#he hasn't liked one since the beginning of december | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shurisneakers · 2 months

Text

saturn

summary: close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for. (OR) you die. bucky tries to bring you back.

warnings: angst. death. body horror (being revived from death and the processes that follow). sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan. The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower.

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life."

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again.

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds.

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of.

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no.

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating. Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?”

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious.

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning.

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door. The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound.

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice– staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation.

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep.

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even. But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones.

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now.

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be.

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor.

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red.

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots.

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon.

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones.

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan.

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup.

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips.

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time.

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two.

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him.

“I was dead.” But this was new.

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did.

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe.

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute.

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees.

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly.

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day. He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time.

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature.

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly.

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?"

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?"

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures.

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut."

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck.

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively.

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move.

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need.

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now.

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade.

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good.

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share.

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply.

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there.

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should.

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?"

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night.

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand.

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent.

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand.

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up.

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest.

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.”

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child.

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real.

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum.

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this.

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always."

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love.

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better.

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie.

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried.

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance.

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like.

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else.

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side.

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons.

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water.

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror.

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling.

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his.

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do.

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live.

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying.

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be.

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed.

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening.

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding.

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less.

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake.

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch.

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently.

You look up at him.

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak.

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him.

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask.

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line.

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him.

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free.

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers.

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile.

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself.

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either.

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you.

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about."

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask.

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters.

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink.

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen. When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins.

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door.

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find.

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you.

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae.

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his.

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him.

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave.

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything.

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving.

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead.

It feels all too familiar.

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time.

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed.

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin.

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him.

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying.

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance.

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry.

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together.

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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blubffsd · 2 years

Text

— WORLDS COLLIDE PT. 4

summary: Your hand was the one he reached for all throughout The Great War.

previous chapter

note: play "The Great War" by Taylor Swift.

@http-isabela <3

Mia lands in Paris, France. It's six in the afternoon on December 20. Kylian's birthday.

Mia feels like she could faint at any moment. She doesn't know if it's because of the nerves she feels that it's her boyfriend's birthday and she still hasn't spoken to him or if it's because of how little she was able to sleep on the plane.

To tell the truth, she is quite anxious to see her boyfriend again but she can't help but feel afraid to face him, she can't wait to know what will happen but at the same time she is terrified to know.

Mia walks out of the airport too tired and deep in thought to notice all eyes on her.

The question that most haunts her head now is whether or not she should text Kylian to let him know that she is already in Paris.

It's a pretty stupid question and one that at another time she wouldn't have had, but she's overthinking too much.

If she sends him a message there will be no way to reverse the situation and she will have no choice but to talk to him. On the other hand, if she does not tell him that she is already there and she regrets it, she can leave and he will never know if she was there or not.

But if she doesn't send a message to Kylian, and she has no regrets she can interrupt his birthday party and see her boyfriend's family again.

Of course she will send him a message.

She typed as fast as her fingers could and hid her phone in her pocket too nervous to want to see his answer.

On the other side of the city, Kylian is at home "celebrating" his 24th birthday, only his family and some close friends are there.

Everyone notices the strange behavior of the birthday boy but most of them refuses to admit that it is due to the absence of his girlfriend.

It can be said that Kylian was present but his mind was not, since the World Cup final he has only thought about Mia and what happened to her, but no one answers his questions.

It's hard for him to admit it but he doesn't feel comfortable being with his family, especially with Melissa and Jires after seeing their tweets, he asked them to delete them as soon as he saw them.

A lot happened in a very short time and he doesn't know what to think about it.

Everyone except Kylian is in the living room talking about different topics enjoying the time together and giving him sneaky looks.

He has been anxious since Mia sent him a message the day before, he held back since he read the message until that moment from calling her and asking for an explanation but he knows her and knows that she is not going to tell him anything, at less not on a call.

A text from Mia letting him know that she's already in Paris is all he needed to calm down.

He knows that everything that happened between his family and Mia has a lot to do with him, but he still doesn't understand why nobody tells him anything.

If he's part of the problem, why doesn't he know about it then?

Kylian has a lot to think about.

His response to his girlfriend's message was a proposal to meet at their shared house in an hour, Mia accepted.

As soon as Mia answered, she went to the house of a close friend who lives near their house.

When he returns to the living room his entire family noticed the sudden change in his mood, and even more so when he begins to insist on singing happy birthday and eating his cake.

He wants everyone to leave as quickly as possible.

And it seems that no one wants to leave him alone.

Of course, Kylian doesn't want his family and Mia to meet, at least not now. But he really wants to see his girlfriend and he didn't think about the fact that his whole family is around.

Ethan, who is sitting next to him, silently analyzes his brother's behavior. He watches how Kylian desperately insists on bringing his birthday cake and how his entire family refuses, saying it's still early.

Kylian, seeing that his family refuses to leave, takes his phone and goes to the kitchen to talk to Mia and ask her to come later.

Ethan goes after him.

—Hey, why in such a rush? do you want us to leave? –his younger brother asks quietly while smiling.

Kylian turns off his phone and turns to look at him hopefully.

Ethan frowns.

The older one nods and the younger one looks at him stupefied.

Despite being somewhat confused, Ethan thinks he has a suspicion of Kylian's insistence.

—Mia is coming, isn't she? –the youngest of the brothers speaks in a low voice again.

Kylian swallows and nods slowly.

—Let's try so she doesn't see us here then.

Kylian looks at him blankly and Ethan rolls his eyes.

—I just told you that I'm going to help you.

The older one is still quite distrustful and confused.

Why would Ethan want to help him? According to him, his little brother was the most eager to face Mia.

—And why do you want to help me?

His older brother's suspicious look hurts Ethan, even though he knows his brother has reason to.

He misbehaved with Mia and he knows it, even though he's trying to make it up.

At least he's trying something.

—I know what I did was wrong, and I don't want you and Mia to get hurt even more because of me.

Kylian softens his gaze and playfully taps his shoulder.

—You were wrong and I'm very angry about it, but it's okay.

Ethan makes an attempt at a smile that ends in a grimace.

—Hey, why are you two whispering? –Fayza looks at them smiling.

The brothers exchange a look and then look at their mom.

—I was apologizing to Kyky because my stomach hurts so much and I want to go home.

Their mom looks at him with a frown.

—But if a moment ago you were eating.

Ethan opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by Kylian.

—Nothing really hurts him, he was just trying to help me.

Ethan turns to see his older brother, completely surprised, hoping that what he thinks is not going to happen.

Fayza crosses her arms, still frowning, waiting for her second son to speak.

—We were just talking and I told him that I am very tired and I want to sleep but I didn't want to interrupt the party so he wanted to help me saying that so all of you leave me alone and I can sleep.

—How nice of you, Ethan. Go to sleep Ky, we'll be here when you wake up.

Kylian looks at his mother without knowing what to say.

—But mom, let's leave him alone so he can rest easy.

Fayza frowns again.

—There is no way I am letting my son spend the rest of his birthday alone.

—But he wants to be alone, mom. It's not like we're going to abandon him, he wants to end the party and stay alone because he doesn't feel quite right yet and he has to think about the things that happened.

Ethan to the rescue.

Fayza, not entirely convinced, nods slightly.

—Let's sing happy birthday then –she comes out of the kitchen and the brothers high five.

The long-awaited moment arrived and Kylian smiles as he listens to his family sing happy birthday to him and sees his nephews trying to blow out the candles.

He looks at each of the people with him and can only think how much he wishes Mia was there.

At least he'll see her in a bit.

—Uncle Kylian, has Aunt Mia woke up for cake yet? –his nephew asks with a smile, causing Kylian to look at him confused.

—Son, it's just Mia, she's not your aunt.

Kylian turns to see Melissa angrily.

He wasn't bothered by what she said, what caused his anger was the tone of voice she used and the annoyance on her face when talking about his girlfriend.

—If he wants to call her "aunt" that's fine, I don't see any problem –he tries to talk as peaceful as possible.

—She is actually the problem –his sister-in-law mutters under her breath but not enough that he doesn't hear.

It was enough, she exhausted his patience.

She can think whatever she wants about Mia, it really doesn't matter to him. But to have the audacity to say it in front of him, in his own house, where he lives with her?

—What did you say? –his tone of voice and his mood were much worse than he thought.

Melissa looks at Kylian with some fear.

—Nothing, I just-

—Melissa, what did you say? –his voice sounded much higher than before.

—Kylian, you need to calm down –Fayza is the one who speak this time.

—Calm down? She's here, saying things about my girlfriend and I'm the one who has to calm down?

Everyone in the place except Ethan and his father look at Kylian like he's crazy.

—Let's get this over with and cut the cake.

Kylian takes a deep breath, trying to forget his anger and behave, but the videos of Mia being uncomfortable in the final, the tweets from Melissa and Jirès and everything that people said during these days come back to his mind and repeat themselves over and over.

The people making fun of him for losing, the journalists making comments about his relationship with Mia saying that she only wanted him for the fame, her father's contempt for him and the teasing he received from him that he never told Mia.

Everything is overwhelming him and he doesn't know how to handle it.

Jirès's hand on his shoulder followed by a "You need to relax bro" was all it took to make Kylian explode.

—That's enough, all this has me tired. Y'all got me tired –his family looks at him blankly.

—Don't pretend to be confused because you all know what I'm talking about.

—This is all for Mia, isn't it? –Fayza begs with annoyance.

Kylian can't believe it.

—Of course it's because of Mia, all of you are being so rude.

—Kylian, we didn't do anything wrong. – Jires answered.

He lets out a humorless laugh, as a way of trying to appease his urge to yell.

—Do you seriously think that I believe the story that Mia left the box crying because I tied the game? –the annoyed faces from before changed to ones of fear.

—You guys have been so inconsiderate to Mia's feelings and mine, you think it doesn't hurt me to lose one of the most important games of my life and then find out my girlfriend left and I still even don't know why?

Kylian tries to take a deep breath and calm down when he sees his nephews looking at him with confusion.

—Can any of you explain to me what happened?

Silence.

Like when they went to pick up Mia at the hotel.

Kylian sighs wearily.

—If you don't plan to explain to me what happened or what you did, please leave me alone.

All his family exchanged glances and slowly they were collecting their bags and coats under Kylian's gaze.

Melissa and Jirès were the first to leave, then her mother and his friends.

Ethan left the house giving him a slight smile that was returned by Kylian.

—Son –Kylian turns to see his father, who is standing in front of the door, about to leave– don't let your relationship be ruined by this, you two can handle more than this.

Kylian nods slightly and sees his dad smile at him and leave.

He sits on the couch completely exhausted.

He needs Mia more than ever now, and knowing that in less than 15 minutes she will be with him is very comforting.

He can't wait any longer.

Instead Mia feels that she could die at any moment from the nerves she is feeling. She is on her way to the house she shares with Kylian.

She is not ready for what is going to happen, she does not want to hear the love of her life tell her that he hates her and that she is a traitor. She would pretty much hate herself if she lost him like that.

But if it's a consequence of her actions, then she'll accept it, even if it breaks her heart.

She doesn't even know what she's going to tell him when she sees him, how is she going to explain the fact that she left him?

How is she going to justify herself?

Every second that passes is enough for her mind to create another doubt in her head.

And as time passes and the distance between her and Kylian shortens, her fears grow.

All the guilt, fear and shame that she has felt for the last 2 days seems to intensify with the passing of the minutes.

It seems that the fact of losing him is getting closer.

And seeing his house through the window makes it seem that she has already lost him.

Mia gets out of the car already feeling a lump in her throat, she doesn't want to go near the door, but she needs to do it.

Kylian waits impatiently sitting in the same place as before completely anxious, not knowing that on the other side of the door is his girlfriend, wanting to pass out at that moment to avoid talking to him.

But she has to do it.

Mia knocks on the door wanting to run out of there, while Kylian runs to open the door to see her.

So it happens.

They are both standing in front of each other, it feels unreal for both of them.

Not even they know how much they had missed each other.

—Hi –Mia is the one who breaks the silence.

Kylian smiles slightly and takes a step closer to Mia, but she steps back.

Even she doesn't know why she did it, maybe it's fear acting on its own.

Kylian looks at her confused and steps aside to let her in.

Mia enters the house slowly and goes after Kylian, who sits on the couch, she does the same at a considerable distance from him.

Discomfort is an understatement to describe how Mia feels right now, and even more so with her unconscious actions making everything worse.

They are silent for a few minutes.

And Mia's anxiety is growing.

—Could you stop acting like I'm going to attack you, please? I won't, calm down.

Mia nods and smiles slightly, feeling like she could finally breathe.

—Could you tell me what happened? Nobody tells me anything. People are telling a lot of versions about what happened and I don't know what to think. Please talk to me.

Nobody tells him anything?

—It's ironic, because it seems that all this drama is about me and the World Cup final and I'm the only one who doesn't know what's going on –Kylian laughs sarcastically.

Mia frowns, not understanding.

—You really don't know anything?

Kylian sighs and leans back in the chair.

—No. Nobody tells me anything. Ethan says you were crying and left, my mom treats me like everything is wrong with me, and Jirès and Melissa make mean comments about you. I don't understand anything. Then you disappear, you don't call me or say something, and now you act like I'm going to do something to you.

Mia's heart is beating fast, she can't believe that his family didn't tell him anything.

—Please –he repeat– tell me what happened.

Mia takes a deep breath.

If his family didn't tell him the truth, should she?

If she told him the truth, he would be upset with his family, who only wanted to defend him. And she doesn't want that.

—When the game started everything was fine, then Argentina scored the first goal and I celebrated, I didn't give a damn and I ended up making your family angry. Even more when I celebrated the second goal and each time the tension between us grew. I just wanted to leave, I wasn't comfortable knowing that everyone got mad because of me –she omitted as many details as possible.

Kylian looks at her seriously, carefully observing her face and he settled into the chair.

—Ethan yelled at you for that?

His question was so unexpected for Mia.

—I don't know what you mean –she did her best to look confused.

Kylian gets up and grabs his phone, finds something and hands it to Mia.

It was the video of Ethan yelling at her after celebrating.

The same feeling returns to Mia and the desire to cry becomes more and more visible, unable to see more, she returns the phone to her boyfriend.

If she looks him in the eye she's going to cry, so she keeps her gaze fixed on the floor.

—Mia, I'm going to ask you again what happened –he kneels on the ground in front of her– but this time don't hide things from me.

She doesn't want to say anything about Ethan because she knows it could cause a bigger problem.

And it's going to be all her fault.

—Mia, why did Ethan yell at you? –Kylian's hands took her face to make her look into his eyes.

—Please tell me the truth.

Mia pushed her boyfriend's hands away from her face.

—Ethan is only 16 years old, Kylian. He doesn't know how to handle his emotions. Besides, you know that people doesn't think about things when is excited or angry.

—No, don't excuse Ethan. He's old enough to know that no matter what team you root for, he shouldn't have.

—I know. But Ethan is not like that, it was the moment, I don't want to excuse him. Of course he shouldn't have done it, don't think it doesn't hurt me that he did it. I didn't think that would happen but it did. I know he won't do it again.

Kylian was silent for a few seconds thinking about what his girlfriend said.

—Ethan told me you were crying when you left, if not for that why did you leave?

Mia decides to think her words through, she doesn't want to hide anything from him, but she also doesn't want more problems with his family.

—I left because I couldn't take it anymore. Your family was uncomfortable and so was I. It was all too much for me, I felt like I couldn't breathe well so I went to the bathroom. I was about to have a panic attack and I spoke to Antonella, who sent two security men for me and they took me to the Argentina box.

Kylian nods in understanding.

—And where did you go after the final?

—I went to my dad's house.

Kylian looked at his girlfriend confused.

—Your dad's house?

Mia nods.

—It wasn't very nice but yeah, I went there.

—Did he do something to you?

—No, I just thought it would be different, but now I understood that he is going to continue being the same bad person. Besides, he said things about you that I didn't like at all.

Remembering the conversation made Mia angry.

—Do you want to tell me what he said about me?

—He didn't even know your name -she laughed trying to find something funny in the situation- then he said things that according to him you would do to me, and he made me angry because he accused you of things that he already did to me.

Kylian doesn't answer, thinking about what Mia told him. He always knew that his girlfriend's father didn't like him. He made it quite obvious by cutting off the video calls he had with Mia when he appeared, or pretending not to know who he was when asked in interviews if he knew about his relationship with Mia.

—But I defended you, of course –he smiles slightly.

—Thank you.

They smile slightly as they look into each other's eyes, finally feeling peace.

—If it's any consolation, we weren't going to invite him to the wedding anyway –Mia chuckles slightly.

—It helps me a lot, thanks.

—And what about Melissa?

Mia rolls her eyes at the sound of her name.

—She mocked the situation with my father.

She wasn't going to omit details with her, she's not as important as Ethan and what happened to her didn't matter to her at this point.

—First before the game he treated my dad like a loser and made me feel bad, then on Twitter he makes fun of me and my father's absence. What did that have to do with what happened in the final?

Kylian looks at Mia not knowing what to say and she notices.

—Anyway, it's not the point. I'm really sorry, okay? I really didn't think things through and I only thought of running away for fear of what would happen between us and I'm still afraid but you deserve an explanation. I shouldn't have left you alone and gone without explaining anything to you, and besides, today is your birthday, the World Cup ended two days ago and I wasn't there, I preferred to leave you alone than to explain things to you and I was so inconsiderate with you that-

Kylian's lips on Mia's interrupted her words, it's a desperate kiss, full of love and emotions, showing how much they had missed each other.

His arms hugged her body tightly, afraid that she would leave again.

Both want time to stop at that moment, where only the two of them exist and no one else. But the need for air makes them separate.

—You know you're not the real culprit behind all this –he said trying to calm his breathing– so tell me, what made you leave?

Fuck everyone, I don't care.

—Melissa sent me a message telling me that I am a traitor and not to dare talk to you because you gave me everything and I paid you back by supporting Argentina. And all for a man who doesn't even know my birthday.

Kylian's body tenses and his gaze darkens.

—I felt like I had screwed up again and I was afraid to see you and make everything worse. But I think not seeing you was worse.

Mia hugged Kylian by the shoulders causing him to lean back against her chest.

—I'm really sorry.

—Don't apologize, it's okay. Although you shouldn't have left, I looked for you in your room.

Mia sighs lightly.

—It wasn't that easy to decide, Melissa said she hoped that when she got back to the hotel my stuff wouldn't be there anymore, so I left thinking that if she wanted that, maybe you and your whole family might as well.

—I really want to scream in that woman's face, how dare she? I thought she was different, you never get to know people I guess.

Mia nods and they both enjoy each other's presence for a moment.

—And how do you feel?

—What? –Kylian answers.

—How do you feel about everything that happened?

Kylian pulls away from Mia so he can meet her eyes and entwines her hands with his.

—Losing one of the most important games of my life didn't feel good, of course. But when I left, I had the relief of talking to you and being able to deal with everything together, but not seeing you with them made everything worse.

Mia looks him straight in the eye, noticing the sadness in his eyes and feeling ashamed of her decisions.

—Then everyone was acting weird and saying bad things about you and I didn't know what to believe, all I knew was that you were possibly with Antonella because I saw you in the box with her but it wasn't enough. And I found my brother and sister-in-law's tweets, Ethan's videos with you and I couldn't believe that they treated you like this, I still can't accept it. And I don't know, it was honestly horrible. I needed you a lot. I need you so much.

Kylian embraces his girlfriend, holding on to her arms as if her life depended on it. Mia wants to cry with regret and she feels stupid for being so selfish.

—I'm sorry, I really sorry.

He nods accepting her apology and kisses her cheek.

—But now you're here and I don't feel so bad –he smiles at her.

—I promise I won't go anywhere or leave you ever again.

—I promise too.

They held each other for a long time, feeling completely safe in each other's arms.

At last they are both at peace, knowing that now they are fine because they have each other.

They are stronger than before and they are not going to let anyone or anything try to come between them again.

Because they love each other.

And because they survive the great war caused by their worlds collide.

A knock on the door startles them.

—Kylian, I'm Melissa, I forgot my wallet here, could I pick it up?

And now they have to fight together.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian x reader #mbappe imagine #mbappe x reader #mbappe one shot #mbappe #football imagine #football one shot #football x reader

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mirai-e-jump · 1 year

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Hero Vision Vol.38 (2010/Autumn) ft. Kamen Rider OOO Cast Members Watanabe Shu x Miura Ryosuke, Asaya Kimijima Yamada Yusuke x Hashimoto Taito Interviews (translations below)

Publication: December 12, 2010

"From "Kamen Rider OOO," comes Watanabe Shu-kun, who plays Eiji Hino and Kamen Rider OOO, and Miura Ryosuke-kun, who plays Ankh and Izumi Shingo. At the time of this interview, it's been about 4 months since filming began, but, this is actually their first face to face interview. While talking about each other in a somewhat clumsy manner, as the conversation began to focus around the production, it became clear that they both have a passion for it, and that they couldn't talk about enough."

-Freedom and Loneliness?-

Miura: This is actually our first face to face interview.

Watanabe: It's been about 4 months since filming started (laughs). The first time we met was at a rehearsal. If I'm remembering right, you told me a simple recipe for carbonara.

Miura: I was like, "The first part is crucial!," and then explained to you how to make it from scratch……you probably still haven't made it, have you?

Watanabe: That's how the conversation started (laughs). I wouldn't stop talking to you.

Miura: You suddenly thrusted yourself into my personal space. To be honest, it startled me.

Watanabe: Miura-kun is the type who dislikes that kind of thing, right? I did it while thinking, "I'm sure he doesn't like it."

Miura: That's right. I was actually thinking of taking a step back…..I think we both got off on the wrong foot in the beginning (laughs).

Watanabe: Don't worry about it. The show will last a year, so we can start over during that time! (laughs).

Miura: Watanabe-kun was more firm when we first met.

Watanabe: Eh? You don't think so now?

Miura: You're very free (laughs). As I mentioned in the previous issue, there's nothing Watanabe-kun can't say or do now since becoming an adult. When I look at Watanabe-kun, he reminds me that I shouldn't forget about being honest.

Watanabe:……I've been wondering for some time now, but you've been addressing me as "Watanabe-kun."

Miura: Forgive me. It should be "Watanabe-san"

Watanabe: It's always either "Shu" or "Shu-kun," right?! (laughs).

Miura: It's because this is our first face to face together. When you print this, have him referred to as "Watanabe-san" (laughs).

Watanabe: It sounds like we're not on good terms.

Miura: Now, now (laughs). I like Shu-kun because he's free and honest. He'll usually say something on set like, "I'm hungry," as he naturally speaks on behalf of what everyone else is actually thinking, so it's nice being around someone like him. Also, when I look at your attitude toward the performance in Kamen Rider OOO, I feel that you're always looking at things with the feeling of, "What should I be doing now?" I think it gives off incredible energy, and it in turn makes me feel like, "I can't give up." I'm grateful for him.

Watanabe: You praise me too much.

Miura: Occasionally (laughs). I'd never say such things on set though.

Watanabe: That's for sure (laughs). Miura-kun, in a good way, hasn't changed since we first met. As his junior, this might be strange for me to say, but he's a very considerate person. It's amazing because he doesn't force it, it's just natural.

Miura: What have you seen that makes you think that way?

Watanabe: You casually moved your bag off a bench, and it give off an aura that said, "It's fine if you sit here."

Miura: That's it?! (laughs).

Watanabe: I feel like you're nicer to everyone else except me.

Miura: There it is! You often say stuff like that in interviews, don't you? Every time I do an interview, the interviewer says to me, "Miura-kun, Watanabe-kun said, "I wish he'd be alittle kinder to me," you say that right?!

Watanabe: Ahahaha! (laughs).

Miura: It's true that I haven't had a chance to have such deep conversations with Shu-kun…..I should be the one saying, "Be nicer to me." You're so close to (Asaya) Kimijima-kun, that I tend to become jealous.

Watanabe: Eh? Really?

Miura: Well, it's because you've always admired him since you saw him modeling, right?

Watanabe: That's true, but I still haven't gotten to know Kimijima-kun that well yet, you know?~.

Miura: No. I'm always thinking, "What? Am I really all alone?"

Watanabe: No way (laughs). Ah, I noticed something different about Miura-kun since the beginning. He's started to tell jokes!

Miura: That's right! (laughs).

Watanabe: At first, he wasn't really into funny stuff. He was like, "Hmmm, is that so?," and it felt like he was ignoring me. Then suddenly, he started to say funny things on his own, and started to open up more. What happened?

Miura: It's because I wanted to get to know everyone better. I'm one of the older people on set, so I'm very conscious and careful in that regard. Still, as expected, the atmosphere is different between the teen group (Watanabe-kun, Riho Takada-san, Mayuko Arisue-san). It's like there's some kind of obvious wall between us…..

Watanabe: No, no! It's more like Miura-kun was the one who put up the wall first.

Miura: Yeah. I'll admit to that (laughs).

-Eiji and Ankh are Incomplete?-

Miura: The episodes from when we first started filming, I remember them well, and I think they're nostalgic.

Watanabe: Like the scene where we first performed together?

Miura:……Hmm?

Watanabe: You don't remember! (laughs).

Miura: No, no! If I remember correctly, I was Shingo, right?

Watanabe: Wrong, it was Miura-kun!

Miura: That's right! (laughs)

Watanabe: I made a mistake (laughs). I meant it was Ankh!

Miura: Yeah. At the end of the first episode, Ankh possesses Shingo.

Watanabe: There's that one scene where Ankh quickly grabs him by the chest and yells, "What do you mean?!" When I saw Miura-kun's performance, I really thought, "He's scary! I see, from now on, Ankh will be getting mad at Eiji like this all the time….."

Miura: Eiji had a calm face, but Shu-kun looked terrified (laughs). When I performed it with Shu-kun, I thought it was very fresh, and I still think about it even now.

Watanabe: What do you mean?

Miura: Shu-kun acts naturally, which is how he becomes Eiji. On the other hand, I'm a pretty well defined character, so it's interesting to see the contrast in the way we act and the characters we portray. From the first time I read the script, I knew I wanted to create a contrasting relationship, so I'm glad to see that I've been able to make it happen.

Watanabe: Eiji and Ankh have a really strange relationship right now. We don't know if they'll stay together or not, if they understand each other or not…..

Miura: We don't know what'll happen in the future, but……Whether Ankh and Eiji continue to work together, or decide to separate, either way, I think it'll be interesting to see what direction OOO heads in. No matter what scene we're in, I enjoy them all. Isn't it fun thinking about where and what Ankh and Eiji are doing, and then finally finding out?

Watanabe: I know! Ankh's a bird monster, so he'd be eating chicken meat (laughs).

Miura: Ankh isn't just about being in high places. Even though he's a bird, maybe there'll be a scene in the future where he goes into water?

Watanabe: Currently, I like the scene in episode 8, where Eiji goes to save Ankh from completely falling apart due to being beaten by Uva. From there, I felt that the two of them were rapidly getting closer. If Eiji had just met Ankh, he would've never done such a thing, but I guess he gradually began to realize that he needs Ankh.

Miura: If someone's in troube right in front of him, Eiji's the kind of guy who can't leave them alone, but is it not the same for Ankh?

Watanabe: Ankh's the one who approached Eiji to take advantage of him. At first, he didn't know that he couldn't transform without Ankh. In episode 8, I think I understood that both Eiji and Ankh are incomplete without each other. I was acting as if it was an important scene for both of them.

Miura: I see.

Watanabe: But, Ankh isn't honest, so he doesn't say "Thank you."

Miura: He'll say, "He's a useful idiot." Basically, he's got a bad mouth (laughs).

-A Role is Coming….?-

Miura: At first, I thought Ankh stood at the top, but Eiji tends to drag him around alot, huh? Now, the only place to stand is at the top of a tree.

Watanabe: Is that what you mean by standing on top? (laughs). It's true that after giving Eiji the medals, he'll often be on a higer spot to view things.

Miura: I think that's what it means. Also, I really like the scenes where the two of us stand side by side. At first, I was wondering how it'd turn out, but when I saw the broadcast, it looked great.

Watanabe: I thought that too!

Miura: The image of two contrasting people standing side by side, it's really good. I don't want to lose to the Kamen Rider W duo (Renn Kiriyama-kun, who played Shotaro Hidari, and Masaki Suda-kun, who played Philip).

Watanabe: For me, when Eiji's next to Ankh as he plays with his iPad….I like the casual feel of those scenes. Even if you think, "What's the point of them being together now?," they're still casually together. Will there be more scenes like that in the future?…..

Miura: As Ankh continues to become more emotional, there'll probably be more conflicts between them.

Watanabe: Eiji's inner self is also coming out. We still don't know whether they'll continue to fight or understand each other. Either way, I'm interested in seeing how Ankh becomes more human like and cute. Especially since Chiyoko-san keeps making him look so cute (laughs).

Miura: I feel bad for Ankh these days (laughs).

Watanabe: From episode 10 onwards, Chiyoko-san starts to discipline him, and Hina-chan uses her incredibly stupid strength to knock him around. Also, in episode 8, Eiji ignored him by saying, "Ah, I see."

Miura: That's right! Gamel's Yummy won't drop that many medals even if it's defeated, so Ankh says that there's no need to fight, but Eiji just ignores him with, "Ah, I see," and fights. It made me think, "He can really say such a thing!" It was an incredibly cold, "Ah, I see." It made me feel lonely. I thought it was Shu-kun's true feelings……

Watanabe: What? Is today the day Miura-kun spreads rumors that we don't get along?! (laughs). But, we've been discussing our thoughts on the broadcast, right? There's that one scene with Ankh that I really like. In episode 6, while riding the motorcycle to the apartment with the Piranha Yummy, he makes eye contact with Hina-chan.

Miura: It was through the helmet.

Watanabe: It was just the expression of his eyes, but it was really cool. Your eyes held various implications.

Miura: Hmm~. That's a nice way of putting it.

Watanabe: There's also episode 5. When Eiji's being chased by Uva, he sends his Battacandroid to Ankh for help, where he scolds him with, "Would you stop playing around?" That's Miura-kun's true nature.

Miura: What? That previous push back? (laughs). That's how Ankh should be! But, I did think, "Huh? This is something I'd often say to Watanabe Shu" (laughs).

Watanabe: Does that mean we're getting closer to our roles? We've only done alittle over 10 episodes so far, but looking back, there's so much to talk about.

Miura: That's because we're enjoying OOO just as much as the viewers.

Watanabe: That's true, I'm a fan (laughs). Everyone who's reading this magazine is watching the relationship between Eiji and Ankh grow deeper and deeper, so I hope you're enjoying it. Also, the songs that play during the combos are rather impactful, so I hope you're enjoying them as well! (laughs).

Miura: We're all working on the show with the hopes that the viewers will enjoy it more than we're enjoying it. I want to capture that feeling better through the filming. OOO still has a long way to go, so let's enjoy it together, with me, Shu-kun, Ankh and Eiji.

Watanabe: We should go to a hot spring together.

Miura: You mean you want to have a naked relationship like Eiji, and open our hearts to each other?

Watanabe: Hmm?

Miura: In the show, Eiji often talks to someone while in his underwear. I thought it symbolized facing the other person while being naked in both body and soul. Maybe that's what we're missing (laughs).

Watanabe: Right, right. I think it'll help bring us closer in our performance.

Miura: Well then, please make a plan and give me a call. I can't do that kind of thing (laughs).

Watanabe: You got it! _

"Shintaro Goto is a 22 year old former police elite, who now works for Kousei Kougami, the Chairman of the Kougami Foundation, as a Ridevendor captain and an observer of OOO. He may have a cool attitude that makes others feel unwelcome, but in reality, he's a passionate person who's determined to "save the world." Asaya Kimijima-kun plays Goto, who becomes more human and appealing as the story progresses. We could see that he's learning and enjoying himself as he performs the constantly changing Goto."

-"Shintaro Goto" is changing-

Kimijima: It's been about 4 months since Kamen Rider OOO started filming, and I'm still learning everyday. I haven't really seen much from the Kamen Rider series, since it wasn't being broadcast when I was a kid. That's why when I found out that I was going to be in OOO, I was happy, but at the same time, I was worried with, "I wonder what's going to happen?," as there were so many unknowns. It's the first time for me to play a role in over a year, and it's also the first time for me to shoot action and CG scenes. What's more, Kamen Rider is such a "big stage." I was always confused, because I couldn't see how my performance was going to be captured on film. But, it's also a fun way to learn about something you don't know.

First off, there's the character Goto. Currently, The image I had of him in my mind has changed alot. In the beginning, I was told that his set up was a quiet and expressionless former police elite, who's now a cool guy who loyally performs his duties as a subordinate of Chairman Kousei Kougami of the Kougami Foundation. I was trying to be mindful of those characteristics in my performance, but as the story progressed, he started to fall apart as he was being pulled around by Eiji, and saying, "I want to save the world with my own hands, but I can't." He seems to express his desires and dissatisfaction with just his attitude, huh? He's becoming alot more human. Once I realized that Goto isn't a person who feels no emotions, I began to think that both Goto and I need to be more flexible in our performances.

However, his character is still abit of a mystery. My own view of Goto, which isn't depicted in the script, is that he's always had a strong sense of justice, never made any friends, worked hard to join the police, and did his duties without wasting time on a personal life. That's probably why the way Eiji acts is so hard to understand. I don't know if Eiji is passionate or not when it comes to fighting.

Most importantly, while Goto avoids interacting with people as much as possible, Eiji lives his life while always interacting with someone. He's got a different sense of distance from others. I guess they can't easily understand each other, because their lifestyles are so different……What's more, when Goto gets swayed by Eiji, he ends up becoming someone with a comedic side (laughs).

In episode 7, he's struck in the face with cake. I was surprised, being like, "This is going too far for Goto. What should I do?" (laughs). Goto's not trying to be funny, he's just being serious, and I think that makes him even more interesting (laughs).

Around episodes 9 and 10, Goto's gun action started to increase. One word I could use for it is "difficult." Even though I have experience in sports, this is my first time in action, and shooting a gun is something I'd never do in my normal life. Since my body isn't familiar with it, it's difficult just to take a stance. Actually, before acting, I watched a few movies for reference, but I think I made a mistake in my choices……If you watch war movies or mafia movies, the way they shoot is very clumsy. I guess it's because it takes place in an intense world, where everything is life or death. Later, I realized that I should've watched some detective movies (laughs).

Once filming actually started, I was amazed at how much I learned on set. The Action Director taught me every step of the way, from how to handle weapons, to how to get on and off a motorcycle. Rather than being told by the Director, "This is the kind of Goto you should play," I get feedback on Goto that I've personally thought of, and sometimes I notice things myself and make corrections, so I feel like I'm creating Goto together with everyone else. I go into filming with my own idea of, "How I want Goto to be" in advance, but when I actually play him, he becomes something different just by the way he's portrayed. You can't create Goto with just your own ideas alone. I believe that by talking with everyone on set, we're able to present a, "Good Goto" for the broadcast.

It's difficult to look at the broadcast objectively, but regardless, my opinion is, "The story is interesting!" Each character is interesting, and the various combinations of the medals are interesting……Huh? Surprisingly, I'm enjoying it objectively (laughs).

-"Asaya Kimijima" is changing-

When I first met (Watanabe) Shu-kun, who plays Eiji, he told me, "I saw a magazine where Kimijima-kun was a model," and it honestly made me very happy. We had conversations like, "If you have any clothes you don't need, please give them to me," and I'd say, "Alright then," but many people also asked me the same thing, and I wouldn't act on it. Then, every time I saw him, he would ask, "When are you going to give me some clothes?" I realized, "Ah, he's being serious," and so……I gave some to him. That event made me realize that Shu-kun is not the kind of person who tells lies or makes ups stories (laughs). He's exactly like Eiji. Although we've never been alone together due to the filming schedule, (Miura) Ryosuke-kun, who plays Ankh, is someone who's very particular about how he presents himself and is an artistic person. I feel inspired just by looking at him.

(After learning that Watanabe-kun said in the previous issue that he wanted the 3 of them to be in the same dressing room together) Unfortunately, there hasn't been any news of the 3 of us being in the same dressing room yet (laughs). Shu-kun often invites me to go out to dinner with everyone, but we haven't been able to do that because our schedules don't match up…..

By the way, people often ask me, "What kind of things do you talk about with your co stars?" It sounds like something that guys in their teens or 20s would normally talk about (laughs). I'd rather not talk about our performances. As I'm still learning, there's nothing I can say about the performance, and I don't think acting is something that should interfere in personal talk. When Shu-kun saw the broadcast, he said, "Goto's really cool," and, "OOO is interesting, right?," but all I can say is, "It's interesting, isn't it?" (laughs). This is normal for me, because I'm not the type of person who talks alot. On the other hand, Shu-kun is the type who talks all the time, and seems to love it when someone jokes around with him. That's why I'm also making sure to joke around too (laughs).

Considering this project will last a year, the filming and broadcasts have only just begun. I wonder how Goto will change in the future. He works under Kougami, and has doubts about not being able to save the world with his own power. During all of this, he gets involved with Eiji and Ankh, and he's definitely being influenced by them, as he continues to recognize their actions and ways of thinking......His way of life will gradually change, and you'll see a new side to him. I'll do my best to show off Goto's range, so please keep an eye on him in the future. I myself hope to also change for the better through this show. I hope you'll watch over me warmly. _

"Among the elite monsters known as Greeed, who are hostile to Kamen Rider OOO, is Yusuke Yamada-kun, who plays Uva, an insect based monster, and Taito Hashimoto-kun, who plays Kazari, a feline based monster. Not only do they have to play the roles of special monsters, but they also couldn't hide their confusion, as there were alot of first time experiences for them, but it seems that they're quickly discovering their own ways of acting. The efforts of these two are firmly connected to the existence of their characters in the story."

-The gap between the role and what was envisioned?-

Yamada: Taito, have you gotten use to things yet?

Hashimoto: (while smiling proudly) No! I'm new to acting, so there's alot I still don't understand. During the dubbing, I was overwhelmed by the performance of Yukana-san, who plays Mezool. I thought, "She can do such a powerful performance with just her voice!" At first, I was struggling to watch the movements of Kazari, played by Suit Actor (Jun) Watanabe-san, and to check the voice counts. Now that I've got this role, I think I need to increase the variety of my voice for the fighting scenes.

Yamada: It's difficult to get the intonation right, isn't it? I heard the person who voices Yummy do the dubbing, but the Yummy don't talk, so he just goes, "Gwah!" with a human touch. I immediately tried to imitate him, but he got angry and said, "Weak" (laughs). I wonder how you make a strong sounding voice? If you overdo it, it makes me look weak.

Hashimoto: Children watch the show, so I think it's important to act in ways that are big and easy to understand. I think it also depends on how much I can get immersed in the world by watching the dubbing footage. However, lately I've been able to see alot more moments where I think, "Ah, now!," as the footage and my own voice become linked. It feels really good!

Yamada: For me, it was more difficult not being able to approach Uva in the beginning.

Hashimoto: Because he keeps away from others?

Yamada: What I envisioned and what was expected of me didn't work together. The image of Uva I had, was that he was a weak and insecure guy. It's because, Kazari is clever, Gamel acts like a child, and Mezool is full of mystery, so I thought it'd be nice to have at least one character with those traits. But, what the Directors wanted was to have Uva be "tough."

Hashimoto: "OOO" is also the plural form of "King" (Ou-zu). You just need to have more style.

Yamada: That's right, isn't it? I thought too much about it, and at first, I acted in a way where I was still trying to figure things out. But, I was able to change direction by talking with the Director on the set, and I think I've made up my mind. Originally, I had set my methods at 100% from the beginning, but then I tried it at 50% and would gradually add to it, which seems to have been a good idea. I don't know if this is the best way of doing things, but I'm someone who can't give less, so I think it's faster.

Hashimoto: I'm thinking about alot of different things. I try thinking as much as possible before going to the set. If I were to create something different from what the Directors envisioned, the current set up makes it impossible to change. I'm just trying to respond to what was said to me on set.

Yamada: What kind of advice do you get on set?

Hashimoto: Mostly about my movements I guess. In particular, I learned alot about hand movements.

Yamada: Earlier, you were doing it while taking pictures, but do you think about the small movements of Kazari's hands as Taito's?

Hashimoto: Some parts I thought of myself, and some I came up with after receiving the advice. However, I was relieved that none of them were too different from the Kazari I wanted to play.

-On a set full of confusion….-

Yamada: Are you still not getting used to the set?

Hashimoto: Unlike in stage plays, there's alot of on the spot work involved in film production, isn't there? You have to do the rehearsals yourself, and that's something I'm not used to yet.

Yamada: It's confusing because some Directors are very specific when it comes to what they film, while others tell me, "Feel free to do whatever."

Hashimoto: Now that you mention it, there was a time when a "certain someone" broke a bottle on set when he was told, "It's fine to act freely."

Yamada: That "certain someone" was me, and it's something I did because the staff gave me the OK, alright? After all, I only broke one bottle.

Hashimoto: I'll expose you myself then (laughs). After he smashed it, the atmosphere on set included the words, "Did you really break it?!" Then Yamada-kun whispered, "I'm sorry….." I could barely watch~ (laughs).

Yamada: I wanted to break down after that…..

Hashimoto: Everyone understood that you did it as a good way of expressing yourself. But, you learned the horrors of miscommunication (laughs). I've made mistakes too. The first scene we shot was the one where I appeared on a skateboard in the abandoned building where the Greeed hang out. I didn't know that filming started after they hit the clapperboard, so I started before they hit it, and the Director started to say, "H-hey!" Then, the Director said, "Stop! Stop!" so I stopped…..I was riding the skateboard with alot of enthusiasm (laughs).

Yamada: You were (laughs). Furthermore, when the clapperboard is used indoors, the sound echoes and is delayed, making it difficult to count. Sometimes the delayed sounds and our lines overlap, so it's a good idea to wait atleast one beat before starting to act.

Hashimoto: Eh?! I haven't been told that! Yamada-kun, if you know anything else, please tell me! There's so many things that are confusing me right now, and it's really tough!

Yamada: Eh? Really? Like what?

Hashimoto: They'll shoot one scene in one take, so often times I'm like, "I want to say this line after hearing the previous one!" I want to create Kazari's feelings by hearing the other person's words, but how do you act when you haven't heard them yet?

Yamada: You mean you want to act without getting a "trigger line" first? I can't really answer that. After all, we're in the realm of individual performance.

Hashimoto: Then please, tell me everything else you know!

Yamada: O, Okay……I wonder why I'm so upset (laughs).

-Will you try action in the future?!-

Yamada: Yesterday, I heard about various future developments from the Producer.

Hashimoto: I made an appeal, asking for what I wanted Kazari to be like.

Yamada: I couldn't think of anything (laughs). Well, all I want is that if Uva dies, I want him to die an enemy.

Hashimoto: Have him go, "Gwaaah~!," while looking evil.

Yamada: I don't think that'll be conveyed well in the magazine (laughs).

Hashimoto: From now on, I won't take my eyes off future developments, and I think the Greeed side of the story in Kamen Rider OOO is a really interesting. There aren't that many shows that have so many established characters and relationships among the enemies, or that the story develops around only the enemies themselves.

Yamada: I think it's fun that adults and children alike can imagine some exciting developments, like whether all the Greeed's will one day become complete, or what kind of combos OOO will show us in the future. (suddenly) Oh yeah, did you know that Director Osamu Kaneda is JAE's (Japan Action Enterprise) President?

Hashimoto: Really?! (is surprised)

Yamada: I also found out about it yesterday, and I'm looking forward to having him teach me about action. I heard that Director Kaneda almost never uses CG when filming.

Hashimoto: I think I can do all the actions that the Yummy do! Like the backflip belly flop! As the name implies, you do a backflip and land on your stomach.

Yamada: I think so too, so I told the Producer. He said, "That kid can do it." It'd be nice to see more pre transformation action.

Hashimoto: You did?! Thank you Yamada-kun! I'm really motivated now!

186 notes · View notes

svtcrus · 1 year

Text

December || gojo satoru x gn!reader

ANGST | Hurt with no comfort

a/n : I legit wrote this after going through an eventful moment of sadness from watching the recent episodes of the new jjk season.

NOTE : HEAVY jjk spoilers -> includes the events of volume zero. mentions of death. big old gojo angst (he's written pretty miserable). reader is implied as a sorcerer

synopsis : what happened after december 24th, 2017 ? what happened to you and your lover, gojo satoru?

"let's end this relationship."

it was december 27th when he told you.

it was december 27th when your heart broke.

[spoilers begin after the cut, read at ur own risk]

you knew how much his best friends death altered him, how much pain he was hiding inside. ever since geto fled jujutsu high. ever since he left this cruel world. everyone changed around you. it's not like you had also changed. you've become more wary for your students, even more attentive to satoru's mental wellbeing. but you didn't change as much as satoru did.

when satoru came home that night, he ignored you. heading straight into your shared room. he hasn't come home ever since the 24th.

the night of the 27th, you remember hearing the quiet sniffles in the bedroom as you packed the cold food he never ate. you could sense how broken he was inside, despite putting a happy demeanour every school morning. despite him acting all cheery and idiotic during a time when it was okay to grieve.

but for gojo satoru, he doesn't have the time to grieve.

he's the strongest sorcerer after all. he's always needed, the higher ups don't care if a former sorcerer has passed. even if that very sorcerer was such a prominent one of their time. even if it was satoru's best friend. that's nothing to them when gojo satoru can easily accomplish their deeds for them.

you wondered just how much he was hiding inside that brain of his.

you wondered just how much of that happiness he was displaying for your students was actually true?

so you followed him into the bedroom after putting away his cold platter.

the moment you had set foot into room was when he had dropped the bomb on you.

"w..what?"

but you had never wondered. envisioned. or even spared the thought that his misery would lead to the end of another "we."

"after all, we're the strongest!"

"after all, we're together! of course I love y/n!"

these two sentences rung not only in your head, but also his. what had taken him 3 days of long thought, a thought which scoured ever inch of his brain was you.

what he never told you that day was why.

why? he could never explain the indescribable feeling he was going through. every reason on why he was letting go. but he knew at least this one thing.

gojo satoru never stopped loving you. but love has become the most scariest thing to him in the world. as love is the most twisted curse of all. so, he took a step back. for he can't come face to face with the fears of losing another person he loves so dearly. for love has ruined everything around him. and love is something he believes gojo satoru does not deserve.

gojo satoru cannot come to terms with the potentiality of losing another best friend. his lover. you.

gojo satoru didn't wanna break you like how he's breaking himself from inside. like how he broke his best friend. for you are too good to be true. you are too good to him. and though he is seen as the greatest amongst all. for him? you were his angel while he was the devil.

"it's for the sake of you y/n. I love you. please never forget that. "

every ounce of love he had left was poured onto you. he hopes you will cherish it greatly like how he cherishes yours.

if only infinity could also stop the sadness that drowning him from within. only then could he grieve.

"how could I ever forget you 'toru?" your pleads were left unanswered. the love of your life leaving you there in the room where your love once blossomed. the same day he had came back, he left you all alone once again.

ever since the day he had ended your relationship, gojo satoru slowly begun distancing himself from the world. specifically a world full of truth and love. building up a facade of fun to cover this darkness that was slowly engulfing him. for he will continue to show a face of happiness for the sake of others.

because youth cannot be taken away from young people like how 3 years of his own youth was slowly taken away.

just like how nearly 10 years of youthful teenage love was quickly taken away from you.

@svtcrus || 07.30.2023

#cowon.writings #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru angst #gojo x you #jjk angst #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x y/n #gojo angst #gojo satoru x you #jjk imagines #gojo imagine #jjk230 made me sad

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paragox · 4 months

Text

Age Headcanons?

Age Headcanons + Birthday Headcanons... kinda + Vague Timeline

I HAD TO DO A WHOLE EXCEL DOC FOR THIS I'M CRYING

I... Let's see how this goes :'3

Long post ahead, you've been warned. And no I'm not following the "canon" statements, Lloyd doesn't start as a 10yr old here.

Birthdays..?

Kai - June < Solstice

Zane - December < Solstice

Nya - March < Equinox

Cole - April < Spring & Earth's day month

Lloyd - January < Start of the yr and sometimes start of the Chinese new yr (it tends to go between January and February)

Jay - September < Thunderstorm Season & Equinox

Morro - August < Hurricane Season/Monsoon & Spooky Month in Japan

Skylor - November < Birthstone is Amber

Harumi - October < Spooky Month?

Wyldfyre - May < she picked it; Hottest month in some countries

Arin - February < :3

Sora - February < She picked it; shares w Arin tho Arin is at the beginning of the month and Sora at the end

Euphrasia - July < Also Monsoon month (lasts between April and August so)

Riyu: Poofed onto existence one day-

Pilots-S1-S2

Kai: 13

Nya: P! 11 - S! 12

Lloyd: 9

Cole: 14

Jay: 12

Zane: Since Built probably like 24, he look 16.

Lloyd gets aged up to 13.

Extra:

Harumi: 9

Skylor: 14

Kai: 13

Nya: 12

Lloyd: 13 (9)

Cole: 15

Jay: 12

Zane: 16 (24)

Extra:

Harumi: 9

Skylor: 14

Pixal: Looks 17

Kai: 15

Nya: 13

Lloyd: 14 (10)

Cole: 16

Jay: 13

Zane: 17 (25)

Extra:

Harumi: 10

Skylor: 15

Kai: 15

Nya: 13

Lloyd: 14 (10)

Cole: 16

Jay: 14

Zane: 17 (25)

Extra:

Harumi: 11

Skylor: 15

Morro: 15 (died at)

Kai: 15

Nya: 13

Lloyd: 15 (11)

Cole: 16

Jay: 14

Zane: 18 (26)

Extra:

Harumi: 11

Skylor: 16

Kai: 15

Nya: 14

Lloyd: 15 (11)

Cole: 17

Jay: 14

Zane: 18 (26)

Extra:

Harumi: 11

Skylor: 16

Kai: 16

Nya: 14

Lloyd: 16 (12)

Cole: 17

Jay: 15

Zane: 18 (26)

Extra:

Harumi: 11

Skylor: 16

Kai: 16

Nya: 15

Lloyd: 16 (12)

Cole: 17

Jay: 15

Zane: 18 (26)

Extra:

Harumi: 12

Skylor: 17

S10

Kai: 17

Nya: 15

Lloyd: 16 (12)

Cole: 18

Jay: 15

Zane: 19 (27)

Extra

Harumi: 12

Skylor: 17

S11

Kai: 17

Nya: 15

Lloyd: 16 (12)

Cole: 18

Jay: 16

Zane: 20 (88)

Extra:

Harumi: 13

Skylor: 18

S12

Kai: 17

Nya: 15

Lloyd: 16 (13)

Cole: 18

Jay: 16

Zane: 20 (88)

Extra:

Harumi: 13

Skylor: 18

S13

Kai: 17

Nya: 16

Lloyd: 17 (13)

Cole: 19

Jay: 16

Zane: 20 (88)

Extra:

Harumi: 13

Skylor: 18

S14

Kai: 18

Nya: 16

Lloyd: 17 (13)

Cole: 19

Jay: 16

Zane: 20 (88)

Extra:

Harumi: 13

Skylor: 18

S15

Kai: 19

Nya: 17

Lloyd: 18 (14)

Cole: 20

Jay: 18

Zane: 21 (89)

Extra:

Harumi: 14

Skylor: 19

Merge (+1yr after Crystallized)

Kai: 20

Nya: 18

Lloyd: 20 (16)

Cole: 21

Jay: 18

Zane: 23 (91)

Extra:

Harumi: 16

Skylor: 21

DR 1 (+5yrs)

Kai: 25

Nya: 23

Lloyd: 25 (21)

Cole: 26

Jay: 23

Zane: 28 (96)

Wyldfyre: 12

Arin: 14

Sora: 15

Euphrasia: 15

Extra:

Harumi: 21

Skylor: 26

DR 2 (+6yrs)

Kai: 26

Nya: 24

Lloyd: 26 (22)

Cole: 28

Jay: 24

Zane: 29 (97)

Wyldfyre: 13

Arin: 15

Sora: 16

Euphrasia: 16

Extra:

Harumi: 22

Skylor: 27

Pix looks 30

Extra notes:

Some of these difference are because months have passed so some have had their b-days already and some hasn't.

Technically in Ninjago you can get married since 16 as long as you've got the approval of your parents/guardians.

Nya & Jay doesn't really start a relationship until the redesigns so s8 onward.

A lot of their "jobs" (S2, S3, Skylor Noodle Shop, Tea Shop, etc) are legal, they're not having the full-job time adult, they are contracted as helpers or part-timers. (Ninjago laws are kinda fucked up)

Legally a lot of stuff is at their names but won't oficially receive it until they're 18, for now is being managed at the hands of the state/city, so while the restaurant belongs to Skylor she half-of manages it as the rest is done by a tutor until she's 18.

If you can provide yourself you can emancipate since age 12, Nya and Kai were being constantly checked in to make sure they were doing well, the village is quite closed off to city dwellers including law enforcement but they made sure the two weren't actively dying and they weren´t allowed to live alone there until Kai was like 10, besides the neighbors were always watching.

Zane is built like a tall teen, he gets some changes as the other grow to simulate similar growth.

Extra pt.2:

The Excel tables

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #ninjago kai #ninjago nya #ninjago lloyd #dragons rising #ninjago cole #ninjago jay #ninjago zane #ninjago headcanons #ninjago worldbuilding #chaotic rambles

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adrianasunderworld · 2 years

Note

Feel free to ignore this, but... I've been thinking... Does Ramshackle even have, like, running water/electricity when Yuu moves in? It's been abandoned for so long, and Crowley doesn't seem the type to pay for services for a place no one is using. And if there is water/electricity, maybe it's in such a poorly maintained state that Yuu would probably be safer showering under a thunderstorm.

So now imagine Yuu going to Vargas and asking if she can use the gym showers when no one is there. Next thing she knows, her teachers are giving her a key to an empty staff room in the castle with its own shower and a small kitchenette, horrified at the thought that Crowley allowed a magicless girl to not only be alone in a place anyone can break into, but also without even water to wash herself or electricity to cook.

Frankly I have to agree with you. The building hasn't had living in inhabitants for the better part of a century. If it's still connected to anything, I doubt any of it would run properly. Like those pipes have to be rusted in need of replacement, you cant tell me the water in Ramshackle didn't run red from rust on the rare occasions it did work. Same with electricity, if it was ever connected to begin with. If it's anything like our world in that regard, electricity being widespread in most homes only started to be a thing in the mid 1920s. So 50/50 bet on whether or not Ramshackle had power to begin with or Yuu had to live by candlelight for a while.

It isn't until book 3 that Ramshackle looks clean and livable. Book 4 takes place over winter break, so its in December, and I think they say Book 2 is in September. So this is somewhere in October or November. Things are going to get cold and dark very fast, the problem of the living conditions at Ramshackle are getting real. Knowing Crowley, he probably put off the maintenance work until the reality is staring him in the face and all the staff are breathing down his neck to get shit fixed. So I'm pretty sure Miss Yuu has to live like this for a few months. Because Ramshackle has to have running water and electricity if all these students are going to be living there for the training. If it wasn't all at least up and running, I don't think Ramshackle would a viable option. But since Yuus motivation for agreeing to the training camp was to get money to fix the house, I don't think Crowley got the best work done. Ramshackle at that point is livable, but it still sucks. There's some loose floorboards, there's a draft in the living room, the kitchen ceiling has a leak. It does just enough to keep the rain (mostly) out.

Even if it was GN or guy Yuu, they would have to use the gym showers and maybe ask the teachers for help, because until then Ramshackle can barely be slept in. I want to have faith in the other staff that they would help Miss Yuu in any way they can. Like Vargas let's her know when the locker room is free and makes sure no one goes in until she's done. It's Treins idea to let her have access to the staff quarters and use the spare room. Especially when Crowley finally gets the work done and there is repair guys in and out of the building, she has a room to crash in for a couple weeks till it's done.

#twisted wonderland #miss yuu #nrc staff #twst staff #ramshackle

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thatbadadvice · 2 years

Note

Dear Bad Advisor,

thank you for taking my query into consideration! I'll also take good advice, if you think my predicament is worthy of it. I guess I'll see what you decide on.

Here's my situation:

When we met my husband's family over Christmas, we talked about the upcoming birthday weekend for my kid, near the end of January. Since it was already planned that my husband's mother and sister would spend two days with my kid at the beginning of February, I asked if they were okay with just celebrating my kid's birthday then, since the birthday weekend itself was already very packed. When I say packed, I mean that we had a lot of children over on Saturday and a few of the grandparents on Sunday. They agreed because my kid is only three and they said they understand that it would be overwhelming if too much was going on at the same time.

About a week before the birthday weekend, the fact that my husband's mother had made quite a few comments about wanting to spend "birthday time" with my kid made me reconsider and I invited her for the Sunday of the birthday weekend. She accepted, but immediately switched to commenting that it would probably all be a bit much for my kid. I told her she didn't have to come if she was worried about that. She was offended I suggested that.

Then after the birthday weekend, she commented that her daughter (my sister-in-law) would have wanted to celebrate with my kid too. I said she still could, at the beginning if February, like we originally planned. My husband's aunt commented the same thing to me. My sister-in-law hasn't contacted me for weeks, which is unusual for her. I'm worried she's really upset with me and I didn't notice.

I told my husband's mother and aunt that I feel like I'm made out to be the bad guy no matter what I do. First I invite too many people, then not enough.

They said I should have planned a party with all of them in the first place. I said they should have told me that's what they want when we first talked about it in December. Then we could have talked about it. But I planned a birthday party for all the kids, which was what my kid really wanted, and I tried to make time for all the grandparents and aunts and uncles when it was sensible.

Somehow, even though my kid had a wonderful birthday she still tells everyone about every day, I feel really guilty and sad. Is there a way for me to keep everyone happy? It doesn't feel like it, and I really don't know if I should even try.

Readers sometimes send Bad Advisor their real-ass questions to answer, so the Bad Advisor is periodically going to try her hand at answering them. If you’d like to submit a question for a Good Advice Interlude, use the “ask” form!

The advice I’m going to offer here is predicated on one very important piece of information, which I don’t have: Whether or not your husband is literally capable of communicating with his family.

Is your husband literally capable of communicating with his family? I don’t mean “he’s very important/busy at work” or "he's training for the Iron Man" or “they have a complicated history” or “he’s on Mars and has limited access to email” or "he must protect the nuclear codes from the bad guys who are chasing him down La Cienega as we speak," which are all circumstances in which your husband remains fully capable of communicating with his family and planning for and around any communication challenges. I mean is he literally capable? If so, that’s his job now.

If your husband’s relatives don’t get certain information or invitations or cards or edible arrangements from your husband because he’s busy or forgot or has ADHD or is stressed out or depressed or fell asleep or went on a long hike without his phone, then they don’t get whatever that was, and it’s his fault and his responsibility to correct. If there’s beef, your husband can: (1) resolve the conflict with his relatives. If that doesn’t work, or he doesn’t want to, or he’d rather you do it, he can (2) not resolve the conflict with his relatives. If your husband's relatives harass you because he's not sending them information they need or not resolving conflict with them or not responding to their complaints, you can tell them "You’ll have to talk to Dale about that!" until they come up with something to talk to you about besides demanding you carry 100% of the Family Togetherness And Emotional Wellbeing Load. Imagine how many wonderful things there are on earth to discuss besides haranguing you about a 3-year-old's birthday plans! I bet your husband’s relatives can find one fast when you become a no-reply inbox that issues mailer-daemon errors every time they start up with complaints about how y'all manage your life and your family.

If Dale (sorry, your husband's name is Dale now) won't be the first point of contact for his own family, then that is tough tittums for his family. The current arrangement is undoubtedly already and always tough tittums for you – why is that okay? – so what do you have to lose? Why is it fine for you to be the one person carrying sole responsibility not only for planning a 3-year-old's birthday party (in which you gave these people FLEXIBLE ATTENDANCE OPTIONS APLENTY) but for managing the pissy feelings of a bunch of pissy grown-ass adults who can articulate their own pissy needs, drive their own pissy cars, buy their own pissy Metrocards, hire their own pissy taxis, prepare their own pissy food, put on their own pissy shoes, and can — most importantly — show up when and where they are invited, or not, and not be pissy about it!!!! Sure, it’s “just” your kid's birthday party today, but it's also the next, what thirty or forty or fifty years of your life? Of being the Official Cruise Director And Liaison of All Things Fambly But Also The Help Who Gets Hollered At When The Napkins Are Not Ironed To Lady Grantham's Liking? Man, fuck that!

So, okay. On the off chance your husband is not literally capable of communicating with his family (he is dead? I feel like you would have said that, but anything’s possible), then you’re going to have to do this next part instead. Actually, you should do this next part even if Dale does turn out to be sentient and graciously agrees to field pissy texts from his pissy sister because he’s the greatest man alive and does incredible favors for people that go above and beyond the typical realm of human generosity and goodness, such as talking to his own mother about his own child’s birthday party.

You’re gonna figure out exactly how much other-adults-feelings-management you’re comfortable doing, and then do about a quarter of that amount. Ideally even less. Let’s talk about some of what you wrote:

“... my husband's mother had made quite a few comments about wanting to spend ‘birthday time’ with my kid made me reconsider and I invited her …”

She can ask for ‘birthday time’ using her words if that’s what she wants. You don’t have to guess what she wants and offer it to her.

“I'm worried she's really upset with me and I didn't notice.”

Y’all speak the same language? Have access to Google Translate if you don’t? You are never obligated to guess what someone else’s emotional state is. It is not your fault you are not psychic. It actually wouldn’t be your fault even if you were psychic.

“Is there a way for me to keep everyone happy?”

You don’t ask “Is there a way to make everyone here happy?” which would be the query of a person looking to resolve situational conflict with equal partners. You’re asking whether there’s a way for you to keep everyone happy, which is the query of someone who believes they are uniquely responsible for and tasked with maintaining other people’s emotional wellbeing not just now but indefinitely.

What if any of the other grown-ass adults involved in this situation – your mother-in-law, your sister-in-law, fucking Dale – did even a fraction of the amount of planning, anticipation, and accommodating that you’re doing for them and their needs and their wants and their schedules? Well, you wouldn’t be writing in in the first place, I guess. But listen to what you’re saying here, and look at how much work it is! You’re anticipating the needs of people who haven’t even told you they want something yet! You’re presuming that it is your responsibility to read the mind of someone who is perfectly capable of telling you if she is upset with you! You are wondering how to make all of the adults here happy and literally none of those adults are asking what makes you happy. (Any chance Dale has said he doesn’t care how his relatives feel about y’all’s kid’s birthday party? Any chance you’re caring on his behalf? Free yourself from this!!!!!!! You cannot fix other people’s relationships by caring more about their weird interpersonal shit than they do.)

Here’s the last thing that really stuck out to me, and I hope you don’t take it as me razzing you because I emphatically am not. You wrote:

“… even though my kid had a wonderful birthday she still tells everyone about every day, I feel really guilty and sad.”

Do you see that you made the most important person happy? Do you see that you, a caring and thoughtful and empathetic and motivated and capable parent did the most important thing? You gave your kid a birthday she is still fucking telling people about because it was that great! Fuck whether your mother-in-law had a good time in the general vicinity of your kid’s birthday! If there are smaller fish to fry on planet earth, I don’t know where they live.

But it is a big fucking deal that you feel safe and confident and are able to do the kind of parenting you want and need to do without diverting all of this energy to small-ass fish fries (frys?). When your kid grows up, she will remember the great birthdays. She will remember parents who advocated for her and taught her important lessons and supported her. The person she will become depends on all of those things. It will not depend on how your husband’s aunt feels about a child’s third birthday party.

So: whether or not you can count on your husband to do a thing he should already be doing as the bare fucking minimum in a partnership, you have to figure out a way to get yourself to a way, way lower baseline of fucks given about whether other people like you or are happy with you. That doesn’t mean you have to be a jerk to them, but you don’t have to accommodate and anticipate and assuage them as your default setting.

Easier motherfucking said than motherfucking done, I know. I’m sure you know therapy exists, but uh … do recommend. Other options: have you read Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents? This book changed my life. Us people-pleasers learned it from somewhere. Even if you think “Nah, couldn’t be me,” the tools the book offers for navigating relationships with emotionally immature adults (i.e., a great-aunt-in-law who expects you to make her feel good about her invitation to a child’s third birthday party?) are well worth it.

Here’s what else helped me: make rules and pretend like someone else made them and there’s nothing you can do about it. Call them “traditions” if you want, maybe that plays better with Great Auntie Pisspants. From now on, your kid has one birthday party with her friends and one birthday party with family members. No, you can’t change that just because Great Auntie Pisspants asked you to; it’s a “tradition.” When people complain about your rules-slash-family traditions, instead of the endless smorgasbord of options you are not just willing to consider but actively and preemptively offering in case it’s more convenient for everybody, it starts to get a lot less personal. “I don’t make the rules!” you can say to yourself, even though you 1000000% made the rules and you are the captain now, so Great Auntie Pisspants is going to have to choose between BINGO or your kid’s birthday because you’re not throwing nine birthday parties.

I’m guessing that family shit is not the only place your inclination toward making other people happy at your own expense causes you grief. Good news: you can make rules/traditions about all kinds of nonsense. Here are some I’ve had over the years: I “can’t” give people rides; I “can’t” bake; I “can’t” watch Woody Allen movies. I “always” have my phone on do-not-disturb on weekends; I “always” spend at least one winter holiday at home; I “always” avoid highways at rush hour. I don’t know who made the rules (God?) but I can’t break them (I am God, I do what I want, and I don’t want to break my own rules).

You are responsible only for the emotional health and wellbeing of yourself and your child. You and your kiddo are the two people who matter most. You cannot keep everyone else happy, and you should not try.

#good advice interlude #family shit #parenting #in-laws #people pleasing #emotionally immature adults #fucking dale

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ghostflowerhotpotch · 1 year

Text

Possible Birthday Months for Miles and Gwen (Theory.)

Okay, as far as I am aware, there are no definitive birthdays for Miles or Gwen in the movies; not sure if there are in the comics, but considering the differences, there is no warranty they would have stayed anyways.

This is more like a fun way to justify a headcanon, chances are the writers haven't thought really hard on dates because is not really, necessary in many cases. And giving exact dates sometimes makes things more complicated too.

Regardless, the idea pop into my head once I realized I had connected enough clues to MAYBE get the months down, and I think that's fun.

So let's go!

Yes, this is where we start.

Again, we don't have hard evidence when anything of this is happening (including if it works like in our world since by being another dimension, anything is possible,) but if we go with the assumption that the writers intend to work things similarly like in our dimension, let's examine this.

Now, let's reflect on this, when a prestigious school like this would be hosting a lottery or test to let people in? Probably at one point early in the scholar year, or if anything, at the beginning of the semester.

I believe is around January, primarily because you see multiple shots with snow.

Now, we really don't know how long has been since Miles entered the school vs when he was bitten, especially since there is no snow when he has his first day. However, and I will admit I don't have hard evidence, it doesn't feel like it has been too long? maybe a few days perhaps, but it feels like it couldn't have been happening for more than a couple of weeks.

Another thing I consider is that from what I had investigated, tends to be light snow in December and not many days; so it could be plausible since is beginning of January, there hasn't been any heavy snowfall, which could explain why so many trees still had autumn leaves.

Another reason I don't think this is in September, and again no hard evidence; is that it doesn't give the impression this is the first day of school for everyone else. They all seem to chill, we don't see the teacher introduce themselves or the classroom at any moment.

Now, with the idea that this is January, how old is Miles? As I can see in the Into Spider-verse Art book, 13 yeards old.

In Across the spiderverse however, we heard this from Miles.

Now, how much time has passed between movies? Luckily, we have an answer for that in across too!

Considering it has been a year and four months, this would mean the events of this movie are happening around May; this would make sense, since Miles using this Jacket seems to be pretty normal, and we have another dude in the background with one as well.

So maybe, early May we could see? Since other guests are not using any sweaters or similar, I don't think it could be very close to June.

So that gives us Between January and May, which is close enough, right?

Luckily, determining Gwen's also helps determine Miles'!

Now Enter, Gwen.

The first nugget of Information comes from Into the Spider-verse, close to the end.

Okay, so we know there is at least 15 months of difference, or 1 year and three months.

Now, during Across the Spiderverse, we have a brief moment when we see different days of the same moment, that is the Stacys and the Parkers having a meal together.

This sequence is obviously quick, and I needed to pause A LOT at half speed to catch this stuff; I couldn't catch every frame obviously, and it would be definitely too many images.

That being said, from what I saw in my reruns, this seemed to be at least in the span of a year (meaning not repeated moments like Christmas or birthdays.) And since I don't think each moment means every single day is depicted in the span of those moments, I can say there is a chronological sense on the images (type of clothing is more summer/winter/etc appropriate, holidays, etc.)

I noticed that the depiction of Gwen's birthday has very few images with more summer-type clothes (short sleeves for example,) and was after many frames when the characters were using light, but long-sleeved clothing.

In comparison, I felt after this birthday scene, has more frames with more summer or light clothes, until we land on a more remarkable Autumn holiday, this looks like Halloween if you ask me.

(I love how goofy George and Peter look, Do you guys think Gwen has a costume, or has she just decided to dress like whatever she wants? If is a costume, it definitely feels like a closet type. Aka you use your regular clothes to get a costume)

Considering Peter is using two layers (Even if light) during Gwen's birthday, I am inclined to believe this is around May, since I could believe this is late spring/early summer (especially with the beautiful clear blue sky behind Gwen) while not being the worst in terms of temperature yet.

So, with the idea that Gwen's Birthday is around May. This would mean Miles' birthday could land around February.

Headcanons: Exact dates.

Now, a lot of this is already in hazy territory, but for the exact days there is really no way for me to tell, so now this is fully just my own headcanons.

While I don't think Miles is truly an anomaly, I thought it would be funny if he was born on February 29, considering is a day that only happens every four years. I think Miles could also spin some jokes around it.

With that idea in mind, and going on with the idea that Gwen's birthday is in June, I thought it could be funny if they also shared the same number of day, with Gwen's birthday being May 29. Yes, there is no reason for them to have exactly 15 months of difference, but I like the idea of them having that cute coincidence.

End notes

Again, this is all a fun thought experiment, there is really no concrete evidence, and I don't think the directors or the writers had truly tried to think too hard on these details since there is no necessity.

I saw that there is a wiki that claims that ATSV takes place in April, however, it didn't really lead me to any reliable sources, so until I have some hard evidence, I will keep this intact.

Hope you guys liked this ramble!

EDIT: In Reference to this ask

Thanks for your notes! I have some things to point.

I actually knew about the Decembruary detail! I watched the ITSV video from CinemaWins.

Actually, what Jeff says is that Miles needs to give it at least 2 weeks, not that he has been there for that long.

The week reference is interesting! Thanks.

Huh, I didn't notice that detail previously.

Now, with these details out of the way, what we can say?

I was right on the money about the creators not paying too much attention to dates. My original theory was that they avoided putting anything too concrete to don't run into timeline problems. Is good to keep in mind that both the test (Miles could have easily put the wrong year too, considering he put Decembruary;) and the Security Camera are all little details that aren't really relevant to the plot; like this isn't an "if we don't do this before X date the world ends."

I consider Miles Saying "And for the past year and four months" heavier proof of the time passed that what the security camera and the test had written on aren't as valuable as that. After all, if this ITSV happened on December 2018 but ATSV was on July 2023, that would mean it has been over almost 5 years for them, which has obviously not been the case.

So with the pieces of this new puzzle, what do we end up with?

New Dates

If we weigh the test Miles failed on Purpose vs the Security Camera, I think believing the Security camera makes more sense. Miles putting 2018 on a test that already says Decembruary can easily be chalked to him wanting to mess up even more.

If it has been a year and four months since he became Spiderman, and in July in ATSV, this would mean that Into the Spiderverse is happening around March.

This would mean Miles having this birthday fall between March and July, and Gwen's possible Birthday months to move from June to October.

If we continue to go with my theory of the outfits they use in the movie can count as a measurement of time, I would say March and June are very likely.

Headcanon dates for the new timeline

While I may or may not go with these dates in future stories (Which I will explain my reasoning later for those who like my fic writing.) I thought it would be fun to give some new headcanons to these dates.

Since the anomaly situation hasn't been done, my alternative number for Miles would be 24. Why 24? Because the number 42 plays a big role in his life (is the number which he won the "lottery," his spider is from that dimension, and is seen around in ITSV a lot too.) And since 42 can't be a date, 24 it is.

For Gwen, I thought it would be fun that since her universe is 65, and the month of June seems like a good lead, her birthday could be June 5 (since 06/05) I know this means there isn't an example of 15 months of difference between them, however, I think everybody goes more with the month than the exact day for these things.

I have a cousin who is roughly, 20 days older than me, but we always said "a month" while mentioned in passing because why bother with semantics.

Will I ignore this in my writing? Probably

Now, this next section is mostly there for those who like my writing, since usually, the headcanons I have here tend to translate into my works.

I will probably go with my original dates.

Here is my situation; I could believe Miles is in school in July because of the alternative universe (it seems traditionally it ends in June.) I could believe they use fluffy jackets in July because, in Miles' universe, July is colder than our own; heck I was joking with my partner that Miles probably didn't have coronavirus in his universe and the reactions to other spideys who dealt with that,

What I can't deal with, is Miles starting school in March.

While students can move to other schools all year around, the fact that the lottery part is mentioned as well as the test, makes me think this has to be at a reasonable timeline for the school year. After all, why they would host a lottery for a student when the school year ends in four months? Why Rio and Jeff would try to make Miles change school if nothing prompt them to?

Granted, this could be explained with the school year working differently, maybe they start in January, and is still early enough to do this, or start in March.

However, I disqualified the December bit (which I also discard because NO ONE HAS A STUDENT START CLASSES JUST BEFORE WINTER BREAK UNLESS THEY ARE MOVING OR SOMETHING SIMILAR.) I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to put imagine it was in December just because.

Again, this is not an important detail. Gwen's dad is different between ITSV and ATSV, as well as the fact that the situation and Peter's look are different.

(You could make the case it looks like this because Miles is imagining everything instead of being a faithful adaption. However, I firmly believe they didn't put too much time into it or stick with those concepts because it wasn't necessary. Also, this will mean Peter B maybe wasn't eating pizza instead of pushups, and I will NOT give up that.)

Why not have a different way the calendar works? Too many details to keep track of, and fics are supposed to be fun; I will not try to bend backward my writing to adhere to the canon if is not enjoyable.

Is not the only time I do this, Noir should be around 19 because of comics and stuff, but if you think I will give up the idea that Noir is in his 40s, you are dead wrong.

This part will be edited into the original post (since people don't tend to reblog reblogs, I prefer people will have the chance to see the corrections.) And queue for tomorrow so more people can see it.

Also, I made a mistake in my original post, I said Gwen's Birthday would be in June, when in reality it should May, sorry for the confusion!

If you read all the way, thank you for your patience! I know this is long.

#atsv #across the spiderverse #ghostflower #ghostflower files #miles morales #gwen stacy #atsv files #into the spiderverse #itsv #ghostflower hcs

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be-with-me-so-happily · 2 years

Text

Chapter 1

Series Summary: Gemma is definitely Cassidy James' favourite Styles family member, considering they are best friends and all. And especially considering that Harry Styles is Gemma's smug and self-centered younger brother. Her life isn't perfect, and neither is she, but she hates how everyone thinks Harry is. Because she knows that's not the case.

Chapter Summary: Cassidy, begrudgingly, finds herself at Harry's secret show in London in December 2019, and thinks about some of the few times she actually liked being in the same room as him, and a few of the reasons why that changed.

Chapter Warnings: Some explicit language, alcohol consumption, alcoholic parent, smut- intercourse using a condom, anxiety attack, mention of Kendall Jenner (please no hate)

[ present - Dec 2019 ]

It's been a couple of years since Cassidy's seen, and talked to, that twerp. No, twerp isn't the right word. That's what she'd call him when he'd throw mud pies at her and his sister. No, asshole is a much better word to describe him. Because his level of arrogance and annoyingness only grew with him over the years.

So, why she agreed to meet Gemma for this specific event is a mystery. Being at one of Harry's shows is less than ideal. Gemma could have picked anywhere else. And Cassidy would have preferred anywhere else. But, she's here because Gemma is her best friend, and she's missed her, so she just couldn't say no.

Her anxiety heightens as the lights dim and the crowd begins to cheer.

"Style." A voice sounds through the speakers. "Style is the answer to everything."

Is he serious? The answer to everything? He really is an arrogant son of a bitch. Of course this is his intro. Clearly his ego hasn't changed. It has definitely grown, which she didn't think was possible, but also can't be shocked by.

"To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art."

Wrong. To do a dangerous thing, or really just anything, with Harry Styles is what Cassidy would call stupidity. And she knows first hand. She was stupid once.

[ flashback - Oct 2015 ]

Cassidy only went to shows with Gemma, and this time was no exception, but usually she is dragged there. However, the last concert of the 'On The Road Again' tour, the last concert before their hiatus, seemed like an important enough event for her to attend, without any resistance. Well, without as much resistance.

And she has to admit, the energy is electric. Even her disdain for a certain One Direction member can't really prevent her from enjoying the night. So much so that she tears up at the end, with all the 'thank yous' and hugs. So much so that she agrees to go with Gemma to meet up with them backstage. So much so that she agrees to go to the after party they have planned at the hotel, on the vip floor.

Thankfully, she and Gemma managed to snag two hotel rooms to avoid taking the hour and a half hour drive home. They usually share, but with Gemma's boyfriend there, she is not about to share a room with them. This means that there's nothing in the way of her attending the party and easily escaping back to the room when she wants to leave. She is certain she won't want to stick around too long.

Cassidy walks into the party in a black velvet crop top with matching fitted mini skirt. A bit casual, but still meeting the party vibe. She instantly feels excitement and anxiety wash over her simultaneously, seeing the grandeur of the room and the abundance of guests already in attendance, and already in full party mode.

"Come on, CJ, let's live it up tonight, 'kay?" Gemma states, more so than asks, and Cassidy knows she doesn't have much choice. Not that she's one to turn down a party, but she's never been to one this elaborate.

"Drinks first then." She replies, pointing straight over to the open bar across the expansive room.

They make their way through the crowds, who are chatting and dancing, to finally reach their destination.

"Long Island iced tea, please." Cassidy orders.

"Oh my god!" Gemma chuckles, glancing at her friend with wide eyes. "You're not messing around!"

"Nope!" She replies, grabbing the glass as soon as it is placed in front of her and immediately taking a sip. "Living it up, right?"

Gemma chuckles again with a nod, ordering her own beverage. Cassidy turns around and leans on the bar counter, scanning the faces just to see if she recognizes anyone in attendance. Anyone besides the obvious.

She spots Louis' sister, Lottie, who she has talked to before a few times backstage, so she motions to Gemma that she's going to mingle, and makes her way to the middle of the room.

She's about ten steps in when a tall figure blocks her path, causing her to abruptly freeze in place. She looks up to find Harry's piercing green eyes, something almost dangerous within his gaze.

"Didn't think you'd be here…" He states, a low hum to his tone. "Didn't think you'd even wanna come."

"I didn't." She replies, taking a long sip of her drink as she glares up at him through her lashes. "But I'm here for Gemma. And the band."

"You know, I'm part of the band."

"Oh, I'm well aware." She rolls her eyes, knowing full well that he is trying to pull a compliment out of her for himself. "But not everything is about you. Not just you, at least."

He smirks, much to her annoyance, and shakes his head. He looks past her, catching the attention of someone else, then drops his gaze back down.

"Have fun, Cass." His palm quickly comes up and pats her shoulder as he walks around her, leaving her alone again to get back to her original intent, finding another friend.

She takes a deep breath and notices that Lottie has moved, so she scans the room again and makes her way over to chat with Louis.

"Hi, love!" He greets her.

"Hey." She replies, meeting him halfway for a hug "So… do I congratulate you or what?"

He laughs and shrugs his shoulders.

"S'pose. Don' really know. Ya know? Bu' it's cool I guess."

"Well, congrats anyway."

"Ya 'aving fun?" He asks with a wide grin. "Did Harry find ya?"

"Unfortunately, yes." She groans, bringing her glass to her lips and letting a decent amount enter her mouth. They all know about the back and forth between the two of them.

"Keep drinking tha' and ya might be best friends by the end of the night!"

"Doubtful." She shakes her head, knowing there would have to be a lethal amount of alcohol in her system to even consider that as a possibility.

•••

It's not lethal, but there is definitely a lot of alcohol in her system, which is thoroughly taking over her, because she is still there and having a lot of fun.

She is dancing with Gemma, Lottie, and a girl who is dating the drummer. Or the bass player. She can't really remember in her inebriated state, but she knows she's enjoying herself.

"Shit. I need some air!" She exclaims, slowing down her body and fixing her hair before making her way out of the doors to the large balcony.

She leans against the railing, looking out at the city nightlife below, and takes a deep breath in.

"Taking a break?" An unfamiliar voice asks. "You've been going at it all night!"

She turns to the voice beside her, to be met with a guy she doesn't recognize. She smiles and lets out a breathy laugh.

"Yeah. I'm just trying to get some peace and calm to recharge."

"Cig?" The guy asks, already holding out an unlit stick in her direction.

She never smokes. She has before, it's just not her thing. But apparently all inhibition has now left because she takes the cigarette and allows the stranger to light it.

"It looks like you've been having fun out there…" The stranger leans over to make eye contact, Cassidy meeting his gaze as best she can with her lightheadedness.

"Surprisingly, yeah!" She chuckles, placing her lips on the stick and sucking in, letting a cloud of smoke exit in front of her.

"I'll join you if you hit the dance floor again." He offers, bumping her shoulder playfully and displaying a small smirk. It's not as noticeable as Harry's is. But it's also not as annoying or arrogant either. No one's could be.

"Okay!" She smiles back, glancing over and noticing how pretty the stranger's eyes are. Or at least she thinks they are.

"Hey mate!" She suddenly hears on the other side of her, causing her head to whip around and find herself meeting Harry's gaze.

"What's up. You're Harry, right? I'm Nathan." The stranger asks, whose name she now knows is Nathan. Hopefully she can remember that in her current state. She turns around to see him reach his hand out to the pest standing next to her.

"Yeah. Nice to meet you. Is this one bothering you?" Harry chuckles, pointing his thumb right in her face. She lifts up her free hand to swat it away, and does something a sober Cassidy wouldn't. She turns and giggles at Harry's gesture.

His eyes go wide and a blush rushes to her cheeks. She turns back to the stranger and takes a deep breath to do anything she can to regain control over her actions.

"Nah, we're having fun." Her new friend replies. "We were about to get back to the dance floor. Right, umm…?"

"Her name is Cassidy." Harry responds before she does, a neutral but almost stern tone.

"Cassidy? Cool." Nathan quietly states. "So, yeah. Are you… ready to head in?"

"Yeah." She replies with a nod. "I'll be there in a minute."

He nods and snuffs out his own cigarette before walking back inside.

Her head immediately snaps over to Harry, a little surprised that her level of frustration with him is not nearly as high as it usually is. But it's still there.

"What are you doing?" She asks, watching as he pulls on his lower lip.

"What?"

"Why'd you walk over here?" She subtly scowls back, again surprised that it isn't as intense, but also recognizing that the Long Island iced teas have weakened her guard against him.

"Wanted to introduce myself. I like to know the names of the people at our parties."

"Yeah right. You only came over to annoy me." She rolls her eyes, realizing there is a smile across her face and swiftly corrects her expression.

"Not everything is about you, Cass." He smirks, clearly feeling triumphant for his use of her earlier insult.

"Yeah well you don't have to try and ruin the night for me either way…"

"Doesn't look like I've been ruining it. Looks like you've been dancing around and having fun."

"You were watching me?" She shakes her head and holds her hand up in front of his face. "Doesn't matter. I was having fun, and now I'm going back to have some more."

"See you inside then."

"Please don't." She pleads, snuffing out the cigarette she admits she didn't like smoking, then turning back towards the doors and heading inside.

Gemma, Lottie, and now Lou Teasdale are all still dancing right where she left them, so she bounces up to her friends and begins to join in on the dancing again.

She glances around, not seeing the guy she had just met outside, the one who was supposedly her new dance partner, but she is drunk enough, carefree enough, and having enough fun to shrug it off.

After one song ends and the next transitions in, Michal appears next to Gemma and whispers in her ear, causing her to giggle, and then motions to Cassidy that they'll be heading over to the bar.

"We're grabbing a drink too. But we'll be back." Lottie states, linking arms with Lou. "Are you good here?"

Cassidy shrugs and nods, truly not in the mindset to care anymore. They walk away and she is left to dance by herself. Hopefully not for too long.

About half a song in, warm hands slide on to her hips, and she smiles. Finally her new dance partner has joined her. But her eyes catch the gaze of the guy she thought was behind her, also standing over at the bar, and she suddenly smells the unmistakably deep fragrance that can only belong to the one and only Harry Styles. So not only has she been left alone, which she doesn't mind, but now she's left alone with the one person she didn't want or expect to be dancing behind her.

Yet, she doesn't move.

His hands are strong, and ever so slightly caressing her hips as they sway to the music. His breath is warm, and hitting her neck in a labored rhythm. His chest is pressed up against her. She doesn't know if she's ever felt this way with someone on the dancefloor. Maybe that's just the alcohol talking. But she knows she's never felt this way with Harry, in any situation.

Yet, she doesn't move.

Instead, something ignites in her. She, unintentionally, reaches a hand behind her to grab onto the back of his neck. His breath hitches and hers follows as he pulls her closer and she feels how much he's enjoying it all.

"Cass…" He whispers in her ear.

She spins around within his hold, locking on his gorgeous green eyes that now have a hint of excitement and danger.

Her fingers travel up into the hair on the back of his head. He releases a low growl and pulls her hips flush against his, causing his lips to hover just in front of hers.

"Wanna leave?" He asks, sending a shiver down her spine.

It's the alcohol. She's blaming the multiple Long Island iced teas for the fact that she nods in response. That and the fact that she hasn't had much intimacy in a while. That is what is to blame.

He spins her back around to face away from him and guides her through the crowds with his hands on her waist. Her bare waist, thanks to her fantastic choice in outfit.

The elevator ride is only down one floor, and he all but pushes her down the hallway to his suite. As soon as the room door is closed, he pulls her in towards him and places his soft, pouty lips against her neck. She lets out a sigh and he lets in a breath, followed by a low growl.

"You smell like that damn cigarette smoke." He mumbles, and she pushes back, mildly embarrassed that the smell on her has stopped their activities.

"Bathroom?"

"That way."

She swiftly makes her way to the other room, immediately grabbing a bottle of mouthwash and swishing as much of it around in her mouth as she can. After she spits it out, she finds a small bar of soap to quickly wash off her neck, hoping it'll remove the smell. As soon as she dries off, she catches her reflection in the mirror.

What is she doing? This is Harry. Her best friend's brother and the guy she usually can't be bothered to be around. What is she doing?

She walks out, deciding she should probably stop what has been started, or about to be started. She is almost instantly met by Harry's frame, pushing himself off the wall nearby.

He slinks over, closing the gap between them, and places his hands on her bare waist once again. Her hesitation seems to melt away by the warmth of his touch, as his forehead presses on hers. Then his lips meet her neck again, causing that heat to wash over her, as her entire body melts into him, just as her hesitation had seconds before.

"You okay with this?" He utters against her skin.

"Y-yes." She replies, the shakiness of her words produced by the anticipation in her body. The alcohol. It's the alcohol. It has to be.

He pulls his head back, his eyes flickering between hers and her lips. One hand places on the back of her head and brings her closer to him. Their breaths are matched in their acceleration and she bites her lip before they press against him.

Goosebumps rush all over her. No kiss has felt this good. At least, she has no memory of one feeling this good. Not that she can think of much else at the moment.

His tongue parts her lips, working itself inside her mouth in the most tantalizing way, as he walks her backwards to the bed. Her legs hit the side of the bed frame, then her back hits the mattress, and she finds herself caged within Harry's tattooed arms.

His fingers run up her shirt as his lips meet hers once again. Everything tingles. Every inch of her body is sparked by him.

The next thing she knows, all remaining clothes are removed, and everything becomes an ignited blur of her senses. The feeling of hands roaming each other's skin, the sound of their combined symphony of moans throughout the room, the smell of sweat and Harry's sultry cologne, the taste of his lips on hers, the sight of his toned, tattooed body hovering over and rolling into her.

"Oh my-... Harry…" She whimpers out, her eyes scrunched shut and her head thrown back from the overwhelming pleasure he's providing her.

"Say it-" He utters, panting as he thrusts back into her. "Say it again." He pleads, pulling out and slamming back in. "Say my name again."

If she were sober, and not completely succumbed to the ecstasy of being filled by Harry, she would have scoffed at the narcissism. But she knows she won't hold back. Almost as if he deserves to hear her do as he's asked.

"Harry."

"Fuck, Cassidy. That sounds… like fucking music!" He growls into her neck. "Are you close?"

"Yes. So-" She breathes out, feeling her body tighten. "So close."

"Look at me. P-please." He asks of her, and she obeys, her eyes snapping open and fixating on him.

"Harry, I'm-"

"Go on." He moans, picking up the pace of his thrusts as his eyes fill with determination. "I need you… to cum on me, Cass."

That last statement opens the floodgates and her jaw drops open as complete satisfaction rolls over her.

"Oh my god… Oh my god!"

Harry growls again and his motions get faster. And deeper. And unsteady.

"That's it. Fuck. That's…" He thrusts deep once more and halts his movements, moaning as she feels the pulsating inside of her.

They pant together as they both ride their highs, his body falling down onto hers as they both attempt to catch their breaths.

Harry pulls out, removing, tying up, and throwing away the condom in the bedside rubbish bin. He lays back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, just as she does.

"That was… wow!" He exclaims with a breathy chuckle.

"It really was." She admits, having yet to make eye contact with him since he was inside her. She begins to push herself off the bed, grabbing the bra that had been discarded on the floor nearby.

She feels his warm hand on her hip, causing her to look back over her shoulder.

"Cass, you don't have to go." He whispers. Her heart almost stops, and she finds herself laying back down, curling into his toned, but comforting chest, and she can feel sleep begin to take over her as the pleasurable adrenaline wears off.

•••

Cassidy's eyes blink open and her hangover-induced headache prevents her from initially getting her bearings. She looks to her side as she hears subtle, steady breathing.

"Shit." She whispers to herself. It's not as if she doesn't remember the activities from last night, but her sobering has brought clarity to the situation they find themselves in now.

She had sex with Harry.

It was drunk sex, she gets a small pass for that, but it was sex nonetheless. He's her best friend's brother. He's her personal pest. He's a fucking mega popstar who probably has a girl in every city, waiting for him to call on them whenever he is in town and needs some release.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." She repeats, slowly maneuvering out of his hold and off of the bed. She grabs her clothes and swiftly redresses herself, making sure to not make any noise.

Harry begins to stir, and after she opens the door, she turns back to face his direction, seeing his eyes still shut and his body still sprawled across the bed.

"Bye, H." She whispers.

"Mm." He mumbles, not giving her certainty that he actually heard her words.

She sighs, feeling so many things, incomprehensible at the moment, and closes the door behind her.

[ flashback - Dec 2015 ]

Either she doesn't learn her lesson, or she just likes to make life difficult for herself, because once again Cassidy finds herself sitting next to Gemma. This time it's in the X-Factor studio, waiting to watch One Direction give their final performance.

But then again, she isn't there solely for Harry, and she isn't there to get into anything with him again. She is there to support Gemma, who just happens to be supporting him, as well as the other three members of the group. That's all it is. So she doesn't need to feel weird or bad about being there.

Besides, it's not as if he made any effort to reach out after she left his hotel room that next morning. It was just another drunken one night stand to him.

And to her.

Just a one night stand that needs no further acknowledgement or conversation. Especially since Gemma doesn't know. She doesn't need to know, because it meant nothing and nothing more is coming from it.

She shakes her head. For someone who doesn't care about that one night, she realizes she is dwelling on it, and him, a bit too much.

That's the end of that.

She looks over to her best friend, and rubs her hand along her back to soothe her when she sees the tears trickling down Gemma's face. This is why she's there.

•••

"You are coming with me, CJ!" Gemma exclaims, throwing an outfit to Cassidy, who is sitting on her own hotel bed.

"I'm really inclined to pass on that offer." She replies, standing up and grabbing some sweatpants from her bag.

"It wasn't really an offer. More of a demand."

Cassidy lets out a laugh. Gemma is quite persistent and quite persuasive. But Cassidy is stubborn and won't go down without a fight.

"Gem, I don't want to get drunk and I don't want to be around a bunch of people I don't know."

"You don't have to drink. And you can hang around me!" She grins. "Plus, honestly, everyone loved you at the last after party…"

She felt flattered, and knew that Gemma really wanted her there. With Cassidy having started a new job, and Gemma about to venture off to start some projects of her own, their hangouts together would be cut down in quantity.

She sighs, rolls her eyes, and grabs the outfit that has be thrown in her direction.

"Fine. But m'not gonna like it."

"Don't care." Gemma replies, both smiling at each other.

As long as Cassidy can keep the drinking to a minimum, though she'll have some to keep her stress at bay, she should be able to survive the party. And not wake up regretting the night before.

•••

One drink in and she feels good. She's having fun, dancing, but still able to keep her guard up and be on alert for anyone trying to charm their way into her pants. Or her sleeveless, sweetheart neckline mini dress, in this case.

She's managed to do just that, so far.

As Gemma twirls Cassidy around on the dance floor, a tall figure with long curly hair catches her eye. She finishes her spin under her friend's arm, but her eyes stay fixed on him. Harry's gaze is piercing. Right through her. Enough to make her shudder, despite the room being filled with warmth from all the bodies. The furrow of his brow, the way one arm is crossed over his chest but the other hand is pulling on his bottom lip, the way his frame is pointed directly at her, all causes a knot to form in the pit of her stomach.

He looks mad that she's there.

He can be. He has no reason to be, but he can be. That's none of her concern. He has plenty of girls to choose from to satisfy whatever needs he has tonight. And she can party away however she wants to. It's not just his party and she's allowed to be there, because it's not all about him.

Her eyes flicker to her left and she realizes there is a gorgeous girl dancing next to her. Maybe his look isn't of anger towards her, maybe he's picked his victim… his partner… for the night.

"Hey." Cassidy leans over to the girl. "I think Harry is eyeing you…"

The girl's eyes snap over to where Cassidy discreetly points, not being as subtle.

"Harry Styles? No way…"

"He's staring over here. It's definitely at you."

The girl looks back towards her with a giddy grin, shrugging at the suggestion.

"I don't know…" She replies sheepishly.

"Go over and talk to him. He only looks intimidating. He's really not." She has no idea why she is trying to sell this idea to this random girl, and more so than that, doesn't understand why she's basically lying to her. Although, Harry seems to only put out his true, horrible nature towards her. No one else. So, she supposes, it's technically not a lie.

As the girl turns and makes her way to that side of the room, Harry straightens up but his glare to Cassidy deepens. She has no idea how he could still be mad, she just tried to help him. She sent a gorgeous girl his way, if anything, he should be grateful. But, he can't, and clearly won't, give her any credit. That's the selfish prick he is.

•••

After allowing herself another drink, since she's been feeling fine and controlled so far, she mentions to Gemma that she urgently needs to use the restroom.

She trots out of the banquet room, and down the hallway.

"Cassidy!" She hears shouted from behind her, just as she reaches the door to the ladies room.

She turns around to see Harry hastily making his way to her.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He scowls, pressing one palm firmly on the wall as he reaches her.

"Going to the bathroom, you twit!" She replies.

"That's not what I mean!" His breath heaving as he stares down at her. The need to relieve herself becomes strong and she begins to squirm.

"Look, whatever I did, m'sorry. Okay?" She rolls her eyes, beginning to push the door open slightly. "But I have got to go. So, piss off!"

"Cass-"

"I said piss off!"

She pushes the door further open and lets it slam shut, hopefully right into his face.

She does her business and checks her outfit in the mirror, making sure her hair and makeup are still holding up as well. She stands there for a moment, a little proud of how she handled Harry in the hallway. Maybe it was a little snappy. She's only had two drinks, so it wasn't a drunken tone. They just have nothing to talk about, and he definitely didn't need to come at her like that, for no reason. The familiar frustration resurfaces, and she feels better with the comfortable emotion she usually feels towards him. With that she exits the bathroom.

She almost stops in place when she sees Harry's long, curly hair and tall, broad frame leaning against the wall, his back turned to her. A giggle rings out through the hallway and Cassidy rolls her eyes as she sees a hand grab his bicep.

Flirting in the hallway. Not surprising.

She makes her way past them, not even a glance in their direction, and pushes through the doors leading back into the party.

Her eyes scan the room, looking for friends or even a familiar face she can converse with, but she is stopped when a large palm gently grabs her shoulder from behind, the other sliding onto her waist.

She growls, not only at who it is, but also because of the fact that she is now able to recognize him just by the touch. Well, the touch and the fragrance. She pulls away and twists around.

"What do you want?" She scowls, and sees Harry's intense frown, yet again.

"Why've you been ignoring me all fucking night?"

"What are you talking about?"

He stands up straighter and crosses his arms, causing some sort of anxiousness to course through her.

"You haven't even bothered to say hello!"

"I didn't know I was required to."

"You're not…" His volume dims down slightly, and his tone slightly softens. "But it's polite… it's my party after all."

"It's not just your party, Harry. It's for the band, and the crew." She scoffs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "And you've been getting enough attention. I don't understand why you're hung up on not getting mine."

He leans his back against the nearby wall, arms still crossed and gaze still piercing.

"That's the other thing. What the fuck was that? Why'd you send some random girl over to, like, flirt with me?"

His question completely throws her off and she's unsure if she heard him correctly. There's no way he can be upset about that. He can't be upset that a girl went to do the one thing he himself seems to be so good at, besides singing.

"What the-... You were looking at her! I just encouraged her over there."

"I wasn't-" He sighs, running one hand through his hair, shaking his locks to reset their style. She remembers how they felt within her grasp, and takes a subtle step back to compose herself. He seems to notice, though, as he takes a bigger step towards her. "Whatever. I don't need your help, yeah?"

Of course. His ego. It was a blow to his ego that she thought he needed some assistance to get someone's attention and hook up with them.

"Trust me, Harry, I could care less what you do and who you do it with."

"Trust me, Cassidy, I know."

For the second time, his comment throws her off completely, but she doesn't have time to respond as.he brushes past her and heads back into the crowds of people.

Determination to not let him ruin her night bubbles up and she makes her way back to the dance floor, where she finds her friends.

"You alright, CJ? Do you wanna go?" Gemma asks.

Cassidy happens to catch Harry's glance, causing them both to frown in the other's direction, especially when she sees Harry turn back towards the girl he was supposedly upset was encouraged to go to him. She sees him whisper something in the girl's ear, receiving a nod, and both beginning to make their way to the door.

She clenches her jaw. What a prick, to argue with her about that girl, when he is doing the thing that Cassidy had assumed he wanted to do. At least now she doesn't have to be on edge, now that he has gone.

"CJ? Hello?" She hears. "Me and Michal are gonna head to our room. Are you staying?"

"Oh, umm, yeah I actually wanna stay." She brings her gaze back to Gemma, being met with a wide-eyed expression from her best friend. Cassidy just shrugs. "I'm having fun."

"Wow!" Gemma chuckles. "Okay! Well, I'll see you tomorrow then. Have fun…"

"You too…" She replies, kissing Gemma on the cheek and sending her on her way.

She continues to stick by Lottie and Lou, but after just a few more songs, they also state that they are calling it a night.

With no one else to hang out with, Cassidy quickly decides to do the same. She walks over to the bar, intending to pull out some cash that she had previously stored in her strapless bra, but she realizes she cannot feel any there.

"Need help finding something?" She hears, a chuckle following, and she sees Harry arrive at her side.

Her entire body tenses. Why can't he just leave her alone? Why does he have to bother her?

"Piss off." She sighs, dropping her head in embarrassment at her lack of tip. "I thought… I had money."

"Oh." He replies, in a surprisingly compassionate and gentle tone. "Here."

He pulls out his wallet and hands a few notes to the bartender.

"I don't need your help."

"Clearly…" He replies, rolling his eyes.

She growls, glaring into his green eyes, remembering the way they had looked so lustful at the last after party she attended.

"Thank you." She quietly states between her teeth.

He chuckles and she turns away, taking a few steps before she feels her body being guided to a dark corner of the room.

Harry turns her around to face him, as she backs up to the wall. It was an attempt to get some distance, which she immediately realizes is a failure as he steps closer.

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

"Me?" She gasps at the audacity, and irony, of him calling her that. "You're joking!"

He keeps silent, keeping his gaze locked on her, as if she'd disappear once he moved it.

"What are you doing here?" She asks in a whisper, her breath beginning to falter at keeping steady. "I thought… I thought you left with that girl."

A smirk appeared, showcasing his devilish dimple, the one every girl seems to swoon over.

"Did you miss me?"

"Get over yourself." She replies. He scoots closer, his palms pushing against the wall on either side of her head, and her breath hitches. "Whatever game you're trying to play, I don't want to participate."

"No game." He bites his lower lip, his eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting hers again. "But I think you do want to participate."

She looks down to where his eyes drop again, taking in the sight of her own hands grasping his half-buttoned shirt. It was unintentional. She pushes against his chest, only moving him back an inch, if that, and she wraps her arms across her chest.

"Leave me alone. Go back to your girl."

"Why are you so insistent that I be with her?"

"You don't want to be? 'Cause you left with her..."

"She was wasted so I walked her to the elevator." He utters, his warm breath heating her cheeks. "She wanted more, thanks to you I guess, but I didn't, so I sent a security guy with-"

"I'm surprised you actually turned someone down!"

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you." He whispers, leaving Cassidy a little unsure if she was meant to hear the statement.

Her heart races as one palm makes its way to her hip, and his eyes flicker down to her lips.

With all he's done to pester her throughout the years, this frustrates her the most. Not just that he's doing it, but that she seems to be caving in to it.

"What are you doing, Harry?" She utters, unable to produce much volume, and also not wanting to grab attention from anyone else.

"Whatever you want me to do." He smirks, his hand slowly moving over her hip and to her thigh, where he begins to play with the hem of her mini dress. "Stop me if you don't."

She exhales a shaky breath, all heat and sensation rushing to her core. Her hands grip his biceps, feeling the muscles contract under her touch. She's definitely caving to it.

His fingers slide under her dress, just enough to grasp onto her upper thigh and begin playing with the hem of her panties, running his fingers along the fabric. She bites her lower lip and moves her hands up to his shoulders, weaving her fingers into his hair. He smirks, pushing her panties aside, and he glides two fingers along her folds, drawing a hiss from her lips.

"Harry…" She whines, squirming at the need for more.

"Not yet. Not here." He whispers, removing his fingers from under her dress and bringing them to his lips, sucking on them slowly. She swallows to clear the lump in her throat in an attempt to compose herself.

"Wanna leave?" He asks, exactly like at the last after party, a sultry deepness to his tone.

And just like the last time, she finds herself nodding.

•••

"I've been wanting to get this dress off you all night." Harry mumbles, sliding his hands up her thighs as she straddles him on the couch in his hotel suite.

"All night?"

Her question is met with his lips on her collarbone, and her dress being pushed over her hips to her waist. She grabs the hem and pulls it off the rest of the way, smirking at the way Harry's eyes widen with desire as he looks over her body.

"Fucking beautiful." He pants out, subtly bucking his hips up, and she gasps at the feeling of how hard he is under her. She reaches down and unbuttons his pants, propping herself up as he slides them down his legs.

She stands up, removing her own panties, and he quickly plucks a small square package out of the wallet in his jean pocket. She unclasps her bra and watches as he pulls down his briefs, releasing his big, thick cock from its confines.

His gaze snaps up to her, his lips pulled inward.

"Are you sure?" He questions quietly, almost as if he's afraid her answer has changed. Of course he wouldn't be used to rejection, but she's not exactly in the mood to be the first one to do it. They've come this far, she isn't really considering turning back now.

She grabs the condom packet and rips it open between her teeth, stroking the latex down his length before returning to her spot on his lap.

Her lips return to his neck, his hands returning to her waist, and she guides herself down slowly onto his cock.

"Oh my god." She whispers into his shoulder, slowing down even more to adjust to how much he's already stretching her out.

They both let out a breath once he's fully inside of her.

"Bloody hell, Cass. You feel so good." He mumbles, throwing his head back against the couch as she begins to grind. "So… fucking good."

She pulls back to watch his face melt with pleasure, her hands traveling through his hair with a tight grip, extracting a deep moan from his chest. He brings one palm up to the back of her head and brings her closer, pressing his lips to hers. His tongue pushes between them, and swirls with hers in parallel motions.

The moans leaving her lips are reciprocated by his, along with some pushing up of his hips, deepening himself inside of her.

"Harry… h-hard."

"What?"

"I want you to… to fuck me… hard." She almost whines. If she were in any other mindset, she might think she was pathetic, but all she can focus on at this moment is just how good she's feeling. How good Harry is making her feel, and how she just wants more.

"Fuck. Okay." He moans out. "I'll do anything… anything you want, Cass."

He thrusts up into her more vigorously, holding her down by her hips, getting a lot deeper than he'd been before.

"Oh god. Yes. Harry that's-" She moans out. "That's it."

"Fuck, I love that… you moaning my name."

"Harry, I'm… I'm…"

"Show me." He states against her skin. "Come on, Cass. Show me how good I'm making you feel!"

His way with words is impeccable, because his statement, along with him moaning her name, sends her over the edge. The pleasure of her orgasm ripples through her entire body, feeling better than any she's had before.

"Harry! Oh god!"

He thrusts up even harder and faster, grunting with every motion as he stares down to where their bodies meet.

As she catches her breath, she kisses along his shoulder, up his neck, and nibbles at his earlobe. She feels him squeeze her hips tighter and smiles as she feels his body tense.

"Fuck! Cassidy!" He exclaims, slamming into her one more time before she feels him throbbing inside of her.

His head drops backwards to the couch, and her face nuzzles into his neck, as they both come down from their high. Panting is the only sound left in the now quiet room.

"Wanna stay the night again?" Harry chuckles, and Cassidy is suddenly brought back to the realization that she just had sex, for a second time, with Harry. Her biggest annoyance, Harry. Gemma's brother, Harry. A member of One Direction, Harry Styles.

She feels his hands gently rubbing up and down her arms, snapping her back to the present, just enough for her to realize that her breathing has become shallow again.

Because sitting on top of Harry, with his cock still inside her, after amazing sex, is the perfect time for an anxiety attack.

"Hey… Cass…" He whispers, taking her chin with one hand and directing her to look at him. "Y'alright?"

A deep frown forms on his face as his eyes flicker all over hers. She's unsure if she's ever seen that expression on him before. It's always been one of mischief, because that's who he is. Not this.

She feels so stupid. And embarrassed. She isn't better than any other girl that has or will drop their pants at the sight of his seductive smirk, or his entrancing gaze, or his overwhelmingly thick charm. In fact, she's worse, because she actually knows better. She knows him, how he teases and tortures her, how his arrogance alone could be the fifth member of One Direction now. She knows how he figures he can win over any girl he wants, and that he actually does most of the time. She knows better than to be that girl. Except, she's not.

"CJ!" She is pulled out of her thoughts by the nickname. He's never called her that before. Only the closest people in her life ever use it- her own mum, Gemma, and Anne. Never once has Harry. Because they've never been that close. But now that he's been inside of her, he thinks he knows her that well?

"Cassidy… look at me." His finger moves her face again, finally grabbing her full attention, even though it's through blurred vision from the sudden lightheadedness. "Breathe with me, yeah? Inhale for ten. Then exhale for ten."

He may think he knows her now but she definitely doesn't feel like she knows him anymore. Concerned? Caring? It's not how she knows him, but she acknowledges it's how she needs him right now, so she breathes with him.

"... and exhale for ten." He utters, his eyes still fixed on hers as they breathe out together, one hand on her back and one tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Better?"

She gives a quick nod before abruptly standing up, causing them both to hiss at the sensitive motion. Her breath may be steady but her thoughts are not. Everything feels so complicated and uncertain. She hates not knowing what's going on, she hates feeling out of control. She's had enough of that in her life already.

She gathers her clothes and redresses quickly, avoiding any eye contact as Harry does the same, almost in a panic himself.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks quietly, arriving at her side as she attempts to move to the door.

"Umm… yeah." She manages. "I'm just gonna go."

"You don't have to." He replies, reaching out and gently grabbing the hand that's not holding the door handle. "Please stay."

"I don't think-"

"I'd…" He runs his free hand through his hair, and displays another expression she has never seen before. If she could clear her head, she might be able to decipher whether it actually is what it looks like. Because it looks timid, and almost insecure. "I'd feel better if you stayed. Just so I know you're okay."

"I'm fine Harry." She replies, flickering her gaze up for a moment in an attempt to persuade him.

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong…"

If her brain wasn't swirling enough, his sudden change in demeanor is not helping in the least.

"No. I just… I think it's better if… I just go." She mumbles. He softly squeezes the hand in his hold and leans down to place a kiss on her cheek, sending more sparks throughout her body and more thoughts to swirl around her head. She opens the door and walks out, turning around before it comes to a close, and being met with a solemn expression. "Goodnight, Harry."

•••

A knock on the door late at night would've normally woken her up, but tonight she has had no sleep. After leaving Harry's room, and arriving at her own, she almost wished she were with him again as she felt another anxiety attack threaten to appear.

A shower and change of clothes helped to calm her, but not calm her enough, so she was able to hop right out of bed when she heard a subtle, rhythmic noise on the hotel door.

She cautiously cracks it open, considering the time of night. Or morning at this point.

A figure, adorned with a hoodie and shorts, leans with one hand against the doorframe. He lifts his head slowly, tired eyes clearly visible even through her own sleepy vision.

"I couldn't sleep." Harry mumbles. "M'sorry. I needed to know you were okay."

Her heart flutters, even with all the knowledge she has of how he normally is, the concern was too flattering to ignore. She reaches for his hand and walks backwards, pulling him inside her room. The door closes behind them and she walks him to her bed, lifting the covers so they can both slide in. It's not the first time they've slept in the same room. Every time she stayed the night for a sleepover with Gemma, he had found a way and a reason to sneak down there. Most of the time, it was to execute a practical joke. But there were a few times they had awoken to him sleeping on the couch across from them in the living room.

Plus, she stayed with him the last time they had sex.

As they both settle in, she feels a warm arm rest across her waist, and she scoots back to nestle into his frame. For the first time that night, since getting back to her room, she felt some peace, as well as her eyes becoming heavy with sleep.

•••

Cassidy blinks awake as the room becomes a shade brighter, and looks over to find an empty spot next to her. She shouldn't be surprised, and she isn't, but that doesn't stop a mild amount of disappointment from creeping in.

That is until she registers the shower turning off. Harry is still there? Harry is still there.

The bathroom door opens and she props herself up to see his tall, toned, and tattooed body half wrapped in a towel, with his hair styled up in a bun.

"Morning." He states with a smirk, probably noticing the way her eyes travel up and down his frame. "Sleep well?"

The shock in her system prevents words from forming, but still functions well enough to respond with a nod.

"Good."

"W-what are you-"

"I ordered breakfast. My shout, don't worry. Hopefully you still like crepes."

Her brain is still having a hard time processing the fact that he didn't just leave. Not only has he stayed and ordered breakfast, but he ordered something she used to eat with his family years ago, before his journey to fame even began.

"Yeah, I do. Thanks."

"No problem." He replies, walking over to the bag he brought the night before, and rifling through before pulling out some sweats and a shirt.

"Harry… what are you still doing here?"

He turns around to face her, a clear frown on his face, as if offended by her question. It shouldn't be unreasonable for her to wonder. He's sure to have had plenty of one night stands before, and usually those don't include breakfast the next morning.

"I couldn't just leave you. That'd be rude."

Cassidy's head drops with a bit of guilt for questioning him, though she still does feel a little justified considering his reputation. But the fact that he is still standing in her room causes another flutter and she pushes away her assumptions.

She opens her mouth, not exactly sure what she wants to say, but is interrupted by a knock on the door. She sits up on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest, as Harry opens the door and wheels in a food cart.

"I know you don't have a proper table…" He states, wheeling the cart to the edge of the bed and patting the mattress for her to scoot up there. "But I figured this might work."

She bites her bottom lip, unintentionally, and moves to sit next to him. He removes the lids from the plates and takes a bow.

"Bonjour!" He exclaims, in his best attempt at a fake French accent. Cassidy lets out a giggle, thankful she didn't already have a bite of food in her mouth.

"I think you mean… bon appetit!"

"That's what I said." He smirks, taking a seat next to her on the bed. "Bon appetit."

•••

The TV becomes background noise throughout their breakfast. Much to Cassidy's surprise, Harry quickly initiated conversation, and it was easy to talk to him. Even more to her surprise, she liked it. They talked about many of the things she and Gemma have talked about over the years. They talked like friends.

"Nope, never been to New York. I've never even been further than London!"

"Really?"

"My parents… don't exactly travel. Only my dad, for work." She shakes her head, dropping it a little before covering up her sadness with a smile. "Maybe one day I'll get there."

"You've already got the look." He chuckles, his gaze dropping to her lips.

"What?"

"You've got a little…" He brushes his finger under his nose, but she shakes her head, not understanding. He brings his thumb up to her cupid's bow, gently rubbing it along her skin, and causing a spark to run over her skin. "Got a little white powder under your nose."

"Oh my god!" She lets out in a breathy laugh, her lungs still regaining their function after the surprise of his gesture. She stands to reach across the food cart for a napkin, but stops when she feels his hand wrapping around hers.

She faces him and gazes into his gentle green eyes. She's never seen the speckles of different shades laced throughout them before. He pulls her close, her body between his legs, and brings his palm up to run his thumb against her cheek. He gathers up the remaining sugar and brings his thumb to his mouth, sticking out his tongue to slowly lick it off.

"You forgot a bit." He whispers. Everything he has just done makes her heated and dizzy. She bites her lower lip, caving again. She doesn't want to admit it, but she can understand how girls fall for him so easily. Apparently, she's no exception, and she's not about to start dissecting all of that right now. No, right now she wants to cave even more.

Her hands come up to cup his own cheeks, and she moves forward, leaning down and stopping in front of his lips.

"You're gonna pay for that." She whispers back, pressing their lips together the most minimal amount before pulling back.

Harry runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, and grabs her hips to pull her in even closer. He lets out a low growl, sending shivers down her spine and the building heat to rush to her core.

His hands slowly glide up to her waist, and as he begins to tug her onto his lap, a knock sounds at the door with a loud statement of his name.

"For fucks sake." He grumbles, letting out a heavy exhale through his nose. He squeezes her waist, having her step back so he can stand up. His breath hits her face and eyes flicker to her lips. Then another knock.

"Alright!" He shouts towards the door, turning back to her with a frown on his face. Not anger, but disappointment. "I'll, umm, see you at Christmas, yeah?"

She smiles. Every Christmas morning is spent at her house, but the afternoon and evenings are spent at the Styles household. It's always where she would rather to be, and this year is no different. She tries not to entertain the thought that it might be even more this year.

"Would never miss it." She replies, matching the sudden grin that appears on his face.

[ present - Dec 2019 ]

So, she wasn't stupid once, she was stupid twice. She let her guard down, she pushed aside every single moment that he had frustrated or pestered her during the many years they have known each other, and she let her body make all the decisions.

She hears the cheers from the crowd and tilts her head down from the upper level where she stands, to view the stage, seeing Harry walk out and give a little wave before grabbing his guitar.

Seeing him, after all this time, causes a storm of emotions so strong that it almost causes her to stumble. His hair is different, and his clothing style is different, but it is still Harry. The smug, self-centered Harry that flustered and frustrated her more than anyone else. The Harry that charmed his way into bed with her. Twice. But worst of all, due to the stupidest and most dangerous thing she did with him, he is the Harry that she allowed to charm his way into her heart too. Which means, he is also the Harry who left her feeling like a fool.

[ flashback - Dec 2015 ]

Christmas morning always comes with mixed emotions. The usual ones coming from her own family- from some nice quiet time with her mum in the morning to her father's obnoxious behavior after a few splashes of whiskey are added to his coffee. Those are normal, and unfortunately, expected.

The other ones, the new ones, are coming from the anticipation of what the afternoon with the Styles will look like. She and Harry haven't talked since he left that morning from her hotel room. Eleven days, but she won't admit she has been counting.

"Where the hell you goin?" Cassidy's dad asks, words already a little slurred. She rolls her eyes as her back is turned to him, under the disguise of simply grabbing her coat from the rack near the front door.

"To the Styles house."

"They seem like good people."

Taken back by his complimentary comment, she looks over to her dad. "Yeah. They are."

"M'surprised they let you over then. Better than you being here 'nnoying me though…"

There it is. His true nature. The reason she hates being at home and finds refuge at her best friend's house. That place never fails her.

She simply replies with a scoff as she exits the door, not even bothered by the sharp cold that hits her immediately. And thankfully, she's only walking a block away.

•••

"Crashing our Christmas again?" Harry asks as she walks into the kitchen of the Styles home. She rolls her eyes at the typical Harry statement. She can't tell if she is relieved at the normalcy or a bit put off by everything being brushed off.

"Yeah, well, you're never home, so someone has to fill that 'second child' spot." She quips back, noticing a subtle smirk appear on his face as she walks closer to grab a glass of water.

She takes a sip, and sees Harry scanning the room, before leaning down to her ear. His warm breath on her skin causes her stomach to tighten from nervousness.

"Maybe there's another spot I can fill."

Cassidy throws her hand over her mouth to stop spitting everything out across the kitchen counter, trying to also hold back a cough from the shock of such a tantilizating statement.

"Piss off, Harry."

"Aww, come on, it's the season of giving!" He chuckles, low and deep, teasing and mischievous.

"Give it to someone else." She instantly replies, unintentionally out of her instinct to squabble with him. Regret covers her as his brow furrows and he stands up straighter, all flirtatious demeanor having immediately disappeared. "Sorry, I-"

"I was only teasing, Cass. Like usual." He brushes past her and heads to the living room, where everyone else is gathered.

That response really wasn't intentional. It was how she was used to acting around him. Well, before the nights spent together at the after parties. She isn't entirely sure what her plan was when she came over, or what exactly her feelings are, but if things have gone back to normal for him, then that's where it ends. Whether she wants it that way or not.

She sighs and joins the rest of the group, giving Anne and Robin hugs before taking the only empty spot to sit. Of course, it's right next to Harry, and with the way these things usually go, that's where she'll be for most of the night.

•••

After a few rounds of playing 'Family Feud: Home Edition', which Cassidy, Harry, and Robin won, it's time for the wonderful feast Anne has prepared.

That's what Robin calls it at least. In reality, it's a few homemade pizzas, but she'd consider anything a luxury while she's there. Plus, they really are delicious.

"Are you doing anything extravagant for New Year's Eve?" She asks Anne.

"Actually, yes, we've been invited to go along with Harry on a yacht to… somewhere tropical…" She replies, lifting her shoulders and smiling with excitement.

"St. Barts." Harry adds with a mumble, his eyes and fingers suddenly infatuated with the toppings on his pizza.

"That sounds lovely! Who invited you?"

"Kris Jenner. And… Kendall will be there too, right Harry?" Anne asks.

She can just make out Harry's quick glance over in her direction, out of the corner of her own eye.

"Yeah." He replies.

Her chest begins to tighten a little. She knows who Kendall is, of course. She's beautiful, and famous, and is rumoured to have been dating Harry at one point. She isn't sure if that's totally accurate, but either way, she knows their families are close.

"Well… it sounds fun." She replies, giving her best attempt at a genuine smile as Harry glances more obviously towards her.

"Speaking of New Year's Eve, CJ…" Gemma states, catching the attention of the both of them. "Michal and I aren't going on that trip. We're thinking of going to a big bash with some other friends. Want to come?"

"Oh, umm… I was kind of planning to just bunker down at home, to be honest."

She notices a small smile appear on Harry's face, as if he's pleased she won't be mingling with others. As if he has the right to feel that way. There's the arrogance she's used to.

"You know… that guy you met… Nathan? I guess he's been asking about you." Michal states, and she could swear she hears Harry groan.

"What? Really?"

"Yeah. Heard it through a friend of a friend. And he's going to be there…" Michal replies, wiggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Just come with us. At the very least, you can hang out with us and won't be home alone at your house."

Gemma does make a good point. Cassidy's parents usually go out with their own friends, and of course her dad comes home extremely drunk. She could avoid those next few hours that he fumbles around the house yelling, and get home once he's asleep.

"Okay, okay. I'll go." She agrees.

Harry chuckles quietly and shakes his head, getting up from his spot to head to the kitchen. He's back to his normal, annoying self.

Everyone begins to chat among themselves, so Cassidy takes the pause in activities to use the restroom.

Before the door is closed completely, it stops, and is pulled back open for her to see Harry standing on the other side.

"What's your problem with me using the fucking toilet?" She asks, frustratedly.

He exhales a strong breath from his nose, his expression stern, causing her nerves to peek. She's astonished that her new reaction to him is so intensely physical.

His eyes flicker down to her lips, letting out another strong exhale, and sending a heat to her cheeks. He leans closer and she closes her eyes, not even thinking before preparing herself for a kiss.

"Oh god, is there a line for the toilet?" She hears from the hallway, and they both look over to see Gemma there with her hands on her hips. "I'll use the one upstairs!"

She walks away and Harry looks back at Cassidy.

"I have to use the toilet." She whispers, dropping her gaze to the ground.

He doesn't respond. Simply scoffs, stands up straighter, and walks off.

After doing her business, she opens the door back up, partially expecting Harry to be there waiting to continue their conversation. If it could be called that. But he wasn't there. She walks to the living to rejoin the group and sees Harry back in his spot on the couch, pressed up against the armrest he's been next to.

She sits down again, turning towards the television, as their next tradition begins. Watching 'Love Actually'.

An actual shiver runs over her skin and she looks around for an extra blanket, only to find that there are none left. She sighs softly, but looks to her side as she hears Harry clear his throat. She meets his gaze, now much more gentle, and he motions for her to share his. It's big enough to stretch across both of their laps, so she grabs the half that he offers and whispers a 'thank you' to him.

She turns back to the movie and feels a tug on the fabric. She looks back to Harry and notices him pulling the blanket gently back towards himself with a smile. Of course he wants it back. Playing a practical joke. Selfish prick. She frowns and begins to hand it over, but he shakes his head.

"Scoot over a bit if you need to." He whispers. She fails to hold back from biting her lower lip, and is unable to prevent the blush rushing to cover her face. She moves the minimal amount to stay undetected by others, and he readjusts the blanket to fully cover them both.

Just as she settles in, Harry scoots even further towards the armrest, putting the distance she had just removed back between them, but still allowing her some extra covering on her lap.

This guy is annoying and confusing and she hates it. At least everything else is comfortable. She's always felt that way there.

•••

The first thing Cassidy notices is the loud noises of laughter filling the room. The second, after multiple blinks of her eyelids, is an episode of Friends playing across from her. And then she senses a dark, sultry fragrance close by.

She turns her head to see Harry, his eyes fixated on the show, half of a smile across his face, and his green eyes glimmering from the reflection off of the television.

She's curled up into his chest, his arm is resting behind her, and his fingers are gently stroking her shoulder. Shocking herself, she realizes she likes it. Really likes it. And even debates pretending that she is still asleep so that she can enjoy it even more, even longer.

"You're staring." He mutters, eyes still directed away from her. Her breath leaves her body, as if completely knocked out of her. She doesn't even know how long she has been looking at him, not that she necessarily regrets it, but now that she is caught, she feels embarrassed. And vulnerable.

"Because you have pizza sauce on your face."

He doesn't.

"Well…" He finally turns to her, eyes regaining the lustful undertone that she's seen a few times before. "Are you gonna get it off?"

If it was actually there, yes. Yes, she would.

"You can pick how you do it…" He adds, his famous dimple sinking in deeply with the extreme smirk he's displaying.

"Do it yourself."

"That's not as much fun." His tongue runs along the inside of his mouth, and she realizes his fingers are still grazing her skin, maybe with a little more pressure now.

"You're obnoxious."

"Maybe. But you didn't seem to mind when you were cuddling me."

"I was asleep."

"You were playing with my hair." He licks his lips and his eyes quickly dart down to hers momentarily.

"Well…" She takes a deep breath. "I'll admit, just this once, that you do have good hair…"

He smirks, quickly peering down to her lips again, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She tries to gulp down the lump in her throat, becoming less and less able to compose herself and keep her guard up around him. How did she stand her ground for so long, and why is it all of a sudden crumbling so easily, out of her control?

He suddenly straightens up, dropping his hand and pulling back his arm. She doesn't have to wait long to discover why, as she hears footsteps coming from the other room. She immediately scoots back from him and shoots her head towards the sound, seeing her best friend walk in from around the corner.

"Hey Sleeping Beauty!" She chuckles, looking over in Cassidy's direction, hopefully not seeing her fidgeting and accumulating a small amount of sweat on her forehead. "Are you gonna stay the night?"

"Oh. I… umm…" She quickly looks over to Harry, an unreadable expression across his face. It's not exactly helpful.

"You can take my room… if you want…" He suggests, letting her feel some relief from not having an answer. And then she feels flustered, like she has plenty of times with him, especially recently. Relief, flustered, and then very aware that Gemma is standing in the kitchen waiting for an answer.

"Thank you." She meets Gemma's mildly confused and curious gaze, bringing Cassidy back to the reality of what this situation is.

Gemma is her best friend, and Harry's sister. And Harry isn't just Harry. He is Harry Styles of One Direction. He has a busy and extravagant life. He most likely, and unfortunately, has girls across the globe. He is beautiful, and desirable. And she is just Cassidy. The girl he grew up with, who was always hanging around his house. The girl he bugged and pestered constantly. The girl he played mind games with by pretending to flirt with her, just to be annoying. And probably, also, just his hometown hookup.

"But… I think I should get home."

"Okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow, and give you more details about that party."

For the second time since she's been there, Harry groans over the subject of her attending that New Year's Eve party.

Gemma walks out and Cassidy turns back to Harry. His gaze has dropped and his expression has turned down along with it.

"You sure you don't wanna stay?" He mutters, a sincere look in his eyes.

"I… yeah, I don't want my mum to worry." She sighs. She'll call it self-preservation, running home right now. Ironically, that's the one place she usually runs from.

"At least let me walk you back."

She nods, sitting there a few seconds longer to gaze at him, before getting up from the couch and gathering her belongings.

Harry helps her put on her coat, and does the same, then ushers her outside into the cold. This time, for Cassidy, the bite of the air isn't a relief like it was when she exited her own home.

"So… umm…" Harry starts as the begin to walk, his arms across his chest to keep himself warm, her own body doing the same thing. "You're, umm, working for POPSUGAR now, right?"

"Yeah. Junior writer." She simply replies. It's not exactly the biggest thing to brag about. Especially not to him. Plus, Gemma was a reference, so she's sure that helped her get the job.

"Is it local?" He asks quietly, turning to make eye contact.

"Umm… yeah. Well, I mean, I go to London a few times a month for meetings, but I mostly write from home."

She notices him pull his lips inward, seemingly to hide a smile, which he is failing at.

"That's awesome." He clears his throat. "I'll be 'round here for a bit, and a friend is planning a birthday party for me next month. Maybe… we can hang out sometime?"

Her heart skips a beat and her thoughts begin to race. This is so confusing, he is so confusing. She honestly never thought she'd be in this situation. She actually told herself she never would be. It's Harry, for crying out loud. But here she is, feeling a small flutter of butterflies in her stomach at his suggestion of seeing her again. But it's also complicated. Again, it's Harry. Enough said.

"Umm… maybe." That's about as good of an answer as she can give at the moment.

They reach the front door of her parent's house, and she turns her body to face his, her eyes only flickering up for a few seconds to catch a couple glimpses of him.

"Hm." He responds, picking at his lower lip. "Was kind of hoping for more than a maybe."

"I just don't know."

"Is it because of your New Year's Eve plans?"

"What? No. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, because you're going on a date."

"It's not a date. It's just a party. And why do you care? You're going on vacation with a supermodel…" Frustration begins to build.

"Our families are just spending time together. Plus, those plans were made before we-"

He points to her but goes silent, instantly dropping his hand. Her anxiety peaks and her eyes go wide. Would he not have gone if it wasn't already scheduled? Because of her? No. First of all, choosing her over Kendall fucking Jenner is a ridiculous thought. And besides, two hookups doesn't mean he's suddenly interested in her, at least not in any capacity that has more significance than sex. And if it does, it's probably not possible to indulge in. Gemma would probably flip! It would be too weird and she couldn't do that to her best friend. It keeps coming back to all of that. So as much as she may want to even entertain the idea, it's probably not a good one.

Even if she does want it to be more, he is Harry Styles. And that comes with so many implications and complications on its own. For fucks sake, she doesn't even know how he feels about her.

"Tell me why you don't want to." He interrupts her thoughts, catching her so off guard that she doesn't have a good enough answer for him.

"I don't know… I don't know what you want from me…"

"I just want to hang out!"

"Why?"

"Really? Are you-... Bloody hell, this is exhausting! Nevermind!" He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. His eyes snap up to hers and she's met with a deep, intense frown. "Have fun at the fucking party, Cass."

She turns away and grabs the door handle. A sigh comes from behind her so she swivels back around. Her own frown is met by his. "And have fun on your fucking vacation."

[ flashback - Jan 2016 ]

Sitting at the large table, waiting for the office meeting to start, someone takes the seat next to Cassidy with a beaming smile.

"What's going on?" She chuckles, looking down at the papers in her coworker Roxie's hands.

"I'm buzzing! I got assigned an amazing story to cover!" She exclaims, practically bouncing in her chair. "You're friends with Harry Styles, right?"

Her heart stops. Or is it racing? She's not even able to fully comprehend her reaction, because all she can focus on is what Roxie could possibly have written about.

"Sort of. Sure… why?"

The article is placed on the table, right in front of her. She tries to quickly skim it over, attempting to gather the important information, but her vision quickly becomes blurry. She doesn't need to read the entire article. The headline tells her everything she needs to know.

HARRY STYLES AND KENDALL JENNER GET COZY ON A YACHT

Series Masterlist

•••

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