#but it feels good to empty out the brain you know?

[rememberwren]

Dichotomy of Thought || 11

Past and further chapters here.

Simon and Johnny make up.

|| Chapter warnings: Anal fingering, anal sex, baby-trapping, medication tampering, medication control.

-

Your boyfriend manages your medications, a one-man pharmacy. 

Every morning the pills are waiting for you on the table in the foyer beside where you deposit your keys in the evening. There are two of them. 

The first is oblong, tan. Your boyfriend hoards and hides the bottle, but you’d fished the information pamphlet that came from the pharmacy out of the trash, and you know everything there is to know about it from that page jam-packed with text. Sertraline, 50mg. Otherwise known as Zoloft. Just swallowing the tasteless pill makes you remember the even darker days than the ones you’re living now, the ones that had led you to that waiting room with your boyfriend in the seat beside you waiting for a doctor to see you. How do I know if I’m depressed, you had asked the doctor, bold as anything even with your boyfriend’s hand on your knee, or if my life just isn’t worth living? 

You’d learned. By God, you’d learned. 

The other pill is your birth control. Round, sometimes blue, sometimes white, depending on where you are in your cycle. Today it is white and—

It looks—different. 

He wouldn’t, you think to yourself, thumb nudging at the pill in your palm, like seeing it from a different angle might jog your memory of it. He wouldn’t do that. A kid is the last thing he wants. He wouldn’t sacrifice his own freedom just to keep you trapped underneath his thumb. 

Except—wouldn’t he? 

“Hurry it up,” he says, yawning, like you kept him up late last night. “I want to go back to bed.” 

You try to take a picture of the pill in your mind before you drop it onto your tongue, taking a swig from your water tumbler, but your brain feels so scrambled that you forget it right away. You can’t even remember the color—had it truly been white, or had it been the pale sky blue of  robin’s egg?

It goes down like a lump of chalk. He makes you show him your empty mouth before he’s satisfied that you aren’t cheeking the pills, and then he kisses you and tells you to have a good day at work, honey. 

-

“Rooster wants you in his office,” Jackie says under her breath, helping you hurriedly clear one of your tables. You’re slow with the splint on your smallest finger, the throb of pain lancing all the way up your wrist each time you use the damaged hand. Jackie has been an angel in khakis picking up your slack. 

You wish that you had one of the pills that they’d given you in the emergency department. It hadn’t taken away all of the pain, but it’d made your head feel light and floaty and like you could care less if all your fingers were broken. Or maybe you wanted one of Johnny’s pills—the ones that put him in a peaceful sleep. You haven’t had such a thing in so long that you can’t remember when, even your moments of relaxation tainted until ‘rest’ is just waiting for the next act of violence. 

“What does he want?” you ask. 

“Probably to tell you about the raise,” she says. She rolls her eyes and twirls a fingers, mouth set in a grim smile of comradery. “Fifty cents. Writing home about it as we speak. Or maybe he wants to grill you about who keeps stealing from the registers—like we all don’t know it’s Ruth.” 

Fifty cents. You can’t even turn up your nose at it. Every penny is one that brings you closer to that apartment across town. With a promise that you’ll return as quickly as you can, you step off the floor (avoiding making eye contact with any customers who would happily sideway you for refills or to complain) and into the back of the house. It’s quiet back here, cooler. Rapping your knuckles against Rooster’s door, you wait. 

There’s no response, and no sign of him in the hallway. Some of the line cooks are coming in, filtering toward the break room to start their shift. You feel their eyes on you as you stand impotently outside the door. One of them says something to the other, and there is laughter, too loud and boisterous for the enclosed space. Your heart has begun to pound, sweat breaking out at the nape of your neck. 

“Hey,” one of them says to you. 

“Hi,” you mutter, forcing a smile, unable to make eye contact. 

Still there is no sign of Rooster from either end of the hallway—never would you have considered the short man your savior. Heart racing, you crack the door open and see that the office is empty. You slip inside, shutting the door safely behind you. 

The room is as self-important as you might imagine: a desk that seems too large for the space, filing cabinets in the corner. There’s a corkboard pockmarked with holes after years of use, and you drift over to it, too anxious to take a seat in the chair on the other side of Rooster’s desk. A calendar is posted there, Rooster’s neat handwriting here and there. 

Something catches your eye: LOCKER CLEANOUT marked for two weeks from now. 

It seemed like the last locker cleanout had just happened. You had only collected five hundred dollars back then, but it was far too much to want to explain to Rooster, and you had nowhere else to stash it that was safe. In the end, it had sat in an envelope under the driver’s seat of your car while Rooster took the week and went through each of the lockers to ensure compliance with the restaurant’s rules (all because someone used to have a penchant for leaving snack cakes in their locker leading to a bad case of ants that almost led to the restaurant being shut down). It had been the longest week of your life, like driving around with a live bomb underneath the front seat. 

Now you have nearly two thousand dollars. Where the hell were you going to put it? 

The door opens. Rooster looks at you suspiciously, eyes flickering between you and the calendar. 

“Next time, wait outside,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. It makes your skin crawl to be alone with him, even if he’s never done anything slimier than asking you to pull a double shift. You know the darkness that lies inside men. All men. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, taking his seat in a squeaky rolling chair behind the desk. His smile is a dismal, strained thing, like interacting with you is just as painful for him as it is for you. “Next time, just wait.”  

-

Johnny and Simon spend the day in bed. 

Johnny’s knee is propped up on a pillow, red and swollen. Simon lets his fingers hover over it, gentle, feeling the warmth of Johnny’s skin. Johnny winces, like even the brush of air against his knee hurts. 

“It looks infected,” says Simon. 

“It’s not.” It can’t be. Johnny can’t handle that—can’t handle the idea of having to go through the surgery on his knee again, the recovery, the way recovery is just synonymous with pain. No, it isn’t infected. “Just looks like that because he hit it.” 

Simon leans down and brushes his mouth against Johnny’s thigh. It’s meant to be sweet but—well. It’s the closest his mouth has been to Johnny’s cock in more than six months, and just the sight of it has Johnny’s heart skipping a beat and picking up again in double-time, his face growing flush. Not privy to Johnny’s thoughts, all Simon does is press a chaste kiss to the skin a few inches above where Johnny’s swelling starts—nevermind what else might be swelling now, too. 

The two of them lay entwined together, Simon curling up around him. He plants a hand on Johnny’s clothed chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to remind himself that Johnny’s here. That Johnny’s alive. The look in his eyes is far away, mouth drawn down into a tight frown. All at once, Johnny’s downright sick of it—sick of them not having anything to smile about. Sick of fighting. 

Johnny takes Simon’s hand, laces their fingers, and guides it down. Down over his slim, firm belly, watching from the corner of his eye as Simon’s brows climb up his forehead. Down until their hands cup his half-hard cock. Simon’s hand shifts straight away, fingers curling around the solid length, thumb stroking up the side, the gentle rasp of his calloused fingerpad loud against the cotton of Johnny’s boxers. 

“You’re hurt,” Simon reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” 

“I do.” 

“We don’t have to fuck. I just—” he doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he needs to feel something good. How badly he needs to know that his connection with Simon isn’t ruined. How badly he needs to see that they’re still lovers, that Simon isn’t just his live-in caretaker. How badly Johnny needs to feel like a human being—like a grown man. He finishes, a little lamely: “I just need it.” 

Simon’s grip goes firm. Johnny’s eyes shut, mouth falling open at the sensation. He hasn’t even touched himself like this in weeks, and while he hadn’t necessarily been keeping track, his cock clearly has been. Simon seems content to go on like this, mapping the shape of Johnny’s cock through his boxers, thumbing over the head until a wet sticky spot appears in the cotton fabric, his hand sometimes drifting down to cradle the warm heft of Johnny’s balls. 

Johnny, usually impatient, contents himself with this torture. Let Simon tease him all day, if he’d like, until Johnny is liable to go off at the whisper of a touch. The thought has his cock jerking toward the warmth of Simon’s palm, and Johnny groans when his grip tightens. 

“Fucking pretty, aren’t you?” Simon mutters, his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Johnny snorts. He tosses his arm over his eyes, but beneath his arm, he’s grinning. “Shuddup.” 

Simon clicks his tongue. “Be good, Johnny. Let me look at you.” 

Johnny moves his arm and gives his grin room to breathe. His head feels light and airy as Simon sits up and helps him work his boxers down his thighs just far enough to draw his cock out. The first touch of skin on skin has him hissing a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, it’s good. Just as good as it always was—maybe even better, because he needs it so bad. 

“Want you inside me,” Johnny says on a whim, feeling the truth of it in his chest. He doesn’t just want it—he needs it. 

Simon leans down and kisses him, just a little too hard to be mistaken as anything but desperate. How long has it been for him, Johnny wonders. He spends every waking moment with Johnny except his perfunctory showers. Does he indulge then, between soaping and rinsing off, holding his breath to hide his sounds while he strips his cock with one slick hand? 

It takes some maneuvering to get Johnny on his side, knee nicely cushioned. He can’t reach back and touch Simon, can’t grip his hip and pull him in closer, and it’s just another reason to miss his arm. Because there are a hundred thousand touches Simon deserves that Johnny can’t give him anymore. 

They’re lucky for the shelf life of the lube. It warms Simon’s fingers as he works them past Johnny’s rim. He takes his time, hands shaking where they touch him. 

“Need it bad, huh?” Johnny wonders. 

Simon snorts but doesn’t deny it. Just curls his fingers searching for that tender spot inside Johnny’s ass that makes him grit his teeth. His cock drools onto the bedspread, red and throbbing with his heartbeat. By the time Simon slips inside him, chest to Johnny’s back, Johnny feels liable to go off at a moment’s notice. 

For all the time they haven’t fucked, Simon remembers everything: the way to touch Johnny,wrapping a strong arm around his chest to make up for the one Johnny lacks, fingers playing with the whorls of Johnny’s chest hair or teasing one of his nipples; the way to angle his hips to nail Johnny’s prostate. 

“Quit,” Johnny groans, shifting until the stimulation isn’t so good, so dead-on. His cock aches, balls heavy and tight. “I don’t want to cum yet. Don’t want this to be over.” 

“Can’t miss Johnny; dick’s too big.” 

Johnny guffaws. The sound nearly startles him—when was the last time he fucking laughed? With you in the park—but he doesn’t need to be thinking about you now, not you with your small, soft hands and the curve of your mouth…

“Fuck—touch my cock, please touch my cock—“ Johnny whines, body trembling. He’s right there, right fucking there, too close to go back now, fuck it all, he wants to cum. Simon’s strong fingers curl around his cock and strip it firmly, and the pleasure inside him bubbles up and over, left too long to simmer. He nearly headbutts Simon in the face, his body shaking and jerking and cum splatters against his belly and the bedspread and down over Simon’s fingers. 

“Just like that—so good, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. His pale hand grips at Johnny’s sharp hipbone, cum smearing against Johnny’s skin. “My turn.” 

Afterwards, Simon gently helps him undress and goes to get them both fresh clothes. Johnny’s knee throbs freshly just from his muscles tensing, but he barely feels it. For the first time since his accident, he thinks that maybe things will be okay. He has no arm—but so what? There are many with a lot less. He’s John fucking MacTavish. He can do this.

Simon has gone still at their closet, holding something in his hands. Johnny leans up on his elbows. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find my lighter?”

Simon holds up with no preamble a skull-embossed balaclava. It’s worn, the fabric gone gray at its most threadbare spots, but the image imprinted on the front hasn’t faded.

“Blast from the past,” Johnny says, throat uncomfortably tight with an emotion he can’t name. “Thought you threw those out.” 

“Thought so too.” He doesn’t look eager to throw this one out though, his fingers tracing over the teeth, like he’s tracing the lipless mouth of a lover. 

“You miss it,” Johnny says, the glow of their sex fading rapidly. Of course Simon misses it. The military had been his entire life—until Johnny’s accident. Until Simon had discharged with him, to take care of him. Johnny hadn’t just blown apart his own life by going down in the helo in Kazakhstan, he had blown apart Simon’s life too. 

“No,” Simon says simply. “It’s not that.” 

Johnny frowns. “What is it, then?” 

“The night of the poker party—I was Ghost again. It was the only way I could…compartmentalize. Stomach it. I’d forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?”

Simon glances toward him. “Forgotten how useful Ghost could be.” Reaching up, Simon slips the balaclava over his head, adjusting it on instinct until it rests just right against the bridge of his nose. His hair is getting long, little blond strands visible, curling at the ends. 

“Now I want to fuck you again,” says Johnny, just to fill the air between them, and because sex used to be such an easy way to fill it. 

Simon doesn’t smile. 

“Johnny.”

“I was just teasin’—“

“Not that,” Simon says. Even his manner of speaking seems different, words clipped, tone short and no-nonsense. “What if I wanted to go visit our neighbor?”

The question lingers in the silence between them. Johnny swallows, the sound of his throat an audible click in the tense air. 

“You,” Johnny wonders, when he can speak again, “or Ghost?” 

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost smiles. 

[saioratral]

forget - mysterious figure who happens to be good at manipulation? what could go wrong? (gn! reader) warning: mentions pills  note: i 100% went off topic cause i took some flu tablets and now my brain is just everywhere so hopefully this fits your request :) i am one blink away from falling asleep on my table and i might rewrite if it doesnt fit your request ^^

another night spent mindlessly watching tv, your eyes glued to the screen as the world outside becomes a blur. you sat from sunrise, after watering your plants and finishing house chores. you didn’t move a muscle, except for the occasional shifts to get more comfortable. the subtitles become your reading material for the day once again.  

you hear the door open, the clicking of the lock reminded you what time it was but you never got up. instead, you pulled your blanket closer to yourself, burying yourself in the fabric you felt safe in. 

“still watching tv, love?”, a disappointed sigh follows from his voice 

a plastic bag lands on the coffee table with a soft thud to accompany. you don’t make an effort to reach for it. your body was too relaxed to move a muscle. another sigh from him as he leans over, pushing the bag closer, his unfamiliar cologne being overshadowed by the smell of your favourite food.

“you keep forgetting to eat”, he murmurs, almost like he was reading a script. “how long will you keep doing this?” 

he walked into your room, long gone from your vision. you shrug, sitting up from your seat with the blanket draped on your shoulder. you realise how inconvenient it would be for you to eat, so you get up and sit on the floor this time, using the coffee table as your dinner table. 

you quickly open up the box and take out the spoon from the packaging. the smell of food hits you, and your stomach growls in response. your hands tremble as you pick up the spoon, ready to eat. heavens must have blessed you with a drink to accompany the food and you quickly take a sip before taking a bite- 

wait… wait a minute 

you stop the food entering your mouth, the spoon near your lips as if teasing you to eat it but you didn't. there’s a strange taste, something off about your drink. the condensation on the cup catches your eye, but that’s not what makes your pulse quicken. it’s the nagging feeling that something isn’t right.

"who brought me this...?" you whisper to yourself 

the man, where was he? you saw him enter your room. bracing yourself, you get up and grab the plastic fork that came with the food and pull your blanket tighter around you as if it can shield you from whatever this is.

almost quietly, you flick the lights open but there was no one. your stuff were still in place. you look at the bathroom, the light off meaning it was empty… huh? you hear your front door close, a lock sound followed confirming your suspensions.

your body froze… just what the hell was going on here? you race back to the living room and everything’s the same except your food. it was closed shut, to keep the food warm and there was a tissue neatly folded under the drink. 

turning left, you notice the light of your kitchen open. you slowly tip toed there, to catch whoever it was. you enter the kitchen and stop dead in your tracks. he’s there, looking impossibly calm, teal hair perfectly styled, a man who feels like a stranger, though you know you’ve seen him before.

“what are you doing?”, he asks 

technically it should be you asking, but his question made you freeze. your throat does not allow a single sound to escape, and you stare at him for a minute. you stupidly stood with a fork aimed at him.

“who are you?”, you demanded him to speak. “and what are you doing in my house?” 

“im rin.. your boyfriend? you forgot your pills again, didn't you”, rin’s eyes flicker toward you, lips curling slightly at the corners

pills? what pills? you don’t even know what he was even talking about. before you can react, rin has already closed the space between you. out of fear, you back up and point the fork more directly this time. he sighs, looking tired from whatever he was up to before he came home. 

“enough”, rin says and forcefully snatches your fork 

great. now you were defenceless and keep backing up from him. he moves closer, and instinctively, you back up until your legs hit the edge of the counter. he places a hand on your waist, lifting you onto the counter like you’re nothing, like you belong there.

"where are your slippers, love?" rin’s voice is sickly sweet, a tone that makes you feel like you're supposed to answer

“slippers..? i think i left them in my room", you stammer. “and you- you’re really my boyfriend?”

"you need this," he adds, offering the pill along with the drink from earlier

he finally pulls out an unfamiliar orange bottle from the cabinet. when did you ever have that? why can’t you remember? you look at him, as if asking what it was but his piercing teal eyes made you forget. 

“take it”, rin demands softly, but you picked up the force in his voice. “don’t make this harder than it needs to be”

now, as a sane and intelligent person, you shouldn't consume a pill you aren’t familiar with. this hot man was handing you a pill, you should obviously deny it but you swallowed it like the kids that always enter the haunted house instead of just leaving. are you the main character of a movie? if so, you were doing a horrible job.

"i told you," rin leans in closer, his hand resting on the counter, trapping you in place as you struggle to keep your thoughts together."you need to take care of yourself. eat more. take your medicine."

“what was that medi-”

“i got gummies if it tasted bad” 

rin cuts you off, offering a packet of your favourite green treats. you take it, opening it while looking at him weirdly. why were you suddenly feeling dizzy? how could you not remember who he was?

“take care of yourself properly. okay?”, rin asks for confirmation 

you nod, despite the chaos of confusion in your mind. you feel like you're losing grip on everything, everything except him.

“look at me”,  hand suddenly shifts, gripping your jaw with a sudden force that makes you flinch, but he doesn’t let go. “relax” 

he leans in, resting his forehead on yours, allowing you to dismay all the alarming bells ringing in your head. his gaze shifts downward, and before you can even process the thought, his lips are on yours. the kiss is overwhelming, leaning more on controlling. your body responds despite the internal conflict, too lost to remember who you were before him.

because he's your boyfriend, right? he must be. he wouldn't hurt you. he wouldn't make you feel this way if he didn't care.

of course, he’s your boyfriend. he’s just taking care of you, isn’t he? he definitely wasn’t your old childhood friend from your hometown who made you take non prescribed pills to mess with your brain after you rejected him. he also definitely didn’t tamper with your drink to make the effects last longer.  

why would he? 

rin is your boyfriend after all, silly!

© saioratral 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images used are from pinterest

[yourstarstruckbeloved]

kriti; an ode to devotion

dr. ratio x fem!reader, in which ratio finds himself absolutely smitten for a musician from earth.

content/warnings: 1.4k words, reader is very very feminine, referred to with she/her, reader is also indian and a maestro at indian classical music, i made this purely as a self-indulgent self-insert piece, religious imagery/writing, good ol’ potential ooc dr. ratio warning, he does not know ANYTHING about indian classical music or hindu culture, a few sanskrit terms used

author’s note: aaaah i can’t stop thinking about how dr. ratio would absolutely just fall in love with people passionate for their lines of work. i know this is pretty much just a self insert of my own but the thought of ratio with an s/o devoted to music or dance is so... <3

ratio feels like he’s sighed for the millionth time today. “didn’t you find someone else to do your bidding, gambler?” his question is met with a resounding and joyful nope! from aventurine, who drags him into the crowded theatre. “i had two tickets for this show because my friend was very kind. but no one else could make it on such short notice,” the blonde says, the smile never leaving his face. “so, i’m glad you came with me, doctor. ah! two empty seats! lucky us, eh?”

“whatever.”

ratio can’t say he’s the biggest fan of music— he dabbles in it from time to time, but nothing too much. it it weren’t for the gambler’s insistence, he would currently have been home and indulging in a relaxing bath; but alas, aventurine always gets what he wants. “i’m surprised you even have friends with a personality as repulsive as yours.”

“that hurt, you know,” aventurine says, clutching at his chest and forcing a pained expression onto his face. “do you really think i’m that bad?”

“no, i just think you are an idiot. or that the friends you have are equally as repulsive as you.”

the chatter around him turns into static white noise and he stares emptily at the blank stage, numbers and letters going left and right and center in his brain. the frustrating proof that the doctor had been trying to work on for weeks now is making a resurgence in his head. well, on second thought, maybe it’s not so bad that he got dragged out… perhaps, the doctor could make use of this opportunity to unplug and relax a bit. maybe the gambler isn’t so much of an idiot after all (aventurine knows, but he won’t let up).

ratio is snapped out of his daze as the curtains draw to a close, the stage now hidden behind them. a good portion of the crowd silences, in anticipation of the performance that was about to begin any second now. he heaves a sigh when the curtains reopen, a subconsciously bated breath being released.

in the middle of the stage sits a woman wearing a rich blue… robe? stole? no, it’s probably a saree, he surmises. “that’s her!” aventurine says excitedly with a gasp. “do you see her, doctor?” the soft light falling on the woman seems to reflect off of her in a subtle shine. almost like an ethereal goddess... “yes, i do, aventurine, i am not blind. i’m actually surprised you have friends from earth, of all planets.”

and ratio truly was genuinely surprised— not because he truly believed that aventurine’s personality would be an obstacle between him and his friendships, but because as far as he knew, earth was one of those tiny planets in a remote arm of the milky way galaxy. the people of earth tended to have their own cultures and gods that they worshipped instead of the aeons, and all of this differed widely between major regions on the planet. the… earthlings? well, in any case, they rarely ever travelled outside of their home planet— the maximum they usually ever went was within their planetary system. maybe they’re finally beginning to get out of their comfort zone? no one knows for sure.

the chatter of the crowd gradually dies down as three others assemble next to the woman with their instruments. she takes a sip from the bottle that lay next to her, and ratio notices the slight motion she makes with her hand. he assumes this was to get the show going, because the instrumentalists began playing their parts. they start with a monotonous and constant drone, after which the other stringed instrumentalist joins along with the harmonium player— and finally, you. ratio finds his interest piqued— he does not know much about earth and its customs and cultures.

you take a breath and you start singing. you start off slow and mellow, but ratio can feel the intensity and tempo of the performance gradually increasing— and with it, the intricacies of phrases that you’re singing. he finds it infuriatingly captivating, the way you jump through the chromatic scale with ease, like a deer prancing about in the forest. he wonders if you speak in melody.

ratio swears it’s the most masterful thing he’s ever listened to. he’s never listened to this kind of music ever in his life before, he knows nothing. it’s not as big as a choir or orchestra— and yet, he finds it amazing, the ease with which you conduct everyone with a flick of your hand. no… it’s not conducting. it seemed too unauthoritative to be. honestly, he has a lot of questions but for now he lets himself think of it simply for what it probably was— a well coordinated performance (and he would not be wrong to think of it that way either).

the skillful gliding of your voice has ratio enamoured. he finds it impressive, how easily you seem to be gliding over three octaves of notes without breaking out into as much as a sweat. he can only imagine the years and years of practice that must have gone into gaining such mastery— you make it look as easy as breathing. he would be lying if he said he didn’t find it attractive to some degree at the very least.

it takes him completely by surprise when you look in his direction and shoot your biggest most saccharine smile ever. and then he remembers about your supposed friendship with the man next to him and realises that it wasn’t for him. the gambler wasn’t lying, eh? who was ratio kidding, you didn’t even know him.

but he’s starting to become far gone. ratio isn’t a sapiosexual or whatever, by any means, even if he comes off as such. he knows that people think he would only be willing to date someone who has more phds than he does, but that’s not true at all. ratio believes that one must be passionate about anything that they choose to do. ultimately, that’s really what gets him hooked. he’s absolutely taking delight in looking at the fruits of your years of devotion to your art. and you, your performance is so enchanting it almost hurts. he feels like a dazed sailor drawn to a siren.

heh, it wouldn’t be so bad if the siren was you, he thinks, but immediately cringes at the thought afterward, discarding it into some corner of his brain he hopes to never see again.

oh, aventurine isn’t blind to any of this. he looks at the doctor’s eyes glued onto the stage with hyperfocus, and laughs. he doesn’t miss the way his grip on the armrests grow tighter and tighter, the flexing and tensing of his muscles obvious. who would’ve thought that his musician friend from earth of all people would’ve had the doctor whipped? he supposes it wasn’t a bad decision to bring ratio along, after all.

the audience bursts into thunderous clapping once you hit the end of your performance. ratio almost thought there was going to be no end to it— not that he’d complain though, it would’ve given him more time to study your performance, your art, more time to study you. “that was… that was a splendid performance. i wasn’t expecting to find myself hooked onto a musical of all things, seems like you aren’t completely bad, gambler.” ratio is completely candid with his compliment.

“oh, i know how much you enjoyed this,” aventurine says rather suggestively, catching the doctor off-guard. “hey, i’m going into the backstage to meet her— would you like to tag along?”

ratio is elated at the offer. of course he’d want to meet you, he’s got so many questions and— “sure…” his expression remains as stoic as ever. he’s always been able to count on himself but now? he hopes his deadpan image isn’t betrayed by his feelings, and he finds it so impossibly difficult to fight back the smile that’s slowly creeping onto his features as he watches you and aventurine converse like you were best friends reunited.

“this is my friend, doctor ratio!”

“oh, so you’re the doctor that everyone talks about! nice to meet you, i’m _____.”

you knew him already? well, it’s no big deal, you must have heard about him from aventurine. fuck, you look so much more heavenly up close. you’re like the manifestation of a goddess, with the way you seem to literally radiate a glow and everything. shit, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were an emanator of beauty, or an incarnation of devi saraswati (he hopes he isn’t thinking of the wrong goddess with his limited knowledge of hindu culture).

“likewise. just veritas is fine, too. that was an absolutely phenomenal performance, back then.”

veritas doesn’t know the first thing about the gods you sung the praises of during your performance, but he does think that your devotion to the art must be unmatched. he feels like you are a personification of the heavens, and he’s blind to everything that isn’t your divine beauty. there’s something so ancient about your art, and you’re almost like an envoy of the gods— aeons, you’re slowly getting him wrapped around your damn finger, and he doesn’t think he’s going to do anything to stop it.

“thank you, veritas,” you smile at him, and he feels a slight warmth. “i’ll be performing again at the grand theatre soon. you’ll be there, right?”

[ode-to-fury]

Dance With Me

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook

Summary: Scene after the Illario fight, but the way I would have written it. It's not that deep or different, but I think it's better. My Rook but mostly I wasn't specific.

Disclaimer: Whoo first Lucanis fic! I'm still trying to find the DA companions' voices so you might have to bear with me a little bit. This has been in my brain since the MOMENT he said "I have other plans for the evening". I tried to make him that weird mix of awkward and smooth so lmk if I did that or if I need to work on it. Might come back and edit.

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"You came back here just for coffee?"

Rook's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

When he looked up at her, his heart gave a lurch, the same lurch it had given every other time he'd laid eyes on her.

Her hair was damp and sligtly wavy from her bath, still, and she wore leather trousers and a shirt. It was difficult to see in the dim firelight, but he knew the blue of the shirt would be reflected in her eyes, twinkling above the bemused grin she was giving him.

"What, the stuff in that gigantic villa wasn't good enough for you?"

She folded her arms across her chest, eyebrows raised and dimples clearly visible as she grinned down at him. Mercifully, Spite was being quiet for once. He idly wondered if demons ever got tired, or overwhelmed after a long day. Something to ask Emmrich about, perhaps.

"It's better if I make it myself," he said, not quite managing to smile back at her, despite the lightness that smile brought to his chest.

"And besides, I wanted some quiet."

He hated that her smile melted slightly, her shoulders tightening ever so slightly. He doubted anyone else would have noticed, but he did.

"So," she said, "First Talon?"

"First Talon," he said, and if he was honest with himself, it did not fit right in his mouth.

"I still cannot believe Caterina did that."

Lucanis is the new First Talon. His decision stands.

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her fingers tensed where they rested on her arm.

"Does that mean you're leaving?"

Ah.

He almost grinned.

"No," he said simply. "We have a contract. Besides, Caterina might have named me First Talon, but there's no stopping her from giving all the orders."

This time her smile was wider, and she tilted her head to the side so her hair shifted, glinting golden in the firelight. He ached to run his fingers through it.

"You know," she said, her eyes twinkling with laughter again, "You could have said, 'Of course not. I would never leave with you still here.'

Her Antivan accent was good. Too good. It made his chest feel tight whenever she pretended to be him. He grinned back at her despite himself.

"I would never leave with you still here," he said. "You'll have me for as long as I can put off the Crows."

He saw her brow furrow slightly, but she hid it quickly.

Before he could let his nerves interfere, he stood up, setting his half empty cup down on the table as he did.

"I may have had another reason for leaving the party early," he said, letting his voice drop slightly. He saw her eyes narrow, but then she gave him a crooked grin.

"Besides coffee, you mean?"

He walked past her, to the open space between the dining table and the door, and held out his hand to her.

"Dance with me," he said softly.

It was the first time he'd seen her truly taken aback. To his delight, her mouth even dropped slightly open.

"Dance with you?" She asked, as if he'd just asked her to jump into the Fade.

"What?" He asked.

"There's no music. Also, I told you," she said, shoulders tensing again, "I'm a terrible dancer."

She had. Technically she'd told all of them.

You'd have to get me drunk first, I'm afraid, it's mortifying otherwise. I got told I have about four left feet.

"You did," he said, still holding out his hand. "But you also said you loved to dance."

She tilted her head to the side, almost pleading.

"It's only me," he said softly.

"That's what's worrying me," she said, almost too quiet for him to hear, and he remembered that this was as new to her as it was to him.

What would a first kiss taste like?

Like hope.

She held back for a moment longer, then hesitantly, she placed her fingers in his hand.

They were warm, and her callouses scraped against his own as she allowed him to pull her close to him. His heart thumped in his chest, as if it was trying to get to her.

"I don't know how to do this," she said, and he knew she wasn't only talking about the dancing.

"Like this," he said, curling his left hand around her right, and placing the other one on his shoulder.

"Your elbow has to stay up," he said seriously, lifting said elbow so it was almost in line with her shoulder before dropping his hand to her waist. "Caterina would smack me with a cane if I got it wrong."

"If you try and smack me with a cane..." she started, leaving the threat unfinished.

"I couldn't find one," he said. She tried to hide a grin, but her dimples gave her away, and suddenly those hours with Caterina and her cane seemed worth it to him.

"Now," he said, "step back with your right foot."

She did, looking at her feet, and he followed, relishing the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, the way his hand fit perfectly on her waist.

"Back and to the left with the other."

She did so, and he followed.

"Now bring your feet together, and do the same with the other foot."

They went slowly, and he enjoyed watching the crease between her eyebrows as she concentrated.

Gently, he let go of her waist so he could tilt her face up to his own.

"You should look your partner in the eyes," he said, aware that his voice had dropped lower, but not really caring, "Not where you are going to step."

"And if I step wrong?" She asked, her voice slightly breathy. It felt like soft fingers tracing their way down his spine.

"Trust me to guide you," he replied, his hand going back to her waist.

The corner of her mouth curled up ever so slightly.

"Alright," she said. "I trust you."

As they moved slowly through the room, the firelight caught her eyes and hair, gilding her in gold and taking his breath from him. In fact, breathing felt suddenly like a very big effort.

"What is it?" She asked quietly, almost as if she was scared he would run if she spoke too loudly. He wasn't too certain he wouldn't.

"You are so beautiful," he said, before he could think about it too much, though his voice was markedly less smooth than it had been.

Her eyes, her beautiful, sparkling eyes, widened slightly.

"Really?" She asked.

"Would I ever lie to you?"

She smiled. It was small and soft this time.

"No one's ever called me that before," she whispered.

"Good," he managed to whisper back. "I would have to kill them."

And she laughed. By the blood of the Maker, she laughed and every terrible moment up until just then seemed as though it had a purpose.

"There's that smile," he said, when her laughter died down.

"Your's too," she replied, still grinning happily at him.

"Thank you, Rook," he found himself saying.

"You don't need to thank me."

She leaned in slightly, mischief in her eyes.

"For you, it's on the house."

His stomach tightened slightly when she did the accent, but he tried his best to ignore it.

"Did Illario hurt you?" He asked. "I'll skin him if he did."

She touched the scratch on her neck from Illario's, thankfully unpoisoned, blade.

"A scratch," she said dissmissively. "He hurt my pride more than anything else."

They moved for a few seconds in silence while he waited for her to ask the obvious next question.

"Do you regret..."

"Giving him a chance?"

He'd been thinking about it since they had left Villa Dellamorte.

Didn't you tell me he was basically your brother and your closest childhood friend?

"No," he said. "You were right. He's family."

Family. The word tasted sour in his mouth.

"I didn't even suspect him," he said. "When the Venatori caught me on the boat in Tevinter, it never even crossed my mind."

Almost without meaning to, he brought her right hand to his heart, his fingers tightening over hers. She lay her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer, a solid weight against him. A comfort, for the first time in his life.

"He's better than I thought," he said, absently resting his cheek against her head. Her hair smelled of lightning, and a faint, almost unnoticeable trace of honey. "Maybe there is hope for him yet."

She snorted a soft laugh through her nose, making him grin. It vanished quickly, though.

"But this wasn't a mercy. Being watched by all the Crows, with their knives out? He will never live down being the Traitor Crow, brought down in front of everyone. There is nowhere he can run."

"I was surprised you listened to me," she said. He felt her breath tickle his neck, involuntarily clutched her closer against him.

"So was I," he said. "But... I don't have a lot to lose. What there is... Caterina, this team... you, even my idiot cousin. I'm not giving that up."

She stopped moving, lifting her head up to look at him. She wore the softest smile he'd ever seen on her face.

"What's that look?"

"You have a big heart," she said softly, "For an assassin."

He tried to look away at the tone of her voice, at the emotion in it, but she gently turned his face toward her again.

"That's not a bad thing," she said.

"If it brought me here," he said, taking her hand again and kissing it on a whim, "To this moment with you, then it cannot be a bad thing. I just... I cannot believe he would do all of this, only to be First Talon."

She frowned up at him.

"He said you didn't want to be First Talon."

"I don't. But how am I supposed to trust him with it now? How is anyone? The funny thing is, he might have finally proven he has the abillity for it."

"Right before getting humilliated in front of everyone," she said, grinning slightly.

"Exactly."

He sighed, though it came out as more of a frustrated growl.

"Fucking Illario."

"Hey," she said, gently reaching up and smoothing out the crease between his brows. The gesture made his chest ache.

"We'll work it out," she said softly. "Together. But for now... "

He took her hand again, holding it to his chest so she could feel his heartbeat.

"Just be here with me," she said. "Just for a little while."

"I can do that," he said. "For a little while."

She smiled, and he could see the day was starting to get to her, the tiredness starting to reach her eyes.

"Rook..." he started, not sure what he was going to say, but needing to say something before his chest caved in on itsself. She cut him off before he could.

"Shhhh," she said gently, kissing him for a long moment before laying her head back on his shoulder. He forgot, sometimes, that he could kiss her. Usually, Spite was there to remind him, with enthusiasm. It scared him, how much he ached to feel her lips against his own.

"Don't ruin it."

So he held her close, and kissed her forehead, and later he let her fall asleep on his lap in the chair, savouring the way she held on to his hand even in sleep, and finally letting his fingers run through her hair, softer than silk against his skin.

[aquaticmercy]

Bloodthirst

Part 5 of Dark Necessities

Series Summary : You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a primal bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic.

Chapter Summary : As Bucky’s obsession with the bond grows, you meet a stranger who claims he can help.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Blood. Death. Cursing.Violence. Pleasure from a vampire bite (?). The reader is a dhampir/half-vampire/daywalker like Blade, and Blade is a mentor figure in this. Established relationship. Not a really an au, set in the MCU so semi-canon compliant except for the fact that blade is here lol.

Word Count : 2.7k

Note : hey y’all! I haven’t updated this in over a week, but as it stands, I am going to upload a chapter 2-3 times a week. Let me know if I missed anyone in the tag list. Enjoy!

Bucky’s obsession with Joanna’s journal crept in quietly, at first. He kept it tucked under his arm, bringing it with him even to the smallest corners of his life. Before long, he felt like he was compelled to carry a piece of her story.

In the low light of the bedside table, he’d lose hours tracing her words with a respect that bordered on devotion. Each night, you’d find him hunched over the journal, eyes fixed on the paper as if every letter were sacred. His breaths would grow shallow, his body still, save for the fingers that turned the pages. You’d watch him from across the room, feeling a knot tightening in your chest because it did in his.

You knew you should probably take a peek, but the idea of reading it yourself filled your head with a uneasy dread. 

You didn’t want to know what was written inside—didn’t want to see the horrors the bond you shared with Bucky reflected in the pages. There was a fear you couldn’t shake off— that the journal held a blueprint of what your future with him might become, and it terrified you more than you could admit.

One night, after you fed on him and showered, you heard him turn the page and exhale, almost a sigh. You knew it couldn’t be anything good.

I can feel Celine’s heartbeat even when she’s not near. When she leaves, I feel like a ship wandering the seas without a destination. Her soul burns with mine like a flame, and I am afraid of how much I crave it.

How strange to feel so full, yet so empty without her… I wonder if this hunger is love or something else entirely. I cannot tell. But I do not care to know the difference.

As Bucky read, his grip on the journal tightened, knuckles turning white. His storm-blue had that faraway look again, as if Joanna’s writing had taken the words right out of his mouth. 

He didn’t notice how his breaths grew shallow the way you did— and how his shallow intakes of air made it harder for you to breathe. 

You bit down on the inside of your cheek instinctively. In that moment, he felt his cheeks ache, too. Warily, he looked up to you. 

He shut the book and smiled as if nothing was wrong. But he couldn’t hide these things from you anymore— you felt the dread he did, the spiral of obsession slowly digging deeper and deeper into his skull, taking root in his brain.

And still, you didn’t open the journal. You haven’t read a single sentence. 

It felt like the last line of defense, a boundary between what you could bear to know and what would destroy you if you did.

—

Today, you went on another mission— Elsa Bloodstone had tipped you off. 

The sunlight was blinding, slicing through the vein-like branches of the forest like a blade, yet the trees were so thick that there were pockets of darkness underneath.  

You and Bucky moved in near-silence through the edge of the woods, stalking the faerie that had left two vampires dead in the last three days. The forest seemed to sway with purpose, the earth beneath your boots uncharacteristically still. 

Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves set your senses on fire as you stayed close to Bucky’s side. The faerie had been maddeningly elusive. 

But you both knew it was near— you had caught a glimpse of their feet and followed it here. 

Bucky’s grip on his rifle was tight, his keen eyes flicking to every shadow that might move. He had specifically prepared silver-tipped bullets in his weapon, hoping he wouldn’t need it. Between you, the bond buzzed softly, a shared endless rise and falls of energy. His adrenaline felt like it had mixed with yours, creating a heady cocktail that made you hyper-aware, feeling the beat of his heart as if it was your own.

The daylight gave you an advantage—Bucky had insisted on that. The faeries had killed vampires— they would expect a vampire to avenge them. They would not expect a daywalker. 

This was your best chance. 

And yet, this seemed too easy.

As you stepped into a small clearing, the forest fell silent. Not the natural quiet of nature— it was like noise had been sucked out of the air in a vacuum. 

It was the kind of stillness that promised violence. 

You halted, your hand instinctively resting on the hilt of your dagger. The faint scent of blood drifted to you, sharp and metallic, and your eyes followed it to a figure slumped against the thick trunk of a tree.

A young vampire. Recently turned, by the smell of it.

The fledgling’s throat had been violently slashed, a grotesque smile carved into his pale flesh. His wide, empty eyes stared up at the canopy above. He likely was sheltering out the sun under the shade of the ancient tree.  A dark red streak ran down his neck, a brutal sight against his alabaster skin.

“This isn’t right,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you began to back away. Your instincts screamed at you to run. “They’re leaving victims for us to find.”

He stiffened beside you, his head jerking up as he scanned the perimeter. His mouth opened to respond, but the forest answered first. 

Figures seemed to spill from the edges of your vision, flickering like flames. They moved with impossible grace, as if they were one with air itself. 

Faeries. 

Their pale, luminous skin glowed like winter’s first frost beneath sunrise. They wore flowing garments in shades of moonlight, their faces achingly beautiful but marred by a cruel childlike glee. They danced in and out of sight, their laughter piercing your ears, sharp as broken glass. 

You knew, now, that this was a trap. 

The bond between you and Bucky flared, his pulse thundering in your head. He moved closer, his back pressed against yours as the faeries closed in. Their movements were so fluid, so deliberate. One stepped forward, its lips curling into a smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“The blood-bonded lovers,” she said, her tone dripping with genuine wonder. “How rare. How precious.”

A shiver ran through your veins. 

These weren’t just faeries. Your eyes flicked to the brands on their necks— intricate, thorny roses etched into their pale skin. 

A marker of devotion.

“A cult,” you breathed, the realization hitting you like a blow. “A faerie cult.”

The stories came rushing back to you, dark whispers of faerie cults who performed ancient rituals to bend the natural forces to their will. The tales always mentioned daywalkers, their connection said to hold unspeakable power.

Perhaps they wanted to test their rituals on a blood bonded daywalker now.

One of the faeries began to hum, the melody soft and haunting. The sound wormed its way into your chest, vibrating in your bones, fraying your nerves. 

“To bring back the dead requires a blood sacrifice so rare,” the faerie purred, their eyes gleaming with hunger. “A blood sacrifice so potent.”

Bucky’s body tensed beside you, the bond crackling with his thoughts— anger, fear, and above all, a determination that burned like fire. You felt an unspoken promise ripple through the connection: he would not let them take you. But you knew he could feel your thoughts as well, that you were going to protect him just the same. 

The first faerie lunged, and you both moved as one. Bucky’s shot first, the silver-tipped bullet slicing through the air and slicing into the faerie’s shoulder. It staggered back with a shriek, its blood sparkling like liquid starlight. Another darted toward you, your dagger in hand, slicing into its flesh. The faerie hissed, otherworldly beauty twisting into monstrousityz

But then— 

A sharp sting bit into your neck. And another.

You slapped at the source, but it was too late. A cold numbness spread through your veins. 

You heard Bucky say your name, his voice quiet and distant. The world tilted, the sunlight fading, the trees dissolving into darkness. 

You both hit the ground.

And then there was nothing.

—

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the moon, bright and full, hanging high in the sky above you. 

How long had it been? 

You were in a hole in the ground, vines wrapped around your wrists. The air was damp, the faint scent of moss clinging to your senses as you groggily tried to sit up. 

“You’re finally awake,” came Bucky’s low, steady voice. He was crouched beside you, his metal hand working at the knots that held you captive. 

“How did you untie yourself?” you croaked, your voice still groggy, the lingering effects of the poison lingering.

Bucky shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t factor in the whole blood-bonded supersoldier thing. Woke up, snapped the vines. Easy.”

You blinked at him, still drowsy. “How are you, like… fully awake already?” 

He held up a dart casing he’d pulled from his arm. The faintly glowing residue inside it shimmered faintly under the moonlight. “Silverleaf poison,” he said, toying with it between his fingers. “Hits vampires harder than humans. Guess they were banking on me being out longer.” 

You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped you even now. He’s been reading up on your kind. 

It took another minute or two, but he finally freed you from the vines. He helped you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your waist. The bond between you buzzed faintly, a steady pulse of his calm sensibility grounding you. 

“They caught us off guard once,” you muttered, shaking off the last vestiges of grogginess. You looked up to the opening above you. You grabbed a root that had snaked down and started to climb out. “Not again.”

Bucky nodded, stretching his metal arm. He felt naked without his weapon, but this’ll do.

As you climbed out of the hole, the forest greeted you with an eerie silence. No whispers. No laughter. Nothing. 

Yet again, you got the creeping feeling that said the silence must mean something was wrong. 

Together, you moved cautiously into the clearing, every step feline. The smell hit you first—sharp, metallic, unmistakable. Blood. 

Then you saw them. 

The faeries. 

Their once luminous, otherworldly bodies lay sprawled across the ground like discarded old marionettes. Their glowing skin was smeared with their silvery blood, their flowing garments torn and stained. Some had wide, glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the canopy above; others had their faces frozen in terror. Their bodies were twisted at unnatural angles, limbs discarded as they had been ripped apart.

“Holy fuck…” Bucky trailed off, scanning the scene with wide eyes. He stepped forward, nudging one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. 

It didn’t stir.

You knelt beside another body, your hand hovering over the intricate thorny brand on its neck. The symbol seemed to flicker faintly, the glow fading as though whatever power had coursed through it was finally snuffed out. 

Then, you saw the figure standing at the center of the carnage.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. 

Tall and refined, he seemed utterly untouched by the chaos around him. His coat, deep purple with intricate gold trim, swirled faintly in the breeze. A lavish feather boa was draped over his shoulders, absurdly elegant. His dark eyes stayed on you and Bucky. 

The vampire from Dead Club City.

He was renewed with energy— almost glowing.

His fangs glinted of silvery blood.

Oh, he’d kept a couple of the faeries alive enough to feed.

Faerie blood was an acquired taste— and it was intoxicating. A recreational hallucinogenic drug for the vampire community at times, though not without danger— you have heard of multiple overdose cases. 

Yet here he was, unchanged by the blood he had drank— as if he had a resistance to it. As if he had built up tolerance to it.

His smirk deepened. It was not friendly. Not warm. 

“Ah, the hunters,” he said, his voice smooth and sweet. “Or shall I say, the hunted?”

Your stomach twisted. You could feel the hum of the bond with Bucky at your side, his tensed breathing a steady pull in your chest. He shifted, moving half a step in front of you, his stance protective.

His grip on your arm stayed firm—a reassurance that you weren’t alone. Still, unease prickled along your skin. This man—this vampire—was dangerous in ways you couldn’t yet define.

He had done this. Effortlessly. 

And now his attention was on you.

“Eric Veer,” He introduced as he approached, his boots crunching softly against the ground, not caring if he stepped on some faerie remains on his way.

There was nothing kind in this man’s face, only an ancient hunger, hidden beneath a thin layer of civility. 

Bucky, however, didn’t move. His hand tightened on your arm—not in alarm, but in caution. His thoughts, muted but present through the bond, was conflicted. But mostly, it was curiosity. 

It made you want to shake him, want to shout at him. How could Bucky not feel the danger emanating from this man? How could he not see the predator that lingered beneath the elegant facade?

Eric’s gaze shifted to Bucky, and then to you, lingering for a second too long. His eyes dropped to where Bucky’s hand gripped your arm. 

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “The connection between you… so raw. So untested.”

You wanted to step back, to put distance between yourself and him, but Bucky’s grip held you in place. The bond pulsed with his determination, and it felt infuriating. 

“What do you want from us?” You asked.

Veer shrugged. “I want to help. I have been studying blood bonds for centuries.”

You didn’t trust him. Not for a second.

Bucky, though, seemed to be listening, his thoughts guarded but intrigued. You felt the flicker of his hesitation through the bond, a reflection of your worry. 

Eric reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He held it out, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of amusement and excitement. 

You didn’t take it. 

Bucky, however, stepped forward, plucking the paper from Eric’s hand without any hesitation. You felt the shift in him, the way his curiosity bloomed, the subtle intrigue that bled through the bond. It frustrated you. 

How could he trust this man—this vampire who stood amidst a field of corpses like a god laying waste to his domain?

The address scrawled on the paper was written in cursive. Bucky said nothing as he studied it. Eric’s gaze returned to you, as if knowing he still needed to win you over. 

“I offer knowledge,” Eric said, his voice low, “What you do with it is up to you.”

He turned then, his coat billowing behind him as he began to walk away. You should have felt relief as he left, but the unease only grew, wrapping tighter around you like a noose. “Be careful with that bond of yours. A faerie cult is the least of your worries.”

And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the forest. 

The clearing was silent once more, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. You stared at the spot where Eric had disappeared, your thoughts a blend of mistrust, and unease. 

Bucky, however, was still holding the paper, his expression unreadable. Through the bond, you felt his determination, his mind already turning with plans, strategies— a willingness to follow the thread Eric had offered. 

The paper held an address: 10 Wintermeyer Lane

“We shouldn’t go,” you said finally, your voice wound tight. “We can’t trust him.”

Bucky’s hand relaxed on your arm, but he didn’t look at you. “Maybe,” he said quietly, his tone carefully neutral. “But if he knows something about this bond… we can’t just ignore it.”

The connection flared again, a clash of emotions—your mistrust against his curiosity. You didn’t reply, but the fear in your chest refused to subside. 

As Bucky tucked the paper into his pocket, you couldn’t shake the feeling that stepping onto the path Eric had laid would lead to another trap— one that Bucky wholeheartedly trusted.

-To be continued…

Taglist :  @mystictf @chimchoom @crdgn @a-crying-fandom-lover @otterlycanadian 

@sebastians-love @intelligenceofapineapple @put-trash-here @hzdhrtss

@murnsondock

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Please, someone stop me from listening to Josh Groban, because otherwise I will end up DRAWING ANOTHER "MOTTIE AT BED" ARTWORK.

Like seriously, I cannot.

When I hear him sing "You have no idea" all I can hear is Mathias singing to Dorothea AND MY HEART CANNOT TAKE IT.

IT'S EXPLODING WITH SOFT TENDERNESS.

(and I have become the joke of my own household, because my husband, loving Josh as much as I do, now DOES IT ON PURPOSE OF PUTTING HIM ON OUR SPEAKERS, especially when he sees that I am busy working on something not Mottie-related. He knows how my brain works. HE KNOWS IT. So if sometimes you see me derailing, IT'S MR. NEMO'S FAULT AS WELL).

[bacchuschucklefuck]

assorted thoughts 1/when sklonda mentioned getting drinks with sandra lynn now and then I straight up cheered I was so scared for her social life being so overworked 2/straight up have no judgement on the whole ratgrinder situation on account of being a whole grown man. Im not getting into beef with fictional teenagers let them sort that out among themselves 3/sprak levefre

[starlight---starbrights]

Undertale yellow flowey embroidery

This took about 40 hours, give or take a few

[ratatatastic]

not a single braincell to be found amongst them not a single damn one

[witherbythesword]

.

[moafleco]

i hate that duality that your mind can be your safe heaven that helps you get through some difficult things, keeps you going and brings you happiness at the worst of times. and at the very same time it could be your worst tormentor that won't let you rest and won't let you breathe, literally for no particular reason at all. and you can't leave or silence it. can't get it to stop when it gets dark in there. can't get the light in when you desperately need to feel a respite instead of suffocation.

[the-girl-who-cried-wolf]

Hey emma! I hope you're having a great day 🫶💗

As for the tag game, I took the quiz and my result was... The killer.

Which is why I threw my phone across the room and refused to acknowledge this and failed to reblog my results. I am sorry but I won't accept it, maybe I'll try again cause I don't know what went wrong.

I love you so much, I am not a killer <-[said no innocent person ever].

Here have a hug <3

hey mais!! i'm having an okay day!! i hope yours is fabulous u deserve it <33

and oh my god... the quiz told you you're a killer... you KNOW the quizzes don't lie mais 😳

but i would actually love to know what u get if u take the quiz again. bc if u get killer twice,,,, then im sorry bestie. ur fate is SEALED.

oh a hug! thank u so much 🥰 u must have known that ive been craving a good squeezing today 💜

[pepprs]

bad enough that i am stuck in my life but even worse when i have to work through / around the stuckness in front of people i care about / explain it / be perceived in experiencing it. UGH!!!!!!

[milo-is-rambling]

Day whatever it is recap!

[fumiliar]

self-restraint is one thing kento prides on. he is a good man, or at least he tries to be. his eyes landed on your flailing figure, pinching his nose bridge to prepare himself. you, gojo, kento and shoko went out for drinks to celebrate the fact you 4 were still alive.

your mind was blank, you had no self-control, it was like the shame centre in your brain got turned off.

"oh my god!" you squealed in excitement. "my favourite song!" you stumbled off your bar stool, going to stand up on the table, gojo supporting your brave act.

kento acted quick. right when your foot landed on the table, you were pulled back by an immeasurable amount of strength, your back landing on someone's muscular chest.

"how drunk are you?" a gruff voice spoke right beside your ear, sending shivers through your whole body. your senses were already heightened, but at this moment, you could feel everything. you could hear the fastening rhythm of your heart, along with the steady rhythm of another's.

"earth to y/n~," satoru's singsong voice echoed through your empty head.

"yea, sorry," you shook your head, turning around to see kento's disapproving look. his hand keeping a deathly grip on your wrist, ensuring you were always close to him, in case you'd do something embarrassing, or at least that's what he tells himself.

"y/n, i'll bring you ho-"

"don'tt, you're such a party pooper nanamin! we were just getting started," the blue eyed man whined, he looked like he was about to start a tantrum.

"yeah, let's just wrap it up, i wanna go home," shoko agreed with kento, getting ready to leave. "i'll leave y/n to you, gojo, come." satoru following shoko like a sad puppy.

"let's go home," kento used his free hand to pack up your stuff, double checking if you took anything out of your purse.

"you're so hot when you take care of me," you freely complimented kento, his ears slowly turning beet red.

"i like you kento, you know that right?" you kept talking, kento's face slowly turning a darker shade of red. "why are you so red? are you having a fever?" you used your free hand to feel his forehead, even in your drunken state, you still worried about his health.

"no...y/n. i'm fine," he put your bag on your shoulder as he led you out of the establishment.

"ow....my feet hurt ken," you pouted looking down at your heels.

restrain yourself kento. restrain. was the only thing he could think off as he looked back at you. he didn't want to take advantage of your drunken self. he knelt down as he took of your heels, you bracing yourself on his back. he slowly took your hand of his back, putting down your heels on the ground to take off his blazer.

"up," his back facing you as he knelt down. you weren't going to waste a chance getting piggy backed. instantly, your arms slid around his neck as your legs trapped his torso. kento stood up, picking up your heels and adjusting his hold on you.

"comfy?" you nodded against his neck. "take this, and wrap it around your waist," he handed you his blazer. you instantly listened, wrapping the blazer around your waist, making sure you don't flash anyone along your way home.

"ken, you're so good to me," you mumbled, nibbling on his neck, eliciting a groan out of the man.

"you're such a tease," kento chuckled, smiling to himself at his current predicament.

"we're not even dating....hft," you sighed. kento let out a hearty laugh at your dissatisfaction.

"why do you want us to date?" kento asked making you even more disappointed.

"what woman doesn't want stability!" this time you were annoyed. you straightening your back, not leaning on kento's anymore. kento was still joyful, instead of responding to your annoyance, he loosened his grip on your legs, your instincts kicked in, quickly wrapping your hands around his neck once more to ensure your safety.

"were you about to drop me??" panic was evident in your tone, but kento was still amused. "answer me!" your hand hitting on his chest.

"y/n," kento sternly called out your name, abruptly stopping your abuse on his chest. "we're married love, isn't that the epitome of stability? why would i regress our relationship to just boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"huh?..." you were confused for a second, quickly looking at your hand. and there it was, glistening in the moonlight, your wedding ring. "oh.."

kento couldn't help but tease your drunken self, his self-restraint always wavering when it came to you. the prim and proper man turning playful in your presence, he just couldn't help it. he continued his walk home, occasionally giggling at your forgetful nature.

"i hope you don't forget this moment," kento muttered under his breath, knowing full well you would have no memory of this event, only a pounding headache to remind you of yesterday's events.

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?