#he looks so dead to the world in the first one

[bowtiepasta]

lovesick!sukuna who is so head over heels for you in the modern world — he’s embarrassed.

not of you, of course. just of being thousands of years old and falling for a mere mortal. still, if it’s the world you want, he’ll push it right into your palm. it’s yours.

he groans and rolls his eyes when you ask him to do something, like grabbing groceries or holding your bag while you try on clothes. but he does it anyway.

if you really pay attention, you’ll catch him absentmindedly organizing things in your kitchen or fixing things around the house when he thinks you’re asleep. you basically domesticated him, lol.

acts like he doesn’t care about the modern world, but the first time you so much as trip on a sidewalk crack, he’s giving the pavement a look like he’s considering razing the whole city to the ground. someone makes you uncomfortable in public? as good as dead.

and if you ever tell him you love him, he freezes for half a second before covering it up with a cocky smirk — as if the words don’t shake him to his core.

he also pretends he’s above technology but is secretly obsessed. he calls your phone stupid, but later, you catch him swiping through the photos in your gallery — pausing too long on the ones of you. somehow you get tagged in anonymous accounts posting cryptic threats towards anyone who comments under your instagram posts. (he’ll never admit it’s him.)

[softtdaisy]

in the meantime / Aaron Hotchner

summary. when hotch gets hurt, you're called as his emergency contact. thing is, nobody knows you're not together anymore.

words count. 2 336

what to expect. a little angst I guess but fluff too, Jack is mentioned but he's a teen

a/n. I first imagined this very funny and light and I ended up adding more angst??? but it's still sweet and cute and hotch is a lover boy

F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

When you got called at school, at first, you didn’t think it could be that moment you’ve been scared of for months finally happening.

Being a kindergarten teacher, it was easy to leave your class and ask for a colleague to take care of your children. They were all occupied with creating a new poster with their names and wouldn't even notice your absence. Well, you imagine they wouldn’t because you weren’t supposed to leave for too long.

“Do you know who’s asking for me?” you asked the principal’s assistant who came for you. He was one of your friends here, so you knew how to analyze his gesture. And from how fast he was walking right now, you could tell this was more serious than you first thought.

“Well, she’s a brunette, dressed in black.” He stopped in the middle of the hallway to think for a second. Trying hard to remember what her name could be. Thing was, you didn’t know that many brunettes, dressed in black that could authorize herself to come here. “I think her name is Emily or something like that.”

You stopped in the middle of the hallway, freezing. 

You appreciated Emily. You would even call her a friend, even if you only knew her through Hotch. But you barely talked outside of the moment you spent together. 

Getting a call from her would have been weird. Having her come to your school wasn’t normal at all.

Yet, here she was. Waiting in the principal’s office. Indeed, she was wearing an all-black outfit but mostly wearing a concerned expression on her face.

When you opened the door, she rushed to you, interrupting her conversation. Her hand was soon on your shoulder and her eyes were locked on yours. You found some comfort in it. The problem was, you had no idea why you needed it.

“What are you doing here, Emily?” you asked, whispering like it was some secret the rest of your colleagues or your superior didn’t need to know. Which was true, somehow. “Is everything alright?” 

But you knew it wasn’t. And the three words that followed were the proof. “It’s Hotch.”

Your heart dropped, and the whole world went silent. 

You’ve spent months afraid of hearing these words one day. Checking your phone multiple times a day, waiting for his text to make sure he was doing fine. There were moments when you would have the same nightmares of coming home to an empty house, sometimes with more graphic images you wished you could forget.

When Emily noticed you seemed to disconnect from reality, she put her other hand on your shoulder. “He’s ok,” she added. 

“I don’t know how, but the unsub managed to stab him in the stomach. He lost a lot of blood and went to surgery, but he should be fine. Spencer told me he was waking up when he arrived here, you heard Emily explain, but her voice seemed like a distant melody.

You tried to focus on the good news, that Hotch was fine. As fine as he can be after an attack that probably woke up some trauma, but fine. Not dead. Not in danger. Fine. 

You took a breath and nodded to accept the information you just got. And showing Emily that you listened, that you understood what she said. 

It wasn’t until you managed to keep your stress as low as possible that the question popped up in your head. “You came all the way here to tell me?”

Emily looked at you with confusion. 

“Well, you’re his girlfriend and his emergency contact. And you weren’t answering your phone. I thought it would be better to bring you to the hospital myself than let you learn about that later by yourself.”

That was the moment you understood why Emily chose to drive all the way here.

Hotch didn’t tell anyone you weren’t together anymore.

Dating Hotch was easy, more than people thought it was.

He was a great listener. He loved to hear you speak about everything in your life just as much as he loved paying attention to small details. Offering your favorite flowers, having your favorite artist in his car, and sending a text about important events at your job even when he was miles and miles away. 

You could tell Hotch was working on the experience he got from his past relationship and all that he still had to learn to be a good partner for you. And he was doing a wonderful job on it.

This relationship did a lot of good for him too. With Jack being a teen and less with his dad, he finally felt like he had a new purpose to come back home. Hotch learned to love opening his door again. This time not being met by the silence. But by you, with some kind of reality TV on, reading a book on a sofa he almost forgot about before seeing you on it—not to mention the memories the both of you created on it. You made him feel loved. At his place but at every place in his life too.

For a year, you two have been the happiest and did everything to make this relationship work. Even the team noticed the change in Hotch’s personality. And after multiple drinks together, you started to call them friends too. You both loved the routine you created together. 

But even with the brightest sun shining on your relationship, the truth was the stress was still there. His job was anxious, to you, but to him too. Having someone to care about in his life once again made Hotch concerned about losing you. He tended to be more protective after rough cases, sometimes leaning to some controlling behavior he hated as much as you did.

The disputes became more and more recurrent. And after another fight, you both decided that maybe you needed a moment away from each other to wonder if this was really worth it. You wanted Aaron Hotchner to be the love of your life; you really did. Just as he wanted to. But was it really the life you both wanted?

It was a hard month away from him; you won’t lie.

And knowing you almost lost him was even hard.

“Let’s go,” you finally replied. And the ride to the hospital was surprisingly calm.

The few times you saw Emily, you both kept chatting for hours to the point Hotch even laughed one day about fearing she might steal you from him. But this time, there were no words. Not only because of the stress, but also because you realized you were lying to your friend because of Hotch. You haven’t seen him in a month, having no idea about what his life might have been these past thirty days. And she was great at worming information out of you. So you would rather not say a thing instead of spilling a secret.

The whole drive to the hospital felt like a fever dream. And nothing could have prepared you for the overwhelming feeling you got when you opened the door. A mix of relief and stress.

Hotch was there, indeed. Underneath a white sheet that made his skin look even paler, with dark circles bigger than the last time you saw him and a tired expression that made you wish you could do anything to let him relax and rest for at least a month.

He was facing the window and only turned his head when he heard you coming in. And the confusion replaced the tiredness on his face. Yet, you still noticed the short smile that drew on his lips when he saw you. “What are you doing here?”

His tone was sweet. Sweeter than usual. No matter how down he was, Hotch took everything in him to make you feel welcome. He didn’t want you to question your presence here or to think he was questioning it. He was glad to see your face after the awful day he had. Yet, he was still wondering why you came. After a month apart, he thought you put him aside. 

Deep down, Hotch had the feeling he was easy to forget. But you weren’t. You never felt his head or his heart.

You didn’t answer his question. You couldn’t even talk. You were just focused on the silhouette of the man that shared your life these past months, lying on this hospital bed, looking so fragile.

You walked to him, as close as you could. So close that your knees bumped in the bed without you realizing it. You couldn’t resist the need to brush his hair, putting away some strands that were on his forehead. His confused and drained eyes follow each one of your moves.

“Honey?” he asked again, reaching for your hand. 

When you were together, not a day went by—except for those when he was away—where you wouldn’t hold hands. In the morning, when he was getting up, you tried to keep him with you a little longer. During breakfast, while he was drinking his coffee. When he said goodbye, kissing you before putting a kiss on your entangled hands. Or when you went to sleep, cuddling, with your hands on your stomach—or his, when he needed it after a rough day.

“You didn’t tell them we broke up,” you said in a low voice. It was the first time you said it out loud but also realized what it meant. And having Hotch in front of you, calling you by the nickname that followed you your whole relationship and caressing your hand with his thumb softly, helped see the truth behind that. “Emily came and picked me up because I’m your emergency contact, and I wasn’t answering my phone, and as your girlfriend, she assumed I needed to know. Because you didn’t tell anyone we weren’t together anymore.”

You finally landed your eyes on his, losing yourself in his baffled puppy look. “You’re right, I didn’t.” Hotch said. It was the first time since you came in that you noticed his voice was a little raspy. “And I’m glad it led you here.” 

You could hear the sincerity in his voice, not that you doubted he meant it. Over a year, you’ve learned to recognize Hotch’s expression. Especially the way his face was always softer when he was with you. Or how his very stoic and linear mouth always curled up in a smile around you.

Still, you had one question on your tongue. “Why?”

“Why am I glad?” he replied with a giggle. One that was sadly followed by a grimace. You watched as Hotch brought his other hand to his stomach to ease the pain. The doctor told him that even with the medicine, it would take him multiple days to get better. And until the stitches were gone, he wasn’t allowed to go back on the field.

But suddenly, the idea of being stuck at his office or at home wasn’t as awful as it was when he first thought about it. 

You sighed, focusing on his face rather than the wound he was clearly keeping hidden from you. “Why haven’t you told them?” 

Hotch took a second to look at you. The answer was obvious to him, to the point that there wasn’t a question to begin with. Over this past month, there was not a moment where he thought he had to make things clearer about your situation. Sure, he was a very private man, yet he never lied about you. He just kept things as they were. “Because I didn’t want it to be over.”

Hotch sat up against the headboard and motioned to you to sit on the bed with him. He moved his legs to give you space. And the heat you felt when he held your hand tighter to help you reminded you of the obvious attraction you had for him. Even after he had a terrible day. 

“Listen,” he started again with a tone that imposed on listening to him. That's not to say you weren't paying attention in the first place. “I know we made this decision together, and I respect it. And this month apart gave me the time to think about us.”

The first night coming home to an empty and silent house wasn’t easy for Hotch. He felt like he had failed again at keeping someone in his life. He hated that he lied to Jack, saying you had family obligations to explain your absence. He didn’t want his son to be disappointed about his dad's inability to maintain a great relationship.

And one day, Jack told him about a girl at school he had a crush on and everything he did to prove to her it was worth trying rather than giving up.

“I want to make things right with you.” Hotch pursued, bringing your hands to his chest. “Maybe I need to work on my perception of danger when it comes to you. And if so, I will do it. Because I want you.”

You always found it fascinating how his eyes often spoke louder than his words. And the look he was giving you right now was the best argument he could have found to prove you he meant it. Hotch loved you. And so did you. 

When a smile started to grow on your lips, also a silent answer to his silent confession, you noticed his lips curved too. Hotch let go of your hand to bring his own to your neck and move your face closer to him. But you stopped right before your lips touched.

“Maybe you should just consider not getting hurt the next time we argue.” You whispered, which made him laugh.

“Right, I’ll think about that.” He replied before finally guiding you to his lips.

Hotch never stopped believing he would get you back. So maybe he was right about not telling anyone about the breakup. 

[apoemaday]

A Myth of Devotion

by Louise Glück

When Hades decided he loved this girl he built for her a duplicate of earth, everything the same, down to the meadow, but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight, because it would be hard on a young girl to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness

Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night, first as the shadows of fluttering leaves. Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars. Let Persephone get used to it slowly. In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.

A replica of earth except there was love here. Doesn’t everyone want love?

He waited many years, building a world, watching Persephone in the meadow. Persephone, a smeller, a taster. If you have one appetite, he thought, you have them all.

Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night the beloved body, compass, polestar, to hear the quiet breathing that says I am alive, that means also you are alive, because you hear me, you are here with me. And when one turns, the other turns—

That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness, looking at the world he had constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind that there’d be no more smelling here, certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love? These things he couldn’t imagine; no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place. First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden. In the end, he decides to name it Persephone’s Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow, behind the bed. He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you’re dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

[pinkfishtank]

Back in your arms

Pairing:Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!reader

Summary:Bucky finally comes back from the blip. And he seemed to have missed you a fuck ton.

Word count:3.5k

Warnings:smut/18+mdni/hickeys/shower sex/pet names (just baby)/fingering/a little angst/dirty talk/unprotective sex/female reader/ FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT IM SORRY.

Prompts:He be missing you a lot/“can you still take it?/fluff? and smut

Author’s Note:LIKE I SAID THIS IS NEW TO ME IM NOT USED TO WRITING SMUT. But this came in mind after I saw some post on here and was like “hehehehehheehhe”. So here I was writing till 5 in the morning. Anyways enjoy and like I said I love tips and advice.

The blip was…weird, terrifying, left the world confused and scared that maybe the rapture had came.

At first it was heartbreaking to you. Bucky had just never came back home. You were confused like many others and that lead you to so many stages of denial, like someone ghosting you or faking their death. Yet you never knew when he would come back. At least you knew it wasn’t just you who had lost the people they loved.

You even went to go see the wall of the vanished, hearing it apparently had everyone’s name on there that had completely vanished from the earth. God maybe this was the rapture, No, Bucky wouldn’t have disappeared. As you thought and constantly started checking the news of any updates like a stupid paranoid freak there was nothing. It’s not like the news could say anything I’m sure they had no idea where people had went. Then you had people who were incels who tried to make up theories, saying the Daily Bugle was always telling the truth, yet trying to watch it made your head spin worse then listening to an Australian accent.

In the end there wasn’t much people could do. Either wait till there was a solution, or accept this was a way of dying weirdly peacefully without torture or pain to them.

You tried to make the most of it. Getting therapy since you probably needed it, checking in on family and friends who had also lost many of the people who they truly cared about. While you sat there waiting at your door like a pet waiting for their owner to get home; weirdly kinky.

Five fucking years, five years of this crap. Useless bullshit of saying that their loved one’s have died in the rapture. You were in denial. Constantly remind you that Bucky was out there somewhere, looking for a way out. He wasn’t one to back down, maybe? No. But it had been five years what was the point of caring anymore at trying to find a way out. Maybe they were really dead, dying on the spot and everyone was just finding their way of mourning by using different predictions or theories since not much had ever been explained on it.

Acceptance was stupid, who needed it, you didn’t. You knew he was gone what was the point of waiting here in your Apartment to hear just that little click sound of the door being unlocked by the keys you gave him. You just needed him because during the night you were scared of the dark, ya that was definitely all of it. Not that he made you feel some sort of softness that made you wanna scream into you pillow; or that whenever you’d see each other some tight warm pit in your chest had you doing flips all day long. But mostly or some dark needy part of you couldn’t forget the amount of intimacy there was. You too were basically animals around each other. Every time you saw each other it was like something primal and hazy took over your mind, body, and soul. It was like you too were hungover each other, always getting lead to bed by him, his hands in your hair either in a nice soft way, or in a way that left you breathless, needy, begging for him to keep pulling until tears spilled down your face. No, this was stupid. Stupid stupid stupid lovey dovey shit he got you hooked onto like a fish before he said goodbye and went poof. And god how you wished it didn’t screw you up so much you had to start using a rose toy.

You sat on your bed, right in the middle instead of your designated side when that asshole was here. You watched some crappy reality tv show that made you think this is where people went when they were full on broke. This is really what you were doing on your Friday night; wrapped up in a big comforter snacking on anything. You got up since you were running out of snacks and you forced to pull yourself together as you walked to your fully lit kitchen, looking around at the empty space like a maniac who watched to much true crime.

Meanwhile your phone was buzzing like crazy.

As you got back you were met with newsletters you signed up for sending you a random breaking news emergency.

‘BREAKING NEWS! It seems to have been that all the sudden everyone from the snap of five years ago have been reappearing right where they were when they had left. This is not a drill people have been reappearing after all this time. Be aware of loved ones popping out of nowhere’

Oh what the fuck. No, that’s a lie this can’t all the sudden just be happening like the world just chose to bring everyone back. Yet again, it wasn’t April, as you quickly checked the date on your phone and sighed. Nope this was real this was pure fucking real shit happening right now. You looked around your room so many thoughts filling your head

What would happen if Bucky found you in this state?

Would he have changed?

Would he still like you?

Was he a zombie?

Okay now that’s just stupid. Right?

Next thing you know it you basically jumped up from your bed and started running around the room. You grabbed trash bags and threw any type of trash you found in your room, candy wrappers, soda cans, twisted tea cans, chip bags. Damn if crumbs were everywhere, you really let go when you lose someone don’t you?

It was like one of those stupid montages from a coming of age movie, music blared in your apartment as the loud sound of your vacuum seeped into the mix. The constant groans of how everywhere you looked there was a new messy problem you had to take care of by yourself. This news really just had to show up now didn’t it? Ya, to ruin your life and make you question everything. Hours and hours of cleaning while looking out at your window, then your door. Just need to hear a click, a sound of the door and you would be running to the door.

Yet after checking around the house to see if there were any more messy spots….nothing. There was nothing. Complete silence that scared you, making you run back in bed and turn on the tv again to the shitty tv. Knew it was a lie. Yet you saw so many post of people reconnecting with happiness in their eyes. That should be you. Where was Bucky? You felt like a puppy in a pound watching all the other pups get picked while you just sat there waiting for that right person to pick you up and praise you for being you. God maybe you were a pet.

It had been a week. All your friends had been reunited with their lovers and friends. When was it going to be your turn to see your man fly through that door and pick you up happy to see you for the first time in what? Five years? Or better he’d lift you up and take you to the bed, showing you how much he missed you. God you were fucked for that being one of your first thoughts. Your body tensed and ached just thinking about the stuff that would go on once he got here.

The day went on, work being…well work what were you expecting. It was boring with employees asking you the same question over and over, you trying to not lose your sanity and tell them to go ask someone else.

Yet once night set upon the city you look out the window, arms crossed as you stood there frozen in your pajamas and a little cardigan hiding any upper part of your body. Your body felt cold as your arms tightened around you like they were trying to replace Bucky’s arms when he held you, staring o ur this same big ass window; just enjoying the bliss.

‘Click.’

You were too in your head to pay attention to anything at the second. Like how your door was opening to a taller figure coming through the door looking around like the place was new.

“Baby?”

Your throat wasn’t letting you breathe, caught, like startled or surprised. You hadn’t even turned your body, not having too. That voice, deep pitched voice that filled the silence of the room. Before you could fully comprehend anything at the moment all you heard was the door carefully shut closed and the sound of step after hard step, getting closer. The air behind you made you shiver in your spine, gently stretching for a moment before the presence of familiarity was behind you lurking in for some sick joke.

“Sorry I’m late.” He whispered his voice just behind your ear, feeling the hot breath against the side of your neck. Until you finally spoke.

“Where were you?” Was that really all of what you had to stumble out of your mouth.

Bucky urged to not let his hands wander over your waist, to not pull you in so quickly. He fisted his hands up before finally speaking after one big hard sigh.

“I honestly got no fucking idea.” He murmured as he took in your full body. All he could think of was how god damn happy he was to see this body again, to have in right in front of him, and in the palm of his hands “but I missed you. Just had to get some stuff figured out before I came to see you.” He proceeded before looking down at his machine weapon hand, whatever you wanted to call his replacement to flesh.

Finally after a good couple of minutes you turned and looked at him, really looked. Seeing the way his muscular body hadn’t seemed to change, just seemed to be more worn out. Had he aged during the blip? There were so many questions going through your head yet you didn’t feel like reminding him of everything he had probably been through the night of the snap.

Before you could think of asking a soft breath left your mouth and your hand lifted up to his robotic arm. The metal cold and tired against your palm.

It was like Bucky’s arm was still there when he felt your touch. Even if that was lie and the machine was still well a machine, your touch, sense made him let out a shivery exhale. He swallowed any curses or words that would spill out and just looked up at your eyes interlocking with his.

“I know you probably have so many questions but I’d rather just enjoy this, enjoy everything curve and trace of your body I’ve been craving for so long.” He couldn’t hold his word anymore, he needed you to understand just how much of the your touch he had needed these past five years

Your breathing hitched and you bit the inside of your mouth, gnawing at the chewy flesh. It was hard not to give in, not to completely fall to your knees and become a stupid mess.

As his face got closer you could feel your breath mixing with his. They way yall looked at each other made sparks flare in each others eyes

“Have you moved on? Were you seeing anyone while I blipped with most of the world” he asked like he knew the answer, but wanted to hear come from your mouth, Hear you say those words that meant you belonged to him. Even when he was gone.

You shook your head slowly looking down and taking a moment before speaking up. “No.”

He nodded smiling a bit, taking a moment for those words to slip into his head. God it felt good to him knowing you were his.

“Join me in the shower.”

“Right now?”

“Mhm.”

And just like that he walked off expecting you to follow, in which you did. Why wouldn’t you? Your body felt warm, fuzzy, like every part of you wanted to remember that touch of his.

As yall got to the bathroom he slowly pulled off his shirt and so did you, pulling off your cardigan revealing the lacy tank top covering the bit of skin it could. As you stripped your eyes were locked on his body like a magnet or a fresh piece of meat. You looked at his arm and curiously tilted your head

“What about your arm….thingy machine.”

“Waterproof” He said firmly before continuing to strip until he was left in nothing. Both of your bare bodies. You watched as he walked into the shower and turned it on, the glass panels quick to fog up. You stood out for a moment watching as you could see him under the shower head getting his hair and body wet. Biting your lip you walked to the light switches and turned on the main light, dimming the room of only the light under the shower.

And once that was done you basically padded over to the shower, walking in before gently closing the door behind you. All you saw was the toned hard body of Bucky’s. Flexing not by command as he sighed into the relaxing heat. Next thing you know you were grabbing the body wash and gently pouring it into the palm of your hand.

“Lemme help.” You murmured as you walked behind him, your small form comparing to his tall rough one. Your hands made its way to his back and gently massaged the soap suds in. Getting every nook and cranny. All you could hear were the faint groans he let in pleasure of the heat. Bucky really didn’t wanna hurry things, but five years of pent up arousal was enough to make any man wild for his woman. With that he slowly turned looking down at your form. Taking in every beautifully curved body part of yours.

“I don’t wanna rush things.” He whispered before looking into your eyes before speaking his truth “but if you just say anything approving I will let go.”

That was enough to make your breath hitch and every part of yours body to tense up with the same arousal you had been feeling all these years. You stayed quiet for a moment trying to fully get your thoughts together before finally giving into everything you had been waiting for.

“Then let go.” You whispered and in seconds you felt those rough large hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you in like a lifeline. Like you were everything he ever wanted. As he looked down at you and took in all of you with his eyes he smiled and pushed his lips onto yours, needing to taste the sweetness of your lips. He didn’t stop, letting it start off soft and hazy, letting the passion drip into your mouth before basically devouring you. Bucky bit and nipped at your lip as you gasped into his sudden desire to make sure you knew who you belonged to, who you had been waiting for all this time.

“Is this what you’ve been needing” He asked in between him feeding his starvation

“Y-yes god yes.” You moaned as your breath hitched and lead to a little yelp but you felt his hands wander, his hot hands trailing up your back then down to your plump ass. He gave it a nice squeeze as he groaned. licking your licks, asking for permission to be let in you let out another quiet moan before you felt him devour it with his tongue diving into your mouth, exploring all he wanted.

His hands were a whole on their own mission though. One resting on your waist as he backed you under the stream of water, hot and nice, just like how y’all seemed to be at the moment. Once he had you all backed up the water flowed between both of y’all. The other hand of his went down your chest, and you knew exactly where the target was going for. Just as you thought of that the gentle circling of your clit started, and you gasped moaned into his mouth while he rubbed harder, quicker, and in all the right places.

One of your hands ran down the foggy glass panel while the other was on the toned muscles of his chest letting you feel him down.

“I missed this so much” you murmured as he groaned and nodded

“I could tell.” He said firmly with pride as he kept going before finding your pussy and gently sliding a finger into there. Your head laid against the tile of the shower wall and you bit your lip before looking up at him with those pleading eyes.

“Another.” You breathed as he nodded and dipped in another before finally curling his fingers, determined to find that sweet spot as he started pumping in and out. The stimulation of the pump and curling left me breathless. With his tongue deep in my mouth I whimpered as I felt those urges to let go, the need to release all over his hands.

“I think-I think I’m gonna”

“Come on baby let it get all over my fingers” He urged as he pumped harder until finally he noticed he hit that sweet spot and you arched your back against the tile, gasping as you felt yourself release and shiver against his touch.

For a moment you just leaned against the wall. Taking that all in for just a moment before looking up at him and his cheeky fucking smile. Bucky looked at you for a moment before pulling out the digits of his fingers out and bringing them to his mouth and licking the clean, not breaking eye contact once.

“You fucking taste delicious.” He murmured against his fingers. You couldn’t help but just watch and get all red in the face like an idiot before he finally ran a hand through his hair under the stream of water.

“Come on baby now I need my fill too.” He said firmly as you forgot about his erection. Your eyes lowered down and saw the thick veiny cock of his sprung against his stomach, already leaking with pre-cum. You couldn’t stop staring seeming like a perv but being in a trance thinking about all the thing he could do to you right here right now made you just wanna cum on the spot right here right now again.

Next thing you know his hands were on the back of your thighs gripping them as he lift them up into the air and against the wall. Making sure you were pinned up all nice with your legs now wrapped around him. Your arms snaked around his neck holding on, awaiting for him

“Think you can still take it?”

“I-I think so”

Bucky groaned and gently pumped his cock a couple of times before rubbing his pre-cum against your slit, making your head fall back from the teasing. You whimpered and squirmed as he chuckled before finally sliding his cock in, inch by aching inch. You could feel the way he stretched you out yet made sure in every way you were okay. He peppered your neck in light kiss and nips, leaving tiny hickeys everywhere over the neck.

“Tell me when to move” he whispered before you nodded and squirmed a bit

“Move please fuck move” you whimpered as a sudden gasp left you breathless while he started pumping into you, pulling out leaving just the tip in, just to pump into you with new found eager. Showing you how much he missed you, how much he was waiting till he’d get back to you.

Bucky cursed and groaned as he drove deep into your pussy looking down to see your pussy accommodating his size,stretching it out till it had a tint of red around the ring of your hole. You could tell he was getting closer, with the way he pumped into you harder and harder. And while he was close you were too, feeling that hot pit in your stomach needing to be emptied. You put your hand on the panel leaving a mark on the foggy glass.

“F-fuck! I need to cum, I need you to cum inside of me” you breathed out as you pulled his lips to yours for one last kiss before all you felt was the grip of his hold on you become harsher until you gasped and felt as the ropes of cum bursted inside of you, while you came on his cock, mixing your juices together in a mess. As he kept pumping into you, you fell limp in his arms, pressing your forehead against his as his hand went into your hair. His pace slowly down.

“I have a lot to explain.”

“Ya you fucking do.”

[menlove]

"Life After the Bastards: 30 Years On, Macca Tells All"

"Blamed for the break-up for the biggest band in history, Paul McCartney downsized rapidly to cultivate a successful pop smallholding. Yet a bountiful solo career was always dominated by two famous partners, he tells Paul Du Noyer."

i said i'd do this ages ago and then the horrors happened, but this is a written up version of an interview by paul du noyer with paul mccartney from mojo's july 2001 issue.

sidenote: this seems to be the source for the claim that john thought "dear boy" was about him, which is why i bought the magazine because i haven't been able to find a digitized version of the interview and wanted to get the context. but it's a very fascinating interview just in general so it's definitely worth a read!

Wings were a band who seldom felt the feathery end of the critic's quill, but this year we're seeing Paul McCartney's biggest effort so far to rehabilitate the second most popular group he ever belonged to. He's released a double-CD and a documentary, both called Wingspan, that tell the story as he would like it told. And you soon realise that there's more than a muso's pride at stake in this project. "The great thing is," he says, "it vindicates Linda. I know she wanted to do the Wingspan thing. She knew if it was laid out correctly, people would get the idea. With all the slagging off she got, like the famous tape at Knebworth..." (This illicit cassette, from the mixing desk of a live show at the outdoor venue, was for years a dependable source of satirical mirth in music business circles; Linda McCartney's off-key vocals circumnavigate the chorus notes of Hey Jude, while anonymous engineers hoot cruelly.)

"The truth was," her loyal widower continues, "she was doing this (he stands, raises his hands to clap above his head). She was being the big cheerleader: 'Hey Jude, naah-naah-na.' But you don't see the visual, you just here this out-of-tune voice, and I know she always wanted the record put straight. And this does. You see her playing. You hear her singing beautifully. And you see what she was to the group. You see why she had to be in the group. She becomes the ballsiest member of it..."

He settles back on the sofa, here in the Soho office of his MPL company. Around his neck is a slim pink tie of the kind that Elvis used to wear. On his feet are trainers that look less like a gesture to trendiness than a concession to comfort. Just behind him is the Art Deco statuette that appears on a couple of Wings LP sleeves. The other great thing about the Wingspan film, he says,was being interviewed by his daughter Mary. (That's her face you can see, peeping out from Dad's jacket on the cover of the first solo LP, 31 years ago.) "I'd never had such a long natter with her, as doing this. And I used to say to my kids, You're the only ones who never ask me about The Beatles. Their friends would come round and say, 'What was it like being in The Beatles?' I'd go (adopts pompous old git voice), Well, let me tell you... And my kids would all go out the room: 'Oh bloody hell, he's off...' That's how kids are, they don't want to hear about that shit. But their friends would, so I'd chunder on..."

In fact he chunders on about The Beatles a lot more than you might expect. Or about one Beatle in particular, at least. The World's Most Famous Living Liverpudlian is anything but reticent when it comes to the World's Most Famous Dead Liverpudlian. It's quite contrary of him, because for the first 20 years after the group split up, he showed a stubborn reluctance to discuss the subject with his interviewers. They wanted to ask about John Lennon; he wanted to discuss Back To The Egg... Then came a reconciliation with his past that culminated in the Anthology exercise, when the moratorium on Beatle-talk was entirely lifted. And now, in 2001, when the promotional agenda has switched back to Wings, you almost have to coax him off the subject of John Lennon. Is it just force of habit, or maybe the need to exorcise some kind of long-nosed, bespectacled, sharp-tongued ghost inside his head?

Taste restrains Paul from claiming any posthumous victories over John, though it's no secret that he still has some differences with Yoko that are as wide as the Atlantic that normally separates them. But he can't resist smiling at the irony of Lennon spending his last few years championing the sort of domestic cosiness that was once a derided part of the McCartney stereotype.

"Yeah, it's lovely. But you're right to say they were stereotypes. Everyone thought John was the hard, working class hero. As you know, if you look at his house, he was actually the middle class one, from Woolton. We were the scruffs. He had the full Works Of Winston Churchill: nobody any of us knew had that. A set of encyclopedias was the most that anyone in our class had. But he had The Works Of Winston Churchill, and he'd read 'em, I think.

"There were so many stereotypes of John. And I love the fact that in the end- it's one of the great blessings of my life, seeing as he got shot- that during the last year, we made it up. Thank God for that. I would be just so fucked up now, if I'd still been arguing with him and that had happened. I was thinking about it just the other day. It was cool that I'd started ringing him. We'd had a bread strike over here and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says, 'I'm breaking some bread.' Oh! Me too! Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread. He'd just had Sean, and he was talking about just padding round the apartment in his dressing gown, putting the cat out and changing the baby.

"And I'd been doing all of that, and as you say, I'd been stereotyped for it. It was really warm to be able to talk to him that ordinarily, finally. It was like we'd got back to where we'd been when we were kids. It was like we could actually talk about stuff that didn't matter, but somehow it did matter..."

Back in 1970 neither John nor Paul, nor George or Ringo, would find The Beatles an easy beast to walk away from. Paul and Ringo seem to be at peace with it now; John would probably have become so; George never has. Besides the legal wranglings and the personal rancour that persisted between them for a while, there was the unique problem of getting used to living in a world that you no longer ruled.

Pop in the 1960s was like a pyramid. At the top obviously, were The Beatles. Around them and just below, were Dylan, the Stones, the deposed King Elvis, and so on down to the broad base of innumerable also-rans. But pop in the 1970s was more like range of mountain peaks, topped by anyone from Elton John to the Sex Pistols. There was also no unified hierarchy any more, and there hasn't been one since. McCartney can't have found the new world order an easy proposition. But he overcame his doubts the same way that he overcame his blacker periods in The Beatles. In other words, he worked.

It's one of those first post-mop top albums that we discuss in detail today. McCartney (1970) and Ram (1971) were curiously anti-climatic in their day. The first was home-grown, small-scale, contentedly modest, like a record made for his private diversion. The second was sprawling and eccentric, full of unfinished tunes and nonsense rhymes. This was an era when former Beatles were still expected to return from the mountain bearing tables of stone (which Lennon and Harrison certainly attempted to do), not these gaudy, giggling indulgences. Three decades later, McCartney and Ram have endured far better than anyone expected.

It's typical of McCartney, though, that he's still insecure about their worth. He has a peculiar, wrong-end-of-the-telescope way of assessing his talent. He tries to talk up McCartney by telling you that "Dave Stewart really likes it", or boasts that a hippy van driver once yelled across the LA traffic, "Ram! Great album dude!" Recently his girlfriend Heather Mills put it this way: "He is a genius but doesn't realise it, which is delightful."

Towards the end of The Beatles you were dying to get back to playing live in a band, weren't you? But your first move is to go the opposite way and do a totally solo album.

Yeah. I couldn't have another band because I wasn't sure The Beatles had actually broken up. It was on the cusp: we hadn't broken up when I started it, so it was just me doing some solo stuff. And then we had broken up, but things hung on. It basically started from John's decision to leave the band, which came when I said I think we should get back together and do some little gigs. And he said, "Well I think you're daft and I wasn't going to tell you until after we signed the Capitol deal but I'm leaving the band." (Mimes an axe falling) That was, like, The Moment The Beatles Broke Up. But it wasn't in the open until a few months later, when I issued the McCartney album and did this press release with it, which virtually had the announcement. I finally blew the whistle on it. And John was annoyed, even though he hadn't said anything. It turns out, he told me later, that he wanted to be the one who announced it. He was jealous that I beat him to it. But I felt that three or four months was enough to wait around. Either we were just going to fuck about for another year, or we had to actually say to people, "You know what? About three or four months ago we actually broke up." So that was how that happened.

So in your head, The Beatles were still together when you were making McCartney. Whereas the outside world heard it as "What Paul did after leaving The Beatles." I think it seemed a strangely low-key record, as a result.

No. It was on the cusp. There were a lot of funny things around at the time. Allen Klein: he was the one I wanted to sue to get out of it all. But everyone said, "He's not party to any of the agreements, he's just an outside guy. So you'll have to sue The Beatles." So I got into this terrifying thing of having to sue them, scared more than anything of the fact that, as you say, people would just see this album come out, hear my announcement and then hear I was suing The Beatles, without knowing any of the context. So I knew I was in for problems. And I tired my best in the press to say, "Oh, blah blah blah, it was Allen Klein, blah blah." So it was a shitty time for me. The only option was to either let him take it all, and the guys just swim along with him, or fight it. He said I was fine, "Don't worry, McCartney loves me" and all of this. And I knew I was hating the bastard. But to get out of him I had to sue the guys. And, as you know, Liverpool, the mates, no matter how much we were arguing, it's one thing you don't ever want to have to do. So I knew the perception of me would, like, be deadened from there on in. And I suppose in many ways I've been fighting that for 20 years. But it was a clear choice: do that and possibly save it all- or even lose it and pay the lawyers' bills, which was not a terrific option- or just let Klein take it all. 'Cos the others were just with him, gung ho. So I took the option of suing him and had to live with that perception, including: "This is what Paul's done as his first move after leaving The Beatles." Which was actually the nicest bit of the perception: I did an album after The Beatles, so what? The worst thing for me was, I sued my best mates. But the thing is, looking back on it, they now say "Thank you, you got us out of it, we wouldn't have Apple, there'd be no Anthology, no I record, it'd all be in someone else's pocket now." It was the right thing to do, but I knew I was walking into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Very scary, but it was one of those moments in your life when you have to do it.

And, of course, we were hearing McCartney just after Abbey Road, which was at the opposite extreme.

Very produced, yeah.

Despite the problems going on around it, McCartney sounds a pretty cheerful affair.

Yeah, it was, because of Linda. I was just starting with Linda and in my mind the album was my escape from it all. I'd get home, new baby, that joy... any readers who've got a new baby, it transforms your life. I hadn't had a baby before, though we had Heather from Linda's first marriage. Home was a great solace for me, and making this record was "Yeah, this is what I love to do." The rest, outside, was shit, but coming inside it was like a little cocoon. So I either made the album all at home or went down to a little studio in Willesden. Lin and the baby in the control room. Young married life is a very special time. And I always liked doing things on my own. I was the kid in Liverpool who sort of went on a bus to the next stop, to Penny Lane, and got off and just looked around: "Who lives there?" I still like that, it's in my personality to just go somewhere and watch people. Last night I took the Tube home. We went to the theatre, couldn't get a taxi anywhere in the West End. I really get a charge off that. George never used to. His dad was a bus driver. I'd say to him, even when we were famous, I love getting on a bus. He'd say (astonished), "The bus? Why? You've got a car!" But you're just looking at people. And now of course, with fame, they're looking at me a bit.

There's one or two on the Tube last night, cracking up laughing. Guy in a baseball cap, decides he's got to cool himself out, pull it together, gets off at the same stop: "All right mate? Good luck!" So that's where the record got its happiness. And when the time came to release it, I finally had to deal with Mammon, which was Apple. Ring them up and say, "Er, can I have a release date?" Neil [Aspinall] gave me a date. I was kind of boycotting Apple, and Suddenly Mammon decided to change my release date for (adopts sarcastic tone) the massive Let It Be album. And I'm, "You fucking bastards! I've got a release date worked out! How can you do this?" I can't remember what happened, but I certainly shouted loud enough. So it was Rage Against The Machine, me against them. That's why it was a good album for me, and it's pretty funky, some of the little pieces like Momma Miss America have a great sound on them. I was like a professor in his laboratory. Very simple, as basic as you can get, a joy to make. (Scans the tracklist) Teddy Boy was good, I'd tried to make that with The Beatles but no one was having much patience with me. Maybe I'm Amazed was about the biggest song on it. And Kreen-Akrore was about an Amazon tribe I'd seen, who were fighting for survival, I went into the studio and recorded the sound of a bow and arrow going past the mike. Even now that album has an interesting sound. Very analogue, very direct.

The next album, Ram, is famous for its supposed attacks on John and Yoko, isn't it?

Well, Too Many People was a bit of a dig at John, because he was digging at me. We were digging at each other in the press. Not harsh, but pissed off with each other, basically.

Have I misheard, or does it really start with the words "Piss off"?

Yeah. Piss off, cake. Like, a piece of cake becomes a piss off cake. And it's nothing, it's so harmless really, just little digs. But the first line is about "too many people preaching practices". I felt John and Yoko were telling everyone what to do. And I felt we didn't need to be told what to do. The whole tenor of the Beatles thing had been, like, each to his own. Freedom. Suddenly it was, "You should do this." It was just a bit the wagging finger, and I was pissed off with it. So that one got to be athing about them. Once you start, the ball starts rolling. There was a picture that we had for Hallowe'en of the two of us in silly masks that we picked up at a kids' shop in New York. I'm Wimpey out of Popeye, and Linda was another character which looked a bit Oriental. We heard later that they thought that was a dig at them, but it actually wasn't. So when John did a piss-take [in a postcard given away with his Imagine LP], he held a pig instead of the ram. This wasn't posed. Me and Linda decided to catalogue all our sheep, so there's a photograph of me holding every bloody sheep in the flock. Over 100 of them. I was supposed to be cropped out.

Is that where the title came from?

I remember driving up to Liverpool at some point and deciding that Ram would be a good title for an album, then the picture came, and you can "ram" a door down, and a "ram" is a male, like a stag. It just seemed like a good word. Monkberry Moon Delight I liked, so much so that it's in my poetry book. "My long-haired lady." Very '70s. Ram On is a cute little thing on a ukelele, 'cos I used to carry one around with me in the back of New York taxis just to always have music with me. They thought I was a freak, those taxi-drivers. Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey was an epic thing, a Number 1 in America, surprisingly enough. I like the bit that breaks in: "Admiral Halsey notified me, da-da-da, had a cup of tea and a butter pie." It's a bit surreal, but I was in a very free mood. I like all of that. It must have freaked a few people, 'cos it was quite daft. Back Seat Of My Car is very romantic: "We can make it to Mexico City." That's a really teenage song, with the stereotypical parent who doesn't agree, and the two lovers are going to take on the world: "We believe that we can't be wrong." I always like the underdog.

I think John might have taken Dear Boy as an attack on him.

Dear Boy wasn't getting at John. Dear Boy was actually a song to Linda's ex-husband. "I guess you never knew what you had missed." I never told him that, which was lucky, because he's since committed suicide. And it was a comment about him, 'cos I did think, "Gosh, you know, she's so amazing, I suppose you didn't get it.

The LP sounds like you had more tunes lying around than songs to use them in. A lot of the tracks are like medleys of different ideas.

Yeah, Long Haired Lady goes off a bit, Back Seat Of My Car goes off a bit, Big Barn Bed comes off Ram On, that's right.

No writer's block at that point, then?

No, I've been very lucky about writer's block, touch wood. It occurred to me the other day that me and John never sat down on, what was it, 295 songs me and John wrote? And on those 295 occasions, we never came away without a song, which is fucking phenomenal. The only time we nearly did, was Golden Rings, which became Drive My Car. It was "duh-duh duh-duh golden rings..." Um, this is not gonna compute. Finally, we had a ciggie and a cup of tea and our humour came back and Drive My Car came out of that. Some people analyse songwriting. I've never known about it. It's fingers crossed, every time I sit down to do it. I just dive right in and hope for the best, and it seems to work.

Were you feeling in competition with the other ex-Beatles, now?

Yeah, we were all in competition. Which was a weird thing, trying to avoid each other's release dates, like we'd avoided the Stones' release dates in The Beatles. When John or George released an album, I'd check it out, to see where he was up to. I think the truth, as a lot of people have said, is that we were missing each other. We missed the collaborative thing, of John saying, "Don't do that" or "Do that". Sparking each other off. For a while I was certainly very conscious of it. The only good thing was that I had been writing without John for a while, towards the end of The Beatles, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was still a pretty big shock just not to be hanging out with these guys. 'Cos I'd hung out with them since I was 17.

Even when you were not writing together, on later Beatles records, there must have been a stage in the process where the others listened to your songs, and vetoed them or otherwise.

Exactly. John brought me Glass Onion. I remember him out in the garden in St John's wood saying, "What do you think of this?" We would just run it past each other, like you would run it past a mate or a producer. And he actually asked me, "D'you think I should put in this line about the Walrus was Paul?" I said, Oh yeah! It's brilliant. I just generally tended to agree with his stuff, and he tended to agree with mine- like in Hey Jude, i was going to knock out that line about "The movement you need is on your shoulder." He said, "You're not, that's the best line in it." So, often it wasn't negative but bolstering each other up. I might go through the whole studio experience thinking, This line's not right. But the minute he'd signed off on it, I thought, This line is ace! Similarly with him and Glass Onion. It was the strength of unity.

It's always striking that, of the four solo Beatles, George and Ringo got off to the strongest starts.

Yeah, George's All Things Must Pass. As he said, it was just like a diarrhea, he must have held it in for so long. And he had Phil [Spector] and a lot of really good people. And George was just so pissed off with us. I mean, all that anger just came out. Which is a good thing for an album, the "I'll show you" factor, which I had later in Band On The Run, when two of the members left the night before. So George and Ringo did get off to very good starts. John and I took it a bit hard, but all in all throughout the years we all did pretty well as single acts.

You formed a band for Ram, but it's not yet Wings.

Not yet, no. Denny Seiwell turns out to be in the band. Hugh McCracken who plays on a lot of it, who was nearly in the band. He came to Scotland to rehearse, but he was such a New York guy that he didn't really like to be away from America, and I can see that. New York is such a satisfying town, you can walk one block and get anything, whereas you can't do that in the Mull of Kintyre...

The first official line-up of Wings, which makes Wild Life, includes Denny Laine.

Denny came from The Moody Blues. I'd seen him when were out on tour with The Beatles and we'd played with them. My enduring memory is of one night up in somewhere like Edinburgh on tour, we'd had a few drinks and we decided that The Moody Blues would play The Beatles at snooker on this very beautiful, full-sized snooker table. Instead of being sensible and playing one at a time against each other, in a kind of league, they all got on one end of the table and we all got on the other, and I'm afraid the table got trashed. Oh shit. So I knew Denny, I knew we could get on personally and I liked his voice, particularly from Go Now, which I championed. I remember taking that around the BBC in its early days and saying, "Have you heard Go Now by The Moody Blues? It's my favourite record of the moment." And those producers would take notice of us. I was also used to having another lead voice in the group with me, so Denny became that.

And this time there's a friendlier song for John.

Dear Friend was to do with John, a bit of longing about John. Let's have a glass of wine and forget about it. A making up song.

Finally you do what The Beatles wouldn't agree to do, and get back on the road.

It seemed to me that for a band it's essential. We'd given it up in '67 with Sgt. Pepper when our new decree was, "The record will go on tour and we won't. We'll make a great record and send that out instead." But what happened after that was, we made some good records, but missed the stimulus of going out on tour. We missed seeing the whites of their eyes and getting a reality check: "They liked that one, they didn't like that one." And we hadn't done it for so long that my choice was, Either give up music, or continue to make it. I wanted The Beatles to go out as a live band, therefore I ought to go out as a live band. So we got a band and hatched the plan of going out on the university tour. Didn't want a big supergroup, a Blind Faith-style thing. I wanted to try and learn the whole thing again, hopefully learn some new things, rather than just repeat The Beatles things, which had all been done, and been about as successful as anyone in the world was ever gonna be.

But you took the informality to extremes, not even booking hotels.

No gigs or hotels or anything. Looking back, I can't believe we did that. We had the van, the dogs, the kids, and it was just madness. It was like I'd never been in The Beatles, I couldn't rely on any of that fame as a crutch. We went up to these universities, and fate had it that a lot of them were having exams. We didn't ring them up and ask if they'd be ready for us. And the other thing was we walked into power cuts: it was the time of the Great British Three Day Week. My image now is of trying to find our way around the dark North with a torch. Is anyone in? Like trying to find a gig in a mine. But we found a couple. Nottingham was one. Lancaster we played. Newcastle City Hall. Durham. When we did find places it was really cool. The students had a good time.

And you had the unfamiliar experience of handling money again.

Yeah, it had all been cheques and accounts and stuff, bank statements. And suddenly it was 50p on the door. So we came away with these bags of coins, which reminded me of Peter Sellers in Tom Thumb: One for you, two for me... We just counted them out in the van afterwards. Good experience, going through all those hardships, and it got us together as a band.

But that line-up wasn't to last, and nor did any Wings line-up. Why?

I've never actually thought about it. I know it happened but I've always blanked it. Probably, in my mind, a band is a democratic unit. Everyone has an equal vote, and in The Beatles for 10 years that had been the case. So if Ringo didn't like one of our songs, which wasn't often, Ringo could veto a Lennon & McCartney song. That meant everyone felt good about themselves. But in Wings that wasn't the case. I was the ex-Beatle. So I saw myself as the leader of the group, which I'd never been in The Beatles. There wasn't a leader in The Beatles. People had said that John was, and later people had said that I was, but neither of us ever acknowledged it. It wasn't the deal. People would ask, "Who's the leader of the group?" We'd say there wasn't one. I think once or twice in Hamburg, in the early days, John said, "I am." But we got pissed off, so it became a democracy. But Wings wasn't. It wasn't a dictatorship, but we weren't all equal.

By the '70s there was suddenly lots of other big acts: Led Zeppelin, T. Rex, Bowie, Pink Floyd, even The Osmonds in their way, or Abba. Was it difficult, as a Beatle, to adjust to the new landscape?

I knew it was going to be difficult. There was this thing of Follow The Beatles. You found yourself just one of the acts in the Hit Parade, rather than the undisputed leaders. But I knew by starting the group from scratch that we had to work our way up So anyone like Zeppelin or Bowie who'd been building during the '60s and had now arrived, naturally took precedence. You just had to understand that there are people bigger than you. And it gave us a benchmark. We thought, "We'll be as big as you one day." It was very weird for me, starting all over again. But it wasn't the world's worst thing. It was quite sobering, really. It's good to be knocked off your perch. There was a lot of that with Wings. Not only was I doing things for myself with the band, I was personally doing things for myself, living up in Scotland, mowing the field with my tractor. In The Beatles, the office used to buy your Christmas tree for you. Now I was buying my own Christmas tree. I enjoyed that . It's unhealthy to think you're the big cheese all the time. Within The Beatles, we each reminded each other that we weren't. But I think there is a big risk with stardom. I'd ring up a restaurant and say, Have you got a table? "Sorry sir, we're full booked." It's Paul McCartney here. "Oh! Certainly, Mr McCartney!" I've never been comfortable with it.

It seemed like you were uncomfortable with The Beatles' legacy for most of your time with Wings.

The thing about Wings was we bought into the myth that it could never be as good as The Beatles. I knew it was the world's most difficult thing to bite off. Everything we did was in the shadow of The Beatles, which had recently been this phenomenal band. So we did everything with quite a lot of paranoia. And it's only on looking back, that I think we did a lot of great work. You look at '76, we have this big, big tour, and at first everyone wants to know, "Is this gonna be a Beatles reunion? It's rumored that McCartney blah-blah-blah, George Harrison and Ringo Starr are going to join him on-stage, and John Lennon blah-blah-blah." So it was rumoured The Beatles were going to re-form. Even in our most successful year they were taking our success off us. It was, "Well maybe The Beatles will re-form, that would be good." But the great thing was that three weeks into the tour it was suddenly, "Who cares?" It doesn't matter. This is a great band. And at the end of it we go and set some big world record. So that's good to see. We did this thing that we set out to do. And we needn't have worried.

[fawnwilde]

Taboo prologue .𖥔 ݁ ˖

various x reader

◃◃ [chapters] ▹▹

rating: explicit (18+)

You're a wild woman. Used to living outdoors, fighting to survive, with only your horse to keep you company.

A chance encounter with O'driscolls and their prisoners changes your life forever...

content warning: f reader, sfw (for now), violence, O'driscolls, blood and injury, no description of reader but she's badass

word count: 3.1k

You had been alone for a long time.

Your mother was dead, your father up and left, and whatever other family you had wanted nothing to do with you.

For a while, you lived in your mother’s home, a small cabin nestled in the mountains in North Carolina. You hunted for food with a bow like your mother taught you, you sewed hides together into coats like your mother taught you…

You tried to survive like your mother taught you.

But then those men came knockin.

Beady eyed and snarling like wolves. Hollering at you and brandishing guns, threatening your life, your livelihood and your dignity. They wore green scarves around their necks, one of which became stained with blood when you stabbed one in the throat.

The first life you took.

Your home was left in your dust as you ran away, holding the dead man’s gun to your chest like a child would hold a stuffed toy. Your muscles ached and your bare feet bled by the time you stopped running, far away from the home you once knew.

And so, your life in the wilderness began.

Your life was harsh. Nights spent sleeping on harsh ground, hunting whatever you could, scavenging abandoned homes, and occasionally and reluctantly stealing from unfortunate travellers.

A few years had passed since your mother’s death and your home was invaded, and memories of her and your life before grew fainter and fainter, like ink on paper diluted by rain.

By looking at a calendar hung upon the wall of a newly abandoned house, you knew that your teenage years had passed you, but your age was a mystery.

Hell, your own name was a mystery now, after all these years of no one calling you anything.

A few months ago, you had broke a wild horse you had had your eyes on for a while. Your giant mahogany draft horse, who you named Bo, was now your only force against your solitude.

You, an unnamed and untamed girl, and Bo, a wild and viscous stallion, against the world.

You had been following the small group of O’driscolls for a few days, keeping far enough to avoid being spotted but close enough to collect their scraps when they were forgetful.

The men had a shootout early that day, and had taken the five men they fought hostage. Unusual, you thought, as the O’driscolls were often very consistent with their methods of operation.

Their methods being; killing most anything that breathes.

Watching from the branch of a large tree, your eyes wandered over the small makeshift camp the O’driscolls set up. A dozen of them were wandering around, either eating, drinking, standing watch, or harassing their captured. You were too far to hear, but could see their foul mouths spit out words at the men.

As the sun began to set, you readied yourself, your plan perfected after all these years of payback against the O’driscolls by causing chaos and stealing their supplies.

Not the revenge you wished for, but it was all you could do.

Leaving Bo not too far, you ventured towards their camp.

Arthur Morgan sneered at the O’driscoll who stood before him, taunting him in amongst questions about their groups whereabouts. The rope holding his wrists chafed against his flesh, a grimace making his face ache.

He was surprised they hadn’t killed them yet.

From their questions, he assumed they would be used against Dutch, who was at camp a few miles back. They’d been captured close to Clemens Point, but gathering from the conversations between the O'driscolls, they didn't know that.

Beside Arthur, Hosea was coolly talking to their captors, expertly attempting to manipulate the situation in their favour. It seemed to be working, to a degree.

The other men captured, Charles, Sean and Micah were silent beside the two, their minds at work (well, Charles mind was at work). Arthur was just pleased Sean hadn’t said anything to aggravate the O’driscolls more. Yet.

The rodent-like man in front of him yawned and left them at last. Not before spitting at their bound feet, of course. Hosea sighed, and Arthur scoffed.

A sharp noise erupted close to camp, the sound of something metal colliding with something wooden.

It sent the horses into a panic, two of which were untethered, and caused them to start to flee. The O’driscolls flew into action, some trying to gather the horses, others seeking out the source of the noise.

“Wonder what that’s all about then?” Sean grumbled, struggling against his binds.

Arthur grumbled, shifting around to get in a more comfortable position on the floor.

Movement catches his eye, and he watches as a shadowed figure sprints through the camp, grabbing guns, ammunition, food and anything else they find out in the open.

At first, Arthur thinks it's a panicked member of the enemy gang, grabbing supplies in case the group needed to leave the area.

But as the individual steps out into the light of the camp fire, Arthur’s eyes widen when he realises it's a woman.

She's young, pretty but unkempt, wild looking from her tangled hair to mismatched clothes. She grabs a canteen of water before her eyes snap to the group, freezing when she notices she's been spotted.

“Who the hell is that?!” Micah whispers none too quietly, before being shushed by the Hosea.

“Yer not one of them are ya?” Sean calls out to her.

“Great observation, Sean.” Sighs Arthur, as he shuffles around to look at the girl directly.

“Can you release us? Please?” Hosea requests.

She looks between them, biting her lip as she weighs out her options.

Clearly, they weren't innocent victims of the O'driscolls. From their empty holsters to their grizzled looks, the girl seemed wary to release them in case, by some insane happenstance, these men turned out to be worse than the ones holding them.

Her time to think was cut short, as distant voices began to grow louder. Arthur looks over to see the O’driscolls coming back to their section of the camp.

“They’re coming back. You need to go, now!” Arthur warns, his voice quiet but his urgency clear.

“Go?!” Micah snapped, “Nah, help us, now!”

“Shuddup, Micah.” Arthur grumbled, nodding at the girl to run.

She looked between the men, looking nervous and apologetic before rushing back into the thick trees.

“Who the fuck were you talking to?!” One of the O’driscolls yelled as he ran past, holding his rifle up and aimed at the bound men.

“What, a man can’t pray when he’s sentenced to death now?” Sean gripes.

“Save your praying for when the real hurt begins.” The O’driscoll sneers, “Though, I don’t think God listens much to the likes of you-”

As the man starts ranting about the near future of the Van Der Linde boys, Arthur’s gaze slides to the distant, faint glow of a lantern growing brighter.

His eyes widen as he realises that it is not, in fact, a lantern, but one of the O’driscolls tents, fire covering its back and spreading fast.

The O’driscoll doesn't notice as his silhouette begins to be illuminated by a rising fire in their camp.

“Ya might want’a deal with that.” He says, nodding to the tent, which is near engulfed in flames as the harsh evening winds begin stoking the fire.

The O’driscoll narrows his eyes, before peering over his shoulder, his body going taunt with fear as he watches the flames catch on surrounding tents and dried leaves.

“Fire! Fire!” He yells out, scampering away like a terrified rat.

Other shouts surround them as more of the O’driscolls notice their tents ablaze. The camp is a symphony of chaos as the men rush to grab water and put out the growing flames, unsuccessfully.

The horses whinny in fear. Some of the men mount and desert the camp, much to the annoyance at the others trying to fight the flames.

Amongst the panic, Arthur feels the binds on his wrists being jostled. He feels the sharp coolness of a blade, and the ropes are loose. He looks over his shoulder, surprised to see the girl nod to him before she moves to Hosea’s ties.

“Thank you.” Arthur says, untying his ankles while he looks back at the flames, “You do that?”

“What, you think it was a coincidence?” She asks, releasing Hosea and moving to Charles.

The fire grows higher, as a wagon erupts in bright orange.

“That’s dangerous, the dry leaves will keep the fire spreading throughout the woods.” Charles says, concerned.

“A storm is coming. The rain will stop it from spreading too far.” The girl says calmly, as she focuses on cutting through the rope holding Sean’s wrists.

“How do you know that-” Begins Arthur, before a rumble of thunder silences him.

She shrugs, “The clouds.”

With Sean now freed, with a too-loud holler from the Irishman, she begins on Micah’s binds, though more hastily as the voices of the O’driscolls seem to get louder.

“Oi! What the fuck?!” An Irish voice shouts as a trio of O’driscolls turn the corner and spot the scene playing out. Their guns are quickly raised, and the girl’s eyes grow panicked.

Charles charges on the men, punching one in the jaw as he takes his rifle from him, throwing it to Hosea as he fights the much smaller man. Sean and Arthur ready to fight, relief flooding them as Micah is finally freed and blood thirsty.

“Thank you for your help.” Hosea yells to the woman.

“Don’t speak so soon, mister.” She calls back, a small smile flashing on her face as she slings the rifle off her back and aims.

She gets one of the offending men in the neck, halting him from shooting Sean point blank. The second O’driscoll lies motionless on the floor as Charles wipes his bloodied knuckles, and Arthur quickly dispatches the final one, snapping his neck with a final ‘snap’.

“Where did you come from, lass?” Sean chuckles, looking her up and down, “I’ve half a mind to marry ya.”

“Jesus, Sean.” Arthur sighs, grabbing a fallen gun and reloading it.

More shouts surround them, and Arthur has no time to turn before a shot rings out, closely followed by another.

He spins, finding their saviour gripping her arm, her gun discarded. Blood seeps through her fingers, as she looks down at the O’driscoll who shot her, and lost his life for it.

From the position of the man’s body, to the closeness of the girl to himself, Arthur realises that she took a bullet meant for him.

But before he can thank her, she’s whistling out, and a behemoth of a horse comes sailing through the trees, whinnying at the chaos. It ducks down, eagerly accepting the girl who leaps on, her face pale as she holds her bleeding shoulder.

“Wait-!” Arthur tries, but the horse interrupts him, speeding away in a flash of mahogany fur, leaving the men watching in confusion and concern.

“She get shot?” Hosea asks, watching the retreating horse disappear into the shadows.

“Yeah. Think she took a bullet for me.” Arthur grumbles, guilt lodging firm in his chest.

“We should go after her, help her.” Sean suggests.

“There’s more coming!” Micah yells, shooting and felling a stray O’driscoll.

“We should go. There’s too many for us to fight now, and when the storm comes in it’ll be even harder to defend ourselves.” Charles says.

He and Micah sprint away into the night, followed by Sean. Arthur stares at the forest where the woman disappeared, before Hosea grabs him and tugs him away from the angered O'driscolls.

The storm cleared in three hours.

The group made it back to Clemens Point on foot in two. The group were welcomed with concern and confusion about their disappearance, but Arthur was too focused on going back out to find their injured saviour.

Hosea explains what happened to Dutch, who seethes at what could have happened if there hadn't been someone to intervene. He watches as Arthur and Charles go to their horses as the rain ceases.

“Arthur! Get back here-”

Despite Dutch’s orders, Arthur mounts his horse, with Charles in tow, and they sprint off to look for the mysterious stranger who saved them.

Hosea sighs, shaking his head as he tells Dutch he's going to take a nap.

Dutch is left alone in the middle of camp, wondering when he lost all control of his gang. With a huff, he stalks off, needing time to himself to ponder.

He finds himself at the edge of camp, puffing on a cigar as he looks out at the views Clemens Point has to offer.

It's peaceful.

But nothing peaceful lasts, it seems.

A horse nickers nearby, too far from where the horses were posted to be one of their own. Dutch brandishes his weapon swiftly, holding it up as he scans the area.

The trees are quiet, only the whistle of the wind and chirping of birds accompany his tense breaths.

Another whinny, and Dutch begins approaching the trees, steady strides with his gun held parallel to his face. Whoever was sneaking around their camp, O’driscoll or vagrant or squirrel, would not escape his notice.

Pushing through the shrubbery, he spots the horse in question in a small clearing.

It’s stressed, kicking its legs and nosing at something on the ground. A large beast, dark fur and long, strong legs. No saddle, but a makeshift set of reins hang loosely around its neck.

Taking near silent steps, Dutch scanned the area, spotting no nearby rider or any sign of disturbance beside trampled ground where the horse had come from.

His eyebrows furrow as he spots drops of blood dotting the green leaves.

A twig snaps underfoot, and the horse looks up, dark eyes locking right onto Dutch. The horse seems wild, and startled, but it did not approach, merely letting out more distressed noises. Dutch continues his approach, lifting up his other hand to display his palm in a calming manner.

“You hurt, boy?” He asks gently. His words were obviously lost on the horse, but he found himself talking nonetheless.

There were no scratches on the horse's coat. His eyes scan down, to see if his hooves were what was injured.

But his eyes widen when he sees a bundle of clothes in a heap in front of the horse. It moves, groaning slightly, hair and an ashen face coming into view.

He hurries his steps, holstering his gun and keeping one hand out to calm the stallion. It whinnies as Dutch gets closer, but makes no move to charge.

Crouching at the figure's side, Dutch carefully turns them over.

The pretty face of a young girl came into view, her skin clammy and eyes closed, mouth parted in grimace. Her hand is covered in red from where she holds her arm.

Dutch gently takes her hand, peeling it away to inspect the wound. A large gash from a bullet stares back at him, bleeding profusely and staining her already dirty clothes. He winces slightly, and the girl’s hand seeks out his own. He takes it, shushing her gently.

“You’re alright now, I’m gonna help you.”

Looking up at the horse, as if asking for permission, he gently takes her in his arms. The horse snorts, but does not stop him, so he hoists her up, supporting her weight in his strong arms.

She looks so fragile, hands grasping onto his shirt as she whines in pain, and he murmurs gentle words to her, storming back towards camp with the horse on his heels.

Pearson looks up as Dutch jogs through the shrubbery, doing a double take when he takes in the bloodied figure in his arms, “What the hell…?”

“Where’s Miss Grimshaw? Grimshaw!” Dutch yells, causing more heads to turn within the camp. Everyone seems alert as they take in the situation.

“What in the hell?! Who is that?!” Dutch hears Grimshaw before he sees her, listening to her rush towards him.

“Found her in the woods. She’s shot, bleeding pretty bad.” He makes a beeline for his own tent, wasting no time.

Grimshaw calls for Tilly and Mary-Beth, sending the camp into a flurry of movement as the girls gather water and rags. Others stand around, curious and confused.

“Kieran, see to the horse.” Dutch instructs, leaving the ex-O’driscoll looking wide-eyed at the giant beast, who snorts and kicks its hooves anxiously.

Stepping into his tent , Dutch lays the girl down on his cot, stepping back for Mrs Grimshaw to prod at the wound and shout instructions at Tilly and Mary-Beth.

The tent opens again, and Hosea enters with a concerned expression. His eyes fill with realisation when he looks down at the injured woman.

“That’s her, that’s the girl!” He says, coming to Grimshaw’s side to look over the shaking form lying on the cot.

“The one who helped you with those O’driscolls?” Dutch asks, looking down at the ashen face of the girl, “She can’t be much older than Lenny.”

“Poor thing.” Hosea comments, his face grim, “She’s tough. No-one gets that tough so young from an easy life.”

“We'll take care of her.” Dutch nods, frowning as the girl groans in pain.

Miss Grimshaw shoos them, tearing at the girls scrappy clothes to inspect the gash and other small cuts and bruises she must have gained trying to ride while injured.

The two men exit the tent, leaving the women to tend to the strange woman’s wounds.

Arthur and Charles ride back into camp, looking dejected. Karen says something to them, and they quickly walk over to Dutch’s tent.

“What's going on?” Arthur asks, “Karen said you found someone injured.”

“It’s the girl from the woods. Dutch found her in rough shape, but alive.” Hosea explains, taking a seat outside the tent and rubbing a hand over his face.

Arthur sighs, attempting to enter the tent when Dutch clasps a hand over his shoulder, halting him.

“You should get some rest, Arthur. Let Miss Grimshaw fix her up, you can see her when she’s better.”

“She's injured because of me, Dutch.” Arthur snaps, “She took a bullet for me, a complete stranger. If she dies and it's because-”

“Enough.” Dutch says firmly, “Don't get all worked up over this. She'll be fine, and when she is, you can thank her. But you ain't gonna do her no good if you stomp around here kicking yourself for her good deed.”

“He's right, Arthur.” Charles says softly, patting Arthur's shoulder, “We should eat, and get some sleep. We’ll talk to her when she's better.”

Arthur grumbles, but relents, walking away with Charles to Pearsons wagon.

Dutch and Hosea exchange a look, and Dutch sits beside his oldest friend, the two watching the sun begin to set as they listen to Miss Grimshaw and the women fix up the mysterious girl.

“Strange day.” Hosea murmurs.

“Yep.”

AN/ yes I wrote an insane amount of backstory for the reader when I'm planning on writing fifteen chapters of her just straight up getting railed by the entire gang. what are you gonna do? sue me?

thanks for reading! mwah xx

fic taglist: @warmsideofthepillow03 @sammymcsamerson @m1stea @iamaunknownsecret @love-you-louise @vanpan8 @6esi @idcmannn

[thevillainswhore]

Deserving

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Bucky has internal scars too deeply imbedded that cause him to hide away from the world on the dark days. But he always knows, no matter how long he takes, you’ll forever be waiting for him on the other side — the light to bring him home.

Warnings: Established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, mental health, themes of depression, nudity (non sexual), depreciation/self esteem issues, Bucky is seriously sad, fluff.

Author’s Note: Proofread by @buck-star. Divider by @saradika-graphics. This is a little bit of a heavy one folks ❤️‍🩹 not usually my thing, but after a difficult couple of months I needed to get this out. My inboxes are always open for those who are struggling with their mental health, thank you for reading x

“How long has he been locked in there?” Steve’s concerned voice interrupts the silence of the compound late at night while you sit at the kitchen table, aimlessly stirring your now cold tea. 

You clear your throat and look up, the anxiety visibly courses through your features just as it does your friend. “Just over a week now, I think.” 

Steve sighs. “It’s gotten bad again.” 

You hum, unable to muster up anything else. It had been seven days of constant worry since the moment you had woken up on that first day to find the warm heap of muscle that usually tangled its limbs with yours wasn’t next to you in bed, but rather instead locked away in the bathroom. 

Bucky insists it’s what’s best for him; to shut himself from the world when his thoughts become dark and his nightmares come back from the dead to haunt him. But it was difficult to let him wallow in depression by himself, knowing his self destructive tendencies enjoy the hacking to his self esteem. 

Steve shuffles his weight between his feet, looking unsure of himself. “Shouldn’t we intervene by now?” He steps further into the kitchen and sits on the chair opposite you. “Surely we can’t let him continue like this.” 

You smile ruefully and push your mug to the side. “Steve, honey,” you begin carefully. “I know you’re concerned because he’s your best friend. Trust me, it’s hard for me to sit here and wait it out too. But you can’t force someone out of the recesses of their mind when they get like this.” Sliding your arms across the table, you gather Steve’s hands in yours. “Especially not Bucky.” 

The look on his face breaks your heart. “I know, I know. I just hate seeing him like this”, he sighs sadly. “I hate the feeling of doing nothing while he’s struggling.”

“Me too, sweetie.” You squeeze his hands before leaning back in your chair. “All we can do is give gentle encouragement. Let him know we’re here whenever he’s ready.” 

Although the worry was all the same in these situations, you were well seasoned with how to maintain your distance for Bucky’s well being, while also showing your love from afar by now. For example, the meals you had left him every single day without fail outside of your shared room; his favourite comfort food with a sweet treat baked specifically by you to give him some energy. 

Or the blankets you love so much slipped into the room without breaking the promise of seeing Bucky before he was ready. Without looking, you would open the door and place the fluffy material by the floor. You also took the time to spray it with your daily perfume as a familiar comfort Bucky could relish in without your physical form. 

It broke your heart to be away from him for so long, even if you were in the same vicinity as each other — always only a distance away that you could run to within sixty seconds should he need you. However, you knew this was what he needed. After the first time this happened within your relationship and you had no idea what he needed from you during that time, the two of you had sat down and discussed how you could support him better going forward. 

“Don’t worry,” you reassure gently before moving away from the table and placing your mug into the sink. “He’ll come to, he always does. Just gotta give him some time.” 

“Will you—,” Steve swallows his words harshly before trying again. “Could you let me know if he’s okay when you hear something?” Almost silently, he adds, “Please?”

You realise then that this is Bucky’s best friend, the man who defied every order and rule book to save him — multiple times. There’s a vulnerability in his ocean blue eyes and your heart is happy that the love of your life has other people that adore him just as much as you do. You wish Bucky could see the extent as easily. 

Softening your eyes, you don’t divert your attention for a second as you sincerely swear, “Of course, Stevie. I’ll make sure FRIDAY gets a message to you.” 

Steve blows out a heavy breath, seemingly lighter than he was when he first came in. “Thank you.” 

You share a delicate smile, an understanding between teammates, friends and two people who love Bucky so immensely. You’re about to bid him good night, ready to retreat to your old room just down the hall from your shared one with Bucky when a set of footsteps, timid and apprehensive creep towards you. Steve turns his head at the same time as you to find the very man on both your minds. 

“Bucky.” The relief in your voice is loud and the tension that you hadn’t even realised was so tightly weaved into your limbs instantly relaxes at the sight of him. It takes everything in you to not run into his arms, not wanting to spook him, so you tamper your emotions and stay rooted in your place while your eyes greedily take him in for the first time in a week. “Hi, baby.” 

Your boyfriend, head down with his long, matted hair hiding his face, lifts his head slightly until a peek of storm grey meets your gaze. You clock the dark, heavy bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the chapped lips that have been bitten restlessly. The clothes, stained with sweat marks, lay unusually baggy on his form. Normally, his shirts sit snug on the muscles of his biceps and his toned stomach and his sweatpants fit defined around his thick thighs. However in the week separated from him, Bucky has lost a fair amount of weight you conclude from lack of training and eating. 

Though his stature is hunched and he’s so desperately trying to hide away in plain sight, Bucky is here, visible and alive. He’s in front of you because he wants to be, you know that from past experience. He’s ready to let you in and take care of him even when the nasty voice in his head is telling him he doesn’t deserve it. You try so hard to swallow the lump in your throat and will the tears not to gather in your waterline. 

As Bucky clenches his fingers tightly, the whirring of his vibranium arm filling the silence of the kitchen, you know what he needs right now is for you to take charge. He’s not verbal yet, present but unable to speak and so you step forward slowly until you’re closer to him but not yet crowding his space. 

“How about we run you a bath, hm?” you offer softly, a suggestion rather than an order. While you’re trying to lead, you want him to set the pace — everything on his terms. “The warm water will feel nice on your muscles.” 

With a barely there nod of his head, Bucky accepts and you breathe a little easier knowing he’s still there, just a little lost. But it’s the subtle flex of his fingers, reaching out towards you that threatens to crack you. 

Carefully, you thread your fingers through his. You don’t miss the shudder that violently tracks down his back or the small gasp he lets loose. Your heart is becoming whole once again. 

Before leaving the kitchen, you glance at Steve still standing staring at his best friend. It’s then you stop and tentatively rub your thumb against Bucky’s hand. “Stevie wanted to ask you if you’d be up for a drive sometime soon. Doesn’t that sound good, honey? Taking your bike out for a spin?” 

Steve holds his breath as Bucky lifts his head slightly. “Mhm.” His voice is rough around the edges, the syllables straining against his dry throat. 

It's all he can offer right now. But from the looks of it, Steve’s eyes light up like he’s won the lottery. “Can’t wait, pal. I’m ready whenever you are, just let me know.” 

Your friend then looks to you, mouthing a silent thank you. You smile before ushering Bucky to your room. 

Bucky stands in the corner of the bathroom, looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him. He still hasn’t said anything, instead choosing to remain quiet for now. That was more than okay with you. You would rather slowly pluck away at the wall he’s built around himself and allow him to come forth smoothly. 

Meanwhile, you had rolled your sleeves up, running the water to fill the bathtub. You pick up two options of bubble bath and read them aloud to your boyfriend. “Okay. So we’ve got Lavender or Eucalyptus. Both are great for relaxation. You think you’d prefer one, baby?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, his owlish eyes blinking at you. Though his actions threaten the well of emotions in your throat, you remain calm and soothing. “That’s alright, honey. We can just put a little of each in. Best of both worlds, huh?” 

Again, there’s no response. But you expect nothing more. You hold no expectations of him, only wanting to gently encourage him out of his shell, just like you’d told Steve earlier. 

You pour each liquid under the running faucet and instantly soapy bubbles begin to form on the surface of the water. Happy with the result, you turn each tap off and smile towards your boyfriend. “All done, Buck.” 

He stands there motionless, eyes darting between you and the bathtub, still making no move towards you. 

“Would you like some help, love?” You move slowly, each step intentionally attentive. “It’s difficult sometimes, to get your body moving, isn’t it?” 

Bucky nods. It's not much, but it's something and you can work with that. 

“Right. We all need help sometimes. No shame in that, Bucky.” You’re in front of him now, a hair's breadth away from each other and you’re thankful to be let into his space. “Would you like me to undress you?” 

The air is stilted as you wait for any kind of indication from Bucky. It’s to your surprise that a gentle whisper slips from his lips. “Please.” 

You hone down the tears bullying their way to the surface. Instead, you smile shakily. “Of course, baby. Anything you need.” 

Raising your hands cautiously, you bring them to Bucky’s eyeline, allowing him to follow each motion you make. You bring them slowly towards the hem of his shirt, lifting the material over his torso and with a small struggle over his shoulders to the top of his head. 

“All okay, Buck? Can I keep going?” You check in, wary of any stipulations to his emotions. Reading his eyes, you know you’re good to reach for his pants. And so you do, taking careful measures to not let your skin connect with his prematurely and without permission. 

With only Bucky’s underwear left, you take one last chance to gain consent. “Am I good to help you take those off? We can keep them on or I can turn around while you do it yourself if you’re not comfortable.” 

But Bucky needs no time before he whispers his fingers against yours. A sign of his authorisation for you to take the reins. 

“Sure thing, honey.” Just like before you send him a reassuring smile before inching the last piece of material down his thighs and finally away from his feet. He stands naked before you and you make sure to look nowhere else other than his eyes. “Thank you for allowing me to do that, Buck. Can I walk you to the bath now?” 

There’s a slight moment of hesitance before Bucky places one foot in front of the other, searching for your hold. Immediately, you place one arm around his back, the other wrapping around his hand. 

You step together in sync, slow for Bucky’s sake. “Great job, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” Once you reach the tub, you give some directions. “Okay, you’re gonna step in now and I’m going to be right here with you.” 

Bucky grasps your hand tighter. You know he’s scared you’re going to leave. Gently, you swipe his tangled hair behind his ear and cup his stubbled cheek. “I promise I’m not leaving. I’ll be right by your side, okay love?” 

You see him swallow the lump in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing until he slackens his grip. Not before taking a deep breath, Bucky shakily lifts himself into the bathtub with your assistance and lowers himself into the water until his full body is submerged. 

“There we go.” Your pride for him is certain and absolute. You try your best to show him that. “Hard parts over with now, Buck. Now I can take care of you.” 

His pained groan echoes around the tiles of the bathroom. He’s hiding himself away from you but you’re eventually crumbling his defences down. 

“Let’s get this hair sorted out, huh? I’ll even let you use my shampoo you always steal.” The familiarity of your usual banter is a band aid to the wound so raw and open. Bucky was a fiend for thieving your most expensive toiletries — an excuse already lined up that no men’s products, no matter how costly, could match up to yours. 

Normally you would scold him, jumping into a shower after a prolonged mission only to find your shampoo empty with the bottle still placed on the rack. 

However, you would take those moments a thousand times over if it brought him even a slither of the happiness he supplied to you. 

It's then you run through your next steps with trained precision. You manage to run water over Bucky’s hair without getting any over his face, worried it may trigger him. You ignore the water in the bathtub, once transparent now a ruddy brown. And you silently open the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a generous amount onto your hands. 

“I’m about to climb in. Breathe for me, love.” You’re glad you wore shorts as you dip your foot into the water behind Bucky, swinging your leg over to sit on the ledge with your boyfriend between your thighs. A perfect position to stay close to him and provide him with the utmost care. 

Testing a tender touch upon his head and satisfied that Bucky is comfortable, you begin to lather the shampoo into his scalp. You relish in the grunts fighting their way through, the whimpers that climb up his throat, because this is the only way you know Bucky to finally cave in. Allow himself to be free from the shackles his mind clamps around him. Allow him to breach the prison he’s placed himself in. To come home to you. 

“That’s it, baby,” you murmur, purposely softening your voice to a gentle tone. “Let it out, I’ve got you. I’ll catch you.” 

As your nails scratch against his head, the first sob is released. You feel Bucky’s arms wrap around your thigh and his head lays itself upon you as his body begins to shake. You let him. The days worth of degradation and horror he’s allowed himself to relive escaping in this moment. 

“It's okay. Everything’s okay, Bucky.” It's a feat upon itself not to cry with him. A tear tracks down your cheek that you quickly wipe away with your shoulder because it’s your turn to be strong for him. To be the impenetrable wall he can lean on with the knowledge that he won’t fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” he weeps. You’re not sure whether he’s directing his words to you or someone else you’re not privy to. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“Shh.” Your desire to make everything okay for him burns bright. “None of that now, okay? You’re here. With me. I’ve got you.” 

There’s a hole in his heart that’s never ending. Deep and wide and burrowed too far for anyone to try and stitch back together. You’ve tried. Though this kind of damage was irreparable. 

The good days always outweighed the bad. Bucky had come so far along in his healing journey for that to be untrue. But when the demons came out to play, there was no room for anyone else to hold a hand for him to grab on to. Bucky was dragged down into the dungeons of hell, locked away until the monsters had gotten their fix. 

Rinsing the soap out of his hair, Bucky’s wails begin to calm, the tidal wave having hit its peak and descending back down. You keep him close to you, no mind in how wet your clothes are, and quietly hum a tune. 

Your lullaby is eventually the only sound in the room, each note having the desired effect of soothing Bucky into a sense of peace. His limbs have loosened, his shoulders no longer stiff. And you wait ever so patiently for him to break the ice. 

That moment comes when you reach for the bottle of conditioner, beginning to apply it to the ends of Bucky’s hair. “Y-You’re so good to me.” While more stable, his voice still trembles. “Why are you so good to—to me?” 

You thin your lips, willing the cracks in your heart not to spread further than they already have. Grabbing the comb, you start to gently tease your way through the knots matting the strands of his chocolate locks. “That’s because you deserve it, baby,” you say confidently. “You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Bucky sighs, a heavy weight behind it. His next declaration falls from him quietly yet deafening. “Sometimes I don’t think I do.” 

“I know.” With a gentle push of your fingers underneath his chin, Bucky looks up at you, eyes sorrowful and still so beautiful. You lean down to kiss his forehead, then his nose and at last his lips. Against them, you seal your truth. “But believe me when I say it’s easy to love you. Like nothing else I’ve ever done before, no matter what goes on up here.” You tap by the side of his temple twice. “I’m in love with you on your bad days just as much as your good days. There’s no running away from that, Bucky. And I’ll prove that to you every single time, for as long as you need me to.”

His voice is hopeful when he strains out a choked, “Yeah?”” 

You hope your eyes display your conviction. “Every damn time, baby. I’ll bring you back to me.” 

Bucky’s eyes close at the sensation of your loving touch and promises. “I’d like that.” 

Kissing his lips one last time, you lean back up, setting aside the comb and grabbing the washcloth. Bucky stays unmoving, nuzzled into your thigh and so you begin to massage the muscle of his shoulders, humming your song once again. 

“Me too, Bucky.” 

You can’t fix him, you know that. Bucky is a man, tortured by memories and a past that stripped him of basic human rights. But you’re devoted to picking up the pieces he leaves behind, handing them over for him to glue back together. And if you found yourself slowly healing the cracks with your care and utter adoration for him for the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be mad about it. 

Because no matter what Bucky thought of himself, there was no doubt in your mind that he deserved your love. 

[stargazedwinchester]

Can I have a thing written for a fluffy reader x Dean who has the same music taste as Dean and them bonding over it? I hope that made sense

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `november rain, dean winchester

Summary: You spend a rainy evening with Dean listening to his favourite bands. Word Count: 654 Thank you for requesting! I had a lot of fun writing this <3 Inspired by November Rain - Guns N' Roses

It’s a quiet evening in the bunker. You’re exhausted after a long day of researching, multiple phone calls and lots of dead ends. Days like this feel like you’re getting nowhere. Even after searching through countless books, it’s clearly a bad day even when Sam gives up for the night.

You rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen, picking out specific snacks to bring back to your bedroom. Your headphones reverberate classic rock, feeling the vibrations against your neck. You move over to the fridge and pick up an energy drink that Dean picked out for you at the gas station this morning.

You travel from the kitchen toward your bedroom, noticing Dean’s bedroom door is ajar. You turn the volume down on your headphones to listen in on what music he’s playing this time. Obviously, it’s some classic rock. You nosy in and see he has multiple cassette tapes splayed out over his messy duvet cover. He lays on top of his bed, staring up at the ceiling, focusing on the music. He’s so deep in his own little world, he doesn’t notice you walk into his room.

“Guns N’ Roses, huh?” You chuckle, and he flinches ever so slightly. “Damn, Y/N, you scared me.” He laughs, clutching his chest. “Yeah. November Rain. You heard of it?” He asks you, hunching over the side of his bed. He has a record player that’s currently spinning Use Your Illusion album, the limited edition yellow circles round, the needle has a cent taped to the top of it. “Of course I have,” you shut his bedroom door behind you. “Use Your Illusion, 1991. Nine whole minutes of pure sex.” You joke, and Dean laughs wholeheartedly. “Exactly. The songs too good.”

You scoot over next to dean, turning off your headphones and laying them on his bed. As soon as the previous track ended, November Rain fades in, the iconic piano thumps from the speakers. You pick up Dean’s cassette tapes, flicking through them as the song begins.

“When I look into your eyes,

I can see a love restrained,

But when I look into your eyes,

Don’t you know I feel the same?”

Dean silently sings along to the beginning of the song, you get up and go through his vinyl collection.

“Nothin’ lasts forever,

And we both know hearts can change,

And it’s hard to hold a candle,

In the cold November Rain.”

The song carries on as you flick through each album, picking up and examining each one. “You have a really sick music taste, Winchester.” You compliment him, and he looks up at you, smirking slightly. “Only the best.” He replies, noticing you’re holding a Metallica album. He stands up.

“Now that one,” he starts, chuckling to himself. “This was the first album I heard from Metallica. I must’ve been 12 at the time.” Dean reminisces beside you. You envision a younger version of Dean, finding his favourite genre of music. The idea itself warms your heart, knowing what he’s been through and how music has helped him immensely.

When November Rain finishes, you gently place the needle back in its place, removing the vinyl from the player and placing it back in its sleeve. You find the cassette player on one of the shelves, you take it and place it on the bed, opening up the player and placing the Metallica cassette inside. It takes a few seconds to unravel itself, then winds back up before playing the beginning of the album.

Enter Sandman begins playing.

You’re both sat on his bed, jamming out to his favourite artists, singing along together. Unknowingly strengthening that bond you didn’t know you had. Dean’s voice is rough, but suits the grain of the James Hetfield’s tone.

“Say your prayers, little one,

Don’t forget, my son,

To include everyone.

I tuck you in, warm within,

Keep you free from sin,

‘Til the sandman, he comes.”

[happypopcornprincess]

Chapter 1 || I Can See You

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader

Premise - At a glamorous gala, Y/N's life intertwines with Joaquin's. A pact ensues, while a dangerous mission looms.

Word Count - 2.8K

Warnings: SMUT, Angst, Mentions of blood, domestic violence

a/n - This story is based between the events of Endgame and Brave New World. In this AU, Tony Stark survived and the New characters of the MCU are on the way to be the new recruits of the Avengers. Hope you guys like this <3

Series Masterlist

Avengers Compound, Post Endgame

If it wasn’t for Pepper to quite literally threaten you to attend her Annual Charity Gala, you wouldn’t even be here. The atmosphere around you was straight out of some high society drama. The grey walls of the newly reconstructed avengers compound were covered in silver tones, a huge silver chandelier hanging in the middle of the hall, there was laughter in the air, and everyone was dressed to the nines. 

Just how a party was supposed to be… when the host was the one and only Pepper Potts. Tony was there too, even though his hand was still recovering from the snap, but he was cheery and loud as always.

You sipped your champagne in silence, standing far away from the dance floor. 

You were chosen by Sam from MIT to help the Avengers. You had trained with the new recruits, Kate, Peter… They were good kids. Training with them was… well, it was something. Sam was great, and helped you all adjust. Honestly, the Avengers? They were intimidating. superhuman intimidating. But you had your strengths. Sharpshooting was always your thing. And you threw yourself into the training, every single bit of it. They told you it was for intel missions, to keep you out of direct harm's way. But that wasn't enough. You wanted more. Because you were not aiming for 'safe.' 

You were aiming to be an Avenger.

Your job was to figure out how Kingpin just vanished into thin air after Christmas. The task has taken over your daily routine after you met Kate Bishop. It’s been months of interviewing eyewitnesses, going on the streets undercover, nights of no sleep with a shit ton of coffee, and just when you think you’re about to solve it… you meet a dead end.

“Trying to hide behind the curtains again are we y/n?” Bucky’s voice made you look to your right, and there he was. Standing next to you wearing a sharp three-piece black suit, his hair slicked back.

You finally understood what Steve meant when he would say girls back then would throw themselves at Bucky.

He turned to you in disgust, “Are you checking me out?”

“You wish, asshole.” You mutter in your glass.

You and Bucky had developed an unlikely friendship after the blip bought him back. He was pardoned, and moved into a quaint apartment complex deep in the city, unknown to the fact that you lived right next to his place.

On a stormy night after the nightmares won’t let you both sleep, sharing one bottle of whiskey between you was all it took for you to spill your life to him. You have turned into each other’s best friends and occasional love life advisor, although it was kind of a package deal.

Which is why you knew the reason he was so dressed up for the first time since you met.

“You see Sam anywhere?” he asks you nonchalantly.

You give him a sly smirk, “Why? Can’t wait to shove your tongue down his throat?”

Bucky gives you a sideward glance, and goes back to looking at the crowd.

He was still figuring out his feelings towards both men and women, especially towards one man.

Returning from the Flag Smashers situation, he would not shut up how ‘annoying’ and ‘frustratingly righteous’ Sam Wilson is, how his smirk makes him want to ‘strangle’ him.

You asked him one evening if he was having a ‘full-on-bi-panic’ and he threw a pillow at your face.

“y/n! there you are!” Sam bellows as he walks towards the two of you, wearing a crisp grey suit over a white button up, looking as dapper as always.

“Sam!” you laugh, giving him a tight hug. He was your mentor, someone you looked up to. And hopefully your bestie’s future boyfriend.

“You look absolutely gorgeous!” he threw you one of his classic smiles as he retreated.

You look down to the pastel pink knee length dress you were wearing.

Hustling the life of an avenger straight out of MIT, it was the only dress you owned. And after paying for it out of your own pocket you realize fancy dresses cost a hand and a leg, and you refuse to part from it.

“Thank you Sam I-” you were about to thank him but stopped once you noticed him absolutely gawking at Bucky.

“Hey Bucky.” He smiled.

“Hey Sam.” Bucky gave him a nod.

You almost roll your eyes at the exchange, wondering when they will move on from the weird talking phase.

“Hello.”

An angelic voice interrupted your train of thoughts. Looking away your eyes meet a pair of the warmest brown eyes. He was standing behind Sam. A tall, tan-skinned man, wearing a crisp black suit stood in front of you. His curls fell on his forehead, and his smile was intoxicating.

He looked like a high surf tide; calling out for you to test the waters.

You extend your right hand, smiling at him. “Hey, I’m y/n”

He held it with his right, it made your heart race when he brought your hand up to his lips and kissed your knuckles, his hands warm and his lips soft, sending a jolt through your body.

Oh, he’s mischief alright!

You were left speechless when he straightened, a smirk thrown out your way as Sam spoke up, “This is the guy I told y’all about! Lt. Joaquin Torres.” He slapped a hand on Joaquin’s back, smiling with pride.

“And this is y/n y/l/n, fresh transfer from MIT. She’s our tech genius, and a walking journal on film recommendations.”

Laughter followed as your eyes couldn’t help but stay trained on Joaquin. Thinking back on the time when Sam told the team about the new Falcon joining them after a while, you somehow manage to speak up at that moment, “Welcome to the circus.” You take a deliberately long sip of your float, never breaking eye contact.

He gulped nervously, eyes wide, clearly startled by you flirting. 

“You haven’t had a drink yet Lieutenant? Let’s get you something.” you smile involuntarily.

He stands back for you to lead the way, “Sure. And it’s just Joaquin, please.” he laughs just after, his honey laced voice paired with your tad bit hazy mind doing wonders to your imagination.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/--/-

They keep watchful eyes on us So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet You won't believe half the things I see inside my head Wait 'til you see half the things that haven’t happened yet

“Wait a minute…” you smiled, “you cannot possibly think Love Actually is better than The Holiday?”

“It’s the perfect rom com!” Joaquin laughs, “it covered basically every rom com trope under the sun.”

“But, listen to me, but…” you say, your slightly tipsy self leaning on the wall behind you, as Joaquin stood in front of you, holding his own glass of whiskey, “Quantity never matters in front of quality. All characters in The Holiday are well written with meaningful backgrounds and great character redemption arcs. And it’s got Jude Law.”

Joaquin raises his hands, “Jude Law.”

“Jude Law.” you laugh, at how he was mocking a defeated pose.

“When Sam told me I can’t lose a movie debate with you, I couldn’t believe him.”

You try to curtsey, “thank you.”

“Wanna get out of here?” Joaquin blurted out abruptly.

It took you a while to gain your consciousness, and a laugh left your lips at what he just said. You saw his eyes traveling to your lips, and how his breath fastened as you took a deliberately long sip of your drink.

You smirked, “sure.”

—/—/—

You find yourself sneaking through the backdoor and upstairs towards the living quarters of the Avengers compound as you drag Joaquin by his coat as you slip into an unassigned room. The furniture was still uncovered, but there was a couch in a corner right next to the opened windows where moonlight pooled in.

Perfect.

The alcohol surging through your system gives you newfound courage, and seconds later Joaquin was being thrown on the couch by you. His pupils dilated, his gaze trained on you and his scent lingering in the air, you straddled him without hesitation.

 “Are you good?” His breathy voice went straight to your core, and without a word you crashed your lips on his.

He’s gonna be the death of me.

The taste of expensive champagne hit your mouth, Joaquin’s tongue slipping in your mouth sliding in with fervor. Your gasp is swallowed by his lips, his hands travelling south towards the zipper of your dress.

Your hands fumble with his coat, taking it off of him and raising his shirt just enough to slide your hands underneath. Warm, toned muscles met your hands, and the way he sucked your lips made you forget everything. You couldn’t breathe, but couldn’t move away from him either, entirely lost in taking him in.

Joaquin jerked back all of a sudden, making you whine.

“Wait, wait…” He breathed out, his breath cooling your skin.

“Just kiss me.” You exhaled, grabbing his tie to pull him in, but he leaned back.

Joaquin gently held your wrists, “y/n… hey, look at me,” he breathlessly said, “look at me for a second.”

You do, at his messy hair, puffy lips, and blown out pupils.

He holds out his hand, “how many fingers am I holding up.”

You scrunch your brows in confusion, eyes drifting to his fingers in front of your face. You get the tunnel vision every time you’ve had a bit too much whiskey, you see double.

Concentrating hard on your answer, you slur out, “four?”

Joaquin closes his eyes, looking up and huffing out a breath, “you’re very drunk.” You feel his hands on your waist, and he carefully sits you down on the couch next to him.

You whine at the loss of his touch as he gets up from the couch. He returns a minute later with a bottle of water, sitting next to you and making you drink the entire thing.

“Can we go back to the part where you kiss me until I forget my name?” you breathe out.

Joaquin laughs out, settling down next to you and leaning back on the couch. You straighten your dress, and sit with your shoulders touching. You steal a glance his way.

His coat was gone, his tie hung loose on his neck, his white button shirt straining on his arms…

Someone works out…

The faint moonlight hitting from behind him made the outline of the veins on his neck visible.

I want to lick it...

You scrunch your eyes as soon as you hear that inside your head.

Wow, he’s right, I am drunk.

“As much as I’d like to do that,” he looks your way, “I can’t. You’re very drunk.”

A smile itches on your face, and you ask, “so what should we do then?”

“Talk?” he suggests, turning to you, resting his head on the backrest and looking you right in your eyes. “I know nothing about you. You know nothing about me. Let’s talk.”

You laugh out loud, “okay,” the smile refusing to leave your face, “what do you want to know?”

“Anything.” he says with a warm smile on his face.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

You wake up in an unfamiliar room and a blinding headache, on a mattress too soft for your liking, the sunlight hitting your face with full force.

Grunting, you sit up, rubbing your forehead.

Something slips off your body, and you look down and find someone has covered you with a black suit coat while you slept.

The man with the warm eyes and gentle touch.

You laugh, rubbing your head at the absurdity of the situation.

You wear it over your dress and walk out of the room, after last night’s party everybody would be sleeping in. You can sneak out unnoticed.

You swiftly call an uber, and shove your hands inside the pockets of Joaquin’s coat.

The feel of rough paper makes you stop in your tracks, you take it out of the pocket to see a torn piece of labeling paper inside, a note greeting you.

9546-555-6783 See you soon, I guess? (Take care of my coat till then? It’s my favorite suit.) -         Joaquin

-/-/-/-/-/-

You brush past me in the hallway And you don't think I, I, I can see ya, do ya? I’ve been watchin' you for ages And I spend my time tryin' not to feel it

Joaquin joined the team a week later. He chose to stay on the compound, and soon blended in with the new avengers. Peter and Kate grew especially fond of him. When Shang-Chi joined the ranks, he, too, was welcomed into your close-knit circle.

You spared during training, made breakfast together, had constant debates on cinema and stories. He loved the classics, and you had a nick for science fiction. You should have cancelled out each other, but your differences only made your bond stronger. The differences weren't a barrier; they were a bridge. You shared tech skills learned during your time at  MIT, revealing the details of coding and circuits. In return, he shared practical knowledge from his air force background; survival techniques and tactical strategies.

Your apartment, though smaller than the compound's common areas, became the gathering spot for your group. Lazy weekends of your teams were spent at your place, you'd watch old movies, host game nights, and then collapse on any available surface.

Peter had a habit of entering your apartment through your window, and Kate never got used to it. Takeout was a foreign concept with your friends. Instead, Shang-Chi and Joaquin would take over the kitchen, making a mouth watering combination of asian food and mexican food, that could best possibly win them masterchef if they ever could.

These people, this band of young individuals navigating life… they became your chosen family. They were your support system, your confidantes, your partners in crime.

No one seemed to notice the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the quiet conversations that stretched late into the night. Or perhaps they did notice, and simply didn't care. 

-/-/-/-/-/-

But what would you do if I went to touch you now? What would you do if they never found us out? What would you do if we never made a sound?

Clouds grumbled above, as angry raindrops splattered on your apartment window. You were sitting on your couch with three devices settled in front of you: a laptop and two tablets running algorithms and analytics for locating kingpin. Kate had gathered intel that he still had someone in the states giving him updates and keeping him safe. But where?

That was a question you were determined to get answers to. Which is why you had made it your mission to get to the base of this.

Amidst the thunderous rain outside, you hear a knock on the door, and from the corner of your eye you witness Joaquin enter, carrying takeout containers.

“You’ll have to use the fork for the noodles, I just ran out of chopsticks!” you shout, without even looking at his direction.

“Y/n” Joaquin huffed out in frustration, “please tell me you didn’t ‘sense’ Thai food from me.”

“I did.” you laugh, looking at the bewildered Joaquin standing in your kitchen. He had jeans and a sleeveless gym shirt on. Involuntarily your eyes went to his toned arms, and you did a quick diversion of your thoughts to the TV.

”I come bearing sustenance. Chow Mein and Thai green curry, extra spicy, just how you like it.” he says, followed by the scrunching of the takeout container.

You sit up straighter with a smile itching on your lips, your favorite food just when you were low on inspiration. “You're a lifesaver, these logistics are killing me.”

Joaquin sets the containers on the coffee table. He sits next to you, close enough that your thighs brush. He huffs out, “Tell me about it. Sam's been drilling us on contingency plans all day. I swear, he's got a backup plan for the backup plan.”

You laugh, “That's Sam for you. Always prepared.”

You open the containers, the aroma of the curry filling the room, and digging into the food in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“You got something on your…” Joaquin speaks, and you look at him with a particularly big bite in your mouth. 

“Hmm?” you mutter.”

He reaches out and gently wipes a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth. The gesture is intimate, lingering a moment too long. If you don’t count your sparring training, this was the closest you had been since ‘that’ night at the charity gala. Your hands grab his arm on their own.

It feels… good. Too good. It's been so long since anyone touched you like this. Desired you. Like you mattered. Like you weren't just… a disappointment. You… you want this. You want him. 

But what if you mess it up? What if you push him away, like you did with… 

Your heart almost leapt out of your chest as he gently cupped your face in his hands, your gaze locked on his warm brown eyes. He leaned in towards your lips, a silent question in his expression. You paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing your face, and gently pulled back.

He too leaned back, respecting your space. The tension remained, but now it carried a hint of gentle inquiry.

Looking down, you fidgeted with your hands, "It's not that I don't… I just… we need to be sure about this." You huffed out in frustration, trying to articulate your tangled thoughts.

"I want you," he stated, his voice low and sincere. You looked up at him instantly, his pupils dilated, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. "I want you in ways you can't imagine, y/n. And I will walk out of here right now if you don't want this. We can forget this ever happened."

Thunder roared in the skies above, and lightning illuminated his face through the window as he paused, his expression open and honest. "But," he gulped, his eyes searching yours, "if you do want this… then…"

He left the rest unsaid, giving you the space to make your own choice.

Your internal conflict finally tipped towards action.

Oh, fuck this… 

His words were lost as soon as you crashed your lips on his.

—/—/—

You stumbled into your room, Joaquin’s lips didn’t leave yours as he threw the two of you on the bed. Pulling you under him, his hands were everywhere. Your mind could only catch up with a few, as it was too busy taking in all of him.

Joaquin made you feel like your entire body was on fire. Your hands flew straight to his hair, a moan leaving his lips. You did quick work on his clothes, leaving him in his boxers as he got busy removing yours.

No words were exchanged as he moved low, kissing and sucking your skin in all the places that made your vision hazy. You could only whine and gasp as he grabbed your legs and rested them on his shoulders.

And then he stopped.

You look down to see a mischievous grin plastered on his face, his pupils blown wide.

“Joaquin…” you breathe out, “stop teasing me.”

His eyes darken as he let out a low murmur against your skin and without warning dived in, a loud moan leaving your lips as pleasure rushed through your body.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-

And I could see you being my addiction You can see me as a secret mission

“So… what is this?” you ask, lying next to him covered in sweat, panting. You rolled away next to him, completely exhausted from your acts that lasted three blissful hours.

“You’re asking this now?” he mutters, eyes fixed at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure fraternizing between teammates is not allowed here.” He groans.

You close your eyes, trying to think about if that rule existed among the Avengers. As far as you knew nobody was involved with each other here. “We can be friends.” You suggest.

“What!” you feel the mattress shift and open your eyes to him leaning over you.

 “No, just… think about it.” You shift to lean on the headboard, gathering the sheets to cover your chest, “you’re new to the team.”

Joaquin takes a pillow to cover himself and sits cross-legged in front of you, “okay.”

You stop for a second, staring at his abs.

Y/n stop it! Focus!

“We can’t just go ahead and announce that we’re sleeping together, or dating. They will never let us live this down. Especially Bucky. And Kate. Maybe Sam…” You state, matter of factly.

“Wait, wait! Stop!” he gestures, eyebrows scrunched, “You want to date me?”

“No! I don’t like you like that!” almost scream out, “do you wanna date me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then I don’t see a problem with… this!” You throw out your hands.

“What is this exactly?” Joaquin pointed between you two.

You groan, “ugh, you’re as thick as it gets!” You adjust the sheets around your body to free your hands, “what did you think of me the first time you saw me?”

“At the gala? Huh…” he thinks, “That you have the prettiest smile.” he shocks you with the last part, but then he adds on, “also you looked hot in that pink dress.”

There we go.

“Well, I thought you had a great voice, and your eyes were really pretty.” You truthfully admit, “also you looked like trouble… and I have a thing for bad boys.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Whatever.”

“You swear you don’t want anything other than sex with me?” he asks you.

You nod, “Yeah. You?”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay!”

Joaquin gets up from his place, picking up his boxers and putting them on, “So just to be clear… we’re friends.”

“Yep!” you catch your sweatshirt that he throws your way.

He puts on his shirt next, “With benefits.”

“Absolutely.” You say, debating whether you should get up the bed or not, exhaustion rolling over your senses.

“And you promise you won’t fall in love with me.” He points to you.

“Oh please, if anything you’ll be falling first.” You say through a yawn.

Joaquin laughs putting on his pants, “well, I’m gonna go get something to eat. You want something?”

“Do you mind if I take a nap? I’m tired.” You grimace.

He smiles at you, “Go ahead.”

You fall back on the bed, as you hear his footsteps going away… the sweet embrace of sleep following you next.

—/—/—

Few weeks later

Your place or mine?

Your screen lit up with the message from Joaquin. You smirked

Yours? In an hour? You press send, and let out a laugh as you see the blue tick instantly.

Done.

Before you could ask him the reason he got so worked up, you hear F.R.I.D.A.Y’s automated voice - Scan. Complete.

A low hum filled the operations center as you meticulously analyzed the fragmented data streams scanned by F.R.I.D.A.Y. Dozens of photographs presented infront of you but your eyes instantly locked in on one in particular. Your focus narrowed on a grainy image emerging from the static. 

Broad shoulders, crisply pressed suit, gold rings on the fingers… could it be…

“Y/n!” Kate and Peter shout in unison as you slapped a stack of files on the kitchen table. Sam, Bucky, Shang Chi, Joaquin, all who were just about to eat, whipped their heads towards the commotion.

“I think I've found him,” you announced, pointing to the figure.

Sam and Bucky shared a look, and rushed towards you as you opened up a holographic display on your tab. Joaquin and you share a look, he was amused, a small smile on his face letting you know he was excited for what you found out, you smirked and quickly look away trying to focus on the scene infront of you.

“All this time I was searching for him here… but…” Cross-referencing facial recognition, thermal readings, and satellite data, you enlarged a section of the display, revealing a stark desert landscape. “The terrain, the temperature… it all points to one place... Mexico.”

A collective sense of surprise filled the room. 

'Mexico?' Peter questioned, 'What's he doing down there?' 

You zoomed in on a satellite image, enhanced thermal readings revealing a network of hidden structures. 'I don’t know, but he's planning something,' you stated, a sense of urgency creeping into your voice. 'Something big.' The implications hung heavy in the air. 

“This changes everything.” You nodded, your gaze fixed on the display. 'We need to move fast.”

To Be Continued...

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Next Chapter will be up soon... Love y'all, Take Care!

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[ikbitchssss]

I Just Want Your Heart (Daryl x Half-Walker!Reader)

Warnings/Tags: Major Character Death, Angst, Cussing, Blood, Violence, and Normal TWD stuff. If anymore, please tell me and I'll add it!

Season: In the 30 days between season 3 and 4.

Words: 3K

Plot: Daryl finds a walker, but she can talk. She’s always chewing on gum, and her body is a bit rotten. It’s like she was half dead. He goes ok to help her and take care of her, not knowing why. Until one day, he does something he might regret.

A/N: Hope y'all enjoy;3

(OG BLOG: @idkbishsss)

Daryl Dixon was a man who did not fall in love with anyone. He was a rough around the edges, redneck, quiet, distant, guy. He did not fall in love. He loved only one person, his brother. Lost together somewhere in an apocalypse world and treated him like shit most of the time sure, but he did love him. As much as he wouldn’t admit it because Merle would just scoff and roll his eyes.

Daryl Dixon was not a man of groups. He was a part of one, only because he had to. Merle said it was because they needed him, but Daryl had a feeling that it was because Merle needed them. Daryl didn’t do groups, but he understands the importance of them. As long as they left him only he was okay.

Daryl Dixon was not a family man. He never wanted a family. His only brother was now dead. He didn’t need a family. Sure, he had a small care for the kids in the group, and didn’t want them to die. He would protect them, but it wasn’t his family.

Daryl Dixon was a lair. He was a family man, these people at the prison were his family. It was his group. He lied about it himself and others about those things for sure, but he never lied about not falling in love. Sure he’d love, in like, a family way. He’d never fall in love though, he’d never allow himself to.

.

Rick had ordered Daryl to go out and get more fuel for the cars. They were low and needed more for runs. 

Daryl got in a trunk and rode up to a few big ass rich people houses he’d seen a few weeks ago. They had a lot of cars and trucks in the neighborhood, meaning a lotta fuel if no one raided it already. In fact, a few houses were having parties, so there were more than usual for bug neighborhoods.

He pulled up to the first house and went to go get the fuel out of the cars and trucks. Using the classic suck on a hose until you feel like passing out method, he got nothing. Hence the sucking too long. He decided he’d check the houses later if he had time and moved on to the next set of cars and trucks. These ones look promising, and were very promising. Fuel came pouring out like the rain, he filled two gallons worth of gas from four cars and one truck. 

He put those gallons back in the back seat, and went to the truck bed to grab more fuel cans. However, something stopped him, a loud screaming noise. He grabbed his crossbow and looked around for the source. He heard giggling and saw the house it was coming from.

He slowly approached the home with extreme caution. He turned around the halls that lead him to a bedroom. He could hear the smacking of gum coming from the room. A girl was sitting there on the bed. A girl was graying skin, dead walker eyes, and a few broken limbs. You.

You casually popped the bones back into place. You looked over to him and smiled, he drew his crossbow up and pointed it to you.

“Woah! I’m not gonna bite you, I am not like the other ones.” You made a joke out of it while putting your hands up. He was confused, what the hell is happening? Why is a Walker, a dead woman, talking? And why isn’t he shooting it’s head off?

You got up and walked over to him, still with your hands up. Your smile faded and you looked a little nervous. “Look I was freaked out and confused when I woke up and was… somewhat alive. But I don’t hurt people, and it still hurts when you hurt me… so please just let me go…” You begged for your life as if you were human. Daryl didn’t understand, you aren’t human, you barely look human. Well, you didn’t look like a walker, you still had flesh, but still, you looked dead. It freaked him out.

You knew he was freaked out, it was all over his face after you said those words. But honestly? Daryl was more than just freaked out, a small part of him was intrigued. Which wasn’t like him. He wasn’t an intrigued guy, but he wanted to know you, know what happened to you.

“Why’d ya scream?” He asked gruffly. You didn’t expect his voice to be that deep, he must smoke something. 

You wave it off and shrug. “Walker grabbed my leg, forgot they don’t bite me anymore.” He was even more intrigued by this, you were immune? Or just half turned. He knew the group would shoot you as soon as you got close because of what you looked like. He’s had personal experience in that at the fram, but he wanted to know you. 

“Look… I’ll show you the best water and food and well anything you need! In this area and neighborhood… just let me live… please.” As you begged him again he put his crossbow down. He told himself not to, to put it back up, kill you, threaten you. But he didn’t. He just nodded and let you lead the way to show him things.

.

You were a talker, and walkers didn’t even look at you when you were being so loud. Daryl found it strangely interesting. He’d never been interested in anyone really, let alone a woman. Yet, there was something about you that made him wonder and think more than he ever let himself before. 

You were showing him a map of the area and places that hadn’t been raided already. “Now there’s a horde here, but when you go just tell me about a week before and I can steer them clear from your path!”

He looked up at you, an expression on his face that could only be described as a little confused. “Now why would ya’ help us..?” He asked, quietly, you guessed he wasn’t much of a talker. 

“Meh! If we are neighbors I have to help you right?” You said it like it was obvious. Like people just help one another in these conditions. “It’s what good neighbors do!” You exclaimed, Daryl just nodded. It wasn’t the old world normal people knew any more, but you act like it. Then again, Daryl didn’t know much of normal, so who was he to judge? Besides, the help would be nice.

You altered your smile, your big grin going away into a slight smile. For a dead girl, you seemed happier than most people. Maybe that was the secret, being dead. But Daryl had people, he wasn’t going to leave them. They needed him just as much as he needed them.

After it was all said and done Daryl went back to getting fuel. You stayed around just kind of watching him. It made him nervous, and he felt a strange new feeling he hadn’t felt before. He wished he could place it, but after years of controlling his emotions, they were all over the place. He didn’t know how to pen point the feeling he felt.

After he was all done with one car, he’d move onto the next one. You’d follow him, just standing around, watching. It almost creeped him out at some points, almost. He wasn’t used to people watching him so closely. Maybe this is how people felt about him. But earlier you were so talkative, and now you just watched, quietly.

He put the last two gallons of fuel in the truck and turned around after closing the door. He jumped a little when he saw you behind him. It wasn’t noticeable to you, just him. You just smiled and put a new piece of gum in your mouth.

“I have to… leave.” He mumbled walking over to the truck door. He glanced back at you, seeing that you were no longer smiling. You stood back, looking back at your house.

“I’ll be back…” He said. He thought he was stupid for saying it, but when he looked up and saw your smile, those thoughts faded into nothing. He pulled out of there immediately, why does he feel this way? Questions plagued his mind as he drove back to the prison.

.

He pulled back into the prison and didn’t say a word to anyone, not even to Rick, who’d asked him many questions about the area. He just helped unload his truck and stayed quiet with the small nod a few times. As the sun started to go down over the hills and people started to go inside, Daryl soon followed them. He then walked back into his cell and pulled the thin sheet as a door over the opening.

Daryl put his crossbow down with his stuff. He took his shoes off and threw them next to his boots. Beth found him “nice” sneakers to wear. He only wore them because it made her happy. He took off his vets and threw it on the top bunk

He laid down on the bottom bunk. He was on his back trying to sleep, but he just kept thinking about you. He knew it was a bad idea to think about you this much, but he couldn’t control himself anymore like he used to. You were talkative and almost happy, even though you were dead. 

He has so many questions. Why’d you look freshly dead? Why’d you chew gum? If you bite him, will he turn? Can he even get these answered? Probably not, he’d probably not even go back. A broken promise he gave you based on impulse.

He wasn’t like this. He didn’t let himself be like this, he wasn’t weak. Yet, he was thinking about you. He just wanted to see you, but he won’t let himself. He’s not going to let himself. But then again, what if you didn’t like him?

He switched onto his side and buried the side of his head into his pillow. He groaned, he wasn’t going to sleep with his thoughts racing like this. Why was he so obsessed with you? You weren’t anything other than another traveler he met, a very interesting undead traveler he met. He needed to let it go. 

If he just doesn’t go near the houses, he’d be fine!

.

Unfortunately, Rick wanted to go to the houses to raid them. They needed more food and supplies. He was planning everything out for a few days. He told Daryl to lead the car and truck on his motorcycle. 

He led them there but was far ahead. You were out killing walkers and humming. You turned and saw Daryl, you dropped your knife and ran up to his bike. “Hey! You’re back!” You said joyfully. Daryl looked worried.

“My group, they’re gonna be here soon. Ya gotta hide…” he said. You looked confused, as if you didn’t understand that his group could hurt you. He turned over to the car and truck coming in and shoved you in the pile. He killed a walker and put it on top of you. 

You started to breathe heavily. You started to get scared. It reminded you of your death, but Daryl put you here. And you trusted him. He’s the only thing or person that hasn’t tried to kill you.

Daryl said he’d raid your home, as he did half of it already. The rest of the group went into other houses. He waited till they were out of sight and he picked you up from the ground and walked into the house.

“I said hide, girl.” He shoved you on the couch. And sighed. He picked up a few things and shoved them into his bag. One of two lighters, a water bottle, a few canned foods, and a knife. He then sat down next to you. “Won’t take it all from here...” he mumbles looking anywhere but at you.

You just grabbed some gum and chewed on it. Not paying much mind to him. 

“So. Your group. How come I can’t meet them?” You asked like it was urgent, like somehow you needed to meet them right now. 

He mumbled a little to himself before answering, “I don’t know how they’ll react to ya,” he paused and looked at your eyes, yellow and bloodshot, “hell I still don’t really know what to think…” He said with a grunt. You giggled, giggled at him.

He looked confused by it. “I’m a walker, who would know what to think?” You explained. He smiled a little and nodded his head. He guessed he understood that, who would react well? 

You got up and walked up stairs, you came back down with a bag. “Here. My old bag of supplies before I turned, enjoy your raid of my neighborhood stranger.” She smiled and he noticed that you weren’t chewing gum anymore, why?

He looked down and opened the bag, it was full of food and maps. It had a few knives too. He looked up thank you but you were gone, just like that. He missed his chance to talk to you. He just sat there, what was he meant to do? Go look for you? He had a job, raid this place.

He got up and looked through the house a little more, he found some things others could use. He guessed you didn’t use soap or cleaning things, you were dead. He had your bag and another full one of needs and others of wants. Beth and Carl requested things since they are still too young for runs.

He walked back outside and put the stuff in the truck. Rick and Michonne got done with theirs and walked over, same with Maggie and Glenn. A few new guys as well, but Daryl didn’t care to know their names. He should really learn your name.

Also, you weren’t as talkative as last time… why?

.

The next time Daryl went on a hunt he stopped by that neighborhood, you were nowhere to be found. You just disappeared into thin air. At a blink of an eye you were gone when he saw you last and you never showed up again. What happened? Did you not like him? Lots of why’s with you.

He looked up and down the neighborhood, but it was no use. He didn’t want to give up. You were so; no. He needed to stop, he couldn’t let himself get this close to you. It almost felt like… love.

What if you were dead? 

That thought hit him when he sat on his bike. Dead. No? You? But it was completely reasonable. You were half walker, you almost blended right in. You could’ve easily been killed by someone. What if it was someone in his group? What if his family killed you? 

No. They aren’t his family and you are nothing to him. You talk together only a few times, yet it felt like he knew you longer. 

He got on his bike and headed back on the open road. He was going to the prison again, he got a few rabbits that would be fine for now. 

The breeze was cold, a nice contrast to the hot sun that beat his pale skin to a tan. He always loved taking these bike rides. They were peaceful, especially when he was stressing about stupid things. No more of that, but there was something he the road

He pressed the brakes, hard. You stood in the middle of the road, scared. He got off his bike and ran to you. The whole, not stressing about things always lasts him two seconds.!“Are you okay?” He said, you hugged him.

“Hey stranger..” You just sobbed into his neck. His beautiful, fleshy, biteable neck. You pushed him away. He was confused, why? Did you really not like him? Is what he feared right?

“I’m going to bite you… I want to bite you… I keep wanting to bite people… I’m freaking out! Gum doesn’t help anymore!”

Daryl grabbed your hand. “Then let’s find some asshole to cure that hunger.” You looked at him like he was crazy. Hell, he knew the plan was crazy, but losing you was crazier. He couldn’t lose you, he loved you. Goddamn it, he fell fast and hard, but he loved you. He really did.

You pulled your hand away from his. He wanted to run and hug you, make you stop running from this, he can handle a bite. “It doesn't work like that! I just got hungrier..” You mumble, you tried it already. It didn’t work. He grabbed your hand.

“I’ll find a way. I need you…” he mumbled that last part but it made your heart break. It happened in three swift moves. He kissed you, you bite his lip, you pull back. It was all so fast that you nor Daryl had time to realize what happened. What you both did. A kiss and a bite.

“Stranger-“ 

“Daryl.”

“Daryl… I, you’ll turn…” You mumble, you’d be crying if your tear ducts worked. Goddamn it, he had a family, you were going to kill him. He nodded and laid his head on yours. “And I’ll be yours…” he mumbles. He knows he’ll miss his family, it’s why he sheds a tear, but he wants to be with you. Maybe you’ll both be half dead. Maybe you’ll find a way to live. Maybe his family will accept you guys.

Daryl Dixon was a man of love. Fast, messy, sweet, heartbreaking love. He’d give the world, he’d give himself, for the one he loved. Over and over and over again. He was a lover, because he allowed himself to fall in love. He was all the things he thought he wasn’t, because he was a liar. But he would no longer be a liar, because he knew he was these things. He was just Daryl Dixon. A very half-dead and in love Daryl Dixon.

[muchanmocha]

Do you think that Luka has a hard time understanding and/or feeling remorse for his actions if they don’t directly affect him, and do you think this is why he lacked a reaction at Hyun Woo’s death? Your post about him being horrified by killing his clones when he really wanted to set them free was great, and that, along with him also being horrified at Hyuna’s death, has me wondering this. But Luka seemed to genuinely see Hyun Woo as his friend even though they weren’t as close towards the end, but maybe they had drifted far enough apart in Luka's mind that he didn’t really associate himself with Hyun Woo at that point? What do you think?

[Referencing this post]

I actually have a longer post in the works about how the dead clones scene fits into the bigger picture and why I think it'd basically set everything else in motion, including what happened with Hyun Woo. But I can try to respond with some of the main points here!

-

Why did Luka lack a reaction to Hyun Woo's death, unlike with the clones and Hyuna?

But that's exactly it isn't it? Those two events bookend all of the times inbetween where Luka doesn't seem to care.

The scene with the clones is significant because it's the first time.

The scene with Hyuna is significant because it happened to Hyuna, and as I will get into further down, Hyuna fulfills a specific role for him.

What happened to the dead clones utterly broke his will and Luka chose to cope with that by completely withdrawing into himself, essentially committing to a form of escapism or dissociation.

In your dreams, you'll run and play

In paradise

— Wiege

I think after the clones incident, he basically just started blocking out everything that involves him processing death and loss.

That's where Hyuna comes in.

Hyuna is his escapism.

[Made a post breaking down the events with Hyun Woo here]

What changed with Luka and Hyun Woo wasn't that they drifted apart so Luka didn't care about him enough to be affected by his death.

What changed was that after the clones died, Luka threw away a reality he couldn't cope with to drown himself in Hyuna and only Hyuna.

In other words, he didn't react to Hyun Woo's death because it's part of the reality he's denying. He's (perhaps subconsciously) not allowing himself to acknowledge it or process it.

But he can't do that with Hyuna.

If Hyuna is his way of escaping from reality, where is he supposed to go, to escape to, when she's the one dying?

Despite the blood that follows him, Hyuna is the probably first time he's been forced to confront death since that very first scene with the clones.

Do you think Luka has a hard time understanding/or feeling remorse for his actions if they don't directly affect him?

There are strong implications that come with the fact that Hyuna told Luka to forgive himself.

It means he hasn't forgiven himself.

He keeps running away from what happened, and what's happening, because he isn't able to and won't be able to forgive himself for what he's done.

By not acknowledging the present and not processing the deaths that follow him, he essentially side-steps the problem.

He doesn't have to confront the guilt, shame, internal struggles, or the question of forgiveness... if it had never happened, right?

(To be clear he does know that people have died, whether that be Hyun Woo or the Alien Stage contestants he went up against.)

(However knowing something and processing something are two different things and I suspect he's mentally blocking himself from doing the latter.)

The dead clones incident can only affect him so deeply because he does have the inherent capacity for compassion.

But the world of Alien Stage is not kind to those with compassion. So he throws it away.

The post-Round 7 interview states that Luka looks down on Mizi and co for getting swept up in their emotions.

Luka likely dismisses this as foolishness by simply avoiding it.

— Post Round 7 Q&A, Patreon

Yeah, he does. I mean he basically dialed up that avoidance to 100.

Vivimeng describe Mizi and co as "strong individuals who, in a space that seems inhumane, seek to connect by loving others."

And that's absolutely true. They really are brave individuals for daring to care when it will only hurt more if they do.

At the same time it's understandable that Luka chose to turn away from that.

At a young age, he's already been shown, quite brutally, what happens if you care.

-

Thanks for the ask, anon! I ended up connecting even more dots while writing this up lol

[midnight--sadness]

For the AU where Ilnam takes Gihun off the game to keep him as a pet... I don't really have the words for this right now but please just imagine Sangwoo's POV for a second when he hears "player 456 eliminated" and how fucked up he'd be for the rest of the games and then getting out and going to check on Gihun's mom only to find her dead and he'd never even know what happened to Gihun (unless..?) aaaaaaa

(Unless he somehow also comes across the Salesman later on and actually has a semi convo with him where Salesman lets something slip that makes it sound like he knows Gihun and is talking about him in present tense. Nothing super obvious but something Sangwoo notices and puts together idk.. And then Sangwoo investigates?? Tries to infiltrate the games in his own way? (So imagine in a more VIP/insider sort of way) Maybe Saebyeok learns about this and also wants to help? Maybe they bump into Junho along the way and the whole merc Kim and co plot still happens but Saebyeok is on the water with Junho while Sangwoo is on the island confronting the Frontman and looking for Gihun)

(Nothing super dark/darker than canon is happening with Inho/Gihun in this AU so like I imagine he's not exactly kept there against his will.. Maybe at first, but then it's more that at some point he learned about his mother's death, and Sangwoo and Saebyeok got what they needed, and even with them being alive he's still traumatized from the games and Ilnam's betrayal and basically having to gamble with people's lives. They offered him enough money to pay off his debts and start over but he feels like he has nothing left to live for out there, like he wouldn't be able to talk to Gayeong and like Sangwoo wouldn't want anything to do with him especially after what they went through, so he just sort of... stays, and tries to convince Inho to stop the games, and when that doesn't work tries to at least keep changing them to give people the most chances of survival. Like the keeping the money change, or like a new change where people who vote to leave get to just leave and only those who choose to stay keep playing. No more 'special game' at nighttime.

And he's miserable but he really feels like he wouldn't know what to do with himself out in the real world, and he doesn't want to bring down his friends with him, so maybe it's better if he stays "dead". And meanwhile Inho is just trying to win him over and convince him that they belong together, that he can make him happy if he stays with him forever.)

-- sparks

I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS!!! 💖💖

gihun is so traumatized and insecure about his place in people's lives that he just remains in the island. gayeong is being taken to america, sangwoo will help gihun's mom he's sure, saebyeok has her life... in his head, he is of no use to anyone.

except inho. inho tells gihun that he is needed at the island. at inho's side. and also ilnam's but the old man isn't important here. inho can make him happy and fulfilled, can turn him from a man with no purpose into someone who betters the world by removing the trash from the streets. gihun is horrified by this of course, he won't be a willing participant in the murder of innocents.

so he tells inho that he needs to make changes to the games and gihun will stay. like you said, anon, the money being divided and the ones who want to leave being allowed out and the vote after each game.

unbeknowst to gihun, sangwoo and saebyeok and junho are trying to find the island.....

[orpheuslookingback]

oof man I've been loving severance in general but I think that last episode is the first one I have like lots of Thoughts about that I feel like I can at least kind of string together lol. Like I was moderately worried about what direction the Dead Wife thing was going to go in. Because it would have been so easy (and kind of disappointing) for her to just ultimately be an object that exists as a goal/motivator for other characters and not a person (as is common with Dead Wife characters, both literal and not so literal); that's sort of what she's been so far, with just the tease that she could be more. And unless they drop the ball big time (which god I hope they don't), this episode already made it clear: she IS more. Like revealing her to be both physically AND mentally alive at this point in the story is such a good writing choice and feels SO crucial to escaping from some of the really cliché permutations that these kind of basic story arcs/character archetypes can fall into.

I know everyone's been doing the orpheus/eurydice comparisons and now I know people are talking about how mark and gemma are now both actually the orpheus to each other's eurydice, but it's also this: gemma has been split into who knows how many people. She's his eurydice. She's his orpheus. And she's her own orpheus, too. Because she gets herself out of the underworld and then, not remembering she has, she's sent right back down again. And she hesitates and turns around one more time. But she doesn't know. She doesn't even know what she's really looked back at. She doesn't know the world she's sent away. Not until she's back in the underworld, and she's eurydice again.

Also! To interplay him remembering her, give us a classic Dead Wife Sequence- complete even with some of the classic images! The beautiful woman smiling in nature, lying in bed, looking at you, the light warm for the very first time- with the cold, stark reminder that she isn't actually dead, and more than that is still conscious and trying to get out and find him- is SUCH a cool move. Like it totally flips the idea of the Dead Wife Sequence on its head. It's not just grief anymore. It's not just using a lost person as a prop that our hero fights on in memory of. It's the Dead Wife Sequence as horror.

Because she's still the Dead Wife and yet at the same time it dramatically shifts her role in the story, right? Because it turns out everything she is to Mark, he is to her. This unreachable person who you now know isn't dead but who you cannot get to and you cannot know the true present reality of you can only take the word of people you don't totally trust or know. And so, they are dead. But now you know it's only to you. Because we've seen them both now, and we know they're both not just alive, they're fighting.

("she's not dead, she's just not here")

She's not your Dead Wife but you can't help the fact that in your memory, in your mind, she is. So you're the one, in a way, that's killing her. And you're her Dead Husband. "He's moved on" and you know that's a lie but does it really matter until you see him? Until he's real again? Because until then, you're both choking on ghosts.

And the ghosts aren't even really there.

[hyukascampfire]

THE TERRIBLE HALF-TRUTHS OF THE UNDEAD ҜING

⠀(🍂 ) 𝓡EVENANT in folklore, a revenant is a spirit or animated corpse that is believed to have been revived from death to haunt the living ... ( 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 )

1︎5.5k revenant!yeonjun · ƒ ! r ft. soobin ⸺ ✴︎ 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒 ... smut, violence, angst, death, animal death & vivid descriptions of animal death, major character death, unprotected sex, cumming inside, dry humping (because bring it back), biting, dom yeonjun sub reader, mentions of death in childbirth, reincarnation, teasing, breast worship, yj calls reader ‘my love’, def some typos

🪶 ⦂ how fun is this collab? :,) this fic was so fun to write. i personally believe that tsfawc enjoyers will love this one,, but you'll have to read it to confirm that, right? hehe. and of course, go read everybody else's if you love this one! they're all set in the same world, and everybody worked so hard on these fics. send some love their way!

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

𝒪𝑁𝐶𝐸 𝒰𝑃𝑂𝑁 𝒶 𝒯𝐼𝑀𝐸, in a land far, far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky and the water sparkled under the glowing sun, where mountains rose high, and long, deep caves ran through them, where the sea met shore in collisions of swirling, foamy punches, where the undead walked among the living, where the winged flew above the finned, there was a land where things beyond reason and rhyme existed perfectly true. Among those strange beings and within the veils of Aethera, there was a girl loved by death. 

He sits on your shoulder, a dark, boding shadow and glared at those around you with promise in his eyes.

That’s how it seems, anyway. That’s how everybody looks at you. They dodge you, whisper about you, evade your gaze as if he might reach his claws for them next if they linger for too long.

Crows with dead eyes arrive at your doorstep like some lover’s cheeky gift, other poor creatures like fat grey mice are left to rot in the wheatfields, and yarrow stocks wilt outside the wall of your room. If Death thinks that you are flattered, he misunderstands you. You are terrified of nothing more than dying. The first time, it was a sly joke. Then it happened again, and you watched their eyes change. And it happened again and again, and your people are a suspicious type. Something can only be a coincidence so many times.

When you began to sneak into a little shack with a village boy, you thought that maybe, somehow, this would all pass. He died too. There’s really no coming back from that, is there? You don’t blame them. You’re not the freak that they all believe you to be—none of them get close enough anymore to know that, though.

The wickerbasket’s handle creaks under your fist. You usually only forage along the shallow line of the forest; you pluck from bramble bushes topped with plump berries that crawl between trees during the summer, and when the crab apple tree’s branches hang heavy with the fruit, you snatch those up too. You’re more useful to your family out here, in the woods that they deem just as cursed as you. Where you won’t be their burden.

Crisp autumn leaves crunch under your boots. You scan between them—more grey and rotted this late in the season than fresh and orangey—for the edible mushrooms and roots that you usually forage at this time of year. The basket’s already pretty heavy with a variety, black morels and sorrel and burdock, as you bend down to pull a truffle from the dirt against a tree.

You drop it down with the rest of your finds. The basket smells like earth, no doubt your hands do too. You dust your palms off on your skirts and go to rise back from your squat.

A deep, billowing horn pierces the forest’s silence. It’s both far away, wiggling between the whispers of rustling leaves, and much too close. It draws out. Long. Bone-chilling. You freeze, scanning between each tree trunk and praying that you won’t find what you fear you might.

You are much deeper into the woods than you usually are. Than you ought to be. And you know what that horn means—you know that it means something far worse than what you’d been afraid of, coming into these woods. Much more primordial than the hide-behinds you were scared you might find this deep, much less avoidable than the faerie rings you stepped around.

Why would The Wild Hunt be here? A shudder runs down your spine, and you curl your fingers into your skirts and lift them as if to prepare to run, but you don’t. Your feet find root in the forest floor and all you can do is stand terribly still in catatonia. Their horn sounds again, and a procession of wicked whoops and howls follow. Wild hoofbeat rumbles under it all—the hunt and their rides. You hope that they’re just passing through, and you won’t so much as see one of those wild riders. There were plenty of folktales that the matrons of your village would bolster to terrify you as children, but you knew even then that their stories of the riders, with their flesh falling away from them and their pale or beady eyes and their gnarled maws and frightening figures as they rode on the backs of equally terrible steeds, were not fabricated. They are not a bogeyman or a wailing banshee; they are death made in the flesh, and they are here. In your forest. 

Your legs won’t work. You curl your clammy fingers tighter around your basket and lean into the tree beside you. How deep had you wandered into the forest? Hopefully not too far; when you gain the courage to run, you hope that they do not send their hounds to snap their foul breath on your heels. Maybe just standing here and blending into the trees is best. The Hunt would love a chase, and you don’t want to become their next.

The next call comes and you throw that all to the wind. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you let your basket clatter to the leaves and you take off. You fly over roots and shrubbery and between the trees, your blood roaring in your ears faster. You’d oblige if you could.

Above the loudness of your frantic mind, the harrowing whinnies and The Hunt’s ruckus dulls until it’s faraway again, and then it’s gone. Well, you don’t stop to check if they’ve really passed through the forest. You just run.

“There you are, love.”

His voice cuts through your frantic escape and stops you dead in your path. You almost go crashing down over the ground with the force that you dig your heels into it. Though the voice is non-threatening, you don’t turn to face the source.

He speaks again. You already know who it is. He, old as the earth you stand on itself, leads that band of wild riders. Is the king of the undead, collects souls for reaping.

And he’s the one who’s plagued you with his attention. Death.

“Why do you keep your back turned to me?” he says. “I frighten you. That hurts.” His voice lilts with amusement and sharpness. “I wish that you would face me.”

You’re not fond of the way that he speaks to you with a familiarity. But then again, you’re not fond of dying, either. Your legs are boneless beneath you. Turning, you slowly indulge him, though it takes a great amount of willpower to not run again like your jittering jaw and trembling hands ask you to.

The King of Death stands tall and utterly preternatural, leaned against a crooked tree in the woods behind you. His smile cracks across his face in a jagged way that suggests he finds you amusing, but none of that meets his eyes. They’re the color of the greyish, rotted leaves beneath you. The dark shadows beneath his eyes are the only thing belying the weight that his infinite life might have on him. That, and the hollowness that rings from him.

And though he sounded entirely playful, you are shaken by the sorrow that you find in him now that you’ve turned. Even more so, you’re not sure why you feel it echoed somewhere in the hollows of your bones. “I’m sorry,” you say. It trembles terribly. You want to say that you’re sorry you caught his attention, but it seems you’ve always had his attention. It’s more that you are petrified down to your marrow that the time’s come that you face this… strange infatuation. Here he stands: the one who leaves hollowed out husks of creatures at your doorstep. Should you run or thank him? Is Death as prideful a creature as the other kinds that inhabit Aethera? “I don’t mean to…”

He pushes off his tree, fixing his cape that cascades over only one of his shoulders. It’s tattered and falling apart like the rest of his clothing, though you think that the bronze stitching and swirling oakleaf patterns in the black say that they might have been immaculate at some point. Or maybe they weren’t, and they had started that way. He is Death, anyway. “You’re sorry?” he says. “Why are you apologizing to me? You’ve hardly done a thing to warrant it.”

Faltering, you wet your chapped lips. You’re not really sure. Holding back another apology for fear that you’ve offended him and he’ll now strike you down for it, you say, “I thought that, maybe the hunt was…” Wow, you sound stupid. You can see in the sly smile his lips form that it amuses him. That’s almost worse than angering him: intriguing him. What you really should be doing is boring him so that he’ll find you a waste of his time. Then, maybe, he’d give up haunting you.

“After you?” he finishes. Shaking his head, he says, “My hunters only answer to me.”

“Oh,” you say plainly. Part of you wants to ask why that should comfort you, especially when you’re the one that he sends little bits of death to, but rationality keeps those words in the back of your throat. You don’t really want to know. “Why are you passing by here?”

Something akin to old longing passes through those witty eyes, and then he eats up the distance between you with languid steps of his long legs until he’s nothing more than one last step in front of you. The closeness consumes the air in your lungs, leaving nothing for you but short and shallow drags. The forest has gone dead silent aside from the sound of it. His voice is even more magnetic now that he’s so close.

You recoil when he brings a hand up to brush the pad of his thumb over your cheek and then cup your jaw, as if afraid that he might snuff you out here and now. His fingers are softer than you thought they might be, and the lines of his face sharpen into what you think is hurt. Hurt that you flinched?

“We go here and there,” he says, “but it’s been a very long time since we came here.” There’s a certain thickness to his words; a certain tension coiled over them from something that you’re not privy to. And yet, there’s a farawayness, too. You bet he’s full of a lifetime of secrets. Lifetimes of secrets. “But I think I’ve found myself a reason to finally return.”

Breathy and still struggling to flatten out your breathing, you ask him, “Why?”

The Undead King’s smile turns wicked once more, and he doesn’t answer you. It’s awfully eerie.

“Do you have… business here?” you try again. It’s a roundabout way of asking, do you have someone to take away?

“I have business wherever the living go,” he says, letting your face go but not giving you any more room. You narrow your eyes. He’s quite good at non-answers. “Nothing is more certain than that I will greet every living thing eventually. I’ll come to take you, too, when the time comes.”

Your mouth dries up. The entirety of your home, all the people you’ve ever known, fear you for all the death you bring. Not one of them fears it more than you do. You’ve seen it enough to fear its frightening finality.

The drop of your face must’ve told him how much that scared you. “Dying is not such an awful thing, love. Living pales in comparison.” Searching your eyes, he adds, “But I’ve not come to take you.”

That’s easy for him to say: that death isn’t something to fear. His words don’t calm your thundering heart, but you offer him a, “Thank you…” It trails off toward the end when you realize that you don’t have his name. If he has one, anyway.

“Yeonjun.” He tilts his head, strands of sparrow hair brushing over his watching eyes. “Most don’t know it, but you’re not most people, are you?”

Your breathing had just begun evening out. It’s a shame, the way that it kicks back up at the way he looks at you. “What do you mean?” you say, but of course you know. Nobody else is given dead things like you. It’s not like you yourself are very strange; you like pretty dresses and sharing gossip with friends just as much as any other girl your age.

Giving you another one of those knowing smiles that he uses just like words, he steps back. “I’m sorry that I scare you how I do.”

You don’t answer him. What could you say to that? That he doesn’t? That would be a lie, and he would know it.

Yeonjun’s eyes flit over your face, over your cheeks made pink by the autumn cold, lingering on your lips for a few unexplainable beats, and then landing on your eyes where he searches and finds something that sends his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I don’t mean to be your monster. It’s only that…” He steps back again. “You remind me a terrible amount of someone I once knew.”

“Who?” Though your shoulders relax a bit with some distance between the two of you, you do your best to not let your guard down. All the stories that you recall being told, all those cautionary tales passed down through word of mouth around a fire, end with some stupid girl thinking that the monster could be changed or tricked. You’re willing to bet that the man in front of you, no matter how human he looks or how enchanting his words are, could be neither.

That doesn’t explain the ache in your chest when he holds your eyes for too long. But you shove that feeling way, way down. It’s nonsensical.

His voice takes on a parting tilt when he says, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Death takes us all.” Yeonjun dips his head at you. His smile wavers. You’d think that crooked smile on his mouth was indelible had you not seen it twitch down at the corners only for a moment. If you’d have blinked, you’d have missed it. “You think I’ll hurt you,” he says, “well, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead, run. I apologize for your basket.”

Death takes us all. You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean, coming from him, but it sends a cold wind up your spine and goosebumps crawling over your skin.

He watches you go. You don’t look back when you do, but his gaze sits on your back until you’re sure you’re out of his sight. When you return to your home, your mother asks where the basket full of ingredients for supper went.

You imagine what her face might look like if you told her the truth. But that was impossible, so instead you tell her some stupid story about a wolf that startled you so bad that you ran home paying no mind to where your basket was. It’s close enough to the truth.

༺ ꘏ ༻

It doesn’t matter what you do; you can’t get his face out of your head. While you cut butter into flour and then roll out dough, simmer fruits over flame and you slice cheese off blocks, you replay that meeting in the forest. The memory spins and turns over no matter how hard you try to put it away from your thoughts.

It’s not every day that somebody meets the likes of him. You can’t blame yourself; he had such captivating eyes. Dark, playful, and endless. There they are again. You sigh and dust your hands off. Maybe you are just as strange as they all think that you are. Morbid curiosity is like that, though. Taking the most normal of us and making you wonder what you absolutely should not wonder about.

And you absolutely should not wonder about him.

The sun has begun to hang high in the sky, but the breeze that crawls through the window you pulled open before you got to work is a crisp one. Autumn’s really come, now. Outside the window, a huddle of children play around in the leaves that you’d raked up. You’ll have to rake those back up, but you hardly have the heart to tell them to take their playing elsewhere. Their giggles and small voices waft in with the breeze, and a traitorous part of you yearns for a family that you know you’ll never have. No man would risk that fate, not after what happened to the last man who paid you any attention. You grit your teeth at the memory.

Having a face for the thing that’s made your life the way it is is strange. Seeing him in the flesh, with handsome eyes and a taunting mouth, looking something near human, you think you’ve come to resent him for it. How dare he ruin your life? He, more than anybody, should know how fleeting life is. What is in it for him to deface what little time you have? You keep going back to that thought: why did he ever even appear to you in that forest? There is not one story in which you remember Yeonjun showing his face to those he hasn’t come to claim. Death makes his visits swift and purposeful.

Moreover, why on earth would he even look your way? You wish there was a plain way to ask him why, or even to plead with him to stop. Whatever it is he’d ask of you, you think you might give him. To get back to living, you would.

A deep, familiar voice from behind you gives you pause. “Want some help with that?” Soobin says. He stands  in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the top of the frame. It’s made too small for him. Most things in your tiny village were made too small for Soobin. There had been a time where you’d been taller than him, that had hardly lasted long enough.

“As if,” you dismiss and gesture at his dirty hands. He’d no doubt been out working his family’s field, his tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  “Cow shit isn’t an ingredient.”

Anybody else might’ve scoffed or taken offense, but he just laughs and invites himself in anyway. It never fazes Soobin. He doesn’t let you push him away.

It’d be better if he did. How long before he ends up dead, too? Alive one moment, and then a husk without a soul next. You don’t think you could handle seeing cold, dead eyes where the annoying, warm shine should be. Of course it would be better if he stayed away, if he had half the mind to. Even most of the children have heard enough from their mothers to stay a healthy distance. He’s not too much better than a child, though.

“Isn’t it?” he says. His cheek is smudged with whatever sort of dirt he’s got on his hands and under his nails. “I’m done with work for the day. Want to go out to the field?”

You two have always ran off and avoided your life in between willowy, flaxen wheat stocks. They were just tall enough at this time of year to hide you away. But, for some reason, your stomach does a quick flip at the thought of being outside. It’s silly; couldn’t he find you here, too? “I’m busy,” you say. You’d already kneaded this roll of dough plenty, but you dig your fingers into it and begin again.

“Busy?” he scoffs, “Since when are you too busy to get away from work?”

Gritting your teeth, you let the sounds of your kneading answer. Now, more than ever, he should keep his distance. You know one thing that you’re sure nobody else does: Death’s come to visit. 

His brows shoot up in your peripherals. “I don’t get answers today?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, giving up working the over-kneaded dough only because your arms ache. “Why don’t you go talk off the ear of some other poor village girl? I’ve heard as much as I can handle today. And then when that one’s tired, you can bother the next, I’m sure.”  You soften the words with a quick smile his way. No matter how many times you say something sour in hopes that it’ll send him away, as soon as you glance up at his face, you reel it in.

His company is all you’ve ever had. The least you can do for him is make sure he doesn’t end up like carrion, even if he chooses to take that risk himself. You don’t know why he does.

Voice playful, he says, “I’m glad to hear that you believe I’ve got ladies falling at my feet, but I’d rather not annoy a pretty girl, so you’re my only option.” He pokes at the sleeve of your simple cotton dress. “Should I drag you out of here? Don’t your arms hurt doing all that?”

“Oh, you are a refined man, aren’t you?” you say, shuffling out of his reach. Damn him, he makes it difficult. “Well, I am a pretty girl, so you should take yourself elsewhere.”

Soobin smiles easy. “I’m bored out of my mind. You’re just going to let me suffer?”

“That’s not my issue.”

“I’d argue that it is,” he says. “Come on. Why are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Leaning, he tries to get a look at your face. “Did I upset you? I wasn’t aware that you cared much about what I thought.” When you spare him a sharp glance, he says, “I think you are very, very beautiful. Would you stop ignoring me, now?”

You wish you could fall into the easy banter that comes with being around Soobin, but you can’t. You can’t let him be around you. “Soobin, stop it,” you say, draining your voice. You don’t look at him while you say it.

Going quiet, he seems to notice that today’s different. His gaze is heavy as he stares at you for a few long moments. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks, “What happened?”

You swallow. “Nothing. I’m just doing something.”

“Oh, alright,” he says, tone inflicting in a way that says he doesn’t believe you one bit. He pushes off the counter. “I’ve put up with you pushing me away for years. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Soobin,” you warn. If you look at him, you fear you’ll be forced to watch the only one who never cared much what a risk it was being around you leaving. So you don’t.

Your friend raises his hands in the air defensively. “Okay, then.” He makes for the doorway with languid, lingering steps. As if he doesn’t want to leave. “Tomorrow..”

That’s both a threat and a promise, knowing him. Sighing and watching the rowan tree out your window sway, you bid him a curt goodbye.

If only that jerk took offense to things. It would make things an awful lot easier for you.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Being out in the wheat fields brings you peace when you’re alone, but you find it to be terribly lonely. The earthy, sweet scent of it wraps around you, and the stalks whisper against each other in a soothing way.

When you look beside you, the patch of wheat imprinted with the shape of your bodies is empty on his side. You are quite weak; it makes you want to go knocking at his door for his company. But that would be the selfish thing to do, so you card your fingers between the golden straw instead.

A chill trickles down your spine. You feel his presence before you even see him; it’s a feeling that you used to get fleetingly, as if something far away was tugging at you. But then he became real, a living thing in front of you that can touch, and that is much different.

“Why is it that I always find you out in the wilderness?” Yeonjun says. His voice comes from behind you.

Has he been watching you? You stand and dust your bottom off, heart kicking to life. “It’s nice out here,” you say. In truth, you haven’t come outside since that day. You’ve dodged Soobin and made a million excuses as to why you won’t go anywhere past the fences of your home. “I like to… watch people go about their days. It’s interesting.” It’s true—you always watch from afar how the village folk interact. How groups of girls your age link arms and whisper to each other, how neighbors come together to fix up a shoddy fence. You watch them be a community that you are not a part of. Watching it tastes bitter sometimes, but mostly you take pleasure in imagining yourself there with them. You’re not sure why you try making small talk with him, but what else? Should you go running again? If you were to listen to your pattering heart, maybe that’s what you’d do. He’s hardly shown you any bad will, though, and he’s the one that’s come to you. Maybe it’s silly to wait until something bad happens to be cautious.

A thousand pounds in stones sit at the center of your chest, though, and his voice makes them feel lighter. Why on earth that is, you’re not sure. It’s a nice relief regardless.

He smiles. It's different from the ones he showed you before. It’s knowing; more sweet than cracking over his face like the smile you would expect from the likes of him. What use might he have in being sweet? “Could I join you?”

Blinking dumbly at him for a second, you nod. “Oh, uh… Yeah.” Settling back down into your spot, you spare him a few curious sideways glances.

The breeze billows over the gold stems, moving them like gentle waves over the ocean and blowing your hair in it too. The flattened bits rustle under his weight. He doesn’t even turn his face toward the village; instantly, his gravitational eyes are on you.

“Do you come here often?”

“I do,” you answer. Mostly when you and Soobin have too much to do and not enough will to do it. “It’s nice. The village doesn’t like me much, so it’s easier out here.” You don’t mention that mostly you don’t come here alone.

Yeonjun’s face becomes far away. It looks strikingly like somebody forced into an old, unpleasant memory. “Don’t like you?” he asks, “What reason would they have for that?”

“They fear me. Things go wrong around me, that’s all.” You pluck at the hay absentmindedly. “Things die. They’re smart to stay away.”

The hay whispers much louder for the long moment he remains quiet, digesting what you’ve said. Maybe deciding what to say, considering that it’s his fault.

“Die?” he asks, voice inflected with surprise.

Turning to him, your brow creases. Shouldn’t he know? He’s the one that’s done it to you. “Everything that gets too close ends up dead. Everything,” you say, resting your temple on your knee. “So, I guess, I just keep it all at arm’s length.” You look back at your tiny village, a collection familiar, un-familiar thatch-roof homes. 

Continuing to blink at you, his eyes narrowed in a strange grimace, Yeonjun says, “Death follows me, too.”

What? A laugh of disbelief bubbles up in your chest. Of course, death follows him. You cover your mouth with a hand to obscure your laugh, but you just giggle at him harder.

A laugh twitches at the corners of his mouth, too. “I mean it,” he says. The lines of his face become distant again, eyes both trained on your face and melancholic as if the sight reminds him of something.

It ignites a question in your mind about something he said in the forest. “You said that I reminded you of somebody,” you say, testing the waters. “Who?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He looks away, as if he can’t look at you while he says it. “I loved a girl from this village once. When I was human, no less than you.”

You falter, mouth falling open to ask all the questions that flurry through your thoughts. You settle on one. “You were human?”

“I was,” he says ruefully. “And I had everything. I had the love of my life. I think that even the most bitter of creatures on this island had envy for our love. She would braid dandelions into my hair, and then I’d braid them into hers.” He swallows thickly and pauses, as if the wound was still festering and fresh. “And then she died. She died starting our family. She died because of me, in my arms.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just look into his shining eyes as if that’ll help. You’re not very useful with people, much less comforting them.

“I couldn’t accept that. I wouldn’t. So I went where I shouldn’t have gone, and angered something much bigger than myself. They thought it would be a fitting punishment for me to live an eternity, the King of Death who could not bring back his dead lover.” The harrowed look that he gives you, only briefly, has your chest heavy all over again. “They have a sense of humor, the forces.”

You imagine what it would’ve been like for him to lose his lover in that way. How far he’d gone to try and have her back, but death does not give back. Where had he gone to have been turned into this? An immortal thing, forced to roam the world and scoop up the souls of the living for an eternity? To be bound in ancient bones and made to remember forever how you had lost your lover?

The grandness of what you want to say is too big, but all those words feel pitying and patronizing in a way that you don’t think will actually bring him any comfort. Rather, you doubt anything you say will be able to patch up a wound older than you could imagine. Simply, you offer him a raw, “I’m so sorry.”

Yeonjun lets a crooked smile replace the trembling at his lips. “As long as I live, so too will she,” he says, placing his palm over his heart. “Death doesn’t so much happen when we leave behind our bodies, but when we’ve left the minds of the living.” Narrowing his eyes at you, he brushes hair behind your ear with his knuckles. “I know she lives on, somewhere out there. Somewhere. I’ll find her.”

That intrigues you. “Is there some way that you could bring her back?”

The grim light in his eyes tells you his answer. “My curse is to take life,” he says, “not to give it. But the one who made me this, he is cruel in a twisted way. If I were to find her, as a human or an animal or a blade of grass in the forest, only then could I rest.”

It is cruel. “You’ve been searching, then,” you conclude. “When you find her, you’ll both be able to rest.” But how could he find her, if as he says, she could be any living thing? Where would he even begin?

Slowly, he shakes his head, throat bobbing. “Death needs a farrier.”

She would become what he is. You swallow thickly. Was it not him who caused the deaths that follow you? Or, at least, it was not on purpose?

Opening your mouth, you go to tell him that you’ll help him look. You’re sure you’ll be of no help. He’s spent an immortal lifetime searching, and he still hasn’t found his dead lover. Nobody would know better than him where to look.

The ground shakes beneath your palms with impact, and something cuts through the wheat. The noise of its bleating becomes nearer until the both of you scramble up to find out what’s in such distress.

A deer stumbles around wildly. It looks lame, but you don’t see anything wrong with its legs. Your throat tightens at the awful sound, piercing and sad. Frozen, you watch it try to stay upright before it finally collapses down, legs still kicking as though it still wants to run but its body has begun weakening on it. “Oh my god,” you say, stumbling back. The sounds; its sounds are awful, echoing in your bones and constricting your thoughts until they’re a pinched panic.

There’s an arrow lodged into its ribcage, deep and at a terrible angle. You already know that it’s pierced some vital organs, if not its heart. It continues to writhe on the ground, not ready to give up. You’re not sure if you should approach it—you don’t want to scare it, and you can tell by the look in its wet eyes that it already wants to be away from you.

Or, maybe it had come to you. How else had it found the two of you in the middle of this field?

Yeonjun’s already on it. He puts his knees into the dirt and dried wheat to kneel by it, running his hand over the beast's pelt in long strokes. The small buck flinches at first but relaxes once he learns that his touches are gentle, not the gnashing of hungry teeth ready to make him a meal.

Blood runs like lead through your veins. You say, “Can we help it?”

He shakes his head. “He’ll die.”

Whip-lashed, you swallow thickly. He says it so unphased, and you’re sure he is. You can hardly make yourself mirror that serenity that he exudes as he runs his hand over its flank, but you get on the ground beside him anyway.

The buck’s breaths slow to desperate drags for breath. For a few long minutes, the two of you sit in silence and stay with him until he no longer fights, until his breaths are ragged. You feel his side, still warm and alive, but you see the life going from his eyes. You sit here, talking to each other about nothing just so it hears gentle voices as it goes, for a while.

Eventually, he’s gone. Quiet and at peace, no longer hurting. This time, when you look over to Yeonjun who still smooths over the deer’s skin even as he goes, guiding him delicately into whatever greets us when we go, you see death as a gentle thing.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Though you never seek him out, Yeonjun always finds you. In hidden places, away from prying eyes, he appears behind you and makes himself known. Well, you have a feeling that he watches you for a while before saying anything. It’s hard not to feel the strange tingling of his gaze over your form. It’s akin to the sixth sense that’s supposed to keep you safe out in the dark hearts of forests, an innate feeling that tells you some beast with a rotten, pale maw watches you between the trees.

Yeonjun doesn’t feel rotten, though, preternatural and eerie as he is. As you shirk your duties and talk with him for hours, you stare into ancient eyes and watch his crooked mouth move around his words and you feel an odd comfort. As if he’s the only one who’s ever understood you, or maybe that your strangeness pales beside him and for once you’re nothing but who you are. So many nights, the sun fell on your talking until the night insects buzzed from the grasses and your eyes were heavy.

Sometimes, as you dozed off with your back to a hay bale or a hardwood wall of the abandoned home beside yours with its sagging thatched roof, you caught such festering longing in his his eyes that you’d let your lashes fall and pretend to sleep so that you could imagine what it was that he longed for. No doubt his lost lover. When you imagine him, bound in bones and coming back to haunt the living for an eternity as he mourns her infinitely, searching for her in impossible places, your chest aches with a gnawing intensity.

It’s a terrible, cursed existence. Even the nothingness of death becomes a paradise beside it.

“Is it scary?” you ask into the air, sat criss-crossed on the thick duvet of the bed. He sits across from you, looking perfectly lazy. Moonlight pools in like sterling mist through the shutters.

“What?” He watches you, sitting in your plain dress, as though you’re the only thing in the world.

You’ve begun to wonder. Wonder about those looks he gives you.

Shifting, you fix the shoulder of your soft chemise where it’s slipped down when you catch his eyes lingering on it. His throat bobs. “Dying,” you elaborate. “Is it really nothing? After we go, all of it was for nothing?”

A slow smile tugs his full lips, made a bit red in the middle where he likes to worry it. It’s such a human habit to see on something so far from human. “Hardly,” he says. “It’s like going home, right where your soul is supposed to be. Who do you think rides with me?”

Furrowing your brows, you tilt your head toward one shoulder and let your hair pool there. “The riders are dead?” You had thought they were undead in some way like Yeonjun, other sorts of revenants come back to life with their own purposes. Then, are their creepy horses dead, too? A chill goes down your arms. Sometimes, sitting here with him when his face is made soft by the orange glow of the fire he puts on, you forget what he is.

“They are.” He nods, leaned back onto his elbows, his eyes alight with a hunger that makes your insides feel funny. “It doesn’t stop once we’ve died. You don’t need to be scared, my love. So many things end, but then so many things begin. The earth no longer holds you down, the weight of being is gone. You don’t know anything like it; you don’t know leaving behind the pleasures of earth to know the ones that only the afterlife can show you.”

His eyes laced with something entirely else, he adds, “And it’s not the end. Not for everything. For some it’s only the beginning, and for others, those who have not yet fulfilled their purpose, they come back to the flesh. They return.”

You can’t tell if he means himself, or something else. The weight in his eyes, dark, endlessly swirling pools, makes you wonder again why it is that he’s lingering here: the place that he had not visited once since the death of his lover, for the fact that it still hurts too much. Why his shadow of death, his fault or not, was tangled in your soul enough to brush its fingers over the things around you.

“It’s scary,” you say, breathy. The thought of eternity.

Soft hairs brush over his eyes as he tilts his head at you. “Do I scare you?”

“No.”

“No?” he echos, pushing himself up so that he leans back onto his palms. “Isn’t that strange? Pretty little thing says she’s not afraid of death, but her heart races when I’m near. Her sweet heart jumps at just the brush of my leg. Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, love?”

Your blood roars in your veins, inflaming your cheeks and making your head dizzy. Nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. Hair prickles on your skin. “Yes,” you breathe.

Feral delight sparks in his eyes, black as pitch. His smile turns up all feline at the crooked corners. “Crawl to me, then.”

Like how fire licks up oxygen in any room it is in, his words steal the breath right from your lungs. What does he think you are? You blink at him wide-eyed and dumb for a moment.

How can he say that as though it were nothing? Moreover, how does the ravenous flare in his eyes, his head tilted back as he watches you down his nose expectantly, do that to your belly?

Your mind glazes over with something thick and heady, and you damn the nerves in your belly and begin to crawl from your end of the bed to his. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, making sure you feel every inch of the taunt in his eyes as he trains them on you. When you’ve gotten to him through the thickness in the air, you settle into his lap and bracket his waist with your thighs.

Yeonjun takes the soft fat of your hips in his fingers. “Fuck,” he says. It sounds like he’s barely holding the gates on something endlessly consuming. Something that might break loose on the two of you, and leave you changed forever with its hungry, gnashing teeth. His head hits your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please, tell me to go. Because I don’t know how.”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t stop. I want it, Yeonjun. I want this.”

He straightens, pupils blown and eyes as tense as his set jaw. “No, you don’t understand what you’re asking for. All I’ve ever done is ruin. All I’ll ever do is ruin. I won’t ruin you; not again.”

That rings bells somewhere outside the heavy fog that’s infiltrated your mind, but they don’t sound too alarming when he looks as though he wants to drag his teeth over your heart to taste its beating. It doesn’t touch the ground, when you want him to, so badly. So badly that you taste it on your tongue and it tinges your words as you tell him, “I do know what I’m asking for. I want you. Yeonjun. Don’t you want me too?” Voice and confidence wavering, you pull back. Maybe you’ve read this all wrong. A tickling shame crawls over your skull. “Do you not want me?”

“You think I don’t want you?” he says, straightening up and meeting your gaze. His breath is hot on your mouth. “I want you so fucking bad. You are in the marrow of my bones. Fuck, I have done nothing but want you, but I am foul. I will only hurt you.”

He takes your hand and places it over his chest, where a heart should be. Beneath your palm, you do not feel the thumping of an alive thing. Yeonjun has no heart. You knit your brows and examine the strain of his features. Does he think that you’ll be disgusted? Maybe the girl you were in that forest might’ve been, but being near Yeonjun has changed you in ways you couldn’t start to put your finger on. “I’m asking you to,” you say. “Show me what you want to do to me. What you’ve wanted to do to me.”

Searing silence burns between you as he drinks that in, and then he shoves you onto your back. Supporting himself with an arm beside your head, he curls his fingers into your hip and nudges your thighs wider. He doesn’t lift the hem of your chemise like you expect him to. No—Yeonjun begins to grind himself into your cunt through all the layers of your clothes. Though your dress is bunched up and his pants lay between any real contact, Yeonjun’s hard and that friction tastes fleetingly sweet.

“I want you to beg me for it,” he says, grinning down at you with cruel intention. “Beg me, and make it so pretty.”

You let little sounds linger in that back of your throat and become hungrier each time he grinds against you. It’s so much, mind swimming and sparks spraying up your spine, and yet each time it is not near enough. Damn that foxish smile on his face; you beg for him anyway. “Yeonjun,” you breathe, curling your fingers around the wrist of that hand with which he pins your hip. “P…lease, will you help me? It feels so good; I want more, please.”

He raises his eyebrows at you and an eager grind comes right over your throbbing clit. 

You know he wants more than that, but mortification already is making your voice unsteady and your cheeks burn. “Yeonjun,” you huff, hips wiggling.

The king of the undead delights fully in your shame and rewards you with more of those pointed, dry grinds. Your legs tremble; he’s giving you so little, and yet your need takes it and magnifies it into something grand.

Though he pretends he’s on some high ground, you hear his shuddering breaths each time his fucks his hips against you. He feels that roiling, liquid need in his belly just as vehemently as you do. The room fills with your breathy pants and grinding bodies. You catch your lip in your teeth and begin to meet him half-way. Your moans are low and sweet, and each one sends his jaw tighter. 

You twist and grind against each other like fumbling teens until you’re coiled up so tight that he has to pull himself away. Your throbbing cunt protests, but you know he doesn’t want you cumming like this.

“You want me to show you what I’ve wanted to do to you?” he says, working at his pants. His eyes are so drunk on you, and his cheeks betray his state. “Open your legs, my love. Let me show you a little death.”

Throat gone dry, you slowly let your thighs fall open. The dull throbbing between your thighs roars to life. He slides your skirt up your leg, stopping when he frees your knee to pepper a few hot kisses into it. Once he’s got it bunched up at your ribcage, he runs his tongue over his dry lips to wet them. “Fuck. Such a pretty pussy. I want to fucking eat you up.”

“Yeonjun,” you whine. His name is all you can muster out, anticipation sharpened to a knife point.

Flashing his teeth, he purrs, “You like that, you filthy thing. I bet you’d like for me to fuck you till your brain’s gone and all that’s left is my name. Isn’t that right? Is that what you want?”

Your thoughts stall and you nod, making your mouth into a filthy pout. God, how you want that. Maybe he’s right about you being filthy. Coming from him, it sounds like a delicious thing to be.

The pretty, leaking tip of his cock brushes your clit as he slides it up and down your slit to collect the mess there. Your thighs jump to close before your mind gets the better of it. He does this a few times—up and down, letting you feel and get used to the size and length of him all the way till his cockhead kisses your clit and you squeak.

“Are you comfortable, love?” he asks, shifting your hips with strong hands. “Do you need anything from me?”

It’s so at odds with his other, nastier words. Your head spins, the moonlight blurring. “I’m okay,” you tell him. “I… just want you. Want you to put it in, want to feel you.”

His cock catches on your hole, and he begins to push forward with promising pressure. But then he pulls back, smiling downturned. You whine; why can’t he save his capriciousness for later? You’d almost had it…

“I could give it to you, or I could not…” He hums. “Wouldn’t that be so cruel of me? To leave you wanting?”

You flutter around nothing. Every inch of your body buzzes. Alive. You are more alive now, at the promise of Death’s touch, than ever before. The irony might be something to wonder about if you weren’t dribbling down onto the bed sheets with crude need. “Stop it,” you say. Your voice is whiny. You’re glad you can hardly hear yourself past the pounding in your bloodstream.

That delights the King of Death. He wrinkles his nose at you, burning you alive with his eyes as he presses his palm to your belly and guides himself into you with his free hand. You wrap around each inch of him slowly. The air between you bows under the weight of your gazes; he holds your eyes the whole way, inch by inch until he’s seated fully into you with his groin flush to your body. He stretches you to fit, and yet it’s just right. You could ask for no more or no less; you might even think your body was made for him, were you not too busy circling your hips to feel him.

“Good?” he says, squeezing your hip. “Do you need a moment?”

Pursing your lips, you test out the shape of him with another wiggle. “Maybe… Maybe a second.” Truth be told, you need a moment to grapple with the sparks sprinkling over your mind more than you need a moment to adjust to his stretch. You let out a shuddering breath.

He traces circles into your belly, just beneath your navel. The pad of his thumb goes round and round, warm on your flesh. “As long as you need,” he says, but it’s more like a triumphant, playful coo. There’s that lopsided smirk. One day, you’d like to kiss it off him. Taking that hypnotizing finger, Yeonjun trails it up your stomach, over your ribcage. He hooks it beneath your dress and drags it higher, revealing the soft swells of your breasts to the air. You shudder, body so, so hot that your nipples peak and tighten against the cool air.

“Such pretty tits,” he says, brushing his knuckle up the underside of one. “Everything about you. Such a pretty, pretty body. God, I don’t know if I want to worship it or ruin it.” His breaths fan over your skin as he bends down and pops an eager nipple into his mouth, lavishing it before releasing it with a lewd pop and letting his mouth fall all over your breast. Lick here, nip there, until you’re squirming adequately and squeezing him like a virgin. Then he blows cool air over it and watches with eyes like a cat toying with its prey as you shudder harder, your chest jumping. “Fucking look at you,” he sneers.

“Junnie,” you say, lost for breath. You think you’ve walked yourself into the lion’s den.

His breathy laughs fall over your breast. Taking his teeth, he drags them over your skin, right over where your heart thunders a rhythm fully for him, and then he bites. Nothing more than a shallow mark, the shape of his teeth in your soft tit. He lingers there, admiring the sight before he straightens himself up again.

“Fine.” He pulls out of you slowly, but you know what comes after that, so you savor every second of it. “I suppose you’ve wanted after it long enough. Let me hear your sweet voice again, my love.”

Yeonjun fucks you just right. His cock nudges right up on your sweet spot as if he’s done this before. Like he knows where to find it. You gasp and whine—you’re just happy he’s finally giving you something. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mewl. His shoulders wear the red crescent marks of your nails. “That’s—so good right there.”

Ever egotistical and cocky, he croons, “Yeah?” Rolling himself back, he makes it his mission to hit it ruthlessly.

A sharp, pitchy sound comes tumbling past your lips. You bring your hand up over your mouth, letting your eyelids dust your burning cheeks so that you can brave the flipping in your spine and deep in your belly. It’s nearly insufferable—the way pleasure licks up your spine, how it spreads out into your veins and takes control of you.

“No,” Yeonjun growls. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Let me see that look in your eyes when you cum.”

Your eyes are heavier than they’ve ever been, but you open them. The sight that greets you is worth the effort. Yeonjun’s lip twitches and then he throws his head back, the column of his neck on display as his Adam's apple jumps around a thick swallow.

If that sight wasn’t enough to send you teetering down into whatever depths of lust and ecstasy that he crawled out from, then the angle he hits as he pushes one of your thighs to his chest is. The world frays, deep tremors starting at one small point in your cunt and then exploding up through your stomach and down the back of your thighs. Your chest arches off the bed and you mewl helplessly, fighting and embracing your orgasm in an intoxicating death.

“Oh, fuck,” Yeonjun growls, strained with something whinier as he watches you shake beneath him. “Fuck. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum…” His voice chokes as his hips become stuttered more than pointed, the slick sounds of your own release tangling up with his grunts and pants until he shudders and stills, cumming into your puffy, fluttering cunt.

You both catch your breaths as if there’s no air in the room left for a while. His hair’s damp on his forehead, as is yours on your neck, and his eyes droop lazily. More lazy and content than you’ve ever seen him.

Collecting you to his chest, where only your heart thumps away frantically, he presses his mouth to your ear and says, “Do you think death is so scary now?”

With your limbs nothing more than boneless and liquid pleasure floating slowly through your thoughts, you smile.

A little death can be more visceral than living, you think.

༺ ꘏ ༻

The tree stump beneath you makes your tailbone ache. You sit criss-crossed, watching Soobin work away at the soil and tend to that section of the fence that’s begun to rot and sag. Your mouth moves endlessly, filling the space that would otherwise just be made up of his grunts of hard work.

“You know, you ought to help me if you’re just going to sit and watch,” he says, straightening to swipe at his forehead, sweaty despite the cold in the air.

“Totally improper,” you say, smiling at him cheekily. “Are you saying that you can’t handle yourself, strong man?”

He glares at you with the venom only somebody made to put up with hours of chatter could muster. “What’s got you so talkative?” he says.

You know he means why you’re suddenly not glaring him away. You can’t tell him that you’ve spoken with Death himself, so instead you say, “Nothing.” Letting your legs dangle down, you smile at him.

Yeonjun hadn’t done any of it. It’s a comfort, to some degrees, to know that. It’s not your fault that they died. Being around them, being around Soobin, won’t make them turn up dead. The rest of them still don’t know that—and they wouldn’t believe it, anyway—but the black shadow hanging over your shoulders dissipates.

For the first time in so, so long, you do not feel marked by death.

“Sure.” His smile tilts. “A week ago, you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Rolling your eyes, you decide to give him a hard time. “Not true. You just have a way of getting on my nerves.”

“I take pride in that.”

“Take pride in what? Being insufferable?”

Crinkling his nose, he says, “Knowing how to bother you best.”

“Get back to work, stupid.” Your heart soars. It’s good to have friends. To let yourself have friends is an ever better thing. Is this how it is? To be with others and not feel like their burden, or like they’re crossing their fingers behind their back to ward off whatever bad things you might bring onto them? He’s made it his mission to hover around you no matter what, but this feels different.

Maybe, for so long, part of it has been your own gloom that’s obscured it all. Maybe if you didn’t bare your teeth to anybody who got too close, it could’ve been like this always. You hate to think that your own isolation could be some part your own fault. But how were you not to show your teeth when someone tried to reach their hand out to you?

It doesn’t matter now. You shove that all down and let yourself feel the slight warmth of the sun’s glow on your skin where it peeks through the clouds. It’s a nice day, you shouldn’t ruin it with those thoughts.

The sun’s begun making its descent when Soobin’s done. He takes a long drink of water, hissing with relief and crumpling down to the ground with his back to your stump.

“Are you making any way with that girl you were talking to me about?” you prompt.

Giving you a long look over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t.”

“What?” You laugh a little, raising your brows down at him. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You know what you’re doing,” he says, voice flat as he picks stickers out of his fingers.

Soobin’s had a thousand different crushes. There was that daughter of the shepherd, and then the wealthy merchant’s daughter and her long pretty hair, and then the neighbor… Well, you could go on. None of them ever really came to fruition for the poor guy. He thinks that it’s because he’s a poor farmer’s son, but you always tell him that it’s because he’s got an insistent mouth, and that he should be more grateful that you deal with him. Your lips turn up at the corners a little thinking about it—he’ll find the one eventually, but you like the indignant look on his face when you say it.

“I mean it!” you say, nudging him with your leg. “Tell me. I want to know.”

“You won’t even tell me what’s happening with you. Until one of us quits keeping secrets,” he says, placing accusation heavy over the words, “I’ll keep my dealings to myself. What’s it to you, anyway?”

Feeling the weight of his head as he lets it loll lazily against your thigh, you decide that it couldn’t hurt to tell him. The itch to tell somebody crawls under your skin. Especially to tell him. “You know the other day? When I was… being awful?”

His body shakes with a vindicated laugh. “If you’re nothing else, at least you’re self-aware.”

You skirt around that with your own, more awkward, laugh. It’s nice that he thinks so, but you don’t feel it. “Stop,” you huff and nudge him again. “I was foraging out where I usually go. But I guess I wandered out farther than I thought I did. You remember when they used to tell us stories, right? Like the bogeyman. That he’d come snatch us up if we didn’t listen.” Your mom especially had loved that one, back when she cared what became of you. Would she care again, if you told her that everything was fine? “Well, I don’t know if you remember the one about The Wild Hunt, but… Anyway, I was picking some stuff, and…”

Sitting up from his exhausted slouch, Soobin looks like he’s suddenly come back to life. “What?” he interrupts. His voice is strangely serious.

“What?” you say, brow creasing. “They travel here and there… but they were here. In the woods. Like, I heard them.”

Tersely, he asks, “What were you doing that deep in the woods?”

“I mean, I just kept on finding nice stuff until I just… was deeper.” You survey him. You hadn’t thought that he’d react like this. “So I ran, and then there was this guy,” you say, watching realization fall over his face. He knew those stories as much as you do—knew where you were going with this. He is as starkly superstitious as the rest of your people, you forgot. Pushing past the grimace on his face, you say, “And I knew that he was the king. The one from the stories. It was so weird; it’s like you can feel it. And I spoke to him, and then…”

Stood up now, he cuts you off once more. “Are you kidding?”

“Why are you being like that?” you say, messing with your skirts to quell the defensive bite in your tone. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything? Are you trying to get killed?” He throws up his hard-working hands. “We have rules for a reason. Don’t go out into the forest, don’t make deals with faeries, don’t follow a banshee scream. And then you go and talk to the king of death? How am I not supposed to be upset about that? You know that…” Soobin blinks a few times as if second-guessing what he’s about to say, but he says it anyway. “You know that he’s the reason that they treat you how they do. You know that he’s the one who ruined your life. Why would you ever mess with that?”

You push yourself up from the ground, eyes burning. That stings like a cut. “He didn’t do it. None of it is his fault,” you say, furrowing your brows. “What are you trying to say, Soobin? Just say what you want to say. Come on.”

“He didn’t do anything?” He scoffs, letting a heavy silence hang suspended in the air for a moment before saying, “Is that what he told you? And you just believed it? Listen to yourself, does that make any sense? He’s played with your life like it’s some fucking toy, and now he’s come to rub it in your face. Think about it: do animals just fly into anybody else’s windows and die? Do the trees that they pick from just end up dead? It’s his fault that they all treat you the way you do.”

Mouth opening and closing, you don’t know what to say. 

He sees the hurt in your burning eyes and tries to reel it back in. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“I know what you’re saying,” you say, grabbing up the lunch you’ve been nibbling on. “I know exactly what you’re saying. I just never thought you’d say it out loud.”

“Say what?” Soobin says, his voice raising behind you as you storm off.

That you think it’s my fault, you want to say. That they all die because I am a plague, and you are a charity worker for being my friend. Instead, you just leave and try to choke down the tightness in your throat.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You curl your arms around yourself, the night biting cold. Yeonjun had dragged you from bed, and who knows what hour of the night it is? If the heaviness beneath your eyes is to judge it by, it’s far too deep in the dead of night to be outside with your boots half-laced and nothing but your sleep chemise on.

You might’ve just stayed wrapped up in your blankets if you weren’t so lonely as you’ve been. Soobin’s been scarce. The most you see of him is in the fields from morning to afternoons. You hope that he’ll stop by your doorstep and knock so that you can groan about it but swing the door open anyway each time, but he doesn’t. He thinks that you won’t want to see him, and so he allows you your space.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s hard to be the one to come back after a conversation like that, though. You watch him from the windows and hope he understands at some point instead. It’s an awful lot easier.

Other than preparing meals and window watching, you’ve been up to nothing much at all. You hadn’t realized how much you had, but you feel him in his absence. 

“It’s cold…” you say. The fog of breath that punctuates it makes your point. Whatever he’s brought you out here for, you have no doubt it’ll be something strange. The grin on his face tells you as much.

Leading the way, he heads for the Darkwood. “Only you would come rushing out without a cloak for your shoulders.”

“Well, only you would drag me from my nice, warm bed at this time of night. For what?”

“Can’t anything be a surprise with you?” he says, shooting you a cheeky glance over his shoulder. “Surprises are fun.”

“Surprises!” you say, working your legs to catch him. “Not surprises that involve you bringing me out into the woods. You know, it’s awfully suspicious. Somebody who sees this might think that I am the type to… sneak out with men.”

“Aren’t you now?”

Your lips tug down. “You know what I mean.”

He laughs in his airy way, a twig snapping under his foot. You’re well in the woods, now. Probably somewhere near where you’d first met him.

Lifting a brow, you look at him expectantly. Maybe a will-o’-the-wisp will come floating through with its light bouncing off the trees. That would be a nice surprise, you admit.

Yeonjun circles you. His presence behind you tingles in the way it always does, but true chills erupt when his breath puffs against your ear. “Close your eyes. I have something I want to show you.”

Your mind wanders back to what Soobin had gotten so twisted up about. It might be naive and reckless and against everything you ever learned, but you let your eyes fall shut to blackness. If he was going to hurt you, you imagine he’d have had that opportunity a mind-numbing amount of times before.

“Are they shut?” he asks, waiting for your nod. His voice comes from in front of you now. “I want you to keep them shut. You can’t open your eyes, or it will all go away. Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, mind full of a bounty of questions. You don’t even know where to begin to assume what he’s got going on, so you stand there shifting your antsy feet.

There’s a strange, rustling sound that catches you off guard with your eyes closed. It drags on for a long moment. Curiosity pries at your eyes; you want nothing more than to just crack an eye open to spy the source of the ruckus. 

It’ll be gone if you do, anyway.

You let out a surprised squeak as something rises up beneath you, as if risen from nothing more than the dirt and roots of the forest floor, bringing you up from the earth. You wobble and send your hands out to find a perch.

A horse. It’s a horse, its mane so tangled and windswept, but matted and clumped with leaves that crunch under your palm when you find them. It reeks of mud—everything around you begins to smell of earth and decomposition.

You know that if you open your eyes, you’ll find yourself sat upon the pale white steed of the Undead King, its eyes white and its knobby knees almost as famous as the leader of The Hunt himself. It chuffs beneath you.

“Are you ready?” Yeonjun says over your shoulder. You can hear the feral grin in his voice. It’s the leader of The Hunt, a creature of folklore, that sits behind you now. He curls an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, securing you against the wall of his chest. “Hold on tight, my love.”

The call of the wild, that horn, bellows again like it had the first time you heard it. Rather than coming from nearby as you thought it would, it dances between trees far off just like it had that time, too. Your heart jumps up into your throat.

Taking off with a howl, the Wild Hunt follows it.

You dig your fingers into Yeonjun’s at your waist. Weight melts away, and you know you’re in the air. Your belly swoops in tandem with the howls and hoots of the riders, heart palpitating to the hoofbeats. How there’s hoofbeats as you ride through the air, you’re not sure. The ghostly fleet manifests around you in vivid imagery, though you squeeze your eyes shut. They are wild enough to imagine just what they might look like: with their clothes and flesh in tatters, with their eyes beady or pale, with their hounds piercing the air with their calls and running alongside them, they are a perfect personification of freedom.

Whip-lash sends you reeling, body going rigid. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes harder, wishing that you’ll touch ground soon and that everything would become real again.

Yeonjun feels you go stiff. Bringing his head back to your shoulder from his own delight, he says, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Let it into your bones. Do you think I would let it hurt you?”

He is their leader. If it got too much, you know Yeonjun would be there to catch you. Curling your fingers into his, you release that tension and allow their drumbeat to echo through you.

And when it does, your blood begins to sing along. The wind whips your cheeks and your hair, and you begin to laugh with them. The Hunt twists and turns and dances through the air, an apparition in the night, but nothing more than that.

It comes to a slow, eventually, until the noise and even your steed crumbles back down into the dirt it appeared from. Your eyes pop open hoping to catch at least a glimpse of them, but only the dark forest and pale moonlight answer. Your legs threaten to give out on you, veins still thrumming, but, oh, do you feel alive.

You feel more alive than you ever have, more than you ever could have hoped to have known. Mind spinning, you stumble. Yeonjun catches and steadies you before you can go scraping your knees on a rock.

“Oh my fucking god,” you say.

The laugh that Yeonjun breaks into has you sending him a glare, but you break too. Everything about him is ironic; and how ironic indeed that Death himself should show you how to be alive, rather than to just live?

༺ ꘏ ༻

The air is so fresh in your lungs when you step outside that it nearly burns. You clutch your basket of warm fig tarts. Songbirds trill and fly between tree tops that slowly become more bare the deeper you fall into the season, singing their sweet songs that sound like new beginnings.

Raising your hem from the ground churned up into mud from the afternoon’s trickle, you prance into town with a lively pep in your step. You spent all last night making these—Yeonjun had kept you company, watching you how he always does as you pored over making them just right. His cruel snicker when the jam had simmered over flame for too long and became too thick bounces off your bones in a sweet melody. You’ve come to adore his wicked delight, the way his smile cracks over his face and the facetious raise of his brows, more than you fear it.

Sending small smiles to the people that you pass, you stop by a huddle of kids digging sticks into the mud. They look up at you with curious eyes, stopping to gawk.

“Hey, guys,” you say, pulling back the cloth laid over the sweets. “I’ve made some fig tarts. Do you like fig? I bet you’ll like them; they’re sweet.”

The kids stand up, eyes big as they share a look. They don’t let out so much as a peep before they scurry off home.

You blink. Well, you’re used to weird reactions, but that was… different. Picking up your deflated shoulders and hesitant limbs, you make a shoddy attempt at not letting it dampen your good morning. You were expecting wary looks, anyway.

You head down a little further toward the far side of your home village, the side that breaks off after a fenceline into a great, grassy field. There’s a bustle, mothers washing their clothes in pails and hanging them up to dry and a few others whispering at each other lowly as they go about their days.

An old woman so old her back curves and her fingers have gone knobby makes her way to wherever the day’s duty demands her to be. Your neighbor—an eccentric old lady bound in her times. You decide on her: the elderly are forgotten by the young. She might enjoy knowing that her neighbors still know she exists.

“Hello,” you say, showing her your basket with a hopeful, excited heart. “I have some treats that I was wanting to give out. I know they might not be much, but would you like one? I’m not the best baker, but I do it often enough.” A face like that, dragged down by her years on this earth and not long to death, has no doubt spent many years making meals for her family. You imagine your goods would be nothing beside hers, but it’s the gesture, no?

“Oh, girl,” she says, voice crackling as she clutches her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’m afraid it’s best if you found yourself missing from this place. Hurry yourself up and spare the drama.”

The incessant cawing of a crow from a clawed tree fades into the background as you furrow your brows and lower your basket to ask, “...Huh?” Your belly goes up in knots; terrible knots done up tight and fast. You haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about. Elders always did speak a bit strange, though. It could be nothing much; she’s a stern old lady.

But her eyes are not angry and glaring in the way that a harrowed old hag might turn her nose up at the youth. They drag down with a cold pity.

“Listen to me, girl.” She points at you with one of those worn, sun-spotted hands. “You had best leave. The boy’s gone, and they are already not fond of you. Who will they point their fingers to?” the woman says. “I hardly know you, but I would hate to see it.”

The rest of her words fade into the roaring in your ears, the feral drumbeat of your heart like a wardrum in the cage of your ribs as it beats against them as if to escape from you. You don’t feel the basket in your hands, don’t feel the solidity of the earth beneath your feet, and don’t feel a single one of your thoughts like tangible things. They flit as if liquidated into a rotten, sick mush.

Nothing. You can think of nothing. Nothing real; nothing holding you to the earth.

“What?” Your voice hardly reaches your ears, but what does is weak and broken and like a plea for her to tell you that it’s not really what you think it is.

And if you could see or hear anything beyond your fraying little rift in reality, you would’ve heard the man coming up to you. You would’ve heard the words coming from his angry, sneering mouth, and would’ve done something when he picked up a pail of water, and you would’ve been shaken by the nasty ice water that runs down your frozen body and plasters your hair and clothes down as he pours it over you. But none of it cuts through your stupor.

He yells some awful, stabbing things at you, and a few others join him. They tell you that you are nothing but a plague, tell you to leave and to not come back here.

But this is your home. Where else would you go?

With your sopping wet dress clutched in your shaking fists as though that might keep you grounded, you choke down the tightening of your throat and sift through their faces, searching for his face. Those brown eyes, brown and always shining with nagging playfulness, do not come up anywhere. Jaw trembling, you search harder. Out on the field where he should be at this time of day, at your doorstep demanding that you go spend the day doing nothing with him, in someone’s yard helping them fix up a broken fence, no matter where you look, neither his broad silhouette nor his cheeky, dimpled face is there. You continue to stand stricken dumb, looking for him even though you know by the churning in your belly that it’s true, and you’re just hurting yourself trying to find him right where he should be.

Fine. Alive. Untouched by your disgusting, destructive presence.

When you can no longer fight the strangling tightness in your lungs and your dress is as heavy as your heart, you take off. The hem of your dress drags in mud and sticker bushes and catches on stray twigs, and you don’t know where you’re going, but you just run. You’ll give them what they want. 

You stumble, probably like some lost, undead thing, until you find yourself at the edge of the forest. Only then do you let the wall of whittle-edged tears roll down your face. And you assume you sound like a choking, dying animal with how you choke and heave on them, but he was the one you might’ve dropped your head and cried to, so what’s the use of making it pretty? No; you let it all fall as it is.

Soobin’s dead. Soobin’s dead, and it’s nobody else’s but your own fault. You clutch your chest to staunch that old ache that’s grown teeth and tears at your heart; you have and will always be the end of everything that comes near. You are just as much the plague that you began to pretend, to believe, you weren’t. It was your stupid hope that maybe you could have something and not watch it become carrion that drove that pick. It was by your hope that he’s gone.

The hair on your arms begins to raise. You pick your head up and find Yeonjun standing in front of you.

There’s a few beats of long, dreadful quiet as he takes in the state of you. He drags his eyes down and they become liquid flame—something different from the impious delight that he is made of. He becomes the King of Death.

“What happened?” he says. The chills on your arms prickle furiously at the words, furling out distant and yet furious like the center of the fire.

You shake your head, wiping your soaked cheek.

“What the fuck happened?” he growls again, taking your face into his hand. “Who did this? Who did this to you, my love? I need you to tell me who the fuck did this to you.”

Letting the venom in your mouth out, you shove his chest and say, “Get away from me. Don’t fucking touch me.”

Yeonjun’s face twists up, looking scalded. Not surprised, though. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Let me hold you while it hurts. Don’t push me away. I can’t… I won’t lose you again.”

All the pieces that you had been putting into the corners of your mind snap together at that. As many suspicions as you had, though, it feels sour hearing it confirmed from his mouth. That you are his dead past lover, reincarnated or whatever you are. That it was his presence—because even though he stayed away for centuries, a part of him still lingered with you—that now has torn down everything you ever thought you could love. He, standing there in front of you like a kicked puppy, is the ruination of your life in the flesh. The flipping of your stomach is nauseating.

“I hate you,” you spit. “I hate you so much.” You repeat it a few more times, and you sob it into his chest as he takes you into his arms. “Is this what you wanted? You’ve been waiting for this forever, haven’t you? To find me again, so that you can die and fucking leave me here. So that you can make me exactly what you are, while you get your peace. You are a liar and a thief. All you’ve ever done is steal and take. How could you do it? Huh? Tell me…” Your voice trembles and staggers off. “Tell me how you made love to me, how you made me believe that you loved me, and all you ever wanted was to save yourself? You betrayed me.”

Pulling back, Yeonjun says, “No.”

“Yes,” you say, stumbling back away from him with a shaking, accusatory finger pointed at him. “Yes you did.”

Fingers itching to reach out to you, he holds them back by curling them into fists. “No. That’s not fair. I have spent an eternity loving you. I spent the entirety of my immortal, monstrous life searching for you, just so that I might find you in any form. I would have been glad to find you as a leaf in a tree, as long as I found you. But, then, I find you alive. Alive and back, as if… it never happened.” He steps toward you, aching to be near you. His voice wavers. “Please, don’t do this to me, love. Please, just let me have you again. I’ve waited… I’ve waited and I’ve waited, and I finally have you, and now you’re looking at me like I… Like I’d ever hurt you. Finding death—finally getting to die would be worth nothing if you weren’t there with me. It was never about that.”

“I could never love you,” you say, matching his steps forward with steps away from him. “I could never love a monster that does… Does nothing but kill. Take.”  You know your words are cruel, but you need them to be. You need him to hurt, you need him to go so far away from you that never again will you cause another living thing’s death. 

“You did.” Yeonjun’s mouth cracks into a pained smile, sharp at the corners. “You loved me just as much as I love you, once.”

“Just leave me. Leave me, and I wish to never see you again. If you love me, then you’ll give me that.” 

He looks at you, clever eyes intense and glassy, for a long time. And then he says, “Would that make you happy? Would it make it so that you could live a happy life, and find yourself something to live for?”

What’s left for you? A small village that won’t ever embrace you? No, it wouldn’t fix your life. But you open your mouth and tell him, “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, brushing his knuckles over your cheeks reverently. He swallows in your features, running over them for what he knows is the last time he’ll be seeing you—the very last time he’ll see the face of his undying love. When he finally opens his mouth again, his voice is gentle. “I’ll leave you. If my being here hurts you, then I won’t be selfish. I love you, darling.”

Don’t go, you want to tell him. Please don’t leave. Please, hold me. But your mouth is dry, and you let the radiant hurt in your chest stop you. You let him go.

༺ ꘏ ༻

There’s only one place you can think of going to. It’s the only place your vagrant feet take you.

His spot still is held sacred by the flattened, gold wheat stalks. Your best friend, still living here on Earth in at least one way even if he’s not here to listen to your stupid rambling. And he would maybe complain, but he’d always listen.

The last thing you’d done was fight with him. What an awful thing—what an awful way to repay him for being the only one who ever dared to get close.

You sit in your spot, beside his, and rest your chin on your knees. If only the ground beneath you would open up and swallow you whole. You’d deserve it.

What’s left for you? Is there a place in the world that would keep you happily once they see what you do? No. There is not. You wish you knew what to do; you wish you had somebody to ask.

Releasing a long, tight breath, you just sit and wait for something to give you answers. A gentle breeze makes your hair dance, but it does not whisper anything to your ears. Something’s circling over head, but it doesn’t caw in the cadence of his laughter.

The day moves along without you. You’re not sure how long you sit, but it stretches somewhere between a few minutes and eternity. No matter how long you wait, there are no answers. No matter how long you mull over it.

Conceding, you begin to push yourself up from the ground. A rustle in between the foliage stops you before you stand.

A tawny hare leaps out in front of you. It sniffs around you, nose twitching. Then it stands back on its haunches. It stares straight at you, and intelligent light in its eyes that knits your brows. The wild thing stands there with a purpose that is uncharacteristic of a forest animal.

But entirely familiar in the face of your best friend. That shine in its eyes as it stands there, nose still twitching, makes your chest tighten up.

“Hey,” you say, as if it might answer you. Your eyes well up with hot tears again. Of course, it doesn’t. 

Maybe you’ve gone mad, but you know that it’s him. That idiot, coming to show you that he’s okay in the afterlife—that you shouldn’t worry for him or cry for him. Look at him, full of life once again. The hare blinks its beady eyes, saying that there is still something waiting out there for us once we go. You reach out a hand. He does not flinch as you scratch behind its ear.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m glad to know you’re alright. I know what I need to do, now.”

He blinks.

You laugh a hoarse, breathy laugh, familiar in only the way that Soobin could achieve. “You look stupid.”

Indignantly, the hare settles back down onto its forelegs and scurries off. He goes to live out this new form of life.

Maybe, like this, he’ll find that pretty lady that loves him the way he deserves. That loser.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You spend only one night in your home and you know that what you’ve chosen is right. After spending your day out in the field, you sneak under night’s cover into your husk of a room and let yourself sleep there under the covers one last time. When morning breaks through the window, you gather your weary bones up and leave. 

You run into your mother on the way out. She doesn’t yell at you to leave, but her eyes have gone cold. Colder than you’re used to. You’ve killed again, in every way that counts. So you don’t bother with bidding her or any of them any grand goodbyes. You couldn’t handle the relief you might find falling over them, should you.

Plopping down to the floor, you take a few bites of the cheese and bread lathered in sweet jam that you’d swiped from the kitchen. The grass is long and willows in the wind, bending and dancing prettily. It’s so soft; you enjoy the feeling of it beneath your fingers in your quiet serenity. The scent of it, fresh over the baseness of dirt, you breathe into your lungs.

It would be the loveliest place to spend the rest of eternity.

For the first time, Yeonjun appears in front of you rather than behind you. He materializes from nothing, his elbow on his knee as casual as if he’d been sat there the whole time. The darkness beneath his eyes seems heavier, but then again you know that exact heaviness. It sits right in the very center of you.

You both are quiet for a bit. You let the tall grass whisper, instead.

“Bread?” you say and slant your lips into a smile. Bringing it up, you offer it to him.

His smile wrinkles his nose and curls at the edges. Entirely him. Yeonjun accepts the bread, ripping a bite out before throwing it away into the sea of green. Once he’s chewed, he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss that’s utterly at odds with his sharp mouth. Your lips move over each other gently, save for an indulgent nip or bite here and there.

He pushes you back into a bed of sweetgrass, never letting your lips go. Not to breathe, not to say something that’ll pale in comparison to the sweetness of your mouths on one another. He kisses you until he’s had enough to fulfill a lifetime without it, and then some more.

“My love,” he whispers into your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Mine,” he says, pressing a kiss into the column of your neck, and then he says it again with a hot kiss to the place where your dress suggests your breasts. He says it a handful more times as he pushes your skirts up your thighs. “My love forever. I waited for you so long, and I would do it again.” Lowering his voice to a honeyed whisper, he adds, “I would find you no matter what.”

Laughing softly, you run your fingers through his raven hair to better see his eyes. You know he would.

Gently giving you one more of his lingering kisses that make your skin tingle, right into your bare shoulder, he presses into you. You loose a soft breath, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The beating in your chest slows to a content purr as he begins languid thrusts in and out of you, rolling pointedly and unhurried.

Yeonjun makes love to you in a thousand dusted kisses and sweet words, your hands holding each other’s soft edges. Yeonjun traces the lines of you, taking the pads of his thumb down your cheeks and your lips and then his hand over the swell of your breasts and down your belly and over your thighs. Clamping down on him as your belly grows tight in the way it had the first time you had done this, your thighs begin to shake.

 Breathlessly, as you hurdle over the edge, all that you can say is, “I love you, ‘Junnie.” 

Yeonjun smiles at you and then presses his face into your neck. He doesn’t even brace himself against the grass to chase his own peak. Neither of you want this to end; you want to hold on to this moment and let it span forever. Slowly, Yeonjun rolls up into you until his hips finally stutter and he cums into you, his cheeks pink. The weight of him above you as he shakes with your shared ecstasy, and even as you both have come down and are nothing but lazy, is the only thing in this world. He is the only thing in this world.

Once you’ve both evened your breathing out, you roll apart and face each other, still just two forms bending the grass into your shapes. Blinking slowly and digesting his features one at a time—the angle of his eyes, softened but never tamed, the line of his nose, the line of his mouth always so proud and playful, and that pretty dot below his left eye—you let them solidify fully in your mind.

“Yeonjun,” you say, finally meeting his eyes across from you. “I want to go. I’m ready.”

The gentle, knowing look that he gives you soothes over the way your heart begins to race in your chest in rebellion. “I know,” he says.

Of course he had known. Yeonjun had been called here to ferry you into the afterlife. Chewing on your lip, you will your hands to not shake as you curl toward him. You’re no longer scared of going. You know that if you’ll be with him, it will be okay. It won’t be so scary. A hot tear rolls down your temple and then drops into the rover of your hair. “Will you be with me? I won’t be there alone? I’m scared.”

He tucks some hair behind your ear reverently and then leaves his hand there. “I don’t know,” he answers. “But I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here with you.”

You lay there for a long time. Chatting and giggling and just looking into each other's eyes, until your heart becomes slow and all you feel is the wind singing in your blood. Yeonjun presses one final kiss to your forehead.

Maybe, in some years, somebody might dig up your bones and find you immortalized like this in your love. Your bones bowing toward each other, as if even death were not enough to stop you from reaching for each other. Or maybe they’ll just find yours, and Yeonjun still curling into them how you know he will for an eternity more.

Either way, the going is still slow and gentle, as death always is.

🪶 ⦂ tears. omfg i cried writing this which could totally be me being a bitch baby but it DAMN. omfg.

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

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[lovesim09-blog]

White Star

I've written before about how terrifying and powerful White Star is, as if we could see how many people it would take to fight him. The only reason why as the story progressed more and more people were able to deal with him was because of the lack of balance in his body. You could say that he was slowly dying and getting weaker because of these fights, there was no sign in Cale case before he gained balance, because he had a power that kept him alive. He is also intelligent, has knowledge and skills acquired over so many years... However, he is not as cunning and shrewd as Cale.

Let's look at two characters who are truly cunning and how they were raised.

Cale was raised in an apocalyptic world, a place without rules where only the strongest survive. Before the apocalypse, he learned from a young child what the world was really like. Cale also had a curse, even if it wasn't as strong, he had it since birth, he didn't know he was cursed. White Star acquired this curse when he was an adult, even if he was reincarnated for so many years, it didn't change the fact that he still had the mentality of an adult. There's a big difference between living with a curse you know about and being a child with a curse you don't even know about. Back to adulthood. After becoming a team leader, Cale met a lot of people, he had to know how to communicate with all different types of people, he had to know how to make sure they didn't look down on him. He must also have talked to politicians and known more about politics than others and he certainly has all the laws memorized to use them.He was a team leader for 15 years, people considered him more scary than the previous Team Leader. Because of politics he had to understand the culture of other nationalities, we saw his understanding of another culture when he first came to the whipper kingdom.

The second person as clever as Cale is Alberu. The crown prince of Roan Kingdom, someone who fell out of favor with the king and had no one who could officially help him. Also someone who was hiding the secret that he was not fully human. During the test in the temple of the sealed God, we saw his past. It was also quite possible that he had to watch out for assassins and poisons. After all, he was still a potential threat. As a potential future king, he had to be aware of politics from an early age, he had to recognize people's intentions and how to use them.

We mentioned those sworn brothers so it's time to talk about White Star. For so many years he tried to hide while he organized plans to become God. It's impressive how difficult it is to find traces of him in history. First in the dragon slayer village there was a writing on the wall left by him, first you have to find the village and not die at the hands of the guards. No information about the first mercenary king, no one in their right mind would make the connection between them, but Cale isn't normal. The imprisoned Holy Maiden, accused as a heretic, wrote that they trusted the evil mask. You would have to enter the place that was her prison. Who in their right mind goes to places like that? Endable Kingdom where he is the King, you will die before you get close to the sinkhole.

It's very hard to find information about him, so that means he couldn't have gotten involved in politics that often. White Star preferred to hide and do everything in the shadows. That's not to say he doesn't know anything about politics, his plan in Duboria territory was a good one, if not for the fact that Cale has connections to the crown and is a hero even in this country. In the Eastern Continent he has countries that cooperate with him, he even gets dead mana from them. On top of that he was the King.

The problem is that he didn't use the situation properly. If he had openly accused Cale of being like him. He also takes other people's bodies and pretends to be them, just to stop him. Even if this were not true, there would be chaos among his people and normal citizens. It would be really easy to show that he's not the original owner of the body, he doesn't have his memories. Ask about something from the past and the truth would come out. But no, he had to say he has God's will, which made him even more popular.

Another situation where he should have been smarter, when he noticed that Alberu uses dead mana and is not a pure-blooded human. The accusation of the future king that he uses dead mane and has been deceiving citizens with his false appearance from the beginning. Destroy the helmet he wore as soon as possible just to show his true appearance. Use the rumors that the king hides his true appearance and is a being with a dark attribute. If he had done that then there would have been chaos, the nobles would have been pressuring Alberu and probably Zed. If White Star knew Roan's history he would know why appearance is important. Blue eyes, blond hair, and possibly fair skin are symbols of having the blessing of the Sun God. Every king looks like this, the first in line to the throne are those who look like this.

White Star should have taken the opportunity to kidnap someone from the Cale family earlier. Not to mention he didn't try to find his base. Cale literally gave him the plan to attack him and his people! Cale is definitely a better villain than him.

So yes White Star is intelligent, definitely talented, but he lacked cunning... And he has Bear King on his side, Bear tribe was described as shrewd, he should let his intelligence shine from time to time.

[reiwanwan]

Sweet mourning lamb

When Tommy Shelby sits alone by the fire, haunted by the weight of war and business, an unexpected visitor steps out of the darkness—his sister, Delilah. But Delilah is dead. As she delivers a chilling warning, Tommy is forced to confront a truth that defies logic, setting both him and Delilah on a path where revenge and fate collide.

Inspired by Ethel cain’s album, Preachers Daughter. Try to guess which song of hers inspired the first part of the story! Also I changed my writing style a bit for this.

Word count: 5.3k

Content includes : Blood, Mentions of killing, Violence, Religious beliefs, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Death. Might be heavy and disturbing to some readers so please do proceed with caution.

i. A prayer

The church smelled of wax and old wood, the air thick with incense that had long since stopped masking the rot of something deeper. A place of worship, of confession, of supposed salvation. Yet Delilah Shelby stood at its entrance as though she were being swallowed whole, a shadow of herself wrapped in a threadbare coat, her fingers trembling from something more than the cold.

Her boots, scuffed and damp from the night, made no sound as she stepped inside. It was quiet. Always quiet. The hush of a graveyard, the breath before an execution.

She came here when it hurt. When the grief inside her became a living thing, crawling beneath her skin, gnawing at her bones. Polly was gone, and there was nothing in this godless world that could bring her back. But there was Lucas Woods. The preacher. He stood near the altar, bathed in the glow of candlelight. He was waiting for her. As if he knew she would come, like he knew what she had done.

“Delilah,” he murmured.

His voice was like the low murmur of a hymn—soft, and careful. She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly as if to steady herself, before making her way forward.

“I failed,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “I—”

She swallowed hard. The words felt thick in her throat. “I went back to it. I started drinking and taking opium again... I thought I could—I thought I could stop, but then I heard about Tommy and Michael, about the war that’s about to come, and it just—” Her breath hitched. “It started to hurt again.”

Thomas had called her from her home and vaguely mentioned a “war” that was going to happen between them. Delilah had known about the dispute between him and Michael. And she knew that “war” meant that serious shit was about to get down. That also most definitely meant that one of them was going to die. And death was something she didn’t want for either of them.

Lucas watched her with half lidded eyes, his gaze was lazy. “You told me once that grief and worry is a sickness, and that I must suffer before I can be saved” she whispered, her hands trembling, “And I—I think it’s eating me alive”. But deep inside, she knew that salvation was never meant for her.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, his dark brown eyes solemn as he stepped forward, bridging the space between them. Gently, he lifted her chin, his fingers soft as a whisper against her skin.

“I was with you there, I invited you in twice, I did. You love blood too much.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him with glistening teary eyes, Lucas often spoke in metaphors that were slightly confusing to understand. “What do you mean?”. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as a lover’s confession.

“The first time I invited you in, I found you sprawled outside these very doors. Cold. Drunk. Sobbing.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, almost reverently. “I let you in to pray, did I not?”. Delilah’s breath shuddered out of her.

She remembered that night. The way the rain had seeped into her clothes, the way her body had felt so small, so insignificant against the vast, uncaring world. She was grieving the death of her Aunt Pol. How she had died so unfairly by the hands of the IRA. The one she believed was the pillar and backbone of her family. Delilah remembered weeping pathetically on the muddy ground and it was Lucas who had found her and brought her in for warmth.

“And the second?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Lucas’ smile was small, almost pained.

“The second time was when I let you into my heart.”

Something inside her twisted. She searched his face, finding nothing but that same quiet devotion in his eyes, that unwavering gaze that had always felt like both salvation and damnation. Delilah had suspected that she might’ve fallen in love with Lucas the first time he put his hands so painfully gently on her shoulders and told her to pray. His brown eyes, so forgiving and polite. Her throat tightened. “And the blood?”.

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. “The blood is those who hurt you”. Her stomach squeezed and turned cold. She made the connection instantly. It was too painfully obvious.

Lucas said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For a long, excruciating moment, the weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating. She had spent so long trying to ignore it, trying to drown it in whatever poison she could find—this unbearable love for a brother who had done nothing but carve her heart into something unrecognizable.

But he was the one who had been there for her all her life. The only one who held her when she cried after her mother had passed, when her father would disappear for long periods of time. The one that made her heart feel safe. How could she not love him the way she did?

She felt Lucas’ hands on her face again, cradling her gently as if she was fragile and would break any second. His touch was warm, grounding. “I heard you,” he whispered. “Saw you. Felt you. Gave you. Needed you.”

“Loved you.”

His thumb softly pulled down on her bottom lip as he slowly leaned in. A soft and lingering kiss against her cheek. Then, his lips at her ear, his voice sinking into her bones like a prayer.

“You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.”

Her eyes flutter shut as he murmured sweet nothings into her ears with his deep, syrupy voice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

“It’s already been done.”

His lips met with hers, interlocking naturally. She felt herself sink into it, into him, desperate and aching, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. He grabbed the softness of her nape, his other hand cupping her head, he groaned when her fingers tightened on his brown locs.

Delilah was slowly losing herself in his touch. Maybe this was all she needed, she thought to herself. She shut her eyes tightly and allowed herself to drown in this moment. She started to hear multiple voices, all sorts of different sounds, all around her spatial awareness. She grabbed onto his lapels tighter in hopes that the voices would go away. There was no time to pay the voices any attention. But the voices started becoming more coherent. It was calling her name.

“Delilah” the voice called.

Go away, not right now.

“Delilah”

Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t need this right now.

“Show me your face”

Delilah remained keeping her eyes screwed shut. She recognised that voice. Her eyes flew open once she was sure who the voice belonged to. The church was gone and she was small again. A child.

She was crouched down with her knees pulled into her chest. Her small hands trembled as she raised them to her face, covering it, shielding herself from the gaze she knew was waiting for her. “Please don’t look at me”.

“Why won’t you show me your face, Delilah? Do you not love me anymore?” He said, crouching down to her who was curled into a ball.

“Because if I do, I’ll start crying again Tommy” she said, her voice cracking. She felt his hands, warm and steady, prying hers away. Forcing her to meet his icy blue eyes. He was young as well. The Tommy she remembered before France took the light away from her doting brother.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re guilty” He said. Delilah sobbed softly when Tommy held her small face in his hands.

“Tell me, what have you done?” he wiped her falling tears with his thumbs.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why wont you tell me, Delilah? You don't love me anymore?” His voice slowly started to sound like her fathers.

Delilah shook her head, trying to get him to be silent. Tommy and her father loved asking her that when she was younger and she hated it a lot. They weren’t aware of how much it hurt her little heart. She always felt like she had to do something— anything as proof of her love. It almost never ended well. In pain most of the time.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why don't you listen to me, Delilah? Do you want to make Tommy sad?”

I’ve had enough.

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

STOP

Delilah gasped, her eyes widened and quickly pulled herself away from Lucas’ lips, trying to desperately catch her breath. Her chest heaved quickly, she could feel her heart pounding and held onto her chest to try and control its strong and painful palpitations. She turned her attention to Lucas who was already smiling at her lazily.

“After all I’ve done,” he mused, “you’re still crying for your brother.”

She could barely think. Her head, a dizzying and mushy mess. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “How do you know I’m crying for him…and not for you?” she asked breathily, trying to force a smile. Lucas’ eyes darkened, his coarse thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing away a tear.

“You’ll never cry for the one who doesn’t hurt you” he murmured. “Only the one who pains you”

He brought his lips closer to her ears and whispered, “The pain that only you can remember”. Lucas reached behind her head and that’s when she felt it—The cold kiss of a steel pistol at the back of her skull.

How long had it been there? Had it been there when he kissed her? How long had she clung to him?

She exhaled shakily. She knew what was to come, because when she lifted her gaze, she saw them. Mother, Polly and John. All standing behind Lucas and smiling so beautifully. She had spent so long running from the inevitable, drowning herself in opium, in whiskey, in prayers whispered into the collar of a preacher’s coat. Now, at last, there was no more running. It is as Lucas said, it’s already been done.

Her lips parted. A broken breath escaped. And before she could think of anything else the world went black. Her body went limp, falling back before she was caught by Lucas in his arms. He lifted her lifeless frame up and examined, bringing a chaste kiss to her lips. His fingers drew a cross on her chest with the blood from the back of her head as he prayed— The prayer that he had saved for Delilah.

“Blessed be the Daughter of the Shelbys,

Bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.

Blessed be their whore mothers,

Tired and angry, waiting with bated breath in a ferry that will never move again.

Blessed be the children,

Each and every one comes to know their god through some senseless act of violence.

Blessed be the girl, born into blood, raised in grief.

Blessed be her restless soul, which will never find peace.

Blessed be the hands that held her, the lips that kissed her, the man who loved her.

And blessed be the bullet, the only true salvation I could give.”

ii. The priest

Lucas Woods watched as the body of Delilah Shelby bled out on the church’s marble floor. She looked like a beauty bleeding out in such a beautiful place of worship.

His mind was noisy. With thoughts that he couldn’t identify. But it was probably not that important. Lucas was the type of person who knew what he wanted and exactly how he wanted it. If he couldn’t pick out what it was that he felt while watching her, then the thought most likely didn’t serve him any good. Besides, there was no room left in his heart to grieve.

He recited every prayer he had ever known, In hopes her soul would forgive him. Not like he ever believed in any of the prayers that he recited. Not as if he believed that it would save her, but fear of the possibilities that there is heaven, not as if he believed any of them could get in but there was that little pathetic hope in him.

He bathed her in candlelight, traced crosses over her forehead, whispered to her in the darkness. He took off his robe, leaving it on top of her lifeless body and left before shutting the big wooden church doors, leaving her behind for the flies to keep her company.

Lucas had told her things he had never told another soul. The things he thought were unworthy to share. Lucas’ reasoning was that his value would not have changed either way— there was no benefit in knowing who he was and what he was inside.

Born to a Belfast family that never knew peace, similar to the Shelbys, Lucas had been raised on the promise of bringing justice to the weak. His father’s hands were always bloodied; his mother’s eyes were always swollen from grief.

“Some people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, Lucas” is what his father would say when he came home with blood on his clothes. His father was a preacher and often twisted the word of God to justify his bloodshed, poor little Lucas never could tell the difference between the devil, god and his own father.

The church had been his only solace, the only place where he could pretend, be a killer with a cross around his neck, for a moment, and not his father’s son.

But the IRA had taken him in before God ever could, stepping right into his fathers foots steps He had killed before he ever learned how to pray properly. And yet, when he met Delilah Shelby, he had felt something shift. Something softened. Maybe it was his damned heart.

She was not innocent—no one born a Shelby ever was—but she was something else entirely. The pain in her eyes, the quiet way she clung to him when she thought no one was watching, the desperation and sincerity in the way she sought absolution and repented even when she knew she could never truly be forgiven. Something about her desperation and loyalty pulled him closer. He had loved her.

Perhaps for his own selfish needs, for the way she made him feel like something more than a killer in a preacher’s robes, and more than his fathers obedient dog.

Loving that girl made him feel clean. The only ones whose hands were tender on his face. Maybe it was knowing how much she needed him. For whatever reasons he had, there was no denying in his heart, he had love for that girl. And maybe that’s why he had to destroy her. Because love like that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

iii. The awakening

Darkness consumed her. Not the soft, velvety blackness of sleep, nor the tranquil void of death she had once imagined—but something far heavier, more suffocating. It wrapped around her like a burial shroud, thick and endless, stretching into eternity without form or meaning.

For what she could only assume was more than an hour, she was aware of nothing but this abyss. No pain, no thought, just the cold, unfeeling void. She wondered, vaguely, if this was what it meant to die, or how it felt. If she had finally escaped the blood, the grief, the war that followed her like a specter. There was no peace in this emptiness, but neither was there suffering. Perhaps that was enough.

Delilah’s ears picked up a sound. Faint at first, distant, like an echo through water. A dull, rhythmic thump, steady and unrelenting. It pulsed through the void, rippling outward, drawing her toward it. It took her a moment to recognize it.

A heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

The realization struck her like a hammer to the chest, sending shockwaves through the darkness. Sensation flooded in all at once—a slow, dragging pain that curled through her skull, a dull ache spreading through her limbs like fire smoldering beneath the surface of her skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as a new awareness settled over her.

She was alive.

Or at least—she was something close to it.

Her fingers twitched against the hard cold surface beneath her, the texture rough and unyielding, pressing against her palms with an unbearable weight. Cold air wrapped around her, carrying the heavy scent of incense, candle wax, and something darker—something metallic. It clung to her, thick and suffocating, stirring something deep in her chest. Blood. She groaned helplessly.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in air, as if she had been drowning for an eternity and was only now breaking the surface. Her body rebelled against the motion, heavy and sluggish, as though she were made of lead. Her head lolled to the side, the sharp, dragging pain intensifying, throbbing at the base of her skull. She tried to move, tried to lift her arms, but they felt like dead weight, resisting her every attempt to reclaim control.

Something warm trickled down her forehead.

Slow, thick, and wet.

Her breath stilled. Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged her hand upward, the movement strained and unnatural, her fingertips brushing against her temple. Her skin was slick, the texture strange and foreign. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling the warmth, the stickiness, the undeniable reality of it.

Her hand trembled as she pulled it away.The dim light overhead cast a dull glow over her skin, illuminating the color smeared across her fingertips. Deep crimson, nearly black in the flickering candlelight. It pooled in the creases of her palm, clung to the lines of her skin, refusing to fade. Blood. Her blood.

A sickening realization settled over her like a weight. She had felt the bullet, had heard it—the crack of the gunshot, the way the world had gone silent in its wake. The moment of impact had been sudden, sharp—then nothing.

And yet, she was here. Alive?

The floor beneath her was cold, the air thick with the scent of iron. Her breathing came shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if her body was still trying to understand what had happened. She should be dead. She was dead.

Then why did she feel like this?

Her vision swam as she forced herself to sit up, the world shifting violently around her, tilting at unnatural angles. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, but she pushed past it, planting her hands against the floor, steadying herself. Her body felt foreign, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, as though she had been stitched together all wrong.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements unsteady, legs trembling beneath her. The sensation of blood running down her skin was maddening—warm, constant, unnatural. She needed to see.

Her gaze flickered across the dimly lit church, her surroundings unfamiliar in her disoriented state. The air felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken, something watching. But there was no one else here.

A bitter laugh threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing her body to move. She needed to find a mirror—needed proof of whatever had been done to her.

Each step felt wrong, as though she were walking through water’s tough tides, her body resisting the motion. The shadows in the church stretched long and sharp, flickering with the unsteady candlelight. The air was too still, too quiet, pressing in from all sides.

She reached the far end of the room, her fingers grazing the cool surface of an old mirror. The glass was fogged with age, its surface marred with scratches, but it was enough.

She hesitated, but slowly—she looked.

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

The woman staring back at her was a grotesque mockery of the one she had once been. Her skin, once warm and full of life, had taken on an unnatural pallor—too pale, too still, as though all warmth had drained from her body. Dark veins curled beneath the surface, spreading from the wound at her temple, reaching down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.

The wound itself— A small, perfect hole, right at her hairline. The skin around it was raw, cracked, as if something had forced its way through and refused to heal. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her face, crusted in places where it should have clotted, but never fully did. It oozed, slow and thick, an unnatural, endless trickle.

Her eyes were wrong. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. The irises, once a deep brown, had darkened, their edges swallowed by shadow. They looked sunken, hollow, as if she had been awake for centuries. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if something inside her had shifted—something that could never be undone.

This was not survival. This was something else.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face, smearing blood across her cheek. She could only laugh at her own reflection.

It was quiet at first—soft, bitter, but it grew, shaking in her chest, a sound born from madness and exhaustion. A laugh with no joy, no warmth. Just the cold, sharp edge of realization sinking into her ribs like a knife.

She should be dead. But she wasn’t.

She turned from the mirror, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair, her mind racing with the weight of what this meant.

There was a sudden shift in the air. The sensation of something unseen watching. She stilled. Slowly, she turned and there, standing in the flickering candlelight—was Polly.

Polly stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression resting on her sharp features. She looked exactly as Delilah remembered, before and after she left—proud, knowing, untouched by death. But Delilah knew what this meant. Polly always had something to say.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even think it was possible.Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Polly quirked a brow and tilted her head, “What do you think?”, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze.

Delilah let out a slow breath, glancing back at the mirror.Her reflection had not changed.She clenched her jaw, shaking her head.

“Fuck”.

Delilah clenched her jaw, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”. Polly exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” she drawled. “And tell me—does that look alive to you?”. Delilah glanced back at the mirror, her stomach twisting. She let out a slow breath, licking her lips, tasting iron.

Delilah clenched her fists, shaking her head.

“Fuck” she said exasperatedly, releasing a soft and defeated laugh.

Delilah sat down on the benches and reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar—A pack of cigarettes. She pulled it out, along with a silver lighter, flipping it open with a flick of her wrist. The flame flared to life, casting shadows across her face. She placed the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long plume of smoke into the stagnant air.

“Being dead hurts,” She shook her head, smirking.

Polly smiled, watching her fondly. “You’re still here because you have something to say,” she said simply. “Something he needs to hear.” Delilah exhaled another breath of smoke, staring at Polly through the haze. Polly met her gaze, steady and sharp.

“You already know what it is.”

Delilah took another slow drag of her cigarette, watching the ember glow like a dying star. She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling between them.

“And what if I don’t want to say it?”

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver nor did her smile, “Then you’ll never rest.”

iv. The message

The fire crackled, the embers rising into the night air like lost spirits, twisting and flickering before vanishing into the darkness. The flames burned low, a soft orange glow against the damp cold of the woods. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, mixing with the heavy scent of damp earth and decayed leaves. The world was quiet here—no city noise, no voices, just the steady hum of insects and the rustling of branches overhead.

Tommy sat hunched on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight carved shadows into his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than he already felt. The weight of war pressed against him, the endless calculations of men and money and blood turning over in his mind like the cogs of a machine that never stopped. But for now—for this one moment—he let himself sit in silence, watching the flames dance.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the leaves shuffling and rustling, sounding like footsteps and that made his skin prickle before his mind even caught up. He turned his head, eyes sharp, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip. The fire flickered, the shadows stretching, and then—she stepped into the light.

Tommy froze.

His cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in the dirt at his feet, the ember still glowing. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs.

Delilah.

She stood at the edge of the firelight, her skin pallid in the flickering glow. Her dark hair hung loose, disheveled, strands falling into her hollowed-out eyes. The dried blood on her temple had darkened to an unnatural black, a grotesque smear down her face. But it wasn’t just the wound—it was her.

The way she stood, too still. The way her breath didn’t fog in the cold air. The way her eyes blinked too slowly like a haunted doll. The way the firelight didn’t quite touch her.

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Delilah?”

She tilted her head slightly.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, moving toward her, hands reaching as if to steady her, as if to fix whatever had been done to her. “Fuck—Delilah, what happened to you?” His voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. “Come on, let me—Jesus Christ, let me get you to a doctor—” His hand hovers between them before finally gripping her wrist. Cold. Too fucking cold. His fingers flex, his breath stilling as if he’s afraid she might crumble beneath his touch.

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Tommy,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “I’m already dead.”

His breath left him all at once.

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The fire popped, embers snapping in the air, but Tommy heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He stared at her, at the blood, at the way her lips barely moved when she spoke.

She blinked, her expression unreadable.

“I saw Mom.”

It wasn’t possible. He’d been drinking, maybe—no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t have been dreaming. But Delilah—his baby sister—was standing in front of him, pale and still, with a bullet hole in her skull.

“And Polly,” she continued, glancing at the fire.“And John.”

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Teeth clenching against each other. His logical mind fights against what his heart already knows: this is Delilah. But it’s not. It can’t be. And yet, she speaks his name like she never left, like she isn’t a ghost standing by his fire, telling him the truth he doesn’t want to hear.

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

She met his gaze then, and something in her expression softened. Not with sadness, not with fear—but with something almost amused.

“A priest,” she said simply. “From the church I used to go to.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly. She stepped forward then, sinking down onto the log beside him, sitting as if her body still remembered how. As if she hadn’t been shot dead. For a long moment, Tommy said nothing.

Then, moving on autopilot, he reached into his coat, pulling out his cigarette case. He lit one with slow, deliberate movements, inhaled deeply, then held the case out to her. She took one. The small gesture felt wrong. Like something out of a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, and muttered, “Dead people smoke now?” Delilah smirked before lighting up her cigarette, she took a slow drag, and exhaled. “You’re in luck, then”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, watching the fire. It felt almost normal—almost. “Lucas Wood,” Tommy murmured, more to himself than to her. Delilah nodded slightly. “You’ve heard of him?.”

“I know the name”, Tommy admitted. “Never met him. I don’t go to church.” A bitter smirk, “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to pray.” She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another slow drag of her cigarette, “Yeah it was him alright”.

Tommy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ll get the police involved.” His voice was firm, but even as he said it, there was something hollow in his words. “I can’t send my men after him—I need them”.

Delilah scoffed softly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “And what exactly do you think the police are gonna do, Tommy?” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s no use. Lucas is an IRA member”.

Delilah smirked, “Funny, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, watching the way his grip on his cigarette tightened. “It was the same with Polly, What goes around comes around.”

Tommy inhaled sharply, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.

Delilah’s voice softened. “Lucas is coming in a few days,” she said. “He’s going to tell you about my death himself.” There was a slight pause before she added, “That’s when he plans to take you, Tommy.” Tommy was silent for once.

She turned to him fully, studying his face in the firelight. “Do you understand now?”

“Will you listen to me now? you love me, right?”

He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in. The way the fire cast flickering shadows across her face, the way her expression stayed calm despite the weight of everything. Tommy’s hands found her cheeks, her skin was cold, his thumb nearly freezing from simply rubbing across it. “I do love you” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was already dead. And yet, here she was. Waiting for him to finish what needed to be done.

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, the embers swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled her in, holding her tightly in his arms, hands cradling her head as if he was trying to comfort her. Tommy pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Alright, for you Delilah”

To be continued…