his ears. You thought them most beautiful, as they accentuated his beauty. Taking a breath, you lightly brushed your fingers over the little dots, tracing each one, taking in how he felt beneath your fingertips.

Every dip, crevice, or area smattered with soft peach fuzz, you admired, your heart swelling at this mans beauty. Your eyes traveled to his, startled at how he stared back at you, his pupils dilated to where the black of the center of his eye almost overshadowed the chocolate brown orb, his lips slightly parted to where you felt his breath, hot on your skin.

His gaze was almost predatory, causing you to quickly drop your hands, your eyes cast downwards so as not to see his intense gaze. He looked as if he wanted to kiss you, devour you, like an animal that hasn’t had its fill. You were slightly nervous and terrified, your heart pounding in your chest so loud, you were sure Felix heard it.

You chanced a look at his face once more, and noticed he was starting to lean closer to you, his eyes darting to your lips with each moment. Did you want to kiss this man? Your mind was telling you no, he could be dangerous, just look at his gaze. However, your heart and your body says otherwise, as you felt a deep longer within your core as your arousal slowly seeped from your pussy, coated your panties with the clear liquid.

Despite what you thought, you let yourself succumb to his charms, leaning closer, nuzzling yourself into his side as he held you tighter to his body. He slowly leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, your soft lips melting with his. The kiss was gentle, his hand coming to cup your face as his lips continued to mold with yours.

Felix was trying to hold back and be gentle with you, as he knew you were struggling with yourself, the moment overwhelming in itself. He craved you, needed you, and has waited too long since your last encounter to taste you.

He licked your bottom lip before nipping it, shoving his tongue in your mouth as you gasped out in surprise. He deepened the kiss, muffling your moans as his tongue battled with yours. His hands were everywhere, needing to touch you, needing to feel you. You shivered with each pass of his hands, your resolve slipping with each passing second.

His hands slid lower, down your back until he reached your ass, giving the flesh a squeeze before grabbing hold of you and setting you down in his lap. You let out a yelp as your core came in contact with the bulge in his pants, your arms wrapping around his neck to anchor yourself.

You closed your eyes as Felix kissed you again, falling into the rhythm of your lips moving with his, the moment seeming so beautiful and tender, that moment of roughness gone. You felt your heart race, the incessant pounding increasing, getting louder as time passed. Your panties were soaked through as your arousal continued to steadily leak, coated the thin material.

Felix broke the kiss, resting his forehead on yours as your breath came out ragged as you attempted to regulate your breathing. You sat there and experimentally rocked your hips over his bulge, both of you letting out a low moan at the sensation. Felix dragged his nose against your cheek, the flesh warm against his as he placed a kiss there before traveling lower. You buried your hands in his long, blonde hair as he continued to pepper kiss after kiss down your jaw, your neck, your shoulder and…wait, when did you get undress? When did Felix get undressed?

There you sat on his lap, bare for his eyes to see. You blushed as his eyes roamed your body, his eyes raking down your neck, to your breasts, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he eyed your pebbled nipples. With his thumbs, he brushed the digits over the nubs, causing you to moan out at the pleasure that went down your spine straight to your core.

Felix smiled at your reaction before doing it again, this time letting out a deep groan as you rolled your hips, your wet pussy dragging against his thigh. His eyes traveled from your beautiful tits and down to your core, his cock twitching at the sight of your pussy, the thick hair donning the area, coated in your slick, to your puffy folds, with your swollen clit peaking out from the flesh.

You continued to rock your hips against him, chasing the feeling of the stimulation to your swollen clit. Your slick was dripping out of you, coating Felix’s thighs. He didn’t seem to mind though as his hands had moved to your hips, gripping your waist to help you move. You licked your lips as you rode Felix’s thigh hard and fast, that tight feeling building up within you.

Felix smirked as he watched, your tits bouncing slightly with each thrust of your hips, his hands guiding you along. You looked at him with a hooded gaze, your arms tightening around his neck as you chased your high. You were close, your chest rapidly rising and falling as your breath picked up, as you let out steady moans. You were done for as Felix looked at you and squeezed your hips, his voice deep and sultry as he commanded you to let go.

“Cum for me love, that’s it…that’s my love.”

You let out a loud moan, as you released on him, thick white slick dripping from your pussy that coated his thigh. You continued to rock your hips as you rode out your high, little whimpers falling from your lips. As you finally came down, you looked at Felix properly, blush coating your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Don’t be shy love,” Felix cooed, his fingers brushing through your hair. “You did so good for me love. Now can you ride my cock hmm? It’ll feel good, so good.”

Felix knew you could take it, take him. You’ve done it before even if you don’t remember. He needs you and he will take you, his cock twitching at the thought of being within your warmth.

You listened to Felix, uncertainty crossing your face. You looked down where his cock lay, red, angry, and thick, pre-cum steadily leaking out. He was big and you weren’t sure if you could take him. However, you looked up into his eyes and saw how they were watching you, as if he could read your thoughts.

Shivers ran down your spine as you felt Felix rub soothing circles on your hips, almost as if to console you. Making up your mind, you reached down and grasped his cock, your hand barely able to wrap around his girth. You stroked his cock a few times, listening to the breathy moans falling from his lips.

You slightly lifted your hips and brought his cock to your pussy, slowly dragging his tip through your folds. Felix stared at you the whole time, watching as you pleasured yourself with his tip, his hands coming up to play with your nipples once more.

You mewled out as Felix caressed you, bringing his cock to your entrance. With a breath, you slowly sank down on his length, feeling your walls stretch to accommodate his length. You whined as you lifted your hips up again, before bringing them down, taking more and more of his cock, until your hips were flush to his.

“See love, knew you could do it. Now fuck yourself on my cock.”

Felix raised his eyebrow, waiting for you to move. Placing your hands on his chest, you braced yourself before you began to bounce on his cock, your slick easing the glide. The sound of skin hitting skin rang throughout your living room as Felix’s cock stretched you open, your walls sucking him back in as you made your way down.

You could barely think, drool dripping down your chin, fucked out from his cock. Your eyes could barely focus, seeing the shape of Felix in front of you. You barely noticed how he lustfully gazed at your tits, watching as they bounced with each thrust, or how his eyes traveled down to where he was splitting you open, the sight of your walls stretched over his cock causing his cock to twitch.

You were close, he could tell as you began to frantically gyrate your hips, seeking any kind of friction within your walls and clit. You clenched down on his cock over and over, your breath coming out in pants.

The all too familiar feeling built within you once more, the pressure building fast and quick. You rocked your hips, swiveled them, looking to reach your high, so you could feel that sweet release you needed so bad. Your breathing increased, faster and faster until you screamed, the coil within you snapped hard, your high spreading throughout your body causing your legs to tremble, as you squirted your release, the liquid coating Felix’s thighs, your belly and Felix’s.

Felix grinned, proud of you as he watched you ride out your high. The constant squeeze of your walls against his cock triggered his own high, ropes of thick, white cum settling within you, claiming you as his.

He quickly lifted you off of his lap and laid you down on your back, spreading your legs so he could see you. He brought a finger to your pussy, gathering some of his release mixed with yours and pushing it back into you.

You watched as he smiled and bent down between your legs, your mind still fuzzy after your intense orgasm. You squealed, your legs trying to move as you felt him lick at your core, his tongue probing your walls to gather both yours and his release. His nose brushed against your clit with each thrust, causing you to tremble in overstimulation.

Before you could protest, Felix sat up and leaned over you to press his lips against yours. You could taste yourself on his lips as he pushed his tongue within your mouth, both of your release coating your tongue. He kissed you softly, the intimate moment continuing over several minutes.

You wrapped your arms around Felix, your hands dragging down his back until you felt something, rough beneath your finger tips. You ran your fingers over the two holes in Felix’s skin, feeling him shiver at the motion. In your post orgasmic haze, wondered what caused the scars, as they felt pretty deep. Without warning, you felt something soft brush your hands causing you to yelp. Sprouting from the two holes were a set of wings, their color a dark shade of blue, almost like the midnight sky.

You broke the kiss and stared at the appendages, your eyes wide. You were curious but also scared, wondering what kind of being Felix truly was. Felix hovered over you, his eyes searching yours desperately. You finally knew his secret, well part of it at least. He was elated at the fact as now you can be fully his with this knowledge.

He has claimed you physically and now he needs to claim your body and soul. He knew it was now or never. He needed to finish the task of why he came to this mortal planet to begin with.

He brushed your hair to the side, watching your curious eyes as he did so. Leaning down, he began to whisper the seed that would take root within you.

Empty your mind, let it lay bare Allow me to whisper your fate there Let the seed of warmth grow And let your true love show

With a kiss to your neck, he murmured “you are mine.”

He leaned back to look at you, watching as you internally fought with yourself. He knew it would be a battle, your mind fighting with the deepest and darkest desires buried within you, as they tried to fight their way to the surface.

He would be here with you, every step of the way as you made your transition. His task is done, he has performed his duty as your angel, the years of watching and waiting finally baring fruit. He’d stay with you, watch over you, and once you have allowed your mind to succumb to him, he’ll take you with him. He’ll take you with him back to the cosmos where you can both be together for eternity as lovers.

After all, you are his first and only true love.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

[takumiraine]

Once upon a time chapter 12

Something something the writer’s curse

<first> <prev> <next>

Danny was…. Nervous wasn’t exactly the right word, but it wasn’t exactly wrong either. He wasn’t sure why. He had spent time with Jason, a lot of it, before.

Maybe it was because everything was out in the open now. Maybe it was because there was nothing stopping Danny from possibly considering a future for the first time since he was fourteen.

Maybe it was because Jason probably knew he had a crush.

Danny scrubbed at his face and turned on the water in the bathroom for a shower. The pipes rattled and squealed. The shower head itself came to life in dribbles and spits. The water never got properly hot, but his ice core made him more partial to cold showers anyways.

He stood there, letting the water beat down on his back and the back of his neck. There were so many ways their little reading not-date could go. Jason’s siblings show up. Bat-dick shows up. Ghost attack. Rogue attack. Government attack.

Or worse. Nothing happens but he reads and they make small talk.

Small talk was the worst.

Danny thunked his forehead into the cold tile of the shower wall. He just had to have dropped the book. Taking a deep breath in, Danny held it for a few moments before letting it out slowly.

Logically he knew it would likely be fine. But the part of him that had been on increasingly high alert for the last five years was hard to convince. He took another breath. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

Focus on things you can control, Danny, he told himself. He pulled away from the wall, grabbed the washcloth and cheap body wash, and got to work scrubbing. Not that he was dirty usually by any means, but he was going to be hanging out at Jason’s apartment on purpose and he wanted to at least smell passable.

Not that Jason should be close enough to smell him but…

He finished scrubbing and rinsed off, squeezing some body wash into his hair and scrubbing that as well. Once clean, Danny got out of the shower and dried off, carefully walking across the apartment to the kitchen. He didn’t have that many dishes so the cabinet space was being repurposed to a makeshift dresser. He pulled clothes out and shoved them onto his body, not particularly caring if they got wet. By the time he walked to Jason’s apartment they’d dry off. It was, after all, as sunny as it got in Gotham today.

After having a snack - some honey roasted peanuts in one of those single serving dollar store snack packs and a fruit roll thing- and brushing his teeth, Danny left his apartment. The door was locked with a hand quickly phased through the shitty wood.

The walk was uneventful. Most daytime walks were. It was only the bolder rogues that operated in broad daylight. He remembered the address well enough, and it was somewhere he had walked by before. The closer he got to Jason’s place the slower he walked, anxiety clawing at his ankles and anchoring his feet to the cement. By the time he made it to the building though, he could feel the hot pulse of Jason’s core inside.

Danny pressed the buzzer for the right apartment. A minute later, right around the time Danny was starting to wonder if he pressed the right one, Jason came down wearing sweatpants and a tank top.

Danny blinked at him, mouth suddenly dry. He offered a shaky smile, nervous for reasons he was no longer entirely sure about. Jason was definitely attractive. In that ‘could kill him (again) on accident with how muscular he is’ way. The scars that were visible did nothing to hinder that at all.

Jason gave him a nod and pushed open the door from the inside, letting Danny in. Danny knew from their shared classes that Jason was just as much of a morning person as he was. Granted, it wasn’t morning anymore, but Jason could have slept in. He knew how ‘quiet nights’ could go.

“I’m not too early am I?” Danny asked as they made their way up to Jason’s apartment.

“Nah. Just slow to get started. B stopped by to fuss last night.” Danny paused, though only for a second because Jason kept going down the dimly lit hall of doors.

“You want to cancel?”

“No. Just going to make coffee. I trust you won’t be obnoxious.”

“I won’t. I don’t know if you’ve met me, but I’m dead, serious.” Jason groaned at the joke, making Danny laugh.

“Remind me to never introduce you to my younger brother….” Jason let them into the apartment and gestured to where the book was perched on the arm of a cozy looking chair. The one Tim often took over when he visited.

Danny slid off his shoes and padded over to the chair, tilting his head to look at the cover of the book. “You can sit there if you want. It won’t bite. My brother says it’s comfortable.”

“What?” Danny looked over, “oh. Right. I know. Furniture never really got contaminated enough to attack, but I still flinch if the fridge hums when it opens. Too many attacks from random food in Amity.” Jason looked at Danny to see if he was joking, but either the man was too deadpan in his delivery or he was serious. Jason wasn’t sure what was worse.

Danny did sit though, nestling into the chair like he belonged there, and grabbed the book. “I hope it’s half as interesting as the cover makes it look.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you think.” Jason had read Gulliver’s Travels in middle school, but he wasn’t going to tell Danny that. Danny had missed out on so much because of his own vigilante shit. Bruce had at least forced him to finish school and get his homework done.

Not for the first time since hearing those messages and seeing the videos, how much Danny had missed out on being alone out there. Obviously, Danny was smarter than every adult in his life had given him credit for. Even in English, which Danny said was his weakest subject, Danny still had insights that were deeper than most.

Jason looked over at him again, and saw Danny was already reading, feet tucked up under him in a way that made it seem like he belonged there. Jason remembered what Danny had said about his Pit apparently being a ghost core, and wondered if that had anything to do with it.

Jason brought Danny a mug of coffee and set it on the table next to the chair, before settling himself on the couch with his own mug and book. He did lay back so he had a good vantage to observe Danny, but this was the first time he had seen Danny actually relax without having people watching his every move. Jason drank his coffee and opened his book, watching Danny absently grab his coffee mug and take a drink before putting it back, digging through his backpack for his notebook and a pen and beginning to make notes.

They sat in silence like that for a couple of hours, the only sounds between them were the turning of pages, the scratching of Danny’s pen in his notebook, and the occasional drink from their respective coffee cups. It was domestic in a way that Jason had to frown at.

He wasn’t the type for domesticity. It wasn’t his life. Never had been. Even the romantic relationships he had had weren’t domestic. They were either PR or just as rough and vicious and fleeting as he was. Never once had he even fantasized about it.

It was almost as if…. As if…. Oh…. “Fuck” he murmured, while the realization hit him like the Joker’s bomb.

Danny looked up, confusion and concern etched on his features, while Jason was surely staring back like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi truck. He, Jason Todd-Wayne, the Red Hood, was falling for Daniel Nightengale in the most romantic way possible. No visions of fucking him in every position their bodies would allow. Okay, there were those too, but they were there first. Jason wanted to wake up next to him and cook him breakfast. Wanted to take him on vacations and walk along the beach. Go camping and talk about every star in the sky. Wanted to see Danny’s smile light up brighter than the sun.

“You alright Jason?” Danny asked after what must have been an eternity of silence.

Jason nodded. No, he wasn’t. “Yeah. Just… the book. Foreshadowing.” He was so fucked.

“Oh. Maybe I should read it next? I’m…. This isn’t a bad book, but I’m not so sure it’s for me. Yknow?” Jason nodded dumbly. Held the book up so Danny could write down the title. Some Austen era book that he hadn’t absorbed a word of.

“Yeah. Makes sense.” Jason’s answer was robotic, but seemed to satisfy Danny as he went back to reading. Jason had no idea what he was going to do. He had no idea what he should do. Danny felt safe enough around him to sleep. For someone that had spent the last half decade running from a very real threat, that was a big honor.

God. Jason was so fucked.

[witless-winion1]

guess who saw the latest @notsolonedesert art and immediately went feral, so.

Eurylochus was not quite sure if his heart had ever beat so hard as it was now in his entire life.

He adjusted the cover on the small basket he held, the intricate wickerwork filled with the pastries he knew she liked; he’d seen her stealing them from kitchens with her brother and filling half her plate with them at royal banquets enough times, so he’d taken great care in making them. And even more care in wandering an entire orchard to find the perfect apple, nestled in the center, hopefully not getting too sticky with honey from the pastries.

Odysseus’s massive grin filled his mind. “Are you nuts? My best friend marrying my sister? Go for it, brother, I don’t know why you didn’t ask me sooner!”

An encouraging response, but his stomach was tormenting itself with mild nausea, nonetheless.

He found Ctimene where he had asked Eurycliea to tell her to meet him; sitting on the old wall where they had met, underneath the branches of an oak tree. She was smiling off into the distance, her sandals hanging on for their lives on her swinging feet.

He wasn’t as massive fan of the gods as his mother was, but he found himself praying anyway, and to a goddess he rarely spared a thought to; please, Aphrodite, grant me your favor…

Ctimene’s head snapped toward him as he stepped on a fallen branch. Her dimpled grin increased at least twofold as her eyes landed.

Oh, no. He should back up. Turn around and run, she was scarier than that divine boar of Athena’s with the way her lips curved and eyes crinkled in the corners, the light falling unevenly over her hair and shoulders from behind. He was walking towards his doom, his death at the hands of this lovely beast.

He didn’t know how, but his face remained calm as ever, though he did notice his hands shaking, the faint quiver of a lute’s plucked strings as he placed the basket on the wall and took a seat next to her on the uneven stone. “Hello, Ctimene.”

“You’re here!” The king’s sister grinned. “I was beginning to think you would keep me waiting until sunset. But I will forgive your lateness, I see you’ve brought treats?” Her delighted eyes darted down to the basket beside her legs. Classic, he thought, his heart fluttering so hard it was a wonder it found time to beat.

Eurylochus nodded and gestured weakly for her to take as she wanted, biting his lip. He was so thankful the way he had come up to do this didn’t require much speaking or movement. His hands were numb. They probably shouldn’t be numb. Should they? Was this what love did? Curse you, Aphrodite.

Ctimene’s quick fingers were on the basket cover, pulling it off, and-

-taking a pastry with a giggly gasp and a “My favorites! How did you know?!”

She didn’t even see the apple?

Give it a moment.

“It…wasn’t hard to guess.” Just wait. She’ll recognize it in a moment. What if she says no? What if she says yes?

“Ah, I suppose not. I do eat them all the time.” She bit into it with eagerness, her joyful eyes flickering over his deceptively stoic face. “Did you make these?”

“Yes, I did. Do you like them?”

“Love them! You’re getting better. You and I should bake together sometime. Aren’t you going to have one?” She asked, noting his empty hands, which had made no effort to reach for the basket. Eurylochus would likely drop whatever he picked up now, his hands settled on his knee and wrist, firmly pressing down in an effort to conceal their shaking.

“No, I’m not hungry.” He’d probably throw up whatever he ate, if he tried to put anything in his mouth before Ctimene gave her answer to the question she hadn’t noticed was hanging in the air between them. Sitting in the basket.

“Hmm. More for me.” Ctimene giggled and went for another pastry. “You made a lot of these. What’s the special occasion?” She picked up another, her fingers barely brushing against the glossy red fruit. As she bit down, her brow furrowed the tiniest bit, and her eyes darted back to the basket in a double take. His stomach tightened, watching her enchanting eyes widen. His hands definitely felt numb, and his brain as well, should he be saying something clever? Asking her the question outright? Surely sitting here in silence was the cowardly way-

A funny noise came from Ctimene’s throat. It took Eurylochus a moment to recognize it.

“Oh, gods, are you choking?” He leaned over the basket, reaching for her shoulder, brain un-numbing and kicking into high gear, Ody would kill him if she died because of his stupid proposal method, no, he would do it himself first-

She waved him off, eyes wide, and forced down the bite of pastry with merely a small cough. He’d overreacted. His face was on fire.

“No, no, I’m fine, Eury, but- is that what I think it is-?” She murmured, looking up at him with an excited gleam.

Well, I certainly hope so, I’m not sure what else an apple would mean, he thought, managing a stupid “y-yes.”

Ctiemene sat there a moment, before she kicked off the wall and grabbed his elbow. He nearly fell off and on top of her, barely muffling a grunt of surprise, but it slipped out again when she threw her arms around him properly and squeezed. Then he had no breath left to grunt with, because dear gods, this girl was strong, what were they feeding her?

“Yes!” She nearly shrieked, almost wiggling his body in her grip as her sandals danced on the pebbled road. And Eurylochus’s heart nearly burst with relief.

He would have loved to pick her up and spin her in his arms as she loved him doing, except she was kind of trapping them already, and if he tried to pull them out they might pop off. So he settled for a relieved, breathless chuckle.

Thank you, Aphrodite.