#honestly though - I probably could change my mind tomorrow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovelybarnes · 2 years ago

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Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises.

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you.

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug.

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains.

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably.

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously.

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks.

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?”

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.”

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons.

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose.

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend.

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path.

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down.

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh.

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back.

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve.

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit.

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily.

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can.

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability.

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.”

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues. “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

3K notes · View notes

astridthevalkyrie · 2 years ago

Text

honeymoon period | jumin han x reader

After Jumin marries you, slowly, his threads start to untangle.

a/n: my first and probably last long jumin fic. this has been in the works for months, literally what i've been stalling on superior for (pre keigo 😭) i hope you all enjoy! i love this man <3

warnings: afab reader with she/her pronouns, some depressing thoughts, smut, oral (m and f receiving), penetrative sex, references to kinks that they both have, references/nightmares about abuse including sexual harassment, insecurity, jumin's comedy lol

word count: 13.2k (only a little less than the last superior chapter that is cray cray)

There is a knock on your door.

It makes you jump. Not that you’re nervous—it’s a hotel and several of your friends and family are here to see you get married, so naturally many of them know where your room is. The room itself is, of course, lavish, a paradise compared to most of your previous lodgings. Honestly, you miss the penthouse.

No, that’s not quite right. You just miss being curled up on the couch, tucked into Jumin’s chest with Elizabeth on your lap, wine on his lips and love in his eyes. You miss him, even though you saw him last this morning. You know he’s in the hotel lobby being forced to get wasted by Luciel, because the hacker in question has sent you dozens of videos of your fiancé. In one of them, when Zen reminds him he’s getting married tomorrow, a goofy smile breaks out on his face as he ducks his head.

Maybe the wedding wasn’t necessary. Maybe you two could have just signed the necessary papers without having to go a full day without seeing each other. How are you supposed to sleep tonight? You could call him, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Sighing, you make your way to the door. If it’s one of your friends trying to convince you to let loose or a family member coming to check up on you, you’re not in the mood.

When you open the door, your fiancé is standing there.

“Jumin!”

All questions on the tip of your tongue disappear when he brings you into his arms, burying his face in your neck with a content sigh. There’s no urgency in it, just a quiet, sudden happiness, like he’s fully aware that in just a few hours he won’t have to worry about you being anywhere but in his arms again.

“Thank you.” His voice breaks the silence, muffled on your skin. “For letting me love you, and for loving me.”

Your eyes well up with tears. What an emotional bride you’re turning out to be. And what a wonderful groom you have, to somehow know exactly what you need even when he’s not completely sober.

Slowly, you wrap your arms around him as well, breathing in the scent of his shampoo as you press a kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re welcome, Jumin.”

///

There has never been a lovelier sight than your smile, and Jumin hopes you know that.

If you don’t, he’ll just have to convince you.

“Hi, sweetheart.” You’re sporting a grin for him—just for him—wearing nothing but one of his shirts with Elizabeth the Third scurrying out from between your feet when she sees him. There’s a pink bottle on the counter. Frosting, he thinks. “I hope you don’t mind, but having a chef cook for us for a month straight has ruined my palate for anything else. I had to cook for myself again before I got spoiled. I can call him to make you dinner if you don’t want to eat what I made, though!”

“Of course not.” The urge to embrace you is unbearable. A month after the wedding, and his first day back at work after the honeymoon, he still can’t seem to keep his hands off. “What did you make? I’ll eat anything.”

He leans down to take Elizabeth the Third in his arms, scratching the back of her head softly. “Alright! I made stew and baked some cupcakes, I hope you like it. But you should probably change first. Slip into something more comfortable.”

“Ironic, considering you and I are wearing the same thing.”

“Well…” You lean over the counter, making a show of ogling him. “If you really want to match, you can leave the shirt on and take off your pants.”

It’s impossible to even try and stop the smile growing on his face. “Would you like that?”

“Come over here and find out, hubby.”

The nickname makes him flush pleasantly, but instead of taking you up on that extremely tempting offer, he simply walks up and presses a kiss to your forehead. You pout, and with the tact of knowing Elizabeth is still in his arms, you tug on his tie and kiss him properly. Jumin’s brain turns off, if only for a few seconds. As long as you kiss him and he kisses you back, the only thing he knows is you, you, you and nothing else.

Now, instead of changing, he’s holding his cat and kissing you in the kitchen. With just a minor breakaway and murmured apology, he’s no longer holding his cat. His hands slide around your back and pull you in, and your hands meet at the base of his neck. You. Only you.

“Ju-min,” you admonish breathlessly, the second he pulls away to trail hurried kisses down your neck. “Dinner first.”

“Mm. I’m not hungry.” Or he is, but not for dinner.

Your hands come to rest on his chest, but you don’t pull away, and Jumin is beyond grateful. He doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to sleep or shower or do anything else when he could be showing you just how much he’d missed you at work today.

Slightly pressed into the counter, you place your hands back and jump onto it, and he eagerly steps in between your legs to kiss you again. Your legs wrap around his waist and your hands tangle in his hair—a habit of yours, he’s noticed, to mess his hair up. He doesn’t mind. Not if it makes you happy.

Finally, you pull away and before he can dive back in for yet another kiss, you dip your finger into the bowl next to you and offer it up to him. Without even considering it, he takes your finger in between his lips and licks the gravy off.

It’s only after he registers the taste does Jumin realize how intimate the action is. And of course, he knows that you’re married, that you and he have seen each other absolutely bare and open to one another, that he is literally making out with you in his—in your—in your shared kitchen. He knows that despite everyone thinking that the marriage was rushed and impulsive, this will be a long road, and he plans to stick by you for each and every single step. He knows that tasting something off your finger is hardly the most domestic thing you two will do.

But it doesn’t stop the flurry of butterflies he feels in his stomach. It doesn’t stop him from thinking my wife is letting me taste what she made, because she’s perfect. That’s not to mention how wonderful the taste actually is.

“Good?” you question, with gleaming eyes.

“Incredible.” He takes your hand and dips your finger in the bowl, stealing another taste right after. “More than incredible. The best stew I’ve ever had.”

“I know you’re flattering me.” Leaning forward, you take his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. Softly, gently, like he’s something fragile that will break if you use any force. “But I’m not complaining. Keep going.”

“Food is always better when a beautiful woman is the one serving it.”

You beam. The butterflies in his stomach do a victory soar.

Jumin Han is in love.

///

Zen has a dream about you. That’s when the problem starts.

He tells it to the group in great detail—it’s not anything romantic or sexual, but Jumin doesn’t see a reason for you to be in his subconscious at all, even if you were just the supposed director for Zen’s dream movie. You’re not any sort of movie director, so the dream is ridiculous at any rate.

It doesn’t stop him from pouncing on you the second you two get back home. You don’t even get to take a seat before he’s pressing you against the door, ensuring it’s locked (the last thing he needs is for one of the security guards to see this and have dreams about you too) and kissing you possessively.

“Jumin—?” There’s a question on the tip of your tongue, but it cuts off into a delicious moan when he starts sucking and biting all the same spots he knows he left hickeys on during your honeymoon.

“Spend the day with me,” he whispers. “Just me, no one else.”

An amused giggle bubbles from your throat. “I was already gonna do that, honeybunny.”

Good. That’s plenty of time for him to mark up your neck (and other places) so that everyone knows you’re his, and other people can stop dreaming of you. Already his mind is filled with wicked thoughts, of how he can make you cry and beg and scream today. From the time you two spent on your honeymoon, he knows you can get quite loud if he puts his mind to it.

The only limit is his imagination.

“Jumin.” Your head tilts back against the door, eyes closed as his tongue soothes a bite mark he just made. “Ah, J-Jumin, are you jealous?”

“No.” He is.

“I know what possessiveness looks like.” You take his hand in yours and press a kiss to each fingertip. “You know that me being in Zen’s dream isn’t something in our or even his control?”

“Of course I know that.” He huffs, impatiently fiddling with the buttons on your shirt. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

He kisses you again, and you hum in understanding, sliding your arms around his neck and pulling him in closer. It’s amazing, no matter how many times he thinks everyone would dismiss him for being ridiculous over something like this, you are always there to prove that at least one person wouldn’t. And you taste. So. Damn. Good.

So why not taste you all over? Jumin hungrily slides his tongue over your teeth, seeking entrance. When your mouth parts for him, he tastes you intimately, swallowing your soft sighs.

“For the record,” you mumble, out of breath, “I only ever dream about you.”

“As do I, darling.” He pulls you closer still, thinking about how good you’ll taste when he has his mouth on your pussy. “As do I.”

///

This need to prove himself to you extends beyond the sexual—you laugh so much when you’re around Luciel and Yoosung. Actual laughter that is so different from the polite smiles and chuckles that are in response to his own words.

He hates it. He hates it so very much. He wants to make you laugh, full blown and unabashed. As much as he likes making you giggle, he wants to make you laugh so hard that there are tears pouring down your cheeks. And his experience has quite readily set him up for the expectation that if he wants something, he will have it.

And now, what he really, really wants is to see his wife lose her in laughter because of him.

That means it’s time to bring out the big guns.

Right now you’re under the covers, reading glasses on as you flip through a book. The book in question is something from his personal library (when he showed it to you, mentioning a scene from Beauty and the Beast, you had promptly told him that he was not a beast, but that you finally understood how the princess felt in that scene).

To an extent, Jumin feels bad when he distracts you from work or requests your attention. But he tries to remind himself that if you didn’t want it, you were more than capable of telling him as much. And your reaction to him crawling on top of you with his arms on either side would certainly not be to put the book aside and pull him down to lay on your chest with a kiss to the crown of his head.

For once in his life, Jumin is certain that he is loved.

“I have a joke,” he tells you matter-of-factly, and your brow raises.

“What is it?”

Taking a deep breath, he raises himself up so he can take a good look at your face.

“Hit Seoul, hit Daejon, hit Daegu, hit Busan, hit it!”

There’s a long pause, and your surprised expression slowly morphs into a giggle, then at his grin, a chortle. Jumin laughs first, and then you do too, throwing your head back. It’s single-handedly the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his life.

“W-what—“ You’re wheezing now, shoulders shaking. “What does that even mean?”

“I cast a spell on you. Those who laugh are no ordinary souls, for your information.”

“You are so perfect.” The praise catches him off guard, but your body is still shaking from laughter, and in your eyes he sees something like adoration. “How are you so perfect?”

That is definitely not a word he associates with his humor. His status, money, company, business acumen? Yes, perfect, as they were always meant to be. But the little flips in his stomach tell him that none of those things are what you’re referring to. The look in your eyes—he never sees you look at material objects or money that way. He has only ever seen it aimed towards him, and Jumin realizes with a start that there is no need to compete with Zen or Yoosung or Luciel—because really, there is no competition to begin with.

///

Being a workaholic comes with benefits. Everything always gets done. And he enjoys doing business, so there is no negative side effect…other than the lost time that could be spent with his wife. Typing away on the computer he has set up in his study, Jumin sighs, cracking his neck every half hour or so. He’s been at it for hours, but there’s still more left to do.

A soft knock makes him look up. You peek your head in, blinking sleepily and all wrapped up in a blanket. “Sorry to disturb,” in a whisper that barely reaches his ears, “can I sleep here, honey?”

Jumin beckons you in, looking around dubiously. “I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s any surface here you’d be comfortable on. I don’t want you to have an ache by tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Your eyes keep blinking closed, as though you’re barely staying awake. All your words are hushed, but you still manage to clamber over to his side of the desk, blanket in tow, and fall onto his lap, burying your face in his chest.

With a start, he catches you, holding you close. “What is it, sweetheart? You can’t sleep?”

You shake your head, getting even more comfortable. “The bed’s too cold.”

Something indescribable squeezes his chest. Above everything, the pleasure that you would rather seek warmth from him rather than get another blanket is all-consuming. Without another word, he stands with you in his arms and walks to the bed. The second he steps into the bedroom, your grip on him becomes a little tighter.

He huffs back a small laugh. “I’m not going anywhere. I’d just rather you sleep here.”

Pulling out a second blanket from the closet for good measure, he lays down on the bed with you, throwing both blankets over your bodies before wrapping you up in his arms. You sigh happily, legs mixing with his and face pressing in his chest once more.

“Sorry for distracting you.” Now your voice is barely audible. “Mm…you’re just…so much warmer…”

“Can I ask you a favor?” You hum softly in response. “Please never apologize for demanding my attention. I am yours, that includes my body, my soul, and my time. Should you ever need me to sleep and I am in the office, please call me and I’ll come home immediately. I’ll take the jet home if I have to. That doesn’t just stop at my time either. If there is anything, anything, you would like, then all you have to do is ask me. I’ll buy you anything. The world is at your disposal.”

There’s a pause and Jumin thinks you’ve fallen asleep, but then you break the silence, quietly asking, “Is it okay if I ask you for something, then?”

“Anything.”

Cute but glossy eyes peer up at him, and you blink rapidly. “A kiss?”

Jumin places his hands on your cheeks, catching the stray tear that falls. Then he leans in, and everything is right with the world.

///

Ice Prince.

Jumin has no idea where the title actually came from. He doesn’t see what’s wrong with someone having control of their emotions. Is he expected to cry or rage at every little thing? That’s a genuine question. Maybe he doesn’t show much emotion at all, and he should. He’s open to advice.

It shouldn’t even be on his mind. He’s watching a soap opera, and the most beautiful woman in the world is in his arms. He enjoys watching your reactions more than watching the show itself, whether you’re holding back an aww or wincing. Every so often, you look up and meet his eyes, giving him a sweet smile each and every time before placing your head back on his chest.

Still, he can’t get the article he read earlier out of his head. Has the Ice Prince really settled down? What kind of life does the new Mrs. Han lead? One can only imagine that she does not get many warm moments with Jumin Han. A speedy divorce would not be surprising.

Just the thought makes him tug you in closer, the idea of you leaving never failing to terrify him. He’s gotten better, he doesn’t freak out over you exiting the penthouse or hanging out with friends or working. He’d told himself harshly that he would not drive you away with his overt possessiveness.

But maybe he’s going to drive you away if he can’t learn to show you his emotions and instead continues to be…well, an ice prince, as much as he hates the term.

“Jumin.” You’re pressing a kiss to his throat, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are you tired, honey? We can go to bed.”

When he looks down, you’re gazing concernedly up at him. He doesn’t feel like a villain when you look upon him like this. And holding you close is not the only privilege he has here. Taking your face in his hands, he kisses you, and you melt in almost immediately. Jumin knows that you’re starting to get sleepy because you don’t make any move to straddle him further.

The man who knows you best—that is what the articles should be about. Doting husband. Family man. Your partner. How could anyone think he was cold or heartless to you?

“Juju,” you mumble softly, not bothering to break the kiss, “we should get to bed.”

Yes, you’re right. However…

“May I ask you a question?” His curiosity and slight anxiousness requires him to make sure. If he’s ever done anything to make you think he’s some kind of robot, he needs to get rid of such behavior immediately.

Your lips quirk like he’s said something funny. “You may.”

“Have I ever seemed…cold to you?” Almost as if to remind you before you answer, he holds your hand, squeezing gently, while the other hand remains on your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin softly. “Since we’ve been together, I mean. Have I ever acted anything like an…” Jumin cringes just saying it out loud. “Ice prince?”

The question seems to take you aback, and you blink a few times. Your eyes—warm, beautiful eyes—first stare at him with a certain confusion, then quickly become infused with a sudden anger.

“Did someone say that about you? Who was it?”

“No one,” he responds, then hastily amends, “there have always been articles calling me that. I just happened to see one today, so it was on my mind.”

Now, you really do straddle him, threading your fingers through his hair. The anger has dulled into a stubborn crossness. With a deep scowl, you kiss his forehead and say, “That is ridiculous. You have been nothing but warm to me, Jumin Han.”

The same warmth you’re talking about spreads across his cheeks, painting them pink, but you’re not done.

“Since when do you care about those articles anyway? They’ve always been inane. Remember when everyone was convinced that you would marry Sarah?” Here you huff, and he hates to admit that he loves seeing you jealous, even if over someone he never even considered getting to know. “And you had to set them straight for them to print anything accurate. Maybe I should give a press statement of my own. Ice Prince my ass.”

“Such language,” Jumin says lowly, already hiding his face in your neck. You’re still peeved, muttering things under your breath as you stroke his hair, angry kisses pressed to his skin in the middle of your rant.

Eventually, you tire yourself out, falling asleep right there on his chest, a common occurrence. He doesn’t mind it one bit, it’s actually really easy to carry you to bed. For some reason, Jumin feels much, much lighter.

///

His wife is a party planner. An event planner, technically, since you’ll take some requests for meetings as well, but it’s mostly parties. He knows that due to your marriage, there’s been an increase in the amount of clients wanting you to plan their events. Even before, you’d said your schedule had always been sporadic, revolving around whatever the current most pressing event was.

Frankly, he shouldn’t be surprised, with how masterfully you pulled off the RFA party.

He’s more than proud of you, of course. He’s now attended quite a few of the events you put together, and it always leaves him impressed. You’ve confided in him about how you’d like to either switch to a company that exclusively does weddings or start your own, and despite your protests, he’s fully prepared to finance such an endeavor when the time comes.

The only issue about your job, and his job as well, is that your schedules can be sporadic. There are days where you can work without even leaving the penthouse, and then there are days where you are running around and don’t return until 2 AM. Jumin can hardly get upset when he’s taunted the clock with his record times at coming home as well.

Can’t get upset at you, that is. Being upset at the situation is perfectly reasonable. He wants to spend time with his wife, dammit. You’re his favorite person in the world, all the things he wants to do involve being with you.

So when he’s the one who’s arriving at 2 in the morning, he deflates to see that you’re fast asleep, a couple documents and your phone in the bed next to you. How many times has he told you he would set up a separate room for you to work in? Each time, you shake your head and say all you need is your phone and laptop, and you can work anywhere. That doesn’t take into account your health, though. The place you relax should not be associated with work, or it leads to a less relaxing sleep cycle. He once read a study about that.

It might be hypocritical, but Jumin misses you. He wants to talk to you so badly it pains him, and not just longing phone calls that always leave him wanting more.

Loosening his tie, he waits for a second before falling hard onto the bed.

Your eyes flutter open immediately, and in your daze you take in your still-dressed husband. With a sleepy smile, you push away all the papers next to you to snuggle into his arms. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you.” One arm secured around your back, he pulls you as close to him as you can. He sees you breathe in his lingering cologne, and it makes him downright giddy that his scent seems to bring you comfort. “Shouldn’t a loving wife be waiting up for her husband?”

You yawn, throwing one leg around him. “Not when the husband returns at an ungodly time and the wife has an early morning site inspection. Did you have dinner?”

“I did. Did you?”

“Mmh. Yeah. I refrigerated some in a container if you wanna take it to work tomorrow.”

This is one of his favorite domestic things you do—and he doesn’t even think you realize how much he appreciates it. If it’s between having something from a five star restaurant or having your cooking, the latter will win each and every time. Sometimes he wants to brag to the whole world, although the most he’ll do is slip how tasty his lunch was today to Assistant Kang (who will almost always respond with a dry, “Glad to hear that, Mr. Han.”).

“I will.” Jumin kisses your lips, smiling when he feels you respond with little effort. “I’ve missed you.”

Your arms snake around his waist as you tuck your head under his chin. Jumin sighs when he feels you kiss his collarbone. “I’ve missed you too.” All he needs is your breath on his skin, or your hands on his face, or your voice filling his ears. It relaxes him instantly. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“I’ll be in the office all day.” Already he groans, burying his face in your hair in the hopes that it will preemptively soothe the headache sure to form tomorrow. At first he didn’t understand why you insisted on using the same hair conditioner you always did instead of a much more expensive one he could buy for you, but the smell of your hair is so exquisite that now he wholly prefers it (although there is a special kind of tingling in his chest reserved for the moments you smell like him).

“Same. After my inspection, I’m going to be meeting four new clients, and I’m going to guess they all want priority.” You roll your eyes, carding your fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow is also Mr. Wang’s wedding, so I’ll be back late.”

At his wordless whine, you giggle, kissing his cheek. Then after a few seconds of thoughtful silence, a soft hum sounds from your throat.

“I have an idea.”

///

The click of Jaehee’s heels alerts him to her entrance, and Jumin straightens in his chair, accepting the papers that she hands him.

“Thank you. Have you eaten, Assistant Kang?”

Jaehee blinks at him once, then twice, like he’s grown an extra head. Then she slowly nods, the surprised expression melting back into her perfectly professional one once more. “Yes, sir. And you?”

“Not yet. I brought a container my wife packed for me.”

“Honey, I don’t think she really cares to know that.”

“I see. She is a pretty good cook if I recall correctly.”

“Everyone cares,” Jumin insists.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so sweet, it’s annoying. I want to kiss you all the time.”

“Mr. Han, are you alright? You look a bit out of it—should I call for a doctor?”

“Do it.” He smiles at the papers in his hands. “I won’t stop you.”

“Call…call the doctor?”

“Will you kiss me back, in front of all your employees?”

“Yes. Of course. Whatever you desire.”

“Right away, sir,” Jaehee responds in a sort of strangled voice, and it’s not until he hears the click of her heels again that he remembers she was there. In almost a flash, she leaves his office.

“What did she say?”

Jumin touches the tiny earpiece that’s been on all day, adjusting it only slightly. “I honestly have no idea.”

///

Jumin hates leaving. But he does, well, what is the phrase? Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave? Something along those lines, is what you’ve said to him. He’s not sure it applies here, since he is actually leaving to go abroad for a few days, and already he’s looking forward to his reunion with you, but he didn’t expect that both of you would be so needy for each other the night before the flight.

It starts with a few kisses, a pout on your lips that he thinks he can kiss away if he just tries hard enough. Telling you in hushed whispers that he’ll miss you an unfathomable amount. Your understanding on a pragmatic level, and your clinginess the second you both laid down. Both are appreciated more than he can say.

“What if I want to watch a movie with you?”

Kiss. “Just wait a week for me, my love.”

“What if the bed is too cold and I need you to warm me up?”

Kiss. “One week, I promise. No more than a week.”

“What if aliens invade the penthouse and I have no one to protect me?”

Kiss. “Tell them that your husband is going to kill them…in a week.”

For a few minutes, it goes on like this, with you proposing other scenarios and Jumin doing his best to both reassure you and make you laugh. He lays kiss upon kiss to your lips, and perhaps subconsciously, they become more ravenous, demanding. Seeking more. Seeking your conviction on just how much you will miss him.

“Jumin,” you breathe into his mouth. Jumin, Jumin. He loves how you say his name.

You’re seeking something as well, the warmth that you are so certain will disappear along with him. On one hand, he hates that his princess has to sleep without him at all, especially when she clearly doesn’t want to. And on the other hand, knowing that you’ll be here, missing him so desperately, makes his heart flutter. You’ll miss him. You’ll miss him.

Within moments, you’re on top of him, seated on his lap and unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt. He’s responding in kind, leaving love bites on your neck as he slides your night robe off your shoulders.

“What if I get lonely?” you ask, more demure than you actually are. “What if I need you, and my fingers aren’t enough?”

His hands press into your hips, hard enough to bruise. You mewl at the slight pain, and he manages to hiss, “I never want your fingers to be enough. If you wait for me, princess, I’ll make you cum more times than you can handle when I get back.” Even if just the idea of you sending him a video or even calling him as you touch yourself was incredibly appealing. Maybe next time. This week, he would have you think of nothing but his own fingers, his tongue, his cock.

And what better way to do that than to remind you how they feel?

“I’ll be gone seven days exactly.” Spoken more to your breasts than you, but he does gaze up at you reverently as he kneads them in his hands. “Maybe tonight I can make you cum once for every day I won’t be here. Would you like that?”

He jerks his thigh up against your core before you can answer, so you nod frantically, mouth falling open. “Uh huh!”

And who is Jumin to ever deny you?

///

The trip right before Valentine’s is the worst. It’s all Jumin can do to finish work before running like a madman through several different stores, picking up this and that. He insists on a different bag for each purchase, despite the clerks gently pointing out that he can put a lipstick tube in the same bag as a pair of heels and nothing will happen, but he doesn’t want to. He would like to see you open every item with a new spark of delight in your eyes.

Usually, he would return late at night, always opting to finish the day’s work and catch a flight right after instead of waiting for morning, because this way he would arrive home, gather you up in his arms as you slept soundly, and then bask in your surprise and delight when you woke the next morning.

And this time would have been no different if one of the departments had not messed up, forcing him to wake up on Valentine’s Day still out of the country. After five days’ worth of work forced into two hours, a shopping spree and a quick call with you, he nearly takes the wheel from the pilot himself before Jaehee begs him to just sit and try to enjoy the ride home. The rest of the trip, they are engaged in a glaring contest every time she looks up from the video she is watching on her laptop.

As soon as the door opens, he hears a surprised cry of his name, and then you’re barreling into him—all the bags in Jumin’s hands fall to the floor in favor of catching you and hefting you up in the air for a spin.

“I thought—“ Kiss. “That you—“ Kiss. “Weren’t coming back today!“ Deeper kiss.

“I couldn’t miss my first Valentine’s with you, my love.” The deepest kiss of all.

The two of you only stop because his bodyguards are coming into the room after him, with more bags. Your eyes widen as you take in all of them, and your sharp mind has already pieced together what’s going on. “Is this all for me?”

“Of course.” Jumin knows that the way you’re latching onto him with such a tight grip is a more priceless gift than anything in these bags. “Why don’t you open everything? I wish to see your reaction.”

And so you do. The makeup, the shoes, the clothes, the jewelry, the books, the decor, all of fine quality and all things well thought out with your interests in mind. With every single item, no matter how big or small, you gasp, or squeal, or simply smile ever so widely. And without fail, you kiss him right on the lips each time.

Jumin is dizzy only halfway into the opening process—he must start buying you gifts far more often if this is the reward he gets.

However, you see beyond just his outward appearance, and you place the next bag he hands you aside without so much as a glimpse at it before clambering onto his lap. Hands on his cheeks, your thumbs smooth over where he’s sure eyebags are forming. “My poor Juju,” you whisper, “you look really tired, honey.”

Honey, honey, honey. How joyful he feels when you call him honey. “As always, you see right through me. I can’t hide from you, can I?”

“I never want you to hide from me.” A sweet kiss pressed to his cheek makes his stomach jump, like he’s a teenage boy with a crush. “Let’s lay down, shall we? We can finish opening everything afterwards.”

Jumin concedes, rising hand in hand with you until you’re both on the bed, curled up in each other. “What a terrible Valentine’s this turned out to be. I’m sorry, my love.”

Your arms wrap around his neck, kissing him slow, soft and smooth. “What are you talking about? You’re here where I can hold you, we’re both off work, and you’ve gifted me more than anyone else ever has or will in my life.”

“Good,” he says, satisfied that he’s set a standard that no one else can ever match for you. “But is that…enough?”

“Enough?” Your tone is incredulous. “Jumin, just you being here is more than enough. I love you so, so much, and I—“ You cut yourself off, slightly backing up as though you’re trying not to overwhelm him (a ridiculous notion, he would love nothing more than for you to overwhelm his every sense). “I cannot believe how lucky I am to have married you.”

This time he kisses you, the idea of sleep slipping further and further away because really, why should he close his eyes when he can only see you when they’re open? Why should he rob himself of the privilege to gaze upon your lovely face and listen to your quiet, soothing voice? Why should he do anything else, eat or drink or work or play, when he could simply kiss you for the rest of his life?

“I love you,” he breathes, pulling you closer because you simply can never be close enough. “Happy Valentine’s, my precious wife.”

///

Of course, the first time your schedule allows you to accompany him on a business trip he’s ecstatic. Finally a week without the headache of returning to an empty hotel room, and instead what will feel like more of a vacation, especially once he completes the necessary work and the two of you can spend the rest of the days lazing by the beach.

Because of the honeymoon, Jumin had become well acquainted with your fear of flying, and had arranged your seats in his private jet to be close together. As the jet takes off, he holds your hand in his as you squeeze, eyes shut tightly for the takeoff. Reassuringly, he kisses your hand, rubbing the back of it while his other hand strokes Elizabeth the Third’s head through the carrier she’s in.

“Poor Elizabeth,” you manage to whimper, still looking quite pale even after the takeoff is done, “I hope she doesn’t get airsick.”

“She doesn’t,” Jumin reassures. Elizabeth is used to such flights, unlike you. He’d much rather you focus on your own health right now.

The stewardess for the flight comes through with the cart of food and drinks. “Anything for you, Mr. Han?”

“A glass of wine.”

“Of course, sir. And you, Mrs. Han?”

“Oh, um…” You smile sheepishly up at her. “Would you happen to have apple juice?”

The woman blinks once, then, as though she’s fighting back a laugh, says, “Apple juice, ma’am?”

“Is that a problem?” Jumin cuts in sharply before you can answer, glaring daggers.

“No, no! O-of course I can give you apple juice, ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend—“

“No offense taken.” Even nauseous and teased, you smile kindly, eyes lighting up when you have your drink. If he remembers correctly, he used to drink apple juice when he would get airsick as a child as well.

When the stewardess leaves, you lean over and press an apple-tasting kiss to his lips, and he catches a few drops of the juice in his mouth. It tastes yummy, or maybe it’s just the taste of you that he likes.

Probably the latter. Either way, he’s eager to get this vacation started.

///

“I feel so good that you’re here. Thank you so much for coming. I…never want to let you go.”

…

“I’ve trapped you here, haven’t I?” he asks one night, after he thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

You’re wide awake, though, and he feels your lips on his throat as you whisper, “I’ve never once felt trapped with you, Jumin.”

///

You’re a lightweight, and it’s the most adorable thing Jumin has ever seen. Including cat photos. Including Elizabeth the Third. And you don’t realize just how cute you are, which only makes you cuter.

“Juju,” you whine, when he starts to guide you to bed.

“You have to sleep, my dear.” Almost smugly, he places a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Sleep and allow me to take care of you in the morning.”

The protest you seemed to be ready to fire back morphs into a happy giggle as you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his midsection. “I do like when you take care of me.”

“Likewise.”

For some reason, that sends you into more giggles as you press against him. “You talk so smart like. I love when you use big words.”

Biting back a smile, Jumin raises a brow. “Is likewise a big word?”

“Anything is a big word when you say it.” You kiss him softly, sliding your hands in his hair. You love messing up his hair, almost as much as he loves letting you do it. “You’re so smart. So clever. Your brain is like…” To exaggerate your point, you lean your head away, with his hands on your back to keep steady. “Soooo huge.”

“Not the only thing,” he hums slyly.

“Jumin!” Laughing, you hit his shoulder, only for him to tug you in close, making you squeak. The only downside to how well you two know each other now is that he doesn’t get to see your beautifully embarrassed face, but he still gets some wins when he catches you off guard.

“I’m only kidding, my love.” Watching your lips part for him as he leans in, Jumin kisses you this time, gently sucking your lower lip between his teeth. Let no one say he wasn’t out and open with his oral fixation when it came to you. “I’m honored to know you find me intelligent.”

You beam, nearly blinding him with how brilliant your smile is. “Intelligent, and funny. So, so funny. I love your jokes.” Now you turn your cheek, placing sloppy kisses along his jaw. “And handsome. I have the most handsome husband in the world.”

Jumin, only now realizing the difference between being happy and being giddy and knowing he’s both, can only close his eyes, tilting his head back. “Ironic for you to say, considering no one with your beauty has ever existed before nor will exist again.”

The way your cheeks flush make him realize that he, too, must be quite tipsy. Surely his stomach does not flip so violently just to see how your eyes glow at his praise.

“I love you.” You swallow, and he watches the movement of your throat closely. “Do you know how much?”

He exhales, not having realized he inhaled before. “M-more than is reasonable, I presume.”

“A lot more than is reasonable,” you whisper before kissing him again. This one is different, he can tell. Something more desperate. More wanting. More likely to make him lose his mind.

How does he know? It’s because you’re not just kissing him, you’re also borderline riding the knee he’s slotting between your legs. With a whine, you tug on his collar, as though you want him closer. Need him closer.

Losing his mind is just the beginning.

“Sit on the couch.” The tone with which you beg makes his already hardening cock twitch. “Please, Jumin.”

He obeys—how could he not obey?—and just the sight of you dropping to your knees to unbuckle his pants has him throwing his head back with a lustful groan. How did he get here? How did he get so lucky?

You kiss the head of his cock, and Jumin is gone.

When you start bobbing your head, eagerly sucking with your eyes closed in concentration, it takes every inch of willpower he has ever had to not cum immediately, so that this can last. With every slow caress of your tongue, he can feel himself getting lost in his own base senses, every coherent thought fading away and leaving only an animalistic need.

“Princess,” he moans, fingers in your hair. His words escape him in a slurred, barely coherent manner. “I, ahh, won’t last—shit—”

Coming inside your warm, wet mouth is not in the top five moments he remembers when he thinks of his favorite times with you, because he likes to think he’s classier than that, but regardless, he’s never going to forget this.

///

Growing up, the one trait that he was always told to avoid and to find disdainful in others was laziness. There is nothing worse than a person who is not efficient. People who waste time just doing simple tasks are not worth his time, he was told.

But surely, surely, that does not apply to you. (Or maybe it’s a silly lesson in the first place, another one to add the list he has started to garner since he married you.)

It does not apply when you have to get up early for work and you sadly try cuddling with him in the five minutes you have left to remain in bed. Most days Jumin leaves before you, pressing a kiss to the lips of the princess in bed before heading out. Your parted lips in sleep do such a number on him that he has to make sure not to linger too long.

Days where your job demands you wake with him are no less enjoyable, and perhaps even more so as he gets to witness your clinginess. Jumin tugs you to the bathroom, where you close your eyes and rest your head on his chest as both of you brush your teeth. When you finally make it to the kitchen, he seats you on the chair by the counter and amuses himself by watching your sleepy eyes follow him while he makes a quick breakfast.

“Maybe I could eat ‘n your lap?” you ask cutely, poking at your scrambled eggs with a fork.

“My dear,” Jumin answers, intertwining your fingers to kiss the back of your hand, “I would love nothing more, but you will fall asleep again.”

Not even an argument as you nod with a lazy smile, head falling forward on the counter. “I want to fall asleep again. How do you do this every day?”

“It’s what I’ve always done.” He’s finished with his eggs, so he stands, sweeping your hair aside to lean down and press a kiss to your nape. You squeal, squirming away as he catches you and tugs you to him, watching you immediately give up this play fight and snuggle into his chest to catch a bout of standing shut-eye. “Now come, Driver Kim is waiting to drop us both off.”

You shake your head, clutching onto him stubbornly.

“You can sleep on my lap in the car.”

And he feels inordinately pleased with how fast you move after that.

///

The days that he knows you will be at the penthouse when he returns, there’s always an extra breath in his steps, as if the air itself knows he must return home immediately.

Tonight, for example. He has a whole night planned. The two of you would cook the next thing to try on that list of recipes you printed and excitedly taped up in the kitchen, then after dinner he plans to play some soft music and waltz you around the rather spacious living room, and then both of you could go for a swim in the pool, and the night would end with you dozing off in his arms.

A perfect night. The kind he dreams about, the kind that he never can quite believe are real.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t hear any call of his name nor is he tackled in a hug, which only makes his shoulders deflate slightly. Elizabeth the Third softly mrrows at him from where she’s sitting on the couch. Placing a kiss atop her head, he pokes in to check a few rooms, searching for his wife.

You’re nowhere to be found. The only place left to check is the bedroom. His sweetheart usually doesn’t fall asleep so early, though.

He opens the door, then freezes in his tracks.

With a couple of candles lit up around the room, you sit on the bed, nothing on except the set of lingerie he ordered a few weeks ago at your request, black as the night sky (“because it reminds me of you”). A few pillows support you as you lean back, eyes trained on him. There’s a glass of wine in your hands, and another on the table next to you clearly reserved for him.

You take a small sip, and some drops purposefully miss your lips and slowly drip down your neck, down over the swell of your breasts.

“Care to join me, husband?”

Jumin swallows.

None of his plans end up coming to fruition that night, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

///

(You’ve pointed out how the most random things turn him on—when you wear his clothes, but specifically his striped shirts, when you let him buy something ludicrously expensive for you, when you do simple things to take care of him, when you wait for him at home after work, cat ears—cat ears, cat ears, cat ears!—and the rare moments where he gets to see you pissed off.

But he’d only responded how the things you were into were equally as random—seeing him disheveled after a hard day’s work or a visit to the gym, the way he answered business calls simply by saying Jumin Han speaking, what do you need, and every time you’re naked on his lap while he’s fully clothed.

Shall I remind you how desperate you get, my dear? he growls into your ear. Your cheeks flush, and Jumin reaches for the ribbon in the drawer, even more impatient than you are.)

///

There are other times where Jumin will arrive home and if you aren’t leaping into his arms, kissing him full on the lips as he spins you around or pins you to the wall depending on the mood, you’re sitting on the couch, typing away on your laptop either for your job or for the RFA.

In those moments, he finds himself easily sliding his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, absolutely reveling in the subconscious way you rub his nape and kiss his hair.

Sometimes you both will exchange stories of your day, expanding on something a phone call simply couldn’t cover or something that perhaps you had wanted to say in person to fully soak in the reaction (you seem to particularly enjoy how he insults the difficult clients you tell him about). Other times, there is a serene silence, only broken by Elizabeth the Third’s purring and the clack of your keyboard keys.

You smell so good, all the time. He wonders if he should be capitalizing on the perfume you use so that no one else can buy it. That way this scent would solely be yours, just like he is. Something about that idea blooms a warmth in his chest.

The best part of the night comes when you finish, closing the laptop and setting it aside before wrapping your arms around him. “I love you,” you say, only for his ears, just like how your lips are only for his skin, just like how your scent is only for his nose, just like how Jumin is only here to be yours entirely.

///

In the past, when he’s fallen ill, he’s either ignored it or simply just taken the necessary amount of time to recover. The last time he was pampered like this was as a child by his nannies. And even their doting paled in comparison to yours (but then, didn’t everything, when it came to you).

Because this. This, is heavenly.

Every single ounce of your affection is solely for him. Your soup that you feed him, your fingers stroking his hair, your voice sweetly singing him to sleep. Your lips on his forehead, whispering, “How are you feeling, Juju?”

Granted, because he’s sick, he can’t fully appreciate it without the feeling that his body is turning against him. But it’s worth it, it’s easily worth it.

So, the day that he wakes up with a low temperature, feeling absolutely fine, he still manages to cough pitifully and throw out the word to Jaehee that he simply has to take another day off.

You have a knowing smile on your face, but when he slips his arms around your waist, with his face buried in your neck, you still hold him just as warmly, and Jumin is so, so, so in love with you. Nothing could possibly stand to be better than this. One hand absentmindedly strokes his hair while you type on your phone with the other hand, communicating with someone from work.

Your phone starts to ring; he only shifts minimally to get closer as you answer it. “Hey, what’s up?”

He can hear the person who called—it’s one of your friends. “Hey! Check your messages, I won that ukulele I told you I would win last time.”

The sound of your laugh is so melodious, he’d do anything to get drunk on it. “Win another one for me, I’ll hang it up in my closet.”

“Yeah, right.” Your friend snorts. “I wish you were able to come. It’s been so long since we’ve been here.”

“I know, but Jumin really doesn’t feel well. I couldn’t just leave him at home alone.” As though your friend can see, you plant a kiss on his forehead. “We’ll go another time, definitely.”

“I’ll hold you to it. Alright, I have to go. Give the husband all my love, I hope he feels better.”

“Will do. Bye, have fun!”

With that, you hang up, resuming the scrolling through your phone and the stroking of his hair. Jumin is still, for good reason.

You had meant to go out with your friends today. And due to his not-actually-sick state, you had canceled on them.

Hadn’t he told you to put him second to your own self? But he can’t pin this on you, not when he was the one faking. A terrible feeling begins to rise in his chest, causing him to move away from you and stare at you with a guilty expression.

“Is your neck finally tired of…” You trail off when you look at him, furrowing your brows. “What happened?”

“You were meant to go out today.”

A small frown forms on your face. “Um…we made plans, yeah. But you were sick—“

“I wasn’t,” he confesses, ironically sick to his stomach. “I just wanted to take another day off and spend some time with you.”

“I know that.”

“I—you know?”

The frown on your face is replaced by a tiny smile, as you tug gently to bring him back into your arms. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Yes I am.” He pouts, still upset but more calm now that you don’t seem disappointed.

“Honey, the one time I kissed your finger after you got a papercut, you somehow got a papercut on every finger the following week.”

Jumin blushes, but you’re not wrong—he just craves your attention. You simply make everything better.

“More importantly,” and now you pull him into your chest, settling back into the same comfortable position with a kiss on his forehead, “I’m faking just as much as you, because I love it when you do things like this. Why would I complain? I get to spend time with you.”

This is what it feels like, Jumin is certain, to be loved. To be cared for and adored so deeply that it leaves an ache in one’s chest. “The next time,” he murmurs, as your hand finds purchase in his hair once more, “The next time you would like to go out to an amusement park with your friends, please let me know. I can buy it out for the day.” A thoughtful pause. “Or forever.”

Another soft kiss, he’s tempted to keep going, to make more and more outrageous promises just to earn each and every press of your lips to his skin. “My friends will appreciate that. I think the park is already owned by C&R, actually.” You chuckle. “Some fast passes though? I wouldn’t say no.”

Fast passes? He’ll ask you what in the world those are just as soon as he finishes kissing you (something a fake sick person can, thankfully, afford to do).

///

A soft knock on the door.

“Mother?” He makes sure to keep his voice to a polite volume. “I’ve played with all my toys. May I please come out now?”

Silence.

Jumin clears his throat, trying his best not to look behind him, just three steps down. It’s dark down there, and he knows it is not logical to be afraid of the dark, but even the logic does little to quell the growing fear inside him.

“Mother? It…it has been a few hours now.” Fourteen hours, he counted on the tiny clock that ticks a little too loudly in the basement. “May I please be let out? I’m starting to get hungry.”

That’s a lie, but he doesn’t think she’ll know. The truth is he began to get hungry hours ago, and is now close to starving. As if on cue, his stomach growls.

Jumin knocks again, the dread he feels growing with every second. “Please, Mother, I’ll be good. I’ll play with my toys. I’ll be normal. Please let me out.”

None of it makes any sense to him. In all the books he reads, none of the mothers lock their sons up in the basement. But then maybe none of the sons are as strange and abnormal as he is. They didn’t need to be locked up like he did.

Still, even if he deserves this, the loneliness is starting to scare him.

“Please.” Childish tears start to prick at his eyes. “Mother? I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.”

The only response he gets is the silence, beckoning him to come back to the darkness where he belongs. With a trembling lip, he turns to face it once more.

The doorknob jiggles.

He whips his head back, not daring to believe it. Is this punishment finally over?

The first thing he’s going to do after he eats is call Jihyun, ask him if he’d like to go to the park nearby. Anything to go outside, in the light, with other people.

Except, to his horror, when the door finally opens, it’s not his mother standing at the top, but his stepmother.

“No,” Jumin whispers, stumbling back. He misses one step and trips, hands on the cement floor as he stares, terrified, at the woman. “Please, no. Where’s Mother?”

The woman at the top laughs, a sound that seems to make others happy but only serves to suffocate him further. He’ll choose to stay in the darkness for a hundred more hours before going upstairs to see her. “What’s this? Another woman in your life, Jumin? What a lady killer!”

He shakes his head desperately, as though to tell her that there’s no one, there’s no need for her to get possessive.

It doesn’t work.

“I’m your mother, Jumi.” He hates that nickname. “Shouldn’t you spend more time with me? You know I love our time together. I know you love it too.”

No, no, no, no, no. He’s on his feet in an instant, scrambling back away from her as fast as possible. His back hits the shelf, no longer a child but an adult, and yet still equally as pathetic.

“Your father doesn’t even pay attention to me anymore. You’re all I have, Jumi.” Her eyes turn cold. “But it looks like you’ve found someone else, haven’t you? You’ve replaced me so easily.”

Now her gaze is focused somewhere else. Jumin follows it, peers through the darkness, only to see…

You.

Relief floods his chest all at once. You are his solace, to hold close and worship. You are the only person to ever understand him, to love him without hurting him. You have accepted him no matter how much he’s shown you that he doesn’t deserve any of your care. As long as you are by his side, he can face anything.

“Jumin.” Even his name sounds so much nicer coming from you. Everything and everyone else seems to melt away.

He takes one step towards you.

You speak again, but it doesn’t sound the same this time.

“Jumin.” Now that he can see your face properly, you look…angry. “Don’t come any closer.”

Immediately, he stops, and that sharp fear grips his throat, squeezing.

“You’re fucked up, Jumin.”

The words spit out of you like a spear, hitting him right in the center.

It can’t be you talking. You don’t say things like that. You always tell him you love him, that you understand him, that you adore him.

But maybe you’ve just…had enough.

Tears begin to spill from his eyes. You stand before him, his heart in your hands, and you look at him with such disgust that he hopes the darkness in here opens up and swallows him.

“I’m leaving,” you say firmly, “don’t follow me.”

“Please,” he gasps, shakily reaching a hand out. “Please don’t leave me here, my love.”

But you don’t listen. You step up the stairs, grip the door, and with one last look of vitriol, you slam it shut, damning him to the darkness forever.

Jumin wakes with a gasp that’s really a sob, head jerking up and slamming against yours.

“Ah!” You grip your forehead, wincing in pain from your position above him. “Ow ow ow, that hurt!”

Like he’s in auto mode, Jumin sits up, touching your cheek with a terrified expression. “I’m so sorry, my love, let me call the doctor. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You wince again, rubbing your forehead. “It’ll probably bruise later, but I can deal with it.”

He hurt you. He hurt you.

But you don’t have any of the hate that your dream counterpart did in her eyes. Instead, yours are filled with concern, and you cup his cheeks with such gentleness that he closes his eyes, immediately melting in your hands.

“Were you having a nightmare?” You kiss his forehead. “You were tossing and turning and mumbling in your sleep.”

As much as he wants to bask in your worry for centuries, it doesn’t stop the guilt that threatens to spill. “I apologize for waking you, my love. And for hitting you. I—I was having a nightmare, yes, but I’m alright now.”

“Jumin.”

“If you’d like, I can make some tea for you to help you go back to sleep—“

“Jumin.” Your lips are on his forehead again. “You’re crying, sweetheart.”

So he is. It’s strange he didn’t realize, but there are indeed tears wetting his cheeks. He opens his eyes to meet your gaze, looking at him so sincerely and with such care that this time he actually feels the tears pour down.

“Oh,” you breathe, brows meeting in concern. Your thumbs wipe his tears away diligently, and your lips begin to kiss every spot you wipe. Jumin trembles under your touch, hating himself for being so pathetic in front of you and simultaneously considering crying forever so that you stay here forever too. “What is it, honey? Please tell me how I can help.”

He wants to. But all he can manage to do is grip the back of your shirt in his hands, bury his face in your shoulder, and sob.

Not even for a second do you let him go. He doesn’t know how long he stays in your arms, seconds, minutes or hours. He cries, and cries, and cries, until his eyes feel swollen. and all the while your hand strokes his hair, your lips kiss his cheek, and your voice comes out in soothing whispers.

It’s okay.

I’m right here, I’m here for you.

You have me forever.

We’re going to get through this.

I promise I’ll stay with you as long as you want.

Even though he hasn’t told you what his nightmare was about, you still somehow know exactly what to say.

Even when he finally tires himself out, Jumin can’t stand the thought of not being held by you. He’s never felt this safe, this protected, in his entire life. He continues to grip your shirt tightly, breathing in and out, chest heaving. Any second now, he thinks. Any second now, you’re going to pull away and see how awful he is when he clings to you again, like a child.

You do no such thing. Instead, you lean back against the headboard, gently guiding his head to rest on your chest. It’s not the most comfortable position, but he shifts so that he’s sitting curled into you and pulls you forward gently to place a pillow behind your back. This way, he can hear your heartbeat.

And it’s that steady rhythm that makes his eyes start to droop.

But if he falls asleep again, he risks having another nightmare.

“Sleep,” you murmur, kissing his temple. Jumin’s eyes close on instinct. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The promise knocks him right out.

///

When he wakes, you’ve kept your promise, and you’re in the same unfortunate position, head lulled to the side as you snooze.

An indescribable feeling settles upon him. It’s not just one feeling, in fact, but multiple. Guilt, because he forced you to sleep like this throughout the night. Gratitude, because he’s pretty sure he’s in the arms of an angel sent from above. And most importantly, he feels white hot love, because he has clearly married the only person in this world worth a damn.

And as much as he wants to stay like this, he knows that will surely not bode well for the chiropractor appointment he plans to schedule for you. So Jumin slips out of your embrace gently, taking good care to lay your head down on the pillow. With you picturesque in front of him, he places a kiss on your forehead, whispering, “Thank you.”

“Ju,” you mumble in your sleep. Your hand seems to reach for something, stopping when he intertwines his fingers with yours.

An angel, indeed.

Jumin gets up fully, taking the time to brush his teeth and freshen up before going into the kitchen to whip something up for breakfast. He wasn’t expected at the office until after lunch, so he had time to really make something nice. Chocolate chip pancakes, instead of his usual strawberry.

As he makes the batter, he thinks. Last night was…an anomaly. There should be no reason for him to dream of people that no longer matter anymore. His present is the most important, and his present is, thanks to you, leagues and leagues ahead of his past anyway. He wants to forget it all, forget his mother and stepmother and even Sarah Choi, who, while she hadn’t made an appearance last night, had been in his nightmares more than once, in a bleak alternate reality where he actually married her.

But he knows who he really married. It’s the person whose arms are sneaking around his waist right now. You.

“Morning.” Your voice is exceedingly pleasant, especially when it’s cooed in his ear. “You’re going in late, right?”

“Yes.” He places a kiss on the back of your hand, pressing his lips to each knuckle. “And you, my princess?”

“All from home today, my prince.”

Inwardly, he feels a quick twinge of irritation. “I wish I could spend the whole day with you. I should call out.”

“I’m never going to dissuade you of that.” You kiss him right on the nape of his neck; Jumin shudders. “But it’s up to you.”

“I’ll end up burning these pancakes if you keep distracting me.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” Your laugh is so pretty, he thinks, and he didn’t think he could describe laughter as pretty before you. “Um, before I get too off topic…don’t you think we should talk, Jumin?”

He knew you weren’t going to simply forget the fact that he had cried himself back to sleep last night. Luckily, before you’d woken, he’d already prepared for such a scenario.

“I apologize for disrupting your sleep. I had a disturbing dream, but it will not happen again.”

For a second, he thinks it’s enough to stop you from asking any further questions, up until he feels your arms slide out from under him. The next thing he knows, you’re turning off the stove before he can start on the next batch of pancakes.

Then, you’re gently turning him so he’s facing you, looking at you right in the eye. Jumin has seen that look before. It’s way too determined for even his stubborn nature, and it always comes out when you’re about to do whatever you want (a rare delight, given your selfless nature, but one he enjoys every time).

Your hands loop around his neck, and you kiss his cheek. Jumin closes his eyes as you speak softly. “Won’t you tell me what’s bothering you, love?”

It’s amazing that you think anything could bother him when you’re this close, calling him that.

“Just a nightmare,” he says softly, but you clearly don’t buy it.

“I have nightmares too, it’s very rare that one of them affects me that much after I wake up.”

“A bad nightmare.”

The other version of you flashes in his head again. You’re fucked up, Jumin. But she’s not you, and even though he thinks for a terrible second that you’re going to shove him away, you pull him in for a hug instead, warm and welcoming and cozy. The scent of your nameless-brand shampoo fills his senses—it makes him desperately want to go back to bed.

“Please,” you breathe on his neck. “That’s what you were saying last night. Please, Mother. Please, no. Please, don’t leave me.”

His hands grip the back of your shirt.

“Please talk to me, Jumin,” you plead. “Please.”

Somehow, he has to keep from crying this time. How pathetic can one man be? But he also has to acquiesce to your request, because you’re you, and he cannot deny you no matter how hard he tries. If you want him bare, you shall have him bare. If you want him destroyed, he will destroy himself in an instant.

“Alright,” he concedes, trembling.

Not wanting the kitchen, where you and him cook together and laugh together (and a couple other things too), to become associated with these tainted memories, he guides you to the couch, hands holding yours. You promptly get into your favorite position, on his lap with your knees on each side. With a sigh, he rests his head on your shoulder, the fabric of your shirt seemingly smoothing out the creases in his forehead.

Your lips on his skin and your whispered words of encouragement give him a courage he wasn’t aware he possessed. Jumin talks.

“You have not met my mother yet. There is…good reason for that. A week before our wedding, she sent me the profile of a woman she wanted me to marry. I refused, of course. But that is the first time she has reached out to me in years.” He clears his throat. “She and I did not have a pleasant relationship. I think some part of me was very disappointing to her, because instead of giving her the true challenge of parenthood I molded to exactly what she wanted me to be. She recognized that I was…abnormal.”

In the span of a few seconds, your eyes have hardened more than he’s ever seen them harden before. This isn’t determined. This isn’t even pissed. This is raw anger.

“Abnormal?” There’s a bite to your words. “Is that her way of saying she was blessed with an intelligent, kind child?”

“You are kind,” Jumin whispers, cupping your chin to press a short kiss to your lips. “As a child, I was perhaps more robotic than I am now. I took to the world of business rather quickly.”

“You were brilliant, Jumin. Were and still are.”

If he kisses you after your every reassurance, the two of you will never leave this couch (not that he necessarily minds that idea). The more disturbing risk is that he will break down in front of you, if he starts elaborating, not to mention when he begins to talk about his stepmother as well.

But that’s a risk that Jumin can now accept. He understands now, that he hasn’t known love before you, and that there will be a great many times he will feel afraid, but he also knows that there is no one in the world he trusts more.

Taking a deep breath, he continues.

///

Jumin is addicted—addicted—to making you cum.

The face you make when you orgasm—eyes shut, mouth open in a silent scream, head thrown back—is the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life. He considers spending eternity with his head between your legs, recklessly licking you to completion again and again.

The sounds you make—God. They have him rolling his hips against the sheets, so close to finishing just from your taste. It’s an obsession now, one that’s been growing ever since you two were married. A stressful day or a bad meeting or even projects being set back for whatever reason, Jumin can get all that frustration out as long as you allow him to spread your legs and devour you. As long as you squeal on his tongue, make a mess of his face, cum on his lips once or twice or more. He only stops when you beg him to.

He could taste you forever.

But he reconsiders this commitment after he experiences the feeling of you coming on his cock once more.

A choked cry escapes him when he feels your walls clench around him. For a second, he can’t move, too lost in the way your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his skin. It’s the most pleasurable pain he’s ever had the fortune of experiencing.

“Ju-min,” you whine, legs clasping around his waist as he continues to thrust lazily, seeking his own release, “more, please.”

It really is always nice to know that he’s not the only one affected, enthralled and addicted to this madness.

///

Returning home to silence is still better than returning home to the sound of soft crying.

Jumin is on high alert in an instant, not bothering to take his suit or even his shoes off. You’re curled up on the couch, wiping your cheeks aggressively when you catch sight of him.

“J-Jumin, I didn’t hear you come in. Um…” You swallow, dried tears still obvious on your face. “I haven’t made anything, let me call the chef.”

He crosses the rug over to you almost blindly. There’s nothing else in his head, only you—your tears—you’re crying—you’re crying and he wasn’t here. His hands cup your face, wiping another fresh tear that rolls down your cheek as you look up at him, shaking.

“Who did it?” There’s a white-hot anger pulsing inside of him. He never sees you cry. “Tell me who I need to kill.”

A soft gasp escapes you, and you shake your head frantically as he sinks to his knees, taking your hands in his own and pressing reverent kisses to your knuckles. “N-no one did anything—I promise I’m fine, h-honey, please get up—“

Your laptop is set to the side, but the only thing on it is an email draft, giving him no clues at all. The last thing he desires is for you to have to recount that which distresses you, but he wants, needs, to ensure that you never get upset again.

“My love,” he swears, pressing his palms to yours, “please, tell me what happened. Was it something I did? One of the employees in the building?”

You whisper frantically, “No,” but even as you do another fresh wave of tears drip down your face.

Jumin wants to scream, wants to hurt someone, whoever is responsible, but he’s helpless, and so he lets intuition guide him, rising up until he’s next to you on the couch, and he’s pulling you in.

With a firm grip on his suit, you bury your face in his chest, shoulders shaking. In this moment, he recalls the predicament from that night, when the roles were reversed. How you’d simply let him cry, and held him all the while. Is he capable of…can he possibly bring you the same peace you bring him? Could you allow him to comfort you in the same way?

No matter what, he’s going to try. Anything for you.

Placing a kiss to your hair, he tightens his arms around you and murmurs sweet nothings, making sure you hear all of them. Everything from you’re the strongest person i know to i’m here for you, my love, i’ll be with you till the end of time.

“It’s just so much,” you finally hiccup, sniffing, “I’m busy all the time, they dump every project on me, I never get a chance to just take some time for myself and breathe! I’m always on some call, writing some email, visiting some area, I just want it all to stop. And you’re busier than me, and you do it so effortlessly, I can’t imagine how pathetic I must look compared to you.”

“You’re worth a hundred of me.” His voice is fierce, and he meets your eyes with his entire honest conviction. “Nothing about you is pathetic. You…you’re hardworking, you’re talented, you’re brave, and you’re the kindest person I know. I do not deserve you. I’ve never deserved you.”

“Please don’t say that,” you whimper, face still wet. He squeezes you tighter.

“I apologize. This isn’t about me. You need a break, sweetheart. Please, just request a week or at least a day off.”

“Jumin, I can’t—”

“I’ll request off too. Whenever you get a break, I’ll schedule one at the same time, and then I’ll take you wherever you desire, or we can simply spend it in the penthouse, and lay in bed all day. Or I could buy your company,” he half threatens, half jokes.

You let out a weak laugh, sinking into him, but he feels the tension in your shoulders release just slightly. Placing a kiss at the top of your head, he quickly texts for the chef to come by within the next hour, then tosses his phone aside to hold you better, which is when he catches sight of your own phone. On the screen is an image of the chatroom—a screenshot, he realizes, since his own messages are in it and he hasn’t been on the messenger today.

Your gaze follows his, and a slight smile finally forms on your face. “Messages from when we first met. Ah, the day I came to your apartment, I think.”

Oh, no. To put it lightly, those days were not a good time for him (although he’d never say such a thing, because he finds it cruel to say that some of the hardest days of his life included the one where he met the most wonderful woman in the world). Heaven knows what foolish things he’d said, he’s tried to block out most of the times that didn’t include the sight of you in front of him.

“They calm me down,” you admit softly, “the screenshots I have. I’m glad I took them, I have almost a hundred pictures that remind me of all the butterflies I would get when I talked to you. Knowing you’re my husband is the biggest calm of the storm.” Your cheeks are still stained with tears, but in your eyes is a newfound admiration as you and him look at each other, as though you have all the time in the world.

Jumin’s heart seizes.

“I’ll request a week off.” You reach up, a thumb on his cheek. “Thank you, Jumin.”

Surely, he thinks, being needed by you is the best experience of all.

///

“Thank you.” Your voice breaks the silence, muffled on his skin. “For letting me love you, and for loving me.”

Your husband kisses you, impatient as always, and you adore it.

“You’re welcome,” he breathes.

#jumin x reader #jumin x mc #jumin han #mystic messenger #mysme x reader #jumin han x reader #jumin han x mc #jumin han smut #valkyrie stories

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danieyells · 7 months ago

Note

If you could, could you post Alan’s lines? I like him but he’s so stone cold at low affinity it’s hard to sus out his personality

SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG ANON AND @otomelover23 so many things got in the way. . .mostly myself lol. . . .

Honestly that stone coldness is a big part of his personality. He's not great at expressing himself and he's very to the point. But as his affinity goes up, he's more. . .concerned for you. And he wants you around more, trusting himself to have you around more.

I posted all of them again this time! A lot of his have similar energy because of his stiffness, so I feel like being able to see them all helps to idk see the gradual change i think.

Hello: (the first time the game is opened after that character is set as home screen NPC. Only happens once per day, unless the character is switched out and back.)

"Get your things. We're going."

You've Got Mail: (whenever there's something in the inbox, usually Arena rewards)

"Some letters here for you."

Default: (requires no affinity, has no time constraints)

"...What do you want?"

"Don't get involved with me."

"I'm going out. You guys get back to work."

"Get back. It's dangerous."

"Slack off once, and you'll find out how hard it is to get back in the game."

Affinity 1: (between 5am and 11am)

"Oh, you're awake."

Affinity 2: (between 11am and 4pm)

"I don't eat in the cafeteria. Portions aren't big enough. That's the only reason."

don't feel awkward in there or like people find you too intimidating to be near or anything? aren't worried about seeing Dante? if you say so.

Affinity 3: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"My wallet? Yeah, it's pretty beat up. Can't bring myself to chuck it though. Got some good memories with it."

reminds me of my brother, who kept our dad's old wallet. It's basically in tatters, held together by rubber bands, but sometimes what you have is what you have. . . .

Affinity 4: (between 8pm and 5am)

"I'm going to the Pit. You should go back to your house, {PC}."

he doesn't want you to see him punch a man into oblivion.

Affinity 5: (between 8pm and 5am)

"That sounds like a bike engine, but it's not one I know. ...Be right back."

INTRUDER ALERT INTRUDER ALERT INTRUDER ALERT much like Tohma he's probably pretty security conscious. Maybe he's more security conscious because Tohma isn't around. Or maybe he's not used to how Bonnie sounds yet.

Affinity 6: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"Was that class really revision...? I didn't think I missed that many..."

my boy is not book smart, he is fist smart and maybe street smart. please study with him. he needs flash cards. pretty sure the only reason he's passed any grade is because he goes on plenty of missions.

Affinity 7: (between 11am and 4pm)

"Lunch? Huh. I forgot to eat. Guess I'll just grill some meat and have it with rice and miso soup. That's my go-to."

y'know what i'm glad someone here eats proper meals. even if you forget at least you're eating eventually!!!

Affinity 8: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"One of the Vagastrom guys asked me to add him on WickChat... Do you know how to do that?"

Affinity 9: (between 8pm and 5am)

"I don't want to get anyone mixed up in my life."

He looks sad when he says this. . .he's really worried about how being close to him will affect others huh.

Affinity 10: (between 10pm and midnight)

"Better sleep. Got an early day tomorrow."

Affinity 11: (between 5am and 11am)

"497... 498... 499... 500... Phew..."

don't mind pc they're just gonna watch you do 500 sit-ups/push-ups/pull-ups/whatever. . .no no they don't mind the sweat at all please continue--

Affinity 12: (between 11am and 4pm)

"Bandana seems to disappear right around this time every day lately... What's he doing?"

Pretty sure Sho would be busy with the food truck around thhis time of day. . .does Alan not know Sho runs a business lmao. . .I mean I guess Alan doesn't go into the more populous parts of Darkwick much.

Affinity 13: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"The first-years've each got their own strengths. Both can do stuff I can't."

Affinity 14: (between 5am and 11am)

"Bandana's got potential. He's quick, and he's strong. Rest comes down to motivation."

I think Sho's motivated, just motivated to do his own thing. Although I'm sure he'll develop more interest in the world and actions of the Institute and anomalies eventually. . .maybe. Or maybe Hyde's interest will keep him away lol.

Affinity 15: (between 5am and 11am)

"I'm heading out. Mission. Make sure you go to class. ...I'll let you know when I'm back."

alright mom i'll go to class gosh. does this feel like a headpat or forehead kiss line to anyone else? he just doesn't want you to worry about him. He knows he's doing something dangerous. But he promises he'll come home. He won't be reckless because you're waiting. Maybe I'm reading too much into it lol.

Affinity 16: (between 11am and 4pm)

"Where am I...? Guess I should tell them I'm gonna be late. WickChat was this picture, wasn't it...?"

poor boy is so lost lmao please help him get where he needs to go. . .how does this man go on hikes in the mountains and shit. . . .

Affinity 17: (between 10pm and midnight)

"You're still awake? Don't stay up too late."

Affinity 18: (between 8pm and 5am)

"Oh, didn't see you there. I'm heading out for a run, but... Could you wait here for me?"

He wants to spend time with you, so please be waiting when he comes back. . . .

Affinity 19: (between 10pm and midnight)

"I pat people on the head a lot? Didn't notice. I'm doing it again? ...Sorry."

IT'S HARD NOT TO WHEN PEOPLE ARE SO MUCH SHORTER THAN YOU also that wasn't a complaint please give them lots of pats :'3

Affinity 20: (between 5am and 11am)

"I'm taking some of the Vagastrom guys to the mountains today. ...You want to come too?"

CAMPING TRIP WITH DA BOIS!!!!!

Affinity 21: (between 11am and 4pm)

"This one's all fixed up. I'm gonna take a shower. Wait there."

there like in the shower or--(he uses そこ which refers to someplace near the listener, so he just means 'where you're sitting' but still.)

Affinity 22: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"{PC}. Got time after this? A friend of mine gave me some fresh boar meat."

He wants to cook for you! He cooks in a very wilderness style, but still! He wants to share his bounty! He's showing you he can be a good provider. No, he didn't hunt it himself but good community connections are also important!

Affinity 23: (between 8pm and 5am)

"You're you, not someone else. You're doing a good job. Hold your head high."

he doesn't want you to fall into a cycle of self-loathing or of trying to be anyone but yourself. Maybe what others do feels more impressive to you, but you aren't them and you can't compare yourself to them. Even if you're 'weak' in one way or another, you have your own worth in other ways. So be proud of yourself, instead of trying to get the pride of somebody else. I think he really cares about your mental wellbeing and he doesn't want you to lose yourself. Because he's lost himself--and he doesn't want that for you. Don't wallow in self-pity, don't agonize over the past. Be proud of how far you've come and walk your own path.

Affinity 24: (between 10pm and midnight)

"Can't sleep? ...I'll take you for a drive. Quick run should help you reset."

Imagine falling asleep in his car and he has to figure out. . .does he wake you up, does he carry you somewhere. . .he could bring you back to your place but he doesn't know how to get there so. . .you wake up in his room, in his bed. . .does he have the understanding that "you probably shouldn't sleep in the same bed as somebody without them okaying it first" and he sets up his tent and sleeps in it or uses his sleeping bag or sleeps somewhere else in the dorm or maybe in his car. . .frankly even if he doesn't he'd be afraid of hurting you in his sleep. There's no way he'd sleep in the same bed as you. Maybe lie awake in there with you or something. But he'd be too scared of what harm he could cause to fall asleep.

Affinity 25(max): (no time constraints)

"I'm lucky I've got you, {PC}. As long as you're with me, I feel like I won't lose sight of who I am."

HE SMILES WHEN HE SAYS THIS. 99% of his lines have his usual expression, but this one he really smiles and that's how you know how much he appreciates you. I feel like he kind of gave up on himself--he's a big, dangerous brute, he's not someone worth getting close to, it's dangerous to even want to. . .but you make him feel like maybe he has a chance again. You make him look in the mirror and see someone he hasn't seen in a long time, and he realizes that person is himself and he would have never seen the version of him who isn't dirtied with blood again without you.

Spring: (March-May) (between 5am and 11am)

"Don't get lax just 'cause it's warm out. Stay focused."

(between 11am and 4pm)

"... Good camping weather."

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"Oh, it's you. Must've dozed off. Better get back to work."

BABY IF YOU NEED A NAP JUST TAKE A NAP. . . .

(between 8pm and 5am)

"The cherry blossom illuminations? ...That kind of thing's not for me."

Summer: (June-August) (between 5am and 11am)

"It's getting hot out. Make sure you stay hydrated."

(between 11am and 4pm)

"Looks like we've got another mission order. There's more anomalies out there in summer."

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"The Pit's getting noisy. Those guys better not be pulling stupid shit again..."

LET LEO PLAY MUSIC IN THE PIT HE MISSES GOING TO THE CLUB.

(between 8pm and 5am)

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you again... I was just going for a jog. Didn't think you'd be round this corner."

Alan turning a corner and slamming straight into you and being shocked aw--

Autumn: (September-November) (between 5am and 11am)

"Good season for a workout. Want to join me?"

(between 11am and 4pm)

"...Maybe I'll go check out the fall leaves."

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"The days are getting shorter. You should get home before it gets dark."

(between 8pm and 5am)

"...Long nights make me think about stuff I'd rather forget."

he killed dante in the autumn or winter. noted.

Winter: (December-February) (between 5am and 11am)

"Cold out in the mornings lately. Guess I'll warm up with a coffee."

(between 11am and 4pm)

"The first-years ditched... What do they mean, "too cold"?"

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"As long as you got some muscle, you can handle the cold."

i handle the cold well because i'm fat, myself. my brother, who's plenty muscular, gets cold much easier than i do U:

(between 8pm and 5am)

"It's freezing... Guess I'll break out the kerosene heater. Gotta make sure you ventilate if you use it indoors, but it works real fast. Can't do without it in winter."

His birthday: (April 25th)

"Whose birthday? ...Mine? Oh... Forgot all about it. ...Thanks."

Your birthday:

"Today's your birthday, yeah? ... Get your stuff. I'll take you for a drive."

New Years: (January 1st)

"You helped us out a lot last year. Hope you'll stick around."

Valentine's Day: (February 14th)

"This chocolate's for me? Do everything proper, don't you? Thanks. I appreciate it."

HE SMILED AGAIN. I wonder if he's ever been given valentine's chocolate before. Even if he thinks it's just out of obligation, I think he must be really happy. . . .

White Day: (March 14th)

"White Day's when you repay people for what they got you on Valentine's Day, right? Sorry if these aren't your thing... Didn't really know what you like..."

. . .my first thought was that i read that sometimes lingerie is given as a white day return present. . .and i just imagined that Alan asked what he was supposed to do if he liked the person he got a valentine's day gift from on valentine's and Leo saw an opportunity for chaos and said to get them some sexy white underwear and Alan just. . .believed him. And it's a very embarrassing moment for everyone involved. pc absolutely wears them when alan asks them out for things tho. waiting for the day alan finds out they're wearing it.

April Fool's Day: (April 1st)

"I'm actually a dog. Woof. ...Sorry, that was a lie. Forget I said anything."

he's a little confused but he's got the spirit.

Halloween: (October 31st)

"Saw an anomaly I'd never seen before just now. Ran away when I tried to stop it. That's when I realized it was a human."

i would not be surprised if his upbringing was sheltered and he just did not know about halloween to begin with haha

Christmas: (December 25th)

"...You should spend Christmas with family."

Well everyone's stuck at Darkwick so that's not likely to happen. Also don't tell that to Sho. . .but we can be family now! And spend Christmas together!

Idle: (about 20 seconds without interacting with the game) (below 13 affinity)

"...You okay?"

(13 affinity and above)

"...You seem busy. Let me know if you need anything."

Absent: (logging in for the first time in 2 or more days?)

"...You came back. You look all right. We're gonna need you for the next mission."

SO YOU SEE HE'S A LOT KINDER AND SWEETER WHEN HIS AFFINITY GETS UP THERE. . .BUT HE'S STILL COLD. BECAUSE HE'S AFRAID. . .but you make him feel more comfortable. You help him feel less like a destructive monster and more like a person. Where he pushed you away before, he keeps you closer now. Still a little at arm's distance but much closer than before. I HOPE THIS HELPED YOU SEE MORE OF HIS PERSONALITY, ANON o/

#alan mido #tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker spoilers #datamining cw #danie yells at tokyo debunker #danie yells answers #danie yells with anons #otomelover23 #gotta take care of some irl stuff and then. . .i will be back.

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goldblumluv · 19 days ago

Text

FIRST TIME HUGH REALISES HE IS ATTRACTED TO YOU

I’ve just finished Flawless and I just love a cowboy romance and a lot of what I’ve read it is grumpy x sunshine. This isn’t a cowboy Hugh story but I like the idea of like a forbidden romance / he shouldn’t like you (but he does) but he kind of acts out to pretend he doesn’t like you.

tags: female reader. Hugh’s POV. Angst. Slow burn. Confusion. Some fluff.

w/c: 4.5k

summary: you are a makeup artist on set of deadpool and wolverine. you’ve actually managed to get assistant head of makeup so you’re quite high up and you do work a lot on Hugh (and a little on Ryan) - instead of extras etc. you’re one month in so you’ve started to build a work relationship with Hugh but it’s starting to get flirtatious and the next level. Hughs POV (I love when books do this)

“More lube” Shawn shouts. She comes running over with a bottle in hand. I can see her cheeks flush pink as she touches me and her breaths become deeper. I must admit I didn’t take my eyes off her as she rubbed across my chest and down my stomach. Luckily, everyone is moving equipment to get ready for this scene, so it feels like it’s just us. She doesn’t even look at me once, so I know she’s avoiding my eye contact. She acts so confident back in the trailer but seeing how innocent she is right now is driving me crazy. Has she not touched a lot of men before? Why is she shying away? When she finishes she playfully slaps me right on the chest, but is giving me the eyes. “All done” she says with a devilish smile. Her back is turned before I could say something; she is giving Shawn the thumbs up to let her know she’s ready so I also throw up a thumbs up. I check her out one last time. As times got on her makeup has got less and her hair is a bit more carefree, and she’s only more beautiful for it. Plus it makes me feel good she’s obviously feeling more relaxed and comfortable. However today she is wearing a tight top plus tight jeans, which only highlight the curves of her body. I change the direction of my gaze quickly because I can feel an erection growing.

After filming, we go back to the trailer. I hardly speak to her. I don’t want to. This is the first time it’s gone from puppy love to Oh, I want to have sex with you. I want to see what you look like naked. And I can’t be having these thoughts for oh so many reasons. We work together. She is younger than half my age. My divorce hasn’t even gone public yet. Can you imagine I’m seen with a 25 year old before the divorce has gotten public? We start walking together whilst she’s telling me how good the shooting went, asking if I hurt. She’s caring and reassuring. She quickly gets out of her phone and picks up her pace whilst I stay trailing behind. Part of me knows she’s doing it cause she feels awkward at my lack of response but her walking ahead, is not helping my cause right now. It’s just us in the trailer. It’s the end of the shoot, so she’s just taking everything off me. The dirt, the lube, the eyebrow gel that colours in the greys in my beard that are probably… no… are older than her. She steps back, “what’s up? you’re being off” “I’m just tired” “hm” She carries on her job. I’m lying through my teeth. The radio is filling the silence between us. I can tell from that murmur she’s defensive straight away, not believing me. “Do you want to get food?” I feel my dick twitch. Is she asking me out? “I think I’m just going go back to the hotel” She is asking me out and I deny her which I hate. “You might feel better if you eat” persuasive. “Honestly I’ll be better tomorrow, I’ve just hit my wall”

I usually help her tidy up at the end of the day. I still do this. If I don’t I know she will be on my back, hurt, upset or confused. “You can go, if you want, I don’t mind” “No it’s fine, you’ll be able to leave quicker if I help” Even though I do have a crush on her like a 16 year old boy that’s just got his first dose of testosterone, I am still 56 and need to act like it. I know how she organises everything. We leave together. We’re staying in the same hotel but how you imagine, me and Ryan and Shawn are up top whilst she’s lower down. Which I believe isn’t fair. I don’t need the biggest room. We take the elevator and when it reaches her floor she fist bumps me, almost like she’s a 16 year old boy as well. I wonder if she feels the same? How do you know? How you do know especially when the girl very obviously does not know how to talk to men?

After a few hours she texts me. This is normal routine again. It won’t be a full conversation, considering we see each other in person nearly every day, so you might as well save the conversation for in person. It’s usually along the lines of she’s listening to a song I’ve recommended or a film I’ve spoke about. And to be honest, I do the same back. I really want to know what inspires her. She texts me a photo of her out for dinner, with a man’s hands. I immediately heat up with jealousy. Who the fuck is that? I’m trying to think of seeing her day to day speaking to any men, there’s a couple on her team. She speaks to Ryan and Shawn. I know she’s spoken to lighting and cinematography and the camera men when she’s asking for their opinions on how it looks. But does she really spend a lot of time talking to a man? That’s not me? No. And we are shooting in England, but she said she’s so far from her hometown and she has no one this way. I want to bite and ask her, but the more that this is entertained the deeper and worse it’ll be. So I don’t.

I start to fist my dick to the thought of her. My plan today is not working, at all. After I finish, I just think about this guy. Which ruins the mood completely. Part of me wants to tell Ryan, but not yet. Especially in the middle of shooting. I don’t want Ryan to also be awkward around her.

The next couple of days are well… awkward. I don’t know what to do. You know the last time I was in this situation? Never. You know last time I was getting feelings for someone? Over 30 years ago. At first, I’m met with a lot of “you’re quiet” which feels like her prodding and asking what’s going on, without saying it. “I don’t like it” she says outright. Yeah, me neither. She doesn’t let my grunts deter her for a while. She could possibly have a conversation with herself I’ve discovered. I found out the guy she went to food with was someone on lighting. Closer to her age. I’ve seen them speak a couple of times and didn’t think anything of it. I thought she was giving her opinion and asking for his. Now there’s another guy in the mix? Jesus Christ. But luckily she blurts out she doesn’t like him, and she’s just someone she’s found as a friend but she doesn’t know if he feels like that. Which eases me a bit, but not entirely. I don’t want him here at all. “Was it a date?” That might be the first full question I’ve muttered and I can see the slight eyebrow raise of shock. “I didn’t think so. We were just texting about food and he asked if we should go get some and I thought I’m hungry so why not. But I didn’t put any effort in. And we went back afterwards. I don’t know if he put effort in” Right, so if I got over myself, that could’ve been us. Whether we went out for greasy food and ordered greasy food to us, I had the invite first.

Tensions are high. She’s meeting my passive aggression with…. Passive aggression. She really does give out the energy she gets. I wish she understood this was for the better. Times of walking to set together is now met with excuses for “I’ll meet you there” and on breaks she finds some of her team to sit with. One day Ryan asks where I’m going and I reply I’m going eat in my trailer. Like that was the plan all along. He looks concerned but lets me do it. How have I messed this up. I sit and eat and just think about how I’ve built up this relationship and pushed her out.

One day she was sitting with Luke- this lighting guy on break. I don’t say anything but I ping with jealousy. At the end of the shoot, I don’t tidy up with her. “Aren’t you helping today?” She asks. “Ask Luke” I say as I walk out. I see her eyebrows furrow as I walk out. “Where’s Georgia” Ryan asks. “She’s got a lot on” “You’re being weird” “I’m not” I say avoiding eye contact. “You won’t even look at me?” “Can we eat in your room” Ryan pulls the same face as her. Trust me to fall for a girl that absolutely mirrors my best mate. “Okay” is all he musters as we get in the same car for once.

“I’ve got myself in a situation and I think I’ve done something I might regret” Ryan nods but his face tells me he’s anxious. “I’ve gotten attached to someone” “Blake?” Ryan asks almost instinctively. “No you fucking idiot. Actually Blake might’ve been socially better” I laugh. “Is it y/n?” Ryan teases. I drop my mouth. “How do you know?” “Who doesn’t know?” I repeat the question back to him in shock. Do people know? “We have eyes… that can see… you two attached at the hip to one another… I know she works with the you the closest but taking breaks together and walking together all the time is not part of the job description” I put my hand on my head and do an exasperated sigh. “Why couldn’t we be friends?” “Hugh… me and you are friends… I don’t see you moping when I need to have a meeting with Shawn so we can’t eat dinner together” I cover my face. I thought it was hidden well. “This can’t be happening” Ryan looks smug in my negative emotions. “Do I think it’s weird? Yes. You could be her dad. But you aren’t and it’s legal. But these really exceptional circumstances. You’re together nearly every day, of course you’re going to get feelings or whatever you called it.” “Do you think it’s wrong she is staff and I’m an actor?” “Do YOU think there is? Because I think there would be more of a power imbalance if this was someone off the street. You’re always going to be seen as a higher power cause you’re Hugh Jackman, but she’s put in so much work to be here. Let her be her own person.” “Why are you encouraging it?” “Because I get to watch you like a lovesick puppy even if you don’t realise what you’re doing so I think you should stop caring what other people might think- if it feels right you should try” “my divorce isn’t finalised yet” “I’m not telling you to marry her, oh my god. *I smile* I’m just saying if you like her.. be more intentional with her” “I think I’ve fucked up anyway” Ryan groans “why?” “I saw her with someone else and got jealous and made a comment” “I KNEW SOMETHING HAS BEEN UP WITH YOU” “I’ve been a prick to her the past week or so and I know I have but I don’t know what to do” “that’s not very nicest man alive of you” that makes me roll my eyes. “She started to give me a boner and that’s a line too far so I wanted to distance myself.” Ryan giggles like a little girl. “So you had a tantrum?” “Not at first, I’ve just stopped talking to her so much so she’s made excuses to not be with me on set. Instead she’s been with Luke. I usually help her clean up and we leave together but instead I start to leave and she asked what I was doing, and I told her to ask Luke to help her.” Ryan’s face flattens. “Why are you acting like that?” “Cause I don’t know what to do” “APOLOGISE” I groan. “I know” We go back to eating in silence. “Just don’t bring any shit onto my film” I salute.

The next day in work, it isn’t even icy. It’s worse. She’s totally professional with me. She never wasn’t in the first place, but we have no general conversation. Whether it’s in front of the team or when we’re alone. It’s only “look down” “look up” “twist your neck for me.” All work related. Who knew I’d crave a conversation about your weirdest dreams or something more ridiculous. When we’re alone I try to address it. “I shouldn’t have said that.” She looks me dead in the eye. “Okay” “that’s it?” “What do you want me say?” “Don’t you want to know why I said it?” She holds her hands up “your business is your business” Suddenly she’s gone from asking me all these questions and feeling like a safe space to nothing. That comment hurts the most. It’s gone from being a team to nothing. Someone knocks asking if I’m ready. “You should go” she says. I would almost prefer her to be pissed at me. Make a scene. Cause this only makes me doubt she doesn’t feel anything to me. “Are you going see him later?” I ask. “No?” She replies like I’ve asked her the most stupid question. “I told you it’s just friends, if you think something else that’s on you” “are we friends?” “That’s also on you” She’s being too easy. “So we need talk about it” “You need get to set” “aren’t you coming?” “Nope” she smiles. I groan. It makes her laugh. “Go” I do as told.

The next few days are the same. Only work talk. “I feel like I need explain” “You don’t” “can I… for my peace?” Ryan would rip into me if he heard me like this. Even I smile at how I’m pleading. “Not at work” “Will you meet me at my room?” “You want speak to me… you come to my room. Also you haven’t even apologised for being rude yet.” I touch her arm, and she lets me. She always gives me physical touch; not sexual but I’ve noticed when she’s trying to be genuine and reassuring she does gently touch you, and I know she would like that back. It brings her to attention. “I’m sorry” she winces “it’s a start” I’m so happy she’s not completely righting me off. We’ve had a conversation before how she finds it easy to de attach herself and doesn’t give second chances. I know I’ve still got a foot in here, and I know I really need to make it up for her. I think… I know how I acted would’ve hurt her worse than what I said, over the fact I’m jealous.

I haven’t seen her for a couple hours. I actually go try to find her. I’m walking up and down trailers. Shawn asks what I’m doing and I just smile at him dumbstruck, and he gives me a knowing smile back. “Good luck” Oh I’m not used to this at all. This is scary. I can hear shouting from the editing. Y/N storms out shaking. I grab her elbow to stop her, so she has to speak to me. “What happened?” “He’s a stupid fucking cunt” She grabs her arm back. I walk in the trailer. Before I even say anything “Tell your child bride that she doesn’t know better than people that have trained in this” I walk out instinctively. I was going to ask him calmly what has happened. I feel sorry for her, she does love to talk to people. She’s soft. But I also know sometimes she gives unwarranted opinions, even if it’s delivered in a lovely way, and some of the 40 year old men do not appreciate it. I’m shaking. First of all, to reduce her like that? Ridiculous. You don’t speak to anyone like that. Especially, even if this is old fashioned, you don’t scream and shout at a woman and one younger than you at that. I go find Shawn and Ryan and they fire him on the spot. I feel small, telling Shawn and Ryan about this, but it’s not my film. I don’t have that power. But they do it, no trying to compromise, which I appreciate. “Tell her we’ve sorted it and we won’t let anyone be bullied” I go straight to the makeup trailer. It’s locked. I know she’s in there. I knock and no reply. “It’s me”

She opens up. I just pull her into a hug. She kind of resists at first; not putting her arms around me. But she does after an initial second; sink into me. “He’s gone” “what do you mean?” “He’s fired” She lifts her head to look at me. She’s been crying but has stopped by the time I got here. Her eyes are glassy. There’s a quick flash of annoyance but she blinks it back, “thank you” I can tell she’s trying. I know part of her wants to know why I did that; the same part that struggles to let someone help her. But she’s let me help. I’ll make sure to bring this up later. She puts her head back on my chest and I’m sure she can hear how fast my heart is pounding. “Do you want to go home?” “Not really but I can’t lie my heart isn’t in it today” “go home” she looks back up confused “who will do the work?” “Give me the numbers of people on your team and I’ll sort it.” “Also who made you boss?” She smiles. “I’m not the boss but it’s a perk when I’m best friends with them” She’s thinking of a response “you don’t need to carry the world on your shoulders” “okay” she grabs her personal items after sorting out her cover. “Do you want to go to my room?” She pulls her face and laughs. “No” “you don’t want to relax in a big bed and a big bath?” “I do” She looks at me deep in the eyes. Trying to read me. I just hold my key out. We’re both looking at each and smiling for about… 3 seconds.. but it feels like forever. I also think sex would be less intimate than this. She’s looking right into my bones, trying to read me. I am reading her. I know her better than she thinks. I don’t think she’s ever had someone she can rely on, and I want to do that for her. I think her confidence is almost a facade, or an aid, for how much she’s done alone and I think she’s never really had someone she can trust. That’s why she can detach herself easily. That’s why I saw a flash of anger at me getting involved. But I can see she’s trying to give me a chance. And I ruined it the other day by having a tantrum. I don’t want to be another person she pulls down her walls for and then has to put them back up. When she takes my keys, I let out of a breath of relief. I know I still have more work to do.

I text her to let her know I’m on my way. Ryan asks how she is. “She’s okay I think, I’ve let her in my room” He teasingly slaps my chest, knowing what he’s implying. I smile. “No, well I wish, but not after today.” “So are we not acting like 16 year olds anymore” “No” I deadpan. I knock on and I can hear her unlock. Her hair is natural. No makeup whatsoever. In a robe. She looks angelic. Then I start to think what’s under the robe. I let out a deep breath. “Have you got clothes on under that” I cringe as I say it. She throws her head back and opens her robe. She’s in pyjamas. A long t shirt and shorts. Not form fitting but my eyes trail up her legs” “don’t worry- you told me to relax so I am” She starts to walk off and I follow. “This room is lovely” “it is but it’s not necessary” she doesn’t say anything. I get on the bed and she follows. “I’m sorry for acting how I did, I let my jealousy get the better of me” “didn’t know you’d have feelings at your age?” I smile “yes, your heart doesn’t stop” I can tell she feels better in herself with these smart ass comments. “What are you jealous of?” She asks smugly. Knowingly. I stutter on my words. “You said you wanted talk about it.” “I have a crush on you” There’s painful silence. I’m looking at her with yearning in my eyes. I end up covering my face, exasperated by her silence. “I’m too old to feel like this I know” She does an evil laugh. “Is that why you’re jealous? Of him?” I nod. “I’ve told you we’re just friends” “I know but you look happy together” “God forbid” she jokes. “Come on you’re meant to be listening right now” “I am!” “Also he’s good looking, age appropriate, why would you not like him?” She gets a serious look on her face. “I feel a way for you too” I think I sit up slightly too eager. “- but I don’t appreciate how you acted at all. Especially at your age. That wasn’t okay. Even if you didn’t want to help, I didn’t like the walking out on me with a snide comment. You need to speak to me.” I salute. “I know and I’m sorry, I knew that would’ve hurt the most. I won’t do it again. I think how I handled it was to be honest, based a lot on I don’t understand what I’m feeling and I didn’t know how you felt so it really won’t happen again” “do you feel better knowing I feel the same?” I lie back on the bed. My back hurts. “I feel more comfortable and confident now to not be a prick”

I open my arms to a hug. She sinks into me. It feels natural. Also I’m realising we’re cuddling on a bed. I’m controlling my dick. Think of ugly sad things Hugh. Who knew at this age I’m still ready to go. But not today. My hands are under MY robe that’s she’s wearing, rubbing up and down her back. Starting to feel the gentle curve of her ass and where her breasts are pushed slightly out. “I hated not speaking to you” “I didn’t like it either and I can tell you how sorry I am” her confession makes my heart flutter. “If it helps I don’t really know what I’m doing either- I’m not very good at being with someone… or even getting close to that” “I don’t understand why” “Uhm….. this is a conversation for another time… but I don’t think a lot of people are attracted to me” It hurts she doesn’t see how attractive she is. “I don’t really ooze sexiness” she says looking at me with the same eyes I would love to see in between my legs. “I’m awkward and I’m not funny- people my age just want to have sex and I want a relationship where they’re my best friend” “all these reasons make you special to me” “do I say thank you?” We both laugh. “I don’t know” “what happens now?” “Well Ryan has said we can’t bring shit back onto the film set so we just carry on as we were” this whole conversation she was on my chest, which made this slightly easier. She suddenly sit up on her hands “what does Ryan know?” “Will you be mad?” “No…” she leaves a pause. “Well I told him everything… well my side. That I’m getting feelings for you and I don’t know what to do so I’ve acted out” “what did he say?” “Everyone knows anyway” “Whaaaaaat!” “Yeah apparently we’re not very good at hiding how we feel.” “Well I thought I knew how you felt but then you didn’t speak to me for a week so I thought you were confusing” “I had no idea how you felt until you blushed when touching my stomach” she goes back down to cover her face. “Don’t tell me anymore” I cackle. Y/N admits she’s not used to this and I need to be patient with her. “You need be patient with me. I don’t know what I’m doing. God, ignoring the circumstances of this, my divorce isn’t even final, that’s a whole seperate ballpark. What if someone sees us? I don’t think we should set any times or goals or anything but now it might be easier.” “I didn’t even think about paparazzi or that side.” The tension is the air is thick. I act like nearly 60 year old man I am. “We don’t have to think that far yet though, you might be sick of me by then. We should just enjoy it for what it is right now” She goes to say something and stops herself “Okay sir” This makes me grab at her but I quickly stop. That’s not what a polite gentleman would do. “What were you going say?” “You might decide you don’t want me” “Spending nearly all week with someone, you get to know them quickly and decide how you feel about them and I don’t think I’ll decide that.” She lifts her head back up. Reading my face. She goes back down. “Okay” we stay like this for a while. “Do you want me to go?” I tap her so she sits up. “No, stay.”

We get up and order greasy food. We lie back on the bed full. “Wait… you shouldn’t have had that” “it’s okay I’ll go harder at the gym” She laughs. We’re watching a quiz show. “What happened earlier?” I ask. I was looking at scales and I noticed an error. A genuine error. I tried to tell them but I suppose they were stressed and bit my head off. So I bit his head off.” “If I didn’t get involved, what would you have done?” She shrugs “nothing” “I know it’s hard for you but I never want you go through anything alone, especially not anything like that. I’m here to help” She registers my face. “Okay” She then snuggles up to me. With every touch and comment that is slightly more vulnerable, I feel pride. Like I’ve accomplished something. I know it’ll be a long journey but I’m happy she is seeing me as a person she can trust. She doesn’t have to carry everything alone.

#hugh jackman fluff #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman x y/n #hugh jackman #hugh jackman x female reader #hugh jackman smut

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mika-no-sekai-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Word count: 1400+

Warnings: none I think

I originally planned to post this tomorrow, but it's already finished anyway, so..👀

Enjoy 🫣

Part IV | Part VI

Lucien sighed, adjusting his coat nervously. He was walking towards his former home in Spring Court and gathering courage to enter the manor. It had been a long time since he ran away with Feyre, leaving Tamlin and his destroyed court behind. Even though Lucien didn't agree with all decisions High Lord made, everyone makes mistakes and deserves another chance. Tamlin was his best friend for decades, he saved him and gave him post in his court. He already paid enough for his bad decisions. It was time to repay his kindness.

Lucien halted in front of the massive oak doors, looking around. This place changed so much that it was unrecognisable. Falling plaster, broken doors and windows, damaged staircases, greenery going wild, slowly swallowing the building. Shiver ran down his spine, the guilt making his insides twist. It spoke a lot about the state of his friend too.

He let out a long breath, imagining all possible scenarios from being ignored to childish fight. Lucien snorted amused and shaking his head walked through the entrance doors. Ignoring disaster around, he let his senses to lead him. As soon as he turned around the corner on a hall leading to Tamlin's bedchamber, he spotted his friend.

Tamlin just came out, fastening shirt cuffs. He paid him no attention even though he certainly knew Lucien was there. As expected.

"I'm glad to see you looking so good, my Lord," Lucien bowed with light smirk on his face. "Honestly I was afraid I would find you in worse state."

Tamlin passed around him without any acknowledgement. Lucien followed falling into step behind him.

"I'm worried about you," he tried it again being met with stubborn silence. "Would you mind to at least tell me how have you been all that time?" Nothing. They were almost back in the entrance hall. Lucien narrowed eyes on his back. "She's worried about you too."

"Leave me alone," Tamlin growled without looking back.

"Could we possibly sit down and talk? As before.." Lucien's hand shot up for Tamlin's forearm, lightly touching it to stop him and make him meet his eyes.

"No," Tamlin snapped, easily shaking Lucien's hand off. "There's nothing to talk about. You helped her to turn this place into this," he gestured around, "and ran away without even looking back."

"Tam.." his words failed him probably for the first time in his life. Tamlin was partly right, but Lucien already felt guilty enough even without being reminded of it. "Please."

"Return to your new home."

Lucien gritted his teeth. "It isn't my home," he muttered stopping on the threshold.

Surprisingly Tamlin halted, too, and finally looked at him. Lucien noticed that his friend lost a lot of weight ever since he saw him last time. He looked tired, tensed, pain written in his face. But his eyes.. There was something in them, a small spark of life. Of joy even. When Feyre left him for the first time, his lifeless eyes used to be full of sadness, hurt and torment. This was so different from what Lucien expected. It piqued his curiosity.

Tamlin's mouth moved as if he wanted to say something. "I'm sorry," he mumbled and ran down the marble stairs.

"Where are we going?" Lucien asked, smirk spreading on his face as he caught up with him again.

Tamlin stopped so abruptly that Lucien almost bumped into him and lost another eye on a claw pointed at him. "You go nowhere," he growled lowly.

"Fine," Lucien grinned widely, raising his hands in surrender. "Understood. I'm not invited."

Tamlin narrowed his green eyes on him. Giving him a small nod he started running, turning into his animal form between the steps. In a blink of eye he was gone.

"Very well, my friend. Let's see who is that spark for," Lucien murmured to himself still grinning widely.

Winnowing for short distances to keep up with too fast High Lord, Lucien followed Tamlin deep into the woods. Only when he slowed down to a leisure walk and changed back into fae, Lucien stopped and hid behind a massive trunk. Peeking out inconspicuously he watched his friend heading towards small cottage.

Lucien had never been in this part of the forest, but he knew this place instantly. He frowned. What are you doing here, Tam, he thought. He could only hope his friend had already learnt his lesson and wasn't up to something bad again.

Lucien's fingers curled into fists as he watched Tamlin to knock. It took mere seconds and the door opened. A beautiful young female with long shiny hair stepped out, smiling kindly. His jaw dropped at the scene in front of him. Tamlin smiled while talking with the female, his posture relaxed. From a far it looked like a friendly conversation. Lucien couldn't hear a single word, but soon enough Tamlin bid her farewell and turning into animal he sprinted away deeper into the forest.

Female stayed out looking in the direction Tamlin disappeared. Lucien waited until he was sure his friend is too far to hear him and winnowed closer to the cottage.

"I thought my friend is living in despair and meanwhile he's found a lovely company," he purred leaning against a tree.

Female yelped in surprise turning to face him. "Who are you?" she asked carefully, taking a step back, one hand reaching out behind her, trying to reach for the door.

"That's what I should ask you," Lucien smirked. "Easy. I mean no harm."

Female frowned and took another step back. She tried really hard to look strong, unmoved, but Lucien noticed small tremor of her fingers.

He flashed a smile that supposed to look kind, and straightened. "I'm Lucien, Tamlin's friend," he bowed with hand on his chest. "May I know your name, my lady?"

Female took another step back, now almost at the threshold. She seemed to not like his ironic politeness. Lucien waited for her answer, head tilted to the side. When it seemed she wouldn't answer, he sighed.

"Okay," he slowly stalked closer, narrowing eyes at her petite form. "I'm worried about my friend. And now I'm even more worried because I just saw him talking with a - let's say," he pretended to think about his next words, smile never leaving his lips, "female with a not so good reputation. I wonder what he wants from you and more importantly what you want from him."

"I want nothing," she said calmly, looking straight into his eyes even though her fingers trembled even more now.

"What a brave little thing," he grinned. "So what was he doing here?"

"He just came to.." she blushed, her face flustered. "He came to tell me he's going hunting."

Lucien arched a brow. "Why would he do such a thing? Do you know each other so well?"

She hesitated. So not so well. "Oh, beauty. Just spit it out. I won't bite you," he rolled his eyes, starting to be annoyed. Tamlin could return any minute and he still didn't have answers. "How do you know High Lord?"

"I found him wounded in the forest," she muttered.

"And I'm supposed to believe you didn't curse him?" Lucien tried to joke, but she took it seriously.

"Why should I do so? Not that I could do such a thing," she frowned even further.

"It was joke, girl," he gaped at her. "What happened? How did he get hurt?"

"I don't know. He's never told me. I was nearby when I heard painful roars and went to check it out."

"I see," he said thoughtfully, his gaze taking her in from head to toe. Female was telling truth all along.

"I just offered him shelter and food," she stated, hand already on handle. So Tamlin kept visiting her because she helped him. As far as he could say, she really had no powers even though she looked like high fae. After all she was just a harmless female who lit up the spark in Tamlin's eyes. A huge stone fell from Lucien's chest and he felt lighter instantly. His friend was well taken care of. That was something Lucien could live with.

"You have my gratitude for taking care of him," he smiled genuinely this time. "I'm sorry that I scared you, but you know. Tamlin is my friend and there are certain rumours about you. Now I see it's just rumours. Anyway I'm glad he met you."

She gave him a small nod, slowly closing the door. "One more thing," he stopped her. "I'd appreciate if you don't mention our encounter to Tamlin. At the moment he's still mad at me for a certain reason. He might take it wrong."

She hesitated, so he offered one of his kindest smiles. Finally she nodded and closed the door with a small thud.

Lucien wasted no time. Already hearing sounds of four paws in the forest undergrowth in distance he immediately winnowed away.

#tamlin x reader #tamlin acotar #tamlin #tamlin week #high lord of spring #lucien acotar #lucien vanserra #acotar fanfiction #acotar #sarah j maas

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imtrashraccoon · 1 year ago

Text

Uh, this one I had planned from the beginning and I honestly love how it turned out. It definitely got away from me though.

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Dust - Vibe Check

Word Count: 1,865

As you entered your apartment, you closed and locked your front door. For a moment you debated putting the deadbolt in place before just doing it, as you never knew what could happen nowadays.

With a sigh, you slipped off your shoes and hung up your coat. Today had been exhausting and your back was killing you from sitting in those office chairs for so long. Still, you could relax now, at least until you had to return to the dreaded grind tomorrow morning. The moment you turned around though, you gasped.

Dust was sitting on your couch.

His skull was propped by his arms and he was hunched forward in a way that couldn't be comfortable for long. He was sitting so still, that you couldn't tell if he even knew you were there or not.

"Hey... Are you okay, buddy?" you asked carefully.

He shifted and glanced up at you, although he was still clutching his skull with his gloved hands. Did he have a headache? There were dark grooves underneath his eye sockets reminiscent of eye bags that humans got when they didn't sleep well. His mismatched eyelights seemed quite as well and almost glossed over, like he wasn't quite focusing on you, or anything else for that matter.

His gaze seemed to pierce through to your soul and yet, he said nothing. It was almost as if the person you knew as Dust wasn't actually there at the moment and you were looking into the hollow eye sockets of a husk.

"Oh boy... I'm gonna guess that you've had a rough day so far."

He didn't respond.

You shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze and looked around for anything that might solve the mood of Mr. Spooky Scary. "Do you...mind if I just go get changed out of these work clothes? I'll be right back, okay?"

You didn't expect an answer and didn't receive one either. So, you decided to just give him a bit of space for a few minutes while you settled down a little now that you were home. At least he seemed passive at the moment and not hostile like you'd previously witnessed.

Once you were in comfy clothes, you re-entered the living room and found Dust in much the same position you'd left him in. You elected to unpack your bag and put things away though before trying to interact with him further.

Although, you couldn't help hating the silence and decided to try to engage in conversation with him. "I had a bad day too. I mean, it probably wasn't as bad as yours but still... I get it," you said quietly.

No response.

"One of my coworkers neglected to finish a report last week and the client practically raised hell until we got it done. So the big boss has been on us all day."

You sighed and shook your head, "It's frustrating getting punished for a problem an idiot caused that I had no involvement in."

Dust was still ignoring you, or at least, you couldn't tell if he was actually listening or not. Maybe you should try cheering him up? Although, you'd have to do something to shock him out of his current staring contest with the floor first.

You had to be careful not to startle him too badly though as you generally quite liked being alive. Plucking a small throw pillow from its place on the couch, you hesitated for a moment before actually following through with your "prank."

You lightly smacked the top of his skull with the pillow; not nearly hard enough to hurt of course, just to get his attention.

"Vibe check."

He was startled more than you'd expected and sort of jumped to get away from your rather pathetic assault. His eyelights flickered wildly before focusing on you and his expression morphed into one of annoyance.

"what are you-!?"

You hushed him with an outstretched finger and pursed your lips in a thoughtful way. "Hm...your vibe seems...annoyed and bewildered," you said in the most serious tone you could muster.

"no kidding! do you have no survival instincts or something?!" Dust growled.

You tilted your head and pretended to think for a moment. "Huh... Considering Axe once asked me pretty much the same question, no... I think they're probably broken, at least when it comes to skeletons anyways."

He stared at you in disbelief before collapsing back against the backrest of the couch. "well that explains a lot..." he muttered and ran a gloved hand over his face.

You frowned slightly as you studied him. It really bothered you to see him, or anyone for that matter, upset like this. He'd come here on purpose though so that must mean he actually wanted to be with you. However, you were a little confused why, as he hadn't been exactly nice in the few interactions you'd had so far with him.

Sitting down on the couch next to him, you reached over and gently put your hand on his arm. "I'm sorry for scaring you like that just now, Dust. If you need to talk about whatever's bothering you, I'm here, okay?"

He shook his skull and remained silent.

You stayed there for a few seconds but when he didn't respond further, you decided to let it go. You'd tried, but if he didn't want to tell you, then you couldn't make him. Just as you withdrew your hand though, he seemed to realize that you'd actually touched him and his mismatched eyelights flicked over to you.

"how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

He vaguely gestured with his hands in the space between you two. "that...thing... how..." He seemed to be having a hard time articulating his thoughts all of the sudden. "how do you make your intent so...gentle...?"

Now you were also confused. "I don't know? Is it not usually like that?"

He stared at you blankly like you'd just asked an incredibly dumb question. "no...it's not. most humans only utilize it to attack other people."

"Oh."

"did someone teach you or something?"

You shook your head slowly. "No...? I don't have magic so I wasn't ever considered for mage training."

"so you just do this? like all the time and you never noticed? in fact, not even a monster noticed before now?" His tone of voice sounded skeptical but there was also a twinge of disbelief.

"I suppose so..." You crossed your arms when his jaw fell open slightly in shock. "What? I don't have any monster friends besides you and Axe, okay? I'm basically a shut in except for when I need to go to work or go shopping."

"wow...you're actually crazy..." He shook his skull and lightly massaged his temples. "my headache is only getting worse just listening to you..."

"Oh, is that what's bothering you then?" you asked, purposely ignoring his insult.

Dust sighed and frowned at you. "it's one thing i guess...among many others..." he muttered.

You gave him a warm smile in return. "If it'll help you feel better to tell someone, I don't mind."

He muttered something unintelligible and quickly looked away.

"Sorry?"

"fine... just...give me your hand back..." he grumbled.

You raised an eyebrow but held out your hand again.

He hesitated and then reached over, wrapping his pinkie finger around your own. You didn't make any comment and just waited patiently.

"do you know what lv is?"

His voice sounded rather hollow all of the sudden, like all previous emotions had bled away, and you felt a small chill pass down your spine. You did know what LV was, or at least you vaguely knew, thanks to general magic education in school anyways.

"Yeah," you murmured. "Levels of Violence, right?"

He nodded slowly. "do you know what happens to someone with too much lv?"

You didn't like where he was going with this, but you had basically promised to listen to whatever he had to say and weren't about to back out now.

"I'm afraid I don't... They never covered it in school beyond how bad it was to get."

He let out a bitter sounding laugh. "figures..."

A few moments passed before he spoke again. "it's like an addiction... once you have some, you want more, and more, and more... and if you don't get more...well, you go through withdrawals."

You grimaced at the mental picture his rambling brought on. It sounded awful to go through and you couldn't help the immense wave of concern for him that washed over you.

"So, that's why you came here?" you asked.

"yeah..." he murmured, although his voice sounded a little hoarse all of the sudden. "my skull feels like it's gonna explode and my idiot colleague was being annoying."

"Can I try to help you?"

He looked over at you again with surprise almost plastered across his skull. It disappeared quickly and he regained his trademark neutral expression.

"sure, whatever, knock yourself out..." he said with a shrug.

You went to stand up but hesitated when you realized his pinky was still linked with yours. He noticed as well and quickly pulled his hand away, ducking further into his hoodie as he did so. You restrained yourself from teasing him over this school kid behaviour, for now anyways.

First thing on the agenda was to make the room darker and you turned out the lights except for the one in the kitchen for now. It wasn't too dark outside yet, although you didn't want to potentially trip over something when it did get.

"Do you want some water or maybe tea?"

"water's fine."

"And do you prefer an ice pack or a hot bean bag?"

He seemed to mull this over for a moment. "ice pack would be better," he finally said with a shrug.

You disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the items. The ice pack was easy to prepare and the glass of water was even easier. After you'd wrapped the ice pack in a soft cloth, you returned to the living room with the water.

Dust glanced up when you approached but said nothing. You sat down and gave him the items, which he excepted and downed half the water in moments.

You couldn't help but stare at him as he did so. Where did the liquid go? Was he like a bottomless pit or something?

He quickly noticed your staring and shot you a weird look. "what?"

You felt your cheeks heat up from embarrassment and shook your head. "Sorry...I was just thinking is all," you muttered.

A moment later though, you had a question. "Would a head massage be of any benefit for you?"

He seemed actually intrigued by this and pondered it over for a moment. "can't hurt i suppose."

"Then just turn a little so I can actually reach you, okay?"

You spent the next few hours just sitting together in relative silence. Dust was surprisingly mellow considering your first encounter and he basically just tolerated whatever you did. When supper time came, you got up to go make something for the both of you.

He was gone when you turned to ask if he had any particular food preferences though.

#badsansuary #raccoons drabbles #undertale #dusttale #dust sans #dust sans x reader #reader #female reader #have some empathy dear #oneshot

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cozy-mp3 · 2 years ago

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over and out

ellie x female!reader

being assigned night patrol sucks, ellie agrees

word count: 1.2k(ish)

warnings: sfw, probably an inaccurate depiction of how walkie talkies work, ellie calls reader honey because i'm predictable, men dni please and ty :)

a/n: tysm for 200 followers!!! i'm gonna open my requests up again soon as a thank you! this is my 'trying to grasp how to write ellie again' fic in between writing other stuff which is why it's short. also, i honestly do not know if this scenario is logistically possible but it is what it is.

you hate night watch at the best of times. it’s almost mind numbingly boring and since there’s so little to report you often find yourself alone until whoever is taking over your post for the first day shift arrives in the morning. it’s particularly bad in the winter due to the cold, the past few days had brought snow and you can feel it chilling your toes even though you’d tugged several pairs of socks on before you’d left home.

the sound of the radio crackling to life makes you jump after such a long stretch of silence, not even the sound of people stumbling out of the tipsy bison had interrupted the quiet this late at night, it’d been balanced in your lap beside your rifle which you decide to set on the ground beside you before you startle again and accidentally blow your foot off.

“this is williams to honey,” ellie says, her voice distorted over the radio but still warm and familiar, “this better be you, i’ve been hopping frequencies for the past fifteen minutes, maria’s gonna kill me when she finds out,” she adds and you can practically see her rolling her eyes, though you’re sure she won’t have the same bravado once maria’s done with her.

“how did you get hold of a radio?,” you ask in response, you should probably be frustrated with her, the radios are strictly for patrolling the walls and communicating potential danger and she’s absolutely going to get in trouble, but you can’t help but let a smile stretch across your lips at the sound of her voice.

“jesse owed me a favor,” she explains, only sounding a little sheepish about it, “i can’t sleep without you, this is totally necessary if they want me on patrol tomorrow,” she insists and really, it’s impossible to be mad when you feel the same way, even if it’s the kind of argument that maria will complain is making her go gray. you can imagine her tucked into bed, the duvet pulled beneath her chin and her cheek pressed into her pillow, the soft light of the lamp on the bedside table casting a warm yellow glow over her skin.

“i miss sleeping with you, too,” you sigh, it must come out crackly because ellie makes a frustrated sound and the radio beeps meaning the settings are being fiddled with, “don’t bother messing with it, el,” you hum and you’re pretty sure that comes out distorted by static too, but ellie seems resigned to it and doesn’t attempt to fix it again, instead producing shuffling sounds like she’s repositioning in bed.

“how much longer are you assigned nights?,” she asks and it’s a testament to how well you know her that you can imagine her face, her brows tugged together in a frown that wrinkles her forehead and her lips tugged downwards, you wish you were there to smooth the creases from her face and kiss away her pout, but you’re stuck in what you’re beginning to believe is the most uncomfortable lawn chair left in the world watching for infected that stumble too close to the walls, so none of that is possible.

“three more days, then i’ve got mornings for a month,” you tell her with an unhappy exhale that she mirrors, you could probably get your shifts changed if you kicked up enough of a fuss but it doesn’t feel right when you know everyone else hates the job as much as you, no one is particularly willing to switch to nights in summer, let alone now when it’s sub zero.

“this is, like, top five worst things that have ever happened to me,” ellie grumbles, her voice is even more muffled and you can imagine how she’s turned her face into her pillow to hide her frustrated face, “and don’t correct me on that, honey, i’m being serious,” she sighs and you wish you were there to tug her into your chest and stroke your hands through her hair because she sounds tired, exhausted even, and it’s almost torture to know there isn’t anything you can do to soothe her to sleep.

“you wanna talk until you fall asleep?,” you ask as gently as you can, hoping that your change in tone is noticeable over the radio, your toes are so cold you’re beginning to think they’re going to fall off before you’re able to get home and practice your current ritual of sticking them between ellie’s calves to steal her warmth for the hour or so you’re in bed together before she has to get up for patrol.

“please,” she responds, her tone matching yours all syrupy sweet and rough with sleep in a way that makes your stomach warm, “i’m hugging your pillow,” she admits quietly, “smells like you,” she adds and you don’t know if you want to beam or cry because there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to be there with her where it’s warm and safe and your girl is there to hold you instead.

“i’ll be back soon,” you say before you can say something embarrassing, like that you’ve been missing her every second you’ve been apart or that just tonight you’ve caught yourself daydreaming about her so many times you’d stopped counting, “only a couple more hours,” you murmur, glancing down at your watch to check again. ellie had gotten you new batteries for it the last time she’d been on a supply run and having it functional again was useful despite it giving you the ability to agonize over how slowly each minute of your watch seems to pass.

“i’ll stay up,” ellie replies with a firm edge to her voice that you know better than to argue with, though she yawns soon afterwards and you’re almost certain that she’ll be asleep when you arrive home. it’s not a problem though, it’s just as nice to curl up behind her when she’s sleeping as it is for her to tug you against her chest and rub your back until you fall asleep together.

“i love you,” you tell her, having to stifle your responding yawn against your palm.

“i love you too, honey,” she says and you can hear the smile in her voice, “make sure you’re safe walking home, ok? it’ll still be dark when they switch over,” she hums, her voice sounding a little closer, like she’s tucked the radio beside her in bed.

“i’ll be safe, els,” you reassure her and you will, because you know she worries and you don’t want to give her cause to worry more, “now, what do you want to talk about?,” you ask, tucking your chin into the warmth of your coat and pulling your rifle back into your lap as you settle in for the last stretch of your watch.

ellie’s already started talking about the deer she saw on patrol and the fancy charcoal pencils joel had gotten her from a trader. you wiggle your toes just to make sure they’re still there just as she begins to complain about how they’ve served broccoli for dinner for almost a week straight, which is bullshit because she’s seen carrots in the pantry with her own eyes and you hope selfishly that she doesn’t fall asleep too soon because the time passes so much faster when she’s there.

#ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #tlou2 x reader

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jaehyunsprincesspeach · 1 year ago

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Tomorrow x Together react to not being your bias

my goodness this could be so entertaining to see these boys are so goofy, I love them!

hope yall enjoy!

all the love ~ lunar

Soobin:

Soobin would freeze in shock when you tell him that he’s not your bias

Eyes practically popping out of his head like he just heard a nun cussing

I honestly think he would be speechless and wouldn’t really know how to react

He wouldn’t really take it personally, but he would start to question things

His mind would be overthinking everything that has happened between you two

He would wonder why you are with him instead of your bias in the group

Please reassure him, he might cry if you let him think on it too long

Once he knows that you are with him because you love him for him, he will start to calm down again, and won’t think much about it after that

However, he might tease you with this knowledge that he has

Until you give him the “stfu” look, and he stops immediately

In all honesty, he wouldn’t be too offended by it, because he knows that you are his, and he trusts that you are with him because you love him

Yeonjun:

Looks at you as if you just committed a felony

How dare you have a different bias than him???

His look is a combination of personal offense, and shock

Will become pouty when he hears that he isn't your bias

Won't show you affection the way that he normally does, but also won’t push away your affection either

Will say things like “why don't you go talk to Beomgyu, since he's your bias”

Not that he's insecure or anything, he just needs to be a little dramatic about the situation

Knows deep down that you are his and only his

Though you might want to reassure him anyways so he stops being dramatic

Overall, he might be a little bitter, but deep down he knows that you are his, and that you want to be with him and only him

Beomgyu:

This man is a whole different breed already, he would be so offended

Looks at you is if you just tore his heart out of his chest

“I'm not your bias? Who am I to you then? Jeez you think you know someone.”

Proceeds to pout even if you tell him that it doesn't matter and that he is the only one you have eyes for

Might even leave the room, if he does and you don't follow, he'll come back but he's even more pouty than he was before

Its as if the world is about to end “stuck down by my own girlfriend”

Keeps the joke going so long that he actually becomes insecure

Please reassure him, he just wants to be the one to treat you right :(

Same as Yeonjun, he wouldn't cuddle up to you, but he wouldn't push you away either

“Change your bias, I'm your bias, I am your boyfriend after all.” sometimes it's hard to tell if he's being dramatic or if he's actually worried about it

Again, he's gonna need lots of reassurance, maybe some cuddles, and his favorite sweets before he's back to normal

Overall, he's gonna be upset about it, but he won't tell you that he's overthinking, poor baby’s gonna need cuddle and kiss therapy for a week

Taehyun:

Unbothered King

Wouldn't even think twice about him not being your bias

If you were looking for a reaction from him, you wont get one

So calm about the whole thing, you might think he didn't even hear you lmao

He knows that you are with him for a reason, and he is confident that he can treat you better than anyone else could

He is confident with the relationship that you two have, so why would he worry

If you didn't want to be with him you wouldn't be, but you are so he's not stressed about anything

Other than Beomgyu screaming about something from the other room

When it comes to you, he knows that he can fully trust you, and he knows that you love him, a true King

Huening Kai:

Honestly Hyuka will probably think its cute, or he would agree with you

“Oh Soobin is your bias? Me too!”

Would probably get your bias to sign one of the photo cards you have

Thinks its cute, though he would probably also be a little sad that it's not him

Wouldn't overthink it though

More similar to Taehyun, he knows you are with him, and that he is yours

But he might tease you as well for having someone else be your bias

Another unbothered king for the most part

His teasing would have you flustered, which he thinks is the cutest thing ever

He in general just thinks that you are the cutest thing ever, so if having one of the other boys as your bias makes you giggle, hes okay with it

He just wants to see you happy, even if he is a little sad, he won't let it affect him too much

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nomoreusername · 11 months ago

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Good Night

Pairing:Thomas x gender neutral reader

Summary:You and Thomas have never seen eye to eye, but one shared night in the pit may change that.

"I can't believe this Y/N. That was absolutely irresponsible of you. You are a Keeper,"Alby scolded.

"Chuck was having a bad day. Everyone was ignoring the poor kid. I wasn't going to stop him,"I defended.

"He started a food fight. He looks up to you. He would listen to anything you said."

"Chuck's a little kid. You want me to reprimand a little kid? He was doing what little kids do and being chaotic,"I pointed out.

"I know, but you didn't stop him. He needs to learn that he can't do that. It's clear that you can't be a responsible Keeper. So you get one night in the pit."

"That's not fair though. I technically didn't do anything wrong,"I pointed out.

"We can't punish him because I know you'll just break him out. Yes, I know about that. Think of this as being your punishment for that. Besides, you won't be alone."

"I won't?"I asked nervously. I wasn't sure I wanted to know who I was spending the next 24 hours with.

"Yes. Thomas, meet your best friend for the next day,"Alby announced.

"Isn't this a cruel and unusual punishment? I feel like this is going to end in blood and tears,"I kind of joked. I say kind of because Thomas and I don't see eye to eye, and that's putting it lightly. I call it teasing, and he calls it being rude. To each their own I guess.

"It better not. Maybe this will be good for you two. Hopefully, you'll end up getting along. Maybe you'll even become friends."

"Wow. You want me to become friends with Greenie? You haven't gone mad on us, have you buddy?"I asked with an exaggerated grin.

"Just don't kill each other, and no loud arguing. Everyone's going to sleep in an hour."

"Will do, old pal,"I promised. He sighed at the nickname but didn't comment on it. He gave up on me calling Alby a long time ago.

"Both of you just be reasonable people. We'll let you out tomorrow,"He sighed. I gave him a thumbs up, and he walked away mumbling. It was probably him wishing we'd get along. Honestly, I kind of do too. At the same time I feel like we have a good thing going. It's merely playful banter.

"Hiya Greenie. Are you having a grand time?"I asked, leaning against the wall.

"Can you stop calling me Greenie? I remembered my name like a week ago."

"But I like calling you Greenie. Technically, you are still Greenie anyways. Besides, think of it as a special thing. I've never called anyone else Greenie for so long,"I informed him.

"I am honored,"He deadpanned, rolling his eyes. I ignored the sarcasm and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He just looked at me as I gave an innocent smile. You know, I think I should actually make this a fun night for my good friend, Tom.

♡ - - - ♡

After about three hours of almost silence, and Thomas trying to sleep I was becoming bored out of my mind. Plus, he hadn't even become somewhat close to it. I heard him tossing and turning on the ground.

"It's almost impossible to sleep here. It's easier to just give up. Eventually, you'll doze off without realizing,"I advised.

"Wait. You've been here before?"He asked, seeming dumbfounded. I don't know why.

"Yeah. I used to drive the Gladers up the wall,"I shrugged.

"But you're a Keeper. Isn't that the job of the most responsible people here or something?"He guessed.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean they have to be serious. Do you think all Keepers' are stuck up?"I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I just didn't think they'd be familiar with this place. Wait, what'd you do to get here this time?"He asked, now sitting up and looking at me.

"Chuck started a food fight,"I shrugged. He only had a confused expression on his face that admittedly made me laugh. There's just something about his thinking face that amuses me.

"What?"He asked.

"You have a very specific thinking face. It's kind of cute,"I explained. Instantly, despite the fact that it's the dead of night, I could see him start to turn tomato red. This only made me laugh again.

"I'm sorry. I'm not laughing to be mean. It's just genuinely amusing to see you flustered,"I explained.

"Oh, thanks? Moving on from this awkward topic how does Chuck starting a food fight get you here?"He asked.

"I was the only Keeper, and he always listens to me. Since I just watched it go down right next to him I ended up here."

"That still doesn't seem like you need to be here,"He pointed out.

"I've also broken him out everytime he's been here. It's only been like three times, and I'd put him back in before morning. Apparently, we weren't as sneaky as we thought since Alby knew. This was the only thing that he could think of,"I explained.

"Seriously? Do you just let him sleep in his hut or something?"

"My hut faces the sun first so he stays there, and I sleep on the ground outside it. I put him back here in the morning. Sometimes we'd talk, and other times we'd quietly crack jokes. He always looks so happy in the morning, and seeing his face light up when I would break him out warms my heart,"I rambled.

He didn't say anything, and I was slightly worried about this. I took a look at him to see him looking at me with an expression I haven't seen before.

"What?"I asked.

"Nothing. You're just, uh, a lot different than I thought. You're really cute. I mean the story is cute. Just the story."

"Are you calling me ugly?"I asked with a serious expression.

"What? No, no. Not at all. You're actually really pretty,"He answered quickly, clearly panicking.

"I'm just pulling your leg Tom,"I assured him.

"Thank god,"He said, breathing a sigh of relief. His shoulders visibly relaxed as he did. It was an interesting reaction, but it was still kind of adorable.

It looked like Alby got exactly what he wanted, and maybe just a little bit more.

#thomas x y/n #thomas x reader #the maze runner #one shot #tmr #tmr thomas #thomas tmr

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that-tall-queer-bassist · 4 months ago

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Live Reaction of my SECOND listen through of EPIC: The Musical

okay i want my Thoughts after finishing the first listen through today (over the course of a week) but i need to listen Again so here we fucking go peoples. Reblogging with each new saga to keep things organized a bit :)

The Troy Saga

we start!!

The Horse And The Infant

"little ajax stay back" 🥺

"You're not ready"

"I could raise him as my own" I WISH PLEASE

the whole section with overlapping dialogue of possibilities and the tragic ends they would lead to

i wanna know who that guy speaking was i don't remember

Just a Man

its so tragic how this infant reminds him of his own son like what the fuck thats so fucked up how could jorge do this to us. OW.

"close your eyes and spare yourself the view" Q^Q

this whole song gets me. especially paired with WolfyTheWitch's animatic to it. augh.

GOD knowing that all of these metaphors come back later and become Relevant i CANT OMG

"Forgive me" is probably the worst thing he could say because i do and i can't at the same time, but he's not asking me to forgive him, he's asking this INFANT who he KILLED AUGH

Full Speed Ahead

600 men. 601 with Odysseus

god this really is just setting the scene huh. and well!!

He really did wanna go home as fast as he could

OH MY GOD MY BOI I FORGOT ABOUT HIM AND HIS OPEN ARMS

his voice is like. angelic. wow.

"and if we don't return, then 600 men can make this place burn" i forgot about that woah

Open Arms

"My friend" my heart hurts

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms" oh sweet boy

the sound of a sword being drawn is so good omg

"600 friends are waiting for us to show our faces" XD bruh not subtle

EVEN LESS SUBTLE

Polites i love you

"My friend" you are friends yes please remember that please

Oh i forgot the lotus eaters sent them to "this food filled cave"

"I see in your face there is so much guilt in your heart" AUGH MY BOY

the repeating by odysseus...

"You can relax my friend" at the end like AUGH thats so GOOD and then the immediate next song being Warrior of the Mind !!! very good very tragic

Warrior of the Mind

immediately the music change raises the tension

the way Odysseus immediately knows who she is, hears or something, i love it so much.

"Have you forgotten your purpose? Let me remind you." AUGH hes not a man, but a tool

He seems like more of a conquest or trophy than a person to her, which is fair given he's a mortal and she's a goddess but damn this really does just keep happening to him, being a gods plaything huh?

THIS CHORUS GOES SO SO HARD THOUGH

"Maybe one day he'll follow me and we'll make a greater tomorrow" the way she sings this makes my brain so happy

the whole chorus just scratches my brain in such a good way omg

the slowness. "show yourself"

HIS LITTLE LAUGH

the whole exchange honestly

"nah, don't be modest, i know you're a goddess, so lets be honest-" YES YES YES

"YOU ARE ATHENA" WOOOOOOOOOOOO CLAPPING CHEERING

his description of her is great

"goddess and man, bestest of friends!" "We'll see where it ends" "okay" asdghkjsa im wheezing

THEIR DUET

I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

"ending on "don't disappoint me" is so mean

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seaofreverie · 4 months ago

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Sparkstember Day 3: Kimono My House (Falling In Love With Myself Again)

Kimono my house, mon amour! Everyone knows how great and one of a kind this album is... So what can I even say about it that hasn't been said already? Well, I'll just plunge right into my own experience with it and go from there.

This was my first Sparks album and it definitely made a huge impression right away. While it wasn't really the album that got me hooked on Sparks, it still managed to pique my interest in this specific era especially, so my choice for the next album to go with was obvious (more on that tomorrow). And it was surely like nothing I heard before at that point... or since, really. Altough I must also admit that it was probably the furthest I went back in time listening to music at the moment, as in, I haven't even ventured much into listening to much music from the 70s on my own until that point, so I didn't even really have anything to compare it with. Still though, that doesn't change as I get into more 70s music - there's still nothing quite like Kimono.

I love how cohesive this album is, without becoming same-ish, it still has so much different stuff to offer. I really don't know how to best put it, but it's really like a huge, wonderful and whimsical journey. Just thinking about the opening and closing tracks and how well they work for their roles... It was mindblowing to hear a year and a half ago, and it still is to this day. I'm honestly suprised by how, even though I really loved KMH from the very start, I can still love it more and more.

And the most (seemingly) unforeseen of things will cause this. Like my "Kimono My House Summer", by which I mean last summer when I went on a trip and all the different songs from this album accompanied me through it and are now an integral part of my memories of that time. And how getting KMH on vinyl just last month caused my love for it to suddenly skyrocket still - it was actually just last month that I rejected one particular opinion I still held with full conviction until now regarding this album, but more on that tomorrow...

Favourite songs (and other highlights):

Okay, this is when this section actually gets kind of hard to deal with properly. Because almost every single song from this album is something I could have considered a favourite at some previous point in time. So this time I'll go about it by listing my longest-standing faves.

This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us: obviously. I remember the first time I heard this song so well because it really made such a huge impression. The day I get to hear this song live might change me forever. I'm sure there's nothing quite like experiencing it live. I also really want to learn to play this one on piano. I hope that's doable with my current skill level!

Amateur Hour: this song stands out in the sense that right away i got the impression that there's just this... sort of classic quality to it... that makes me think, wow this is one of the originals. This is one of the songs that set the standard for pop music of the following decades. Keep in mind that this was when I was only getting into Sparks and all this information I've aquired about them was very fresh in my mind, like how they were such an important influence for so many artists to come. Like, one of the biggest influences and most important figures in history of modern pop PERIOD. So indeed, with this song it truly felt like wow, I hear this, totally. Very satisfying moment (and I'm actually really curious if anyone else got this impression from THIS tracks specifically as well)

Here In Heaven: feels strange to not say anything about this one when I said so much about the previous two, so. I'll just say that I really love the guitar parts during the chorus (like when the title is said?). Also, enjoyable story in the lyrics (but that's no rare thing on this album)

Hasta Manana, Monsieur: when I think about it I start to realize I could consider this my very first Sparks fav OVERALL, I'm pretty sure that hearing this song is what convinced me to give this whole album a go! Or my memory is lying to me about this specific fact and it was actually some other song, but either way, the point still stands I think

Talent Is An Asset: going with the early impression for this one again, and I think it's one of the most important entries on the list of songs that felt like they should be newer than they are. This song did not sound 50 years old to me by any means. Very ahead of its time? That's sort of Sparks' whole thing though, isn't it?

Equator: again, not even a personal fav necessarily, or at least until very recently, but I still want to mention it because I truly think it's one of the songs of all time. It's just, so very good. And these days I can't listen to it without being reminded of the several incredible live performances of it. They're all impressive, to say the least!

#yesterday i still didn't have the MAJORITY of this writeup finished #and i was worried i wouldn't be able to come up with much to say this time #well. shouldn't have worried. these might just start getting increasingly longer with each day lol #also re: today's doodle. this is when i realized that because i was struggling with choosing colors #i could just try color picking straight from the album covers (when applicable)#that's also when i feel like my drawings got instantly better. i'm sure it's no coincidence #sparkstember 2024 #my art #goose monologues

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drippingmoon · 1 year ago

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Merry new year to everyone, again! 🥳💞🥂

I know it wasn’t an event this year, but writing a yearly wrap-up is really therapeutic, you know? So I decided to continue the tradition, and if anyone wants to join me, absolutely view this as an open invitation^^ Introduction is over, and now let’s see what 2023 looked like:

(spoilers: I adored it. I'm also probably going to make this my fixed post, in case anyone ever wants to catch up with me. And also because my second baby, AoS, is growing, and it doesn't have an intro, but I can't leave it out.)

Stats

Aquiver, Aglow: 181k (draft 4) + 195k (draft 5) + hmm, draft 6 is an outlier, because I didn’t rewrite from scratch, so I’m unsure of the written word count. I didn’t change much from draft 5, so I’d say an extra 15-20k. Total word count: 376k+

Remains of a Night: 120k

Aberration of Sunlight: 134k

This was definitely my most productive year to date. And I got so hungry: the more I wrote, the more I just wanted to keep writing, and honestly? I’m proudest of myself for literally carving writing time whenever I got a spot into my schedule. Mostly it was from 8pm-11pm, but I had a mad run where my only free window was from 1am till I literally felt I was dying… I’ll talk about that separately🤣🤣👌

Though, I'm seriously understating it.

Like a lot of other people, I would have all these hours when I was younger when I didn't have anything to do, yet I'd still find some excuse not to write. "I'm waiting for the right time." "I'm anxious I'm not going to get it right." "Tomorrow! Tomorrow I can start right from the morning, and I'll have more time to write, yeah?" or "I'm too tired now, it's late..." and so the snowball rolled down and downhill and I found every reason under the sun not to write, now that I think about it. Sigh. So much time wasted. But I can't regret it either, because I needed those baby steps at that time.

And now! Now I do what I thought I'd never learn to: I prioritize, and I actually organize my daily stuff so it's not so impossible anymore to have a little bit of writing time. I don't take it for granted either. It feels like such character growth for me, I'm immensely proud of it.

And for the record? This year was a huge improvement over yesteryear mentally, too. It turns out, what I needed to get over my word count anxiety… was to be faced with people who literally didn’t give a fuck about it, and just cared about the story. One of the most unexpected things beta stage managed to do to me… was to quench all my anxieties. It’s as simple as that. I read and enjoy very long books. People also do that. So, I’m very happy to say I’m no longer in a tizzy about ‘quiv. It might kill my chances for trad publishing, it might not. I’ll be happy come what may.

Because it’s so simple how working on ‘quiv or thinking about it makes me joyous, and now I can just enjoy that freely. I will miss writing this story so much. I really will. But at least I’ll have it forever to reread, and I hope this thought brings comfort to everyone who also has problems letting go, like it does to me.

Let’s break it down a little, shall we?🤩

Aquiver, Aglow◇◇◇

My little star of the hour. How fond I am of it.

Like you could glean from above, ‘quiv went through three drafts this year. More specifically: in the first part of the year, practically almost as soon as February arrived. I knew it was getting closer to the final version, and gave me the push to finish all three back to back. I couldn’t justify anymore the bazillion AUs I do with rewrites (basically, WHAT IFs from events, WHAT IF it went this different way, WHAT IF Tyrone actually said this here… and so on and so forth. I wanted to test out as many pathways as possible, and did I exhaust every one of them in existence? Definitely not. I don’t think that can happen, you just keep getting new ideas. On and on. What happened, instead, is that these couple different pathways, at some point, cemented themselves as canon in my mind. I didn’t want to tease myself with alternatives anymore, and that’s when I knew they would be it. Some bits from the first draft, some from the third, some from the second. Some were even draft 6 originals!

It’s a bit of a weird process. I definitely didn’t need to reach draft 3, and meet Mezusa, because I could’ve feasibly made it work with just Yles in the story. It still would’ve made sense, though in a different way. But if I hadn’t… I might’ve missed one of the best characters I’ll ever probably have created, and the story (and Yles) is much stronger for her, if you ask me.

For that matter, yes, full rewrites every single draft might take a lot of time and effort, but honestly I don’t think I’d ever change my writing process (save for the moments of frustration when I think I will lol) because of the sheer satisfaction of it. Whoever said so long never to settle on the first version, I owe you a beer and probably some curses as well lmao, but very lovingly. You shaped my writing life.

I don’t have much else to share about ‘quiv, other than it’s off with my beta readers my beloved, and maybe a tentative promise that, if anyone wants, you’ll be able to read this precious ball of hope of mine relatively soon. This story is so gentle to me. And as much as I loved to write and work on it, I dearly hope that whoever decides to give it a go, is treated just the same. That’s the only wish I have.

I also don’t know if I’ll go trad or self-published. Instincts say trad, because I fuckin’ suck at marketing (fact), and I know I’d grow resentful if I’d have to put so many hours into advertising when I know I could instead… write. I’m a writer. That’s the only thing I know how to do. Trad, however, might not be as kind on a ~200k as life’s been, so I might not have a choice. If it comes down to that… I’ll just treat it as I do everything. I don't love this story any less if I just write, publish without a fuss, hope that maybe, just maybe, a reader or two will stumble upon the story and we could talk. Maybe we can have the fun of our lives, create some genuine connection. I know that’s applies to a lot of writers. I hope we can accomplish it.

And so, I’ll finish this section of the wrap-up with a kiss to my ‘quiv, for all the warmth it’s ever brought me. It’s come so far, I know it can live distinct from me from now on. It brings me great comfort. And I look forward to the times I’ll reread it, and we can relive our best experiences together. Never thought I’d get to this point. Thank you, ‘quiv.

Remains of a Night♤♤♤

Mwhahaha! And because ‘quiv took all the pressure, this left AoS to be an extremely fun and spirited experience. Literally the chillest I’ve ever been writing. In many ways, it’s more my thing than I expected ‘quiv to be: I get to murder characters left and right, it’s more plot-heavy and banking on the tension created by a creature that horrifies the characters down to their marrow, but still the only way to defeat it is to know it better, which, uh, might have unpleasant consequences for them. It’s got chase and stealth scenes, and it always shoots me with adrenaline to think about them. In short, exactly my jam.

It’s not a new book, nope. You knew it before as Aberration of Sunlight, but from the get-go I felt it would be bigger than ‘quiv. Very fortunately for me, I had a place where to break it, and behold: there’s RoaN (book 1), and AoS (book 2). There might be a third book, which I dearly hope not because titling sucks, but it depends on the Sycamine arc. More on that in AoS.

One last thing to note, before we delve into the story (hoo-ray for earlier drafts, because I can talk more frankly about them). This is the culprit of my 1am writing adventures!!😫❤ My schedule became too packed, then NaNo came round and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to honor how AoS began, because it was last year’s NaNo, aaand I’m happy to say I won NaNo, somehow, with 56k down before I died. At that time, I only had one section left to write (from both books), otherwise, hahahaha, yeah, it wouldn’t have flown. Still, most of draft 2 I’d written in September-October, with my fairy lights, late nights, and cups of hot cocoa, exactly like how life should be<3

Alright. We’re going through them chapter-by-chapter again, exactly because I love seeing the titles so much:

ACT 1

Cracked Visor, Scorpion Grass

I did it! I did! Twas another shower thought I managed to get down in time. Bare broken sentences, but they did the impossible, and arranged this chapter into a structure I adore to bits and won't ever change. (And 'quiv's naughty voice left me alone for once and I could write it properly!) While I don't think I'll ever be happy with a first chapter (not as a concept, but the writing — part of me will always wish that the reader just had all the information already lol), this one is in the right place.

It pays its respects to the story of the broken helmet at the foot of a spaceship, and how it reconnects Madigan with all the people who'd suffered from being tethered to the planets when they yearned to fly, but the Beast punished them cruelly for it. It makes him feel phantoms of their efforts. The tone is exactly what I needed this story to start from: melancholy and numbly hopeless, against the backdrop of the Beasts's echoed cries.

Rain Through the Universe

Unlike 'quiv, because RoaN and AoS are way more plot-heavy, it's not as easy to change things willy-nilly (whereas 'quiv was all about character bonds and dynamics). As such, it's very similar to draft 1. Because of that, I'll frankendraft next (select and combine drafts 1 and 2, rewrite to connect them) and afterwards I'll try something I've always wanted to. (Scrivener keeps hinting at it!) I'm gonna split the chapters into scenes, and focus on those individually and how I can just rewrite them and set their purpose in stone<3 I'm excited!

As for the chapter itself, gods, I love the atmosphere. Just the wreckage of a sundered ship, and Madigan’s sudden madman appearance making a lasting impression on Spica, because how could it not. They no longer answer distress calls in that age, it just means more dead bodies. In fact, they're forbidden to. Madigan instead brings him what he himself lacks: hope. And a lot of crawling around while dreading the Beast's lambent eye opening, and oh my, the moments are really flying by😈👏 extreme fun for me as the writer.

Aberration of Light

If you remember, the books follow two timelines, which will connect at some point. The first and main one is Madigan and Spica’s story. The other is Holloway’s, in the distant past of that universe, and who’s been dubbed the most selfish man in existence. That’s important, because of how the Beast came to be. But that becomes important later. For now, a weird-ass new recruit has joined the ship, and the witchy crew will very soon start making bets if she’s the Beast in human flesh, which really wouldn’t bode well for their future.

Night Falls On Their Reflection

Draft 2 became Spica’s draft. It was high time. He didn't exist in the original idea beyond chapter 2, but he refused to die with his story untold. And now he's one of the most independent thinkers I've ever written. Now he's Madigan's son (yes, even at 25), best friend, back-to-back partner all in one, and I could watch the trust and mutual respect between these two forever. To be sure: Madigan comes up with the dumbass plans, and Spica's only too happy to follow him through everything (it is good fun.)

He's repaying the incredible kindness Madigan's shown him when answering his distress call, after all.

But it goes a bit further than that, doesn't it? Madigan is used to watching over myriad people. He's the Superintendent of his planet, and while he genuinely loves people, kindness is his default. It doesn't go further than that for him. He doesn't necessarily think people need, much less desire his presence there beyond Madigan extending help, and most of the time, he's content with that. Kindness does make him happy. And it should be the same with Spica now, shouldn't it? He's kind, but he's not Spica's family, nor ever will be. Yet he immediately feels a connection with the boy, that has nothing to do with bonding over escaping-a-cosmic-disaster. And so does Spica.

This is the moment when Madigan starts feeling guilty, for stepping where he should not. But here's the beauty of Spica's character: he's nothing if not dead sure of his own feelings, and what he sees with his eyes. It's okay if Madigan keeps unexpectedly taking steps back. For very long, there'd been nobody to support Spica's beliefs. So he does the same, as when he followed his heart to go into dead space: he believes in himself and Madigan, and that their paths aren't meant to diverge. They mean too much to each other for that to ever happen.

(In short, and legend says you can still hear me screeching about these two ten thousand years later, I love these two so much, and especially the parallels between Spica going alone into outer space and loving Madigan.)

(And, okay, obviously all these developments don't happen in a single chapter, but I couldn't stop gushing🤭🥰.)

Who Puts These Tombs in Ice

Overall, I think draft 2’s Luitgart performed worse than draft 1. Mainly it's the setting I want to revert (still an icy, sempiternally dark hell, but with different ice constructions) because some of the beats are a huge improvement, and again, I gotta combine the two. Otherwise, I’m still as obsessed about the Luitgart arc as I’ve ever been, and huge thanks to it for being so strong it could function as an ending of its own, allowing me to split the book.

Gettin’ into spoilery territory, but I have to un-kill Madigan so many times it leaves me in hysterics. That was what I was supposed to fix this draft. It got worse. Considerably.

(One constant: the chapter being a love letter to Madigan, and how his first answer will always be to help the other, no matter if they deserve it or not<3 and finally, finally, he gets acknowledged for it, and the favor returned.)

ACT 2

Lemon-Dotted Days + Remnant

Two Holloway chapters! I’m actually massively pleased with how they’ve turned out. Last year, I said the main issue was that I had an outline, and that never works for me. So I did what I do best and rewrote everything from scratch, and the result is both uncanny and… unexpected.

Unexpected, because I never in my life thought Holloway’s voice would make me laugh so much. He’s supposed to be unsympathetic, but then you get his interactions with Saintlark (the new crewmate, possibly Beast) where they’re contemplating the harvest of a nebula, and he’s harshly critical of it, which gives Saintlark hope… only to go deadpan One Moment Later: if they’d used the nebula to prolong their lives instead of bolstering the war, they wouldn’t have died like clown idiots.

And, they could’ve maybe stolen immortality from the nebula. They would've had to share it with him, of course. Or he would've murdered them to get it.

That, my guys, is his personality in a nutshell.

I have a lot of feelings on Holloway now, and most involve me huffing and slapping my forehead while groaning, but oh my gods. Was it ever so fun. And wait, wait, wait. Since I'm talking of humor (apparently a lot of comedy fit into this horror lmfao) I have to show you guys the following section🤣🤣👏:

Corpse Snow

The drifters are set howling on the ice. They share glances, five separate vehicles nodding at each other. Madigan revs up the engine, splitting the air with a jet of steam and vibration.

The last of the marines are climbing into the box. A figure flashes past Madigan’s drifter — and he leans over, teeth grinding because of his ribs, and he does his very best to grab someone by the back of their suit and pull. Workout days were never his strength, though. He only succeeds in stopping them in the frost smoke.

It’s Spica dangling from his hand, expressionless.

Lieutenant Hahn instantly seizes on the situation. He throws Madigan a long, withering look. “Whatcha doing, Boss?” he asks softly, about to unhinge his jaw again.

Madigan nudges Spica into the drifter. “Picking up your boy.”

Spica gets the hint and deposits himself into the front seat, glancing from his father to his Superintendent. He seems to give up on whatever’s going on, and makes himself cozy in the frosty spot. And Madigan, of course, pretends not to notice Hahn’s drifter sliding closer.

“And you didn’t consider I might want to have my son with me?”

Madigan looks up and sighs. “Lieutenant, dear Lieutenant,” he starts pleadingly. “Why won’t you show some leniency to a poor, wounded man?”

Hahn’s drifter stops, summoning a breeze across the icy floor that gently rocks the other vehicle. His breathing distorts the comms with static. “And what exactly is my son right now?”

“My trusty navigator,” Madigan answers easily.

“Sir’s emotional walking stick?” Spica pipes in at the same time.

They both look over. Spica’s quietly turned to the navigation, as serene as daylight, seemingly oblivious to how Madigan's expression changes, lightning-fast. He quickly hides it under the guise of a polite mask, as the marines stir and turn their attention on them. They’re snickering.

Lieutenant Hahn throws up his hands, giving up on everything.

This is also the first 30k chapter I’ve ever written. It's everything I've ever wanted to do with ice.

Heart of the Void

The end of the book. Originally, it was the ending section to Corpse Snow, but since it already got so ungodly long, I chipped off that bit and I have to say I’m very happy with how it works as an epilogue! So it ends the frosty, weary journey, and I can’t see the two books as separate yet, but here we bid goodbye to the first.

Aberration of Sunlight♧♧♧

I did the unthinkable and created a fifth arc. This might not seem like much to you, but I was screaming bloody murder you guys😭😭😭. Sigh. It’s so sigh. For so long, AoS consisted of four clear-cut acts, but it was necessary. With the introduction of Sycamine, and making it two books, it was just needed. It’s still one of the worst things I’ve ever done because I was used to four😃💔

(The chapters continue from where RoaN left off – from chapter 10, to 21.)

ACT 3

Retro Spectrum

Sycamine, oh Sycamine. Definitely the break I needed before Days in Darkness. It made for a really neat beginning. It’s calmer, focusing on the knowledge they have on the Beast. It’s also a reflection on Procyon (their main star) and the story of the two straggler dog constellations, and what they'd been running away from. I liked the direction it took. It veered away from the Beast for a bit, so the tension kept expanding in the background. And when it returns, well... maybe they shouldn't have been so eager to see it again🤭.

It suffers from the same syndrome as draft 1’s first chapter… it’s there in the vicinity of the idea, but too much to the left. Not bad for a first attempt. The setting annoys me – I really don't enjoy writing cities, and AoS didn't change that. So, for our next try, I was thinking... maybe we don't need to be on the planet, but up close and veeery personal with it. It's a secret❤.

And, oh gods. I put a moustache-twirling villain in this. And then I couldn’t stop myself from naming some sucker Sweetman Calories. I don’t know what happened to me during those days, but I’m crying🤣🤣🤣.

Toast to the Light

Holloway and Saintlark’s story is slowly coming to an end. Unexpectedly bleaker than draft 1, yet it feels much more sincere. Holloway has a way of saying everything Saintlark needs to hear. No surprise. They did that to themselves.

Dissonant Recognition

Ahhhh, the Madigan-is-slowly-losing-his-grip-on-reality chapter, or maybe he should really stop staring into the suns. One of my favorites<3 Also because it features Moren (!!!) who has a blast staying in the grey morality area, because she doesn’t know if her actions could ever matter, or if she could change anything. Does she just exist? Is she a player or just pawn? Who knows. Besides that, she gets along great with Spica. They form such a teasing duo, the level of mutual respect they felt for each other on sight was a delight to write. My favorite ally of theirs, even if her destiny lies elsewhere.

Night Beneath the Elevator

Best title hands down, dethroning Solgesis. I’m going batshit crazy about the visuals, it's exactly my thing. This half-light slanted over an elevator waiting in a rundown basement to be boarded. And there's something underneath it, and always has been. Something insidiously creeping up and waving its tendril fingers at you as you're just waiting for the fucking thing to ascend. Immaculate, guys, I'm telling you, and I'm cursing my hands because I can't make a wallpaper of this. I want to eat that atmosphere.

Time-sensitive missions, y'all.

And why the heck did nobody inform me I was going to add Command as an actual character and have them talk with Madigan?! That entire convo, made up entirely on the spot but somehow with a direction, made me realize what an idiot I’d been for not doing it sooner. They mean so much to Madigan, after all.

(And Mariya. So much Mariya in these chapters.)

ACT 4

Loop System

Like Who Puts These Tombs in Ice, draft 1 might’ve done it better. Not Spica and Madigan, though, because of the sheer development Spica’s been through and the dynamic he’s managed to form with the crew. It's different from Madigan’s, but similar enough that it’s got Hahn commenting lightly: [Spica’s] picked up quite a few habits from Madigan, hasn’t he? Almost as if they’ve gotten very very close, huh? How about Madigan tell him more?

(I adore writing Hahn.)

Outreach

Another Holloway chapter. Doesn’t have the punch of the kids subplot from draft 1, but this just makes it worse for Saintlark personally, because, this time, the consequences are on her.

Days in Darkness

I knew the moment I first got the idea this would be my favorite chapter. Well, it finally happened in draft 2: when the entire crew is here, this time, and ready for the final countdown, to relive the experience of being trapped in a ship that's disintegrating. No more heroes left behind. I'd been so tired writing this chapter in draft 1, but this time around it was incredible. Everything went up sharply from here, both in terms of events and how on fire I was.

(Maybe less than the gorgon, but I was.)

ACT 5

Echo Terminal

The first of the two log chapters.

I've never written smoother, more visual chapters than in this period. Days in Darkness changed me so much, I was writing day and night by this point and couldn't get enough. Well, I hit my limit in the second half of the very last chapter, but I am beyond satisfied. Even the Beast's metamorphosis took me by storm, because I'd been wondering what the final verbs, the final images, the final design for it was going to be. I didn't expect it to come to me this early, and with such thrill. Those were my very best days of the year, and I toast to them.

(And I knew it was going to be fantastic when Halo's Warthog Run OST started blaring in my head, with as much adrenaline.)

Where, Now? + Solgesis

My beloved. The second and last of the two log chapters, but it’s Noelle Saintlark’s log.

Holloway’s timeline ends here. Or maybe it just gets carried into the future. I thought I’d want to rewrite his parts again, make the plot just a tiny bit more psychedelic and nonsensical because it’s so close to the Beast… but Solgesis put all my fears to rest. Even the formatting and layout is a bit of that special thing I’ve always wanted to try, and it really changes the perspective of the previous chapters. There's a new confession that stands at the heart of Holloway's stories.

Honestly, the only thing that needs urgent working on is the anger at the end of the chapter.

Anger is so hard for me to write sometimes. Not because I don’t connect with it, but because I feel self-conscious writing it. The wildest I felt it was when I tackled 'quiv's chapter 3 and Imera's Turning speech, both in quick succession (before I'd even written draft 1. I'd been taking notes.) Since then... I just thing back to how keenly I'd felt that anger, and I kind of intimidate myself out of it. Kind of like a natural resistence, I quench it from myself. Which is actually hilarious when you think about it. It’s like I’m going I BANISH THEE FROM MY BRAIN because generally, as a person, I dislike feeling and operating on anger. But no worries. I’m going to find a way around it.

Watch me😎.

What Goes Around…

(Now it’s the time for me to start crying some rivers, and, alright, it won’t be visible so I’ll say it: the chapter titles are holding a conversation, guys. They speak to each other. And sometimes it’s both sides of the same coin, like how What Goes Around (comes around) hints here. If you take two chapters, one from the beginning and one from the end (for example 1 and 21) it'll tell you a little secret. Okay, What Goes Around and Rain Through the Universe communicate through their plot, which I can’t spoil but of course it has to do with Madigan and Spica and how they first meet… but there is one title pair that does it best visibly.

Lemon-Dotted Days and Days in Darkness.

And I hadn’t even planned this. All the parallels I wanted to draw… I feel like they built themselves, guys. They really did, and it makes me so wildly happy I don’t even know how to stop my hands from flailing.

And, with them being 21 chapters, they meet in the middle, on the one unpaired chapter.

Called Toast to the Light.

I friggin’ love everything.

New Sunrise, Forget-Me-Right

Of course, Forget-Me-Right is a play on Scorpion Grass. But it’s also such a gentle name for the chapter, because everything ends here. Lying on their backs, staring out into the universe, and it really, really is over. Just a dark horizon on which stars flare and bloom. And suddenly, that maddened rush to make every sacrifice count, to remember every soul they’ve encountered because the legend says the Beast absorbs you when it kills you – all that suffocating pressure dissipates. Lightness remains. Because they’ve protected each other.

For the first time in my writing journey, blood rushed to my head with such emotion I had to stop writing, which never happens. I had to look up and exclaim, holy fuck. But how could I not, considering how the story ends for the Beast? I am speechless. A lot of gorgeous surprises this draft.

Conclusion□●□

Whew, what a year it's been! As for how 2024 will probably look like, though I don't like making plans: finishing the beta stage for 'quiv, and tackling RoaN and AoS's draft 3. Thaaaat one I'm actually starting on Christmas, when I can (finally!!) reread draft 2 with my mug of hot cocoa (or maybe mulled wine for a change) and, no surprises here, I'm hyper stoked for that<3 <3 <3 I legit can't wait to see where the new draft brings them. I might not have set any expectations for them, but they're vying to keep up with 'quiv and I adore it🤭❤

As for my lovely friends... well, you know by how I spam your tags how much I adore you and wish you happiness forever🤩🥺🥳 I don't know what my activity will look like in the near future, so for now I won't be saying anything, and my semi-hiatus continues. Semi, because you're unforgettable and I crave to see what everyone's been up to and (!!!!) what you've written!

So let's meet in 2024 again, and all the best wishes to you, the reader🥰🥂❤.

#ayearofwriting #2023 #aquiver-aglow #aberration of sunlight

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