#i can and will turn everything into star trek

[emdeejaydraws]

Odile as a half-Vulcan (a la spock), and Sif as a landing party leader who, several timeloops later, has begun taking the role so seriously everyone just calls them 'captain' now loop is Q

[themalhambird]

so I made this post, @celebrimbor-apologist made these fantastic tags:

#Just#I could imagine Sauron as a khan-esque guy#He's angry at the federation#He hides in plain sight#Manipulates mansplains manslaughters his way through it#While he's on the ship#Adar sees right through him because#Hes been with the capitalist assholes who fucked up his uruks#But by that time Adar is still kinda new on the ship so he isn't as trusted#That's what makes it all the more tragic that sauron gets along well with Celebrimbor#Because Adar and him got along well#Please no Tyelpe dying here please#But dramatic “we were all fooled” scene in sickbay pls#ALSO#Navigations Officer Camnir#Vorohil at the weapons console

and, well. My hand slipped...

Without any discussion amongst themselves, the other senior officers have fallen into pattern, keeping vigil at Celebrimbor’s side in the medbay in shifts. It feels important that somebody is there when he wakes up, and well. The Lindon has spent the better part of a month in enemy control, dead in space, with engineering and the bridge both sealed off, life support functions cutting in and out and explosions buffeting the ship at random moments. The medical officers have their hands full. 

“Ga…lad..riel?”

It’s been three days. It’s early- or late, depending on perspective- and it’s Galadriel’s turn on Celebrimbor-Watch. She had been just about half way to sleep herself. Now, she snaps awake– a bright smile splitting her face at the sight of Celebrimbor’s sharp, bright eyes.  “Hello you.”

“Did…it work..? The transporter?” 

“It worked.” 

Celebrimbor exhales with relief, eyes shutting for a moment. The grief and distress on his face eases briefly, and then his eyes fly wide open once more. He sits up, moving as though he intends to swing out of the bed and start running. “The warp drive. The core, it’s going- the system wasn’t made to handle- she’s going to blow-”

“No, no- Celebrimbor, you fixed it.” Galadriel grabs his arms and holds him steady, noting in the back of her mind how he flinches and whimpers at the contact but not wanting to let go until she’s sure he’s not going to do himself further injury by trying to get up. “Remember,” she says, fixing her steady eyes on his. “Remember? You rigged up a transporter beam and blasted Sauron off the ship. You got control back to the bridge and dropped the shields cutting engineering off. Adar came down– just him, in case the air was too toxic, the deck too unstable or dark for anybody else. Adar found you, and you told him about the transporter, and the threat to the warp drive. You fixed it together, and then you collapsed. Adar carried you from engineering to the medbay, and you’ve been here for three days.”

“Three days?” Celebrimbor repeats. Slowly, he lets Galadriel sink him back down against the pillows. The first officer nods. 

“Three days,” she confirms. “You’re doing well, and the Lindon-” she pauses. Frankly, the Lindon is a mess. Whatever Sauron was trying to achieve, the engine deck has been well and truly cannibalised. So bad is it that the engineers- having secured life support, and repaired any immediately threatening damage, are reluctant to touch anything else until Celebrimbor is able to take a look first. Gil-galad has sent distress signals not only on Star Fleet channels, but on Vulcan, Klingon- even Ferengi frequencies. In an uncharacteristic display of temper and bloodlust Elrond has declared that if they ever manage to figure out what random coordinates Celebrimbor sent Sauron to, he’s going to pull the Maia’s guts out and rearrange them and see how he likes it. “The Lindon is stable,” she says, “and in no immediate danger.”

“Oh. That is…that is good.” Celebrimbor’s eyes drift closed again. Federation medicine had vanquished whatever burns, cuts, and bruises naturally rapid Feonorian healing hadn’t already taken care of (and it worries everyone that Celebrimbor both had wounds old enough that they should have already healed themselves- and that the true extent of how badly hurt their friend has been injured in the last month is, as of yet, unclear). Nevertheless,  the Engineer’s captivity- and, Galadriel supposes, his ordeal in the run up to it, the period where there had been a growing concern that he was experiencing a psychological breakdown- has left him gaunt- visibly ashen and exhausted. He swallows, and seems to be steeling himself for something. When he speaks again, he doesn’t open his eyes, and though he seems to be doing his best to lie very, very still, there’s a faint tremor in his fingers. 

“Galadriel?”

“Yes?”

“Will you…will you please tell Captain Gil-galad that I…am ready to be escorted to the brig at…his pleasure? I will…co-operate fully. With a court martial. Whatever charges he wishes to bring, I’ll not contest them.” he turns his face toward her and when his eyes open again, they are brimming with tears. “If he will see me, I should like to apologize. I neither expect nor deserve forgiveness, but even so, I am sorry. For my foolishness. For not..being strong enough…” A tear spills down , dripping onto the bridge of his nose. Galadriel’s own eyes prickle. 

“Celebrimbor.” She moves her hand to just above his, and when he doesn’t draw away, gently takes it. His fingers are colder than they should be. “Of course Gil-galad will see you- but because you are his friend and he is concerned, not because he is angry. There is no question of a Court Martial- you saved the ship-”

“After I endangered it in the first place-”

“After your attempts at warning of the danger were ignored-”

“The danger that was all my fault-”

“Control of the ship was seized by a hostile alien force who manipulated and coerced you into doing its’ bidding,” Galadriel says. “Celebrimbor, we all thought Annatar was who he claimed to be. That you saw through it at all…well. You remember when he was with us as Halbrand. And I nearly punched Gil-galad in the face?”

Celebrimbor frowns. “...You did punch Gil-galad in the face. And then Gil-galad punched you back. You both ended up rolling around on the floor, pulling each other’s hair.”

“Not according to any of the official logs,” Galadriel says archly “According to the official logs, we only nearly came to blows.  Only you, Gil-galad, and I know different-”

“Elrond knows.”

“Elrond knows everything, Elrond doesn’t count.”

They lapse into silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. “The point is,” Galadriel says at last. “If he hadn’t left us when he did, the first time, I don’t know that he wouldn’t have persuaded me to mutiny. And it took us weeks of going back over everything when we found out he wasn’t who he had claimed, piercing it all together, that we even realised he had been manipulating us. And then, when we were explicitly watching for him…he did it all over again. We were all fooled. Alright, Adar was suspicious,” she acknowledges, a little begrudgingly. “But all that meant was that Annatar- Sauron- persuaded me to lock out his access to the bridge. To be fair, I’m still not sure how he had access in the first place-”

The tips of Celebrimbor’s ears turn pink. “That- ah. That may have been me. A flux coil blew in one of the helm’s navigation controls during the party for Disa and Durin’s anniversary. It was a downshift, no one was on the bridge, and everyone else was having such fun, I didn’t want to drag them away to spend half an hour standing about watching me in case I somehow managed to give myself a plasma–shock doing repairs so routine I could manage in the dark standing backward and with one hand tied behind my back. And, well, I got distracted by- that doesn’t matter- and I forgot to revoke it, and no one seemed to mind his coming and going as he pleased until…well. Until Annatar.”

“The point is- and maybe don’t tell anyone else you gave a non-Federation civilian you met when he abducted you the security clearance to get onto the bridge,” Galdriel interjects into her own sentence, the image of an external investigation into this whole mess suddenly flashing before her eyes. “The point is, we were all fooled, Celebrimbor. Twice over.” she squeezes his hand. “You have nothing to blame yourself for, no apologies you need to make.”

“Nevertheless,” Celebrimbor says. He gives her hand a hesitant squeeze in return. “I will make them. Will you tell the Captain I wish to see him, when it’s convenient?”

“I’ll tell him you’re awake, and he’ll come straight down.” Galadriel stands, leaning forward to drop a gentle kiss on his forehead on her way up. “I’d better fetch you a doctor, to, just to give you another look over now you’re awake.” She lets go of his hand, but lingers long enough to give him a last smile. “It’s good to see you, my friend. It is so very good to see you.”

[youngpettyqueen]

42 “clumsy kiss” with WHATEVER ship strikes your fancy

omg letting me pick the pairing?? Ally youre too kind to me <333

a clumsy kiss, love a clumsy kiss... ive got Jadzia on the brain after reading Revenant, so here's a cute lil scene with her and Worf! I know you havent seen DS9 but I hope you enjoy anyways <3

Jadzia wants two things.

First, she wants another bloodwine. They've been going down so nicely tonight, and she lost count a while back of how many she's had, exactly, but she wants another one.

Second, she wants her husband.

She goes to find Worf first, because she'll need Worf in order to get the bloodwine. Quark, being entirely unfair, had cut her off, so she needs Worf to go get it for her.

She wants him for more than just getting her another drink, of course. It's been a couple hours since she last saw him, and she misses him. Which is entirely ridiculous, it's only been a couple hours, but this is a party- a Klingon party- and she'd like to be spending it with her husband.

Unfortunately, he's a bit difficult to find in this crowd.

QI'lop is one of her favourite Klingon holidays. It's always a good party, with plenty of good food, and lots and lots of good drink. Dax has had an iron gut for liquor through most of its lives, and Jadzia is no exception. She was right there alongside General Martok when he went to convince Sisko to allow a celebration to take place on the station, and she suspects her asking for it was what tipped Sisko's opinion in their favour.

The general invited a whole lot of people, who in turn invited others, and now the entire Promenade is swarming with Klingons. She's sure Odo and Starfleet Security are just having a blast trying to keep eyes everywhere. She'll make it up to them another time. For now, she's a bit busy swaying and stumbling through the Klingon crowd, which is great for a party, but not so good for trying to find her husband.

When she does find him, it's because she walks into him. Literally. She's looking around, high and low, anywhere but right in front of her, and she walks right smack into him.

Jadzia yelps, nearly falling back on her ass. Quick as a whip, Worf catches her by the waist, steadying her. She finds herself looking up into his eyes, and maybe it's that her blood is 60% alcohol at this point, but she could swear she falls in love with him all over again.

"Hi, handsome." She greets, grinning broadly.

"Jadzia," Worf acknowledges, a whole lot more composed than she is. He eases her up to her feet, though his hands don't leave her waist, "You are drunk." He observes.

Jadzia gasps in mock indignation, her hand flying to her chest. "Me? No," Worf just raises a brow at her, and she goes right back to grinning, "Ok, maybe a little. Just a little. And I'd like to be a little more drunk, so I need you," She puts a hand on his arm, "To go get me a bloodwine."

Worf doesn't move. "Is there a reason you can't get your own?" He asks, and he looks like he already knows the answer.

Damn him and his very thorough, and also kind of sexy observational skills. "Cause Quark is being mean and he won't let me have anymore." She tells him, oh-so-sad about it.

"I find it difficult to believe that the Ferengi would turn down a profit without sufficient reason," Worf continues, and Jadzia curses internally, "Did he cut you off?" He asks plainly.

Jadzia can still win here. She nods, and puts on her best pout as she does. "Can you believe his audacity?" She asks in turn, "Telling me when I've had enough? You have to talk to him, Worf. You can't let him get away with this, with... with cutting your wife off from bloodwine," She leans against him, looking up at him with her best puppy dog eyes, "My honour would never recover." She laments.

Worf looks thoroughly unmoved by her performance. "For once, the Ferengi and I are in agreement," He says, and Jadzia's mouth falls open, "I believe you have had enough, and that it is time for us to retire." He doesn't give her any warning for what he does next. He moves with, frankly, unfair speed, and suddenly Jadzia finds herself being swept off her feet and into his arms.

She yelps, throwing her arms around his neck in surprise. "Worf!" She squeaks, too drunk to be dignified. She clings tight to him as he starts to walk, and he cradles her against him like she weighs nothing at all.

"In your state, this is more efficient." Worf tells her, stepping over a Klingon who seems to be passed out drunk on the floor.

"But it's QI'lop," Jadzia pouts, "I love QI'lop."

"You will thank me in the morning." Worf replies, unsympathetically.

Jadzia harrumphs, but she doesn't put up a fight. There's a part of her, a teeny tiny, absolutely minuscule part of her that isn't drunk beyond reason, and that teeny tiny, absolutely minuscule part of her knows that he's right. She's very drunk, and Quark was probably right to cut her off, because she has the morning shift, and if she has anything more she's going to be both hungover and useless. She's been drunk enough times to know that if she stops now, she's only going to be hungover.

The thought makes her sulk. That's going to suck. Julian's going to have a field day with her.

Well, maybe not. He did vanish early from the party with Martok and Sirella, so he might be suffering from his own agonies tomorrow. She can only hope.

The rumble of Worf's baritone draws Jadzia out of that mental image, and she realizes that they're away from the party and on the turbolift. He must've asked for their level of the Habitat Ring. She didn't even realize they'd left the Promenade.

Now that the music isn't pounding and rattling her bones, she realizes that she can't actually feel her body all that much. She can feel Dax, protesting being taken out of the fun with Curzon's voice, but she can't feel her limbs. And, now that she's really thinking about it, her head feels like it's full of cotton. She can't think very clearly. Have the lights in this turbolift always been this bright? She squints, barely resisting the urge to curl up and hide her face in Worf's neck.

Ok. Maybe she did overdo it a bit.

The lift stops, and Worf steps out into the corridor, which is mercifully darker. Jadzia isn't the biggest fan of Cardassian architecture, but right now, she appreciates their lighting schemes. She relaxes as Worf carries her down the hall, all the way to their door, where he sets her down with the utmost care so that he can punch in the code to let them in.

Jadzia leans heavily against him, letting him lead her inside. His arm is strong and secure around her, keeping her held against his side. He's like a walking, talking pillar. She feels all warm and fuzzy, held against him like this, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol burning a hole in her gut.

She turns to him and stops him. Rests a hand on his chest, looks up at him to meet his eyes. He looks at her with a bit of curiosity, a bit of exasperation, and a whole lot of love. She smiles at that, her heart doing a little dance.

She really does love him.

"You're wonderful." Jadzia tells him.

Worf cocks a brow at her. "Is this your way of thanking me?" He asks.

"I'm too drunk to thank you how I want to thank you," She replies, and she chuckles when that comment makes his cheeks darken. He's still such a prude sometimes, it's very endearing, "But yes. Thank you. Thank you, for carrying me all the way home, and keeping me from making a bigger mess of myself," She raises her hands to his cheeks, holds his face, her world, in her palms, "I love you." She murmurs, achingly sincere.

Worf's expression softens. He reaches up, catches her wrists, holds her hands in place. "And I, you." He says, with that soft voice he only ever uses with her.

Jadzia beams, and draws him in for a kiss. Except her coordination isn't great, because she's still very drunk, so her kiss ends up at the corner of his mouth. She giggles, she can't help herself, and she tries again, and she sort of gets his top lip with the second attempt.

"Sorry," She snickers, holding him close, her nose against his, "I'm better at this when I'm sober."

Worf smiles at her, equal parts amused and fond. "I don't mind." He replies.

Jadzia kisses him again, and this time, it lands. And then, just to make up for the clumsy misses, she kisses him again. And again. And again, and again, and then he scoops her up into his arms again, and she keeps on kissing him as he carries her to their bed.

[ilovefredjones]

i wish i had more collected and intellectual thoughts on jim and la’an. instead my brain just screams about them all the time

[trashabilly]

had an incredible amount of Feelings about the realization that i essentially go to work cosplaying hawkeye pierce every day

(he/him)

[nighttimepotato]

After watching episode 7 three times I have some thoughts.

But I did set a pretty simple rating system after episode 2.

As long as Shaw is around to be funny and doesn't die the episode is 10/10.

And we got there. Barely but we got there.

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

Kirk and spock are really the ideal will they won't they couple because they both have reasons for why they wouldn't confess (spock is embarrassed by his own feelings and kirk WOULD be the guy who goes 'it's not anyone's business but my own how I feel for mr spock' and also because he's captain he's not allowed) but they also have reasons for why they would be the first to confess (spock is very logical and would come forward with his feelings if he thought even for a second they were interfering with how he does his job and kirk is. Kirk.)

[jennelikejennay]

oh

ohhhh

NOW I get why Spock likes it

in almost every other children's book where the main heroine is swept away to a land of whimsy she's shown having a lovely time; braving dangers occasionally, trying to find her way home, sure, but ultimately delighting in the magic around her. meanwhile alice spends her entire time in wonderland like

[mephistopheles]

i spent a few months working with shakespeare’s globe in london, which is a reconstruction of a theatre built in 1599, which itself is a reconstruction of a theatre built in 1576. obviously this was before they had the ability to put microphones on actors, so one of the big questions scholars had was ‘how did people hear the play?’ turns out, as ppl discovered when they rebuilt the globe, the circular shape of the walls (combined with the springy oak-and-plaster they were made of) create a huge amplifying effect on all sounds emanating from the stage, meaning—even today—everyone can hear just fine. and i was like. why are you surprised by this. why are people shocked that humans of the past actually Knew What They Were Doing. why are people amazed that machu picchu is architecturally genius or surprised that the iliad is devastatingly powerful or stunned that ppl were solving sinusoidal trigonometric equations possibly as early as 350 CE. history is not one long linear march leading up to Today, The Zenith Of Everything & just bc somethings newer doesnt make it better & i am not smarter than the guy who wrote gilgamesh. actually this post is about people who were introduced to star trek by the flashy new stuff and then watched the original series and were, for some reason, shocked that so much of it was “actually good”

[winterarmyy]

Most Precious

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: In which Bucky and the reader had to take shelter from the snow storm after abandoning a mission due to the reader's 'mistake'.

Pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!female!reader

Words: 2.2k++

Warnings: nudity but no smut content. a sprinkle of angst and i hope the ending is fluffy enough to make up for it.

Inspiration: i saw @buck-star posted this event and some of the prompts inspired me to write this 🥹

Prompts used: stranded/snowed in, cabin in the woods on the mountain, grumpy x sunshine soft reader, mutual pining/idiots in love, sitting lying together in front of the fireplace, a tweaked version of "You're the most precious thing ever. I will protect you with everything I have."

Note: feel free to search up #sydneysfluffywinter or #fluff-star winter for more stories under the event. i hope you enjoy this short fic!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

The wind roared like a creature born of anger, staggering through the cabin’s entrance door as Bucky almost broke the door when he kicked it open. Snow seeping into his tactical suit, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead. In his arms, Y/N lay limp, her frozen skin clinging to the fabric of his suit on his chest as if she belonged there. She can hear his heart hammered against her ear, a relentless beat behind the layers of cloth. 

It was wild, frantic even; and she told herself it was because of the storm, the desperate trek to find shelter. She thought of her injuries, the way she slowed him down. The guilt made her heart clench and her chest feel heavy; a throb more suffocating than the pain in her thigh and waist. She’d been nothing but a burden.

The cabin was almost as dark as the night, and the coldness of the space was not that far off from the snow storm brewing outside. But this? This wasn’t new to him. He’d endured worse.

Bucky lowered her carefully in front of the fireplace, his movements precise but urgent. Y/N winced as her wounds screamed in protest, the pain was blazing hot despite the freezing air around. Her thigh throbbed, and her waist felt as though it was wrapped in shards of glass. 

Bucky stepped away briefly, his gaze darting over the unlit corners of the room, his hand instinctively brushing the knife at his side. A habit he was not able to forget; the Winter Soldier training never really left him. Satisfied they were alone, he turned back to her.

Her eyelids fluttered slowly, her consciousness slipping in and out. Bucky cursed under his breath. The power was out, but he wasn’t about to waste time diagnosing that now. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line as he set out what he needed to treat her wounds. 

Bucky was angry; it radiated off him like steam from boiling water. But the frown on his face wasn’t unfamiliar. Y/N had seen his rigid features a thousand times before. This, though? This was sharper, colder. It wasn’t his usual grumpiness. He was mad. At her. 

The realization was like a slow plunge of blade into her chest, and it made eyes pooled with warm tears. Not from the physical pain scorching her flesh, but the ache of his perceived disappointment.

By the time Bucky had coaxed the firewood into flames, the heat began to thaw the rattling chill in the room. He knelt beside her, his expression set in stone as he draped a blanket over her trembling form. Behind the cover of the blanket, his hands worked quickly, undressing her with care that belied his hardened demeanor. 

He pulled her close as he worked to pull her pants over her bottom. Her face was buried in his neck as he whispered, “The cold will kill you. Come on, now.” His voice, rough but mostly filled with urgency. They didn’t have the luxury of embarrassment – for her, the sensation of him stripping her bare; for him, the temptation to relish the softness of her skin against his hands – not with her life teetering on the edge of frost and blood loss.

He peeled the blanket back just enough to expose her injuries, the torn of her flesh was slick with half-frozen blood. The cold had helped slow the bleeding, but not enough to ease his worry. Bucky worked with a precision that spoke of grim experience. 

Every time she winced or hissed, his grip on the forceps tightened, the metal creaking in protest. It was as if her pain annoyed him, a silent demand for her to be stronger, better; more like an Avenger.

She noticed it every single time, and it pricked into her pride like being wrapped with thorny vines. The fact that he wouldn’t meet her eyes made it worse. His focus stayed on her wounds, his frown deepening with each moment.

When he finally finished, he noticed the tears tracing her cheeks; a silent trace of a vulnerability she couldn’t hide. They were especially prominent when they glistened in the firelight. His brow furrowed further.

“Bear with the pain a little longer,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’ll get the team here as soon as I can.” his tone was not that far off from his normal grumpy self.

But to Y/N, at this very moment, it sounded harsh. To her, it sounded more like an order than reassurance. She swallowed, guilt twisting like a vice in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice trembling.

Bucky’s head snapped up, confusion flashing in his stormy blue eyes. “What?”

“I’m sorry for being incompetent. I should’ve noticed them sooner. I should’ve taken them down before they could do anything.” Her voice was a mix of shame and frustration however not as evident as the pure agon trembling through.

His jaw clenched. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

The words were meant to be absolution, but she heard them differently. There’s nothing you can do.

Her voice cracked. “I wasn’t enough.”, streams of hot tears kept falling unapologetically, leaving behind a trail of warmth on her cold skin. 

Bucky’s frown deepened, his frustration bubbling over. “Damn it, Y/N. Why do you always do this to yourself?”

She blinked at him, her confusion cutting through the haze of pain. “Do what?”

“Put the blame on yourself like it’s some kind of default setting. This wasn’t your fault,” he snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than intended.

Her cheeks burned, shame and anger mingling in her chest. “I’m not blaming myself. I’m just… stating facts. If I’d been faster, stronger; if I’d been better; this wouldn’t happen. We wouldn’t need to abandon the mission. You wouldn’t need to carry me all the way up here.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, his frustration spilling out; contaminating the air around them. “You think I care about that? About you being some kind of perfect soldier?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping but no less intense. “I care about you, Y/N. Not your skills, not your damn performance. YOU.”

Her breath hitched, his words slicing through the self-doubt she’d been drowning in. “Then why do you look at me like that? Like I’ve failed you?”

His shoulders sagged, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “That’s not what this is,” he said, his tone quieter now, tinged with exhaustion. “I’m angry because you scared the hell out of me. I’m worried about you, Y/N. You jumped in front of a bullet meant for me without a second thought. Don’t you value your life?”

The words struck her like a blow, but she struck back with equal fervor. “You’re the most valuable person to me! Of course, I will protect you with everything I have. And I’d do it again if I have to!”

Her confession lingered in the air, fragile but undeniable. Bucky’s eyes widened, the storm in them softening as realization washed over him. His anger melted, leaving only the deepest parts of his emotions afloat; his love for her.

His right hand rose tentatively, brushing the skin of her tear-streaked face. His palm cupped her cheek, his warmth a stark contrast to her icy skin. She leaned into his touch, a quiet surrender.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice trembling with an overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t quite utter out loud yet. “You… you matter to me.”

The words hung between them, heavy and fragile. She blinked up at him, the pieces slowly found its rightful place in puzzle. She realized that he meant more than just about worry or duty. It was something deeper, something unspoken but unmistakable. Yet, she reminds herself not to get ahead of the moment.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Because you make it easier to keep going,” he admitted, his voice unfiltered. “When everything feels heavy, when the past doesn’t let me breathe, you’re the one thing that makes it bearable. You remind me that I’m still… me. And that makes you, Y/N, the most precious person to me.”

Her heart clenched, his words cutting through the haze of pain and doubt. The light from the fire danced in his eyes, their usual icy blue now warm and liquid, like the sea yielding to the shore. She hadn’t just been a mission partner or a responsibility to him. She’d been his anchor, his hope.

And for a moment, the storm outside seemed to still; as if time itself paused to let the quiet intimacy between them linger just a little longer. To let the cabin feel like it  was a cocoon, sheltering not just their bodies but the fragile truths they’d finally unveiled.

"Are you okay with that, babydoll?" he asked softly.

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the nickname, her heart stuttering in her chest. She nodded, sheepish, her lips curving into a small, bashful smile. His own lips twitched upward, the corners softening into a rare, genuine grin. Her reaction was worth the vulnerability of saying it aloud.

But as the burning wood crackled and the silence stretched, Bucky noticed the faint tremble still coursing through her body. Even with the fire roaring and the blanket tucked around her, she was trembling.

"You’re still cold," he murmured, guilt threading through his tone as his hand moved gently, caressing her cheek before trailing down to her neck. His touch was soft, deliberate, as though he could erase the chill from her skin with every motion.

Their eyes met in that moment, and the realization hit them both at the same time. 

She nodded slightly, her voice a soft whisper. "Can you… stay with me? Under the covers?"

Bucky hesitated, his instincts warring with his emotions. His hesitation lingered for a moment too long, and she turned her wide, pleading eyes on him. Those damned puppy eyes. And just like that, he was undone.

With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his snow-soaked jacket and tactical vest, leaving them in a damp heap by the fire. His shirt followed, revealing the lines of muscle and the faint scars that told a thousand stories. He slid beneath the covers, careful not to jostle her injured side. The moment his warmth enveloped her, Y/N instinctively curled closer, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Bucky’s body was a furnace, the serum coursing through his veins keeping his heat steady and intense. Her frozen fingers brushed against his chest, and he sucked in a sharp breath, every nerve in his body coming alive at the contact.

Slowly, he wrapped his right arm around her, careful and deliberate. Pulling her closer; her head snuggled into the crook of his neck, the softness of her breasts resting on just below his chest, her legs entangled with his, until there was no space left between them.

His hand found her back, calloused fingers tracing soothing circles over her bare skin. The gesture was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid that she would break. But the way she relaxed against him, her breaths stabilising as her trembling subsided, told him she didn’t mind. Her nose brushing against his skin, and he felt her sigh; a soft, content sound that made his chest ache in the best way.

"You’re precious to me," he murmured, the words spilling out before he could second-guess them. His lips found her forehead, a lingering kiss that was both tender and grounding. "More than anything."

Y/N’s fingers curled against his chest, her heart thumping a steady rhythm that matched his own. "Bucky," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep but laced with something softer, warmer. "Thank you."

He smiled against her hair, the corners of his mouth curving upward in a way that felt unfamiliar but good. "No, thank you, for saving me", he replied quietly, his sincerity was certain. Then his tone shifted, growing stern as he added, "But, don’t do that again."

She giggled softly at his warning, the sound light and airy, cutting through the heaviness of the moment. "What if I like saving you?" she teased, her voice playful but still tinged with exhaustion.

Bucky rolled his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You’re impossible," he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words. Instead, his hand shifted to cradle the back of her head, his thumb brushing gently over her hairline. "Just promise me you won’t scare me like that again."

She tilted her head up slightly to meet his gaze, her lips twitching with a faint smile. "Only if you promise the same."

He huffed, his breath warm against her temple. "Deal." His fingers resumed their soothing circles on her back, and he leaned down to press another soft kiss to her forehead. "Get some rest, doll."

They stayed like that, skin to skin, softness meeting strength. Bucky held her as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if the storm that had almost claimed their life was nothing but a distant memory. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of everything; the mission, the storm, the unspoken emotions, seemed to lift. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside faded to nothing.

At some point, their bodies finally surrendered to exhaustion, leading them straight to the warm embrace of sleep and perhaps even to the bashful morning after when they awoke, body tangled together, and all too aware of the touch of each other’s bare skin.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: i know it's not a tooth rotting fluff, regardless though, i hope you enjoyed the fic? drop your thoughts, i'd love to read them 💕

[sp0o0kylights]

Give meee: an Eddie who went into a small little bookshop on an Indie trip and stumbled across an in person fandom meeting. 

It's mostly Star Trek, and also mostly women, but the stories they have are nothing like Eddie's ever read. 

He's barely a teenager, and already protective of himself and his real identity--but everything he's ever wanted is written down, right here, on a little zine with Kirk and Spock doodled on the cover. 

They’re not--it’s not obvious, that they’re what he is, but the story itself is blatant and Eddie ends up being so obviously close to tears, he accidentally outs himself without ever saying a word. 

(He also ends up on the mailing list, then being sent home with several hand printed copies of all kinds of zines.) 

Eddie would remain on this list well past his third senior year in high school. 

Past bats, and Vecna and Steve fucking Harrington. 

Flash forward to his first apartment.The tiny one he shares with Steve when they followed Nancy and Robin to college. 

Steve knows Eddie’s gay. 

Or rather, Steve has been told, but Eddie's still pretty clammed up about it. He's not yet where Robin is, ready to bemoan her loveless existence while draped over their crappy, thrifted couch.

He makes jokes and he flirts and he absolutely says things he shouldn't, but none of it is real. 

It's flash. Showmanship. 

It's the persona that yes, is him, but Eddie consciously built it. There’s nothing soft or gooey there, nothing anyone can use to hurt him. 

So when he comes home and sees that plain, padded envelope with the neatly printed label on the counter, torn wide open and flat without its contents?

 Eddie panics. 

His heart thunders in his chest, vision tunneling as adrenaline kicks through him. 

He wants to bolt-- should bolt--except ever since he almost died his brain no longer obeys him. 

Not when it comes to running, anyway. 

Instead it fights him to a standstill, freezing his feet right to the living room floor. 

The urge is still there. 

To run, and save face the cowards way. 

Vanish before Steve could get at a part of him that had once kept Eddie out of Wayne’s trailer for two days, until the old man had hunted him down and made him come home, huffing about how he’d love Eddie no matter what but he better never disappear like that again. 

(Which Eddie did anyway, and of everything that happened with Vecna, it’s that he regrets the most. The stories he heard of Wayne putting up posters. Squaring off with angry, too-righteous townies, and--)

A sniffle jerks him out of his thoughts. 

Eddie gasps, entirely unsure of when he stopped breathing. Stumbles back and turns, right in time for Steve to come out of his room and amble down their hallway. 

One hand rubs at his eyes, and the other is--the other has…

Eddie identifies the cheaply printed, stapled zine immediately. It's one he's wanted to read for a while now, solely because it features a story about Kirk and Spock being stuck in a cave together on a planet that has  bat-like, vicious animals on it. 

Kirk gets bitten after something goes wrong with the transporter and, look, it’s carthiatic okay!? Sue a guy for wanting to read a romance about a situation he identifies with! 

Steve looks up from the zine and startles. 

For a second his eyes go dark and flat, the same way Eddies and Robins and Nancy's and everyone's does when caught off guard. 

It's gone in a flash though, Steve visibly relaxing when he clocks that it's just Eddie. 

He keeps the zine pressed to his sweater clad chest,  and huffs out a laugh that's half forced and half pure relief.

“Fuck Eds, you scared me! I didn’t know you could be quiet.” 

“Uh huh.” Eddie manages, voice sounding totally and absolutely normal and not at all ten octaves higher than it usually is. 

They stare at each other for a second. Long enough that Steve's eyebrows crinkle in the middle, which is the first hint that he’s beginning to worry, and Eddie really cannot handle Steve being worried right now.  

“What's--” Eddie’s voice cracks and he coughs to recover. “what's that?” 

Steve frowns at him for a moment, until Eddie gestures at the zine in his hands. 

“Oh!”

Steve holds it up, as if to show it off. 

“It's a little book Robin got in the mail. It has a bunch of stories in it. They're normally boring as fuck but this one's from Star Trek.” 

Hearing the words ‘Star Trek’ out of Steve’s mouth shouldn’t be weird, not anymore, when Eddie and Dustin have been on a two man mission to nerdify Harrington as much as possible, but it still kicks like a mule to hear him say such things without any prompting. 

“You know what Star Trek is?”

“Eddie,” Steve tuts, tongue clicking in his mouth. “everyone knows what Star Trek is. It’s nerd shit, but like, old nerd shit. My grandparents used to watch it when I stayed over. This?” 

 He shakes the zine, so hard Eddie wants to snatch it away from him.

 “This isn't nerd shit. This is excellent.”

Steve gives the zine an appreciative glance and hell, maybe Eddie accidentally walked into another dimension. 

He’s been trying to get Steve to read more, rediscover the joys of books the public school system does its best to destroy, but until now Steve hasn’t really taken to it. 

Enjoys when Eddie reads aloud sometimes, and has started to bug Robin to do it for him too, but otherwise?

Eddie’s nerve seen him with anything that had the written word on it that wasn’t a cooking or car related magazine. 

“Honestly,” Steve’s saying, “I think Robs fucked up, this isn't her style at all. She’s gonna be pissed.” 

He eyes the thing appreciatively, like the gift it is. 

“I'm stealing it the second she figures that out.” He adds decisively. 

“You like it?” Eddie asks. 

“Mmm.” 

“Even though it's--it's got…Kirk…” 

Steve's frowning at him again. “What?” 

“It's queer man. It's really queer.” 

Steve peers at him, the crinkle back in his eyebrows. 

“I know. Wait, how do you--” 

And well. It’s now or never. 

“It's mine.” Eddie says in a rush.

“No it's not.” Steve scoffs, and okay, maybe this is a dream. Eddie pinched himself twice already, but perhaps a third time would wake him up?

(It does not.)

“it was even addressed to Robin. Well,” Steve has one hand on a hip now, his default position when arguing, “Robbie, but she goes by that sometimes.” 

Which Robin does, but not in the fucking mail.

Without a word, Eddie turns and goes for the envelope the zine came in. 

Steve follows, invading Eddie’s space to peer over his shoulder (and that’s Eddie’s fault too, that closeness, but he didn’t think it would be turned on him in a moment like this--) 

There's a sticker on the envelope’s label.

 It’s barely hanging on, half of it curled into the air.  Round and yellow, with little black lines, it becomes immediately obvious that one of Robin's smiley face stickers has migrated again. 

They're all over the apartment. Remnants of a phase she went through after she stole a roll of them from her and Steve’s job at a local toy store.

This one had clearly jumped ship from its original spot (likely on the ceiling somewhere), and was now firmly over the E in Eddie's name. 

‘Ddie’ still isn't exactly ‘Obbie’  but--

Steve leans around, snatching the envelope up and bringing it close to his face. 

Far too close, like he can't read it, eyes squinting as he examines the label--and suddenly Eddie knows exactly what happened. 

He laughs, an explosion of noise that's half hysterical and half disbelief. 

Steve looks at him. 

“What?” 

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, one finger jabbing in the air in the vague direction of Steve’s nose. “I told you you needed glasses!” 

“I do not!” Steve protests immediately, but his eyes are darting around the envelope. 

He’s scrambling to figure out what Eddie’s seeing, trying desperately to find a hole that can prove himself right. 

Eddie decides to help him, by plucking the smiley sticker off the envelope. 

“See?” He jeers, and shit okay, maybe his life isn’t over just yet. “It says Eddie, not Robbie!” 

“You guys have got to start using your government names for this shit.” Steve bitches, but it’s weak.

Eddie feels a grin coming on, and lets it overtake his face. 

“So...Kirk and Spock huh?” 

“They’re cute.” Steve defends instantly, before sighing his defeat and tossing the envelope on the table. 

The zine he keeps in his hands. 

Eddie crosses his arms and leans against their rickety table. “Even though they’re both guys?” 

“I thought we were past this!” Steve whines. “I went to a gay bar with Robin last weekend!” 

Which is news to Eddie. 

“You didn’t invite me?” He gasps, feigning hurt by putting a hand over his heart. 

Truthfully he still hasn’t fully recovered--is play acting himself, almost, but is rapidly coming around to the idea of Steve appreciating queer fanfiction. 

“We did!” Steve rolls his eyes so dramatically his whole head moves. “We absolutely did, You said,” 

Here Steve’s voice pitches into a mockery of Eddie’s  that he will not give him points for, even if it is a little hilarious, “Me? At some loser bar? Fuck no, I’ve got a campaign to write. Starbuck, don’t you have homework?” 

“I didn’t know that was a gay bar!” 

“You did! Robin told you!” 

“Okay well, I wasn’t listening!”  

“Clearly. I keep telling you we need a fucking--system or, I don’t know, a code word or something!”  

“Yeah well, when you wanna make us a safe word for conversations, big boy, you let me know.” 

They’re both laughing a little now, this argument veering into familiar territory, with Eddie not really listening and Steve mocking him for it later. (As well as vice versa, with startling regularity.) 

“You really like it though?”  Eddie says after the laughter winds down, gesturing to the zine still clutched in Steve’s hand. 

“Yeah.” Steve confirms, easy as he’s said anything else. Like this isn’t embarrassing, or almost worse than the time Wayne found Eddie’s porno mags and alphabetized them as a joke. 

“It's part of a mail tree. I’m supposed to send it on to the next person when I’m done with it. I make copies though,” Eddie rushes to add, because Steve is now clutching the little booklet to his chest in horror, as if Eddie was about to rip it out of his hands. “If you like I’ll show you my other ones?” 

Steve eases his grip, giving Eddie the little smile he makes that makes his stomach flip. 

“That’d be cool.” 

(Later, Steve pokes at Eddie’s thigh from where they’re both sprawled on Eddie’s bed, Steve having switched the new zine out for one of Eddie’s copies. “Are you going to laugh at me if I ask you to read some of these aloud?” 

“Only if you don’t laugh when I ask you to take me to that gay bar.” 

“Deal, but on the grounds you’re barred from making fun of my flirting attempts. Robin doing it was bad enough.” 

“Well you deserve it if you’re hitting on women at a gay bar, Stevie.” 

“I wasn't hitting on women you asshole.” Steve says and oh.

Oh.

Eddie feels the floor drop out from under him for the second time that day. 

At least this time it’s not fear that thunders through him, but possibility.) 

[ssahotchnerr]

Hello! Can i request Dad!Aaron going shopping with his baby daughter at Disneyworld, pretty please? And like she keep running around to see everything so he has to pick her up? Please. Thank you!!!! 🫂💗

making memories

aaron and disney two of my fav things <3 cw; girl dad!aaron, fem!reader, fluff

the second the parade ended and aaron had set the littlest hotchner down onto the sidewalk, did she run into the nearest merchandise shop located directly behind.

you and aaron exchanged a quick look - a slightly alarmed, a slightly amused, and a slightly tired one. the two of you were struggling to keep with with the kids a tad, who's energy hadn't yet to falter, surprisingly. you all have been up since six to enter the park right at rope drop - no nap, minimal breaks throughout the day. it's been the most special, happy one, but an exhausted, heat-related meltdown was a guarantee at some point, the two of you were sure.

while you continued your action of helping jack reapply some sunscreen, the heat of the day blaring down harshly onto main street, aaron trekked after your daughter.

"you know better than to run off, sweetheart." aaron lectured gently as he caught up, thanking the stars above he did happen to be looking as she did. given, he had been keeping a close eye on her all day with the large, ever-growing crowd. keeping her in the stroller helped, you and aaron took turns carrying her from time to time, but you could never be too careful.

"look!" her little voice squeaked out excitedly, the brightest of smiles on her face as she gazed up at him. she pointed, her feet lifting in the tiniest of jumps. "minnie ears! can i pleaseee get one daddy?"

how could he possibly say no to her? and, when in disney world...

"okay." aaron grinned, already fond of the family pictures that were soon to come, "but, only if you pick out a pair for jack and mom too."

"and you!" she nodded frantically, already busying herself by pulling ears off the rack. "i want pink. and mommy likes princess belle, so we can get her the yellow ones. jackers..." she paused, her tiny eyebrows furrowing as she thought - looking like an exact replica of her father. "these! just plain black. i don't think he wants princess."

"i think you're right."

"what kind do you want?" her bright brown eyes found his, struggling a bit to hold onto the three pairs of ears in her small hands.

"how about..." aaron thought quickly, not too keen on wearing ears, per se. "would a baseball hat work? with a mickey on it?"

"okay." she agreed, a look of satisfaction forming on her face as she repeated after him, leading him to the hats. "with a mickey on it."

[missarchive]

What would late night heart to heart talks in Spencer’s bed be like?

goodmorning beautiful angels! thank you for your request, i very rarely get to write something like this <3

cw; comfort/fluff, spencer is a little insecure

The quiet of Spencer’s apartment feels sacred at this hour, the world beyond the walls of his modest space fading into insignificance. It’s just you and him, cocooned in the warmth of his bedroom. His bed is surprisingly inviting—layers of soft blankets in muted tones and a mountain of pillows that you’re certain he didn’t pick out himself. Still, it fits him, a blend of deliberate care and unintentional comfort.

Spencer is perched near the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His hair, slightly tousled, falls into his face, and he pushes it back absentmindedly, revealing those wide, earnest hazel eyes. He’s wearing a Star Trek t-shirt that’s seen better days, the print cracked and faded, and plaid pajama pants that don’t quite match but somehow suit him perfectly.

You’re sitting beside him, leaning against the headboard with one of his pillows hugged to your chest. The bedside lamp casts a soft, golden glow over the room, highlighting the faint flush on his cheeks as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, gesturing with his hands in that animated way of his, “if you’re feeling stuck, it might be a cognitive bias at play. There’s this concept called the ‘negativity bias.’ It’s a psychological tendency to focus more on negative events or feelings than positive ones. It’s evolutionarily adaptive because our ancestors needed to remember threats to survive, but it’s not exactly helpful when you’re trying to evaluate your own self-worth.”

You blink at him, momentarily stunned into silence by the sheer Spencer-ness of his response. Then you laugh, the sound breaking the quiet like a crackling fire.

“Only you, Spencer,” you tease, nudging his knee with your own, “could turn my self-doubt into a psychology lecture.”

His lips quirk into a shy smile, and he ducks his head, a strand of hair falling into his face again. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just… I don’t like seeing you feel this way. And sometimes understanding the science behind it can help. At least, it helps me.”

Your heart squeezes at the vulnerability in his voice. “Don’t apologize,” you say softly. “I love it when you go full professor on me.”

Spencer’s cheeks flush deeper, and he clears his throat, trying to mask his embarrassment. “Well, um, another thing that might help is reframing your perspective. It’s like what Albert Einstein said: ‘Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.’” He pauses, glancing at you nervously. “Not that I’m suggesting you’re out of balance or anything—just that… even if you feel stuck now, you’re still moving forward. You just might not realize it yet.”

The sincerity in his words makes your chest ache. You reach over, resting your hand on his, and he stills under your touch, his long fingers twitching slightly before relaxing.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you say. “You always know how to make me feel better. Even if it involves quoting Einstein.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound rare and precious. “I guess it’s my way of showing I care,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his. “What about you?” you ask. “Who do you talk to when you feel like this?”

Spencer hesitates, his gaze dropping to your joined hands. “I… don’t, really,” he says finally. “I mean, I talk to the team sometimes, but it’s different. They’re like family, and I don’t want to burden them with… everything. So I guess I just… keep it to myself. I read, or I journal, or I lose myself in research.”

“Of course you do,” you say with a fond smile. “Let me guess—you have a journal filled with obscure facts and statistics?”

Spencer’s lips twitch. “Actually, I have several,” he admits. “One for general observations, one for case notes, and one for… personal thoughts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Personal thoughts, huh? What kind of thoughts?”

He fidgets under your gaze, his ears turning pink. “Just… things I don’t feel comfortable saying out loud. Like how sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in, or how I worry that people only tolerate me because of what I can do, not because of who I am.”

The raw honesty in his voice makes your throat tighten. You shift closer, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek, gently forcing him to meet your eyes.

“Spencer,” you say firmly, “anyone who only values you for what you can do doesn’t deserve you. You’re brilliant, yes, but you’re also kind, and thoughtful, and funny in your own nerdy way. And anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out.”

His eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think he might cry. Instead, he leans into your touch, his hand coming up to rest over yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I… I don’t know if I deserve that.”

“You do,” you say, your voice unwavering. “More than you know.”

The rest of the night unfolds like a story written just for the two of you. Spencer opens up in ways you never expected, sharing fragments of his childhood, his fears, his dreams. He talks about his love for science fiction and how it gave him hope as a kid, how he memorized whole books because it made him feel like he had control over something.

And you share too, your own stories and insecurities spilling out into the safe space of his bed.

By the time exhaustion pulls you both under, the room feels lighter, like you’ve carved out a small pocket of peace in an otherwise chaotic world. Spencer’s arm drapes hesitantly but securely over your waist, his body curling instinctively toward yours.

As you drift off, his breath warm against your shoulder, you can’t help but think that this—these late-night talks, this quiet intimacy—is everything you never knew you needed.

[writteninthebinds]

Teach Me

A Jayvik fic - Part One

Word-count: Not sure. It’s super short though,

Summary: Jayce and Viktor attend the last summer banquet.

Warnings: None for part one. Nsfw in later parts.

Notes: Pt. 2 ?? I have so much more to say about this so I definitely could. Also, this is my first long form writing in a really long time. There might be mistakes lmao. I’m still figuring out formatting and everything so it’s not the best but it’s something! 🫶🏼

It’s almost comical how quickly they get parted from one another. Large innate doors swing open, Viktor’s shoulder brushing his own, and then Jayce is swept into a crowd. It’s routine. It’s hell.

It’s the last banquet of the summer.

People from all over are present to talk guidelines and shipments, detailed plans for the winter months ahead. Handshakes, small talk, and shady partnership offers whispered into his ears all evening.

He has a partner already, one he will eventually find on a secluded balcony.

Vik isn’t hard to find. He’s like a plucked nerve, thrumming and humming beneath Jayce’s tan skin. A beacon of honey amber eyes already looking down at him.

Jayce could find him anywhere.

He slips away as soon as he can, happy to be from within the stifling wave of socialization. It’s warm tonight, even underneath the stars. A thin layer of sweat coats the muscles of his back.

���Jayce.”

Viktor speaks his name softly without turning around. His voice is a living contradiction. Like something wild and free was rendered and polished smooth. Dark. Rich. It sends a warmth spreading like fire through Jayce’s soft belly.

“And here you are,” Jayce breathes. Finally above the chaos, and underneath the weighted blanket of a dark sky. Viktor by his side. He’s at ease.

“You had fun, no?” Viktor asked. There’s a lilt to his accent, light and teasing. Jayce smirks, huffs even. A dramatic shift of his head towards Viktor sends his longer hair, shaggy and unruly, twisting that way. Hazel eyes catching golden, they burst into laughter.

“You know better than anyone that this is no more my scene than it is yours. I got so swept up in it before, the pressure of it all. Hmm, so no, but I did have fun stealing these for you,” Jayce declares.

Palm upturned, he showcases a stash of Viktor’s favorite candy, slightly melted from the heat of the night and his body on his trek to the room. A delicate rarity, a special shipment of rich fudge, wrapped around a creamy peanut butter center.

Jayce soaks in Viktor’s full attention finally. That nerve thrumming deeply. Vik’s body turned to him, smile fond and eyes bright. The only sounds to follow are candy wrappers unfolding.

Jayce watches Viktor turn back towards the crowd. His dark brows crease as he narrows his gaze, trying to see just what or who below them is keeping Viktor’s attention. He follows to the twirling sea of fabric and skin. People dancing in the moonlight.

Silence. Then -

“Teach me how to dance.”

Thrum.

Viktor’s eyes are back on his, ever clear and steady. Burning. Jayce’s skin is practically vibrating.

“That is the one and only thing about these events I envy,” Viktor continues. Voice scratching its way out of Jayce’s throat, he ventures, “So why aren’t you dancing?”

“Were you just not listening to me? I do not know how,” Vik huffs. Sass coats each word, dripping from them like molasses.

A beat.

Viktor’s hand drops from the railing to his thigh, knuckles rapping against the brace wrapped around his leg. Oh. Viktor’s gaze is unwavering. He’s not shy or ashamed, at least not here, not now, with Jayce. He just wants to dance. To learn.

Thrum.

“Okay. Yeah. Of course. Let’s, uh, more room inside,” Jayce says with all the confidence and conviction he doesn’t feel. He gestures towards the french doors leading into the suite, following Viktor and his smile inside.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Country Rose 1

Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, creep behaviour, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

The train ride leaves you stiff and sleepy. You couldn’t sleep on the long trek, your eyes devouring the scenery as it shifted from urban to rural, from the grim hues of morning to the pale tones of a stolid afternoon. Time and distance skews together and you step onto the platform thoroughly disoriented. If you can call it that. 

The country dust tickles your nose as the lazy winds stir. The station is old, its wooden panel outdated and crooked, and the slats beneath your feet are splintering. You’re the only passenger to depart at that outpost. You’re not surprised. 

What surprises you is that you’re all alone. The station is empty and the landscape is flat and sprawling. The train chugs away without a care. You give a sheepish cringe and look back and forth aimlessly. Well, then. 

You take out your phone and shield the screen from the sun. You’re a bit paranoid you got the wrong stop. You turn this way and that as the bars in the corner flicker. Great, no signal. 

An engine rumbles from afar and you squint as you lower your cell. Down the grey road, rolls a large blue pickup truck. As it pulls up, you spot the scatter of dirt across the paint and the dents in the bumper. It’s a farm truck if you ever saw one. 

You stare at it as the gears crank and the vehicle shakes as it idles. A man pokes his head out the window and calls your name. You bat your lashes as you perk up. His dark hair is neatly trimmed yet the lock at the front can’t help but spiral over his forehead. His blue eyes compete with the shining coat on the truck. 

“That’s me,” you hitch up your pack and cross the dirt. 

“Sorry, there was a cow in the road,” he snorts as he hops out and approaches, hand out, “I’m Clark.” 

“Right, Clark,” you smile as you shake his hand. When your aunt said he was her friend, you expected someone older. Especially with that name. 

“You’ll have to call Jeanette when we get to the farm,” he says as he stops before you, staring expectantly, “I’ll take your bag.” 

“Oh, right, thanks,” you swing it off your arm and hand it over. He takes it effortlessly and carries it to the bed of the truck. You’ve heard that farmers are wellbuilt but damn, he’s huge. “So, how did you know my Aunt?” 

“Funny, I bought a quilt off of her. She came down this way with a quilting show. You know, I have a bunch my ma made me,” he drops your bag over the side into the back of the truck, “but she’s got arthritis and can’t do much sewing anymore.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Not your fault,” he rounds the hood and beckons you after him. He’s as old-fashioned as everything else around here as he opens the door at your approach, “she’s doing well otherwise.” 

“Hm, well, thanks for... having me,” you grab onto the door and lift yourself into the cabin, “oof, uh,” you fall into the seat and look at him, “I know it’s kinda of... awkward.” 

“Stars align is how I see it,” he shrugs. “My farmhand took off to get married to some gal in the city and you need a job.” 

“Well, that’s a nice way of putting it,” you snicker. 

He smiles and nods, “watch yourself.” 

You tuck your limbs in as he shuts the door. He strides around to the driver’s side and gets in easily. He shifts into gear and spins the wheel to back away from the tracks, “well, what’s the not nice way of putting it?” 

“Ah, uh, I... my parents told me I need to figure out what to do with myself and Aunt Jeanette overheard so... guess you got the call.” 

“No school?” He wonders as he straightens the wheel and steers back to the road. 

“Not anymore,” you exhale, “I liked it, really, but my grades weren’t... exceptional.” 

“Don’t need school to make a living. Not if you can find a good skill,” he assures. “I got a journalism degree, you know? Lotta good it does me on the bookshelf.” 

“Journalism?” You echo, “that’s... exciting. I was trying to do biology but think I may have done better as an arts student.” 

“Biology, wow,” he comments. “Well, you know, you’re young, you got time to figure it out.” 

“Yeah, I hope...” you murmur, “so, ahem, what exactly am I doing? I don’t know if I’m built to throw hay bales.” 

He laughs, “you leave that to me. As long as you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty, you’ll do just fine. I mean, if you came all the way down here, I take that as a good sign. That’s dedication. A step in the right direction.” 

“That’s very optimistic of you,” you give a brittle chuckle. 

“You city girls, you’re all so cynical,” he muses. “Take everything so serious. Things don’t move fast enough to be serious around here.” 

“Mm, I guess not,” you sniff, “so, erm, your mom, she live with you?” 

“She does,” he answers, “she needs a lot of help. I’m sorry, er, did Jeanette not explain--” 

“Explain? She said I’d be helping out with your farm.” 

He smiles, tight-lipped as he drives into the sunlight, “you will be, yeah. Mostly, with my mom, she needs company.” 

“Makes sense,” you nod. “That’s fine. I mean, I’m kinda relieved. I don’t know about horses. They look like they bite.” 

“They can,” he scoffs, “just keep your hands flat.” 

[spinchip]

He keeps ending up in these situations- these soft, quiet moments with Zane where everything Lloyd wants to say is crowding behind his teeth before he swallows it all back down. He never felt bold enough to disturb the piece, or maybe he never felt sure-footed enough to navigate the conversation. The land around the topic of the Never Realm was still littered with landmines and sinkholes. Zane didn't talk to them about it.

They're stargazing. Lloyd was out here first basking in the rare alone time. He'd turned Kai away two hours ago when he'd come to check on him, but when Zane stood over him and blotted out the stars with a weak smile- Lloyd invited him to stay, and promised himself he wouldn't shelve this conversation for another day.

He's look at Ursa Major when he says it, "I'm Afraid you'll never be okay again."

There's a soft pause.

"I am okay, Lloyd." Zane reassures him in a voice that is so much more monotone than before the Never Realm, "Therapy has been extremely rewarding. I feel like myself again."

He sits up, propping himself up on arms that don’t tremble, “You’re not yourself, though.” He feels like he has to force the words out from behind the lump in his throat, “You don’t cook, or meditate, or bird watch anymore-” He stops to center himself, “...I’m scared you’ll never go back to normal.”

Zane is the quiet one this time.

Lloyd lies back down, feeling worse than before. They watch the stars trek across the sky.

“I believe this is the new normal, Lloyd.” He says very, very quietly.

Immediately Lloyd sits up again, twisting to face Zane, “How can you say that? Two months ago you were acting totally fine! Yeah, when you came back from the Never Realm you spent a whole month alone in your room... but then you were Zane again, and now- now you’re…”

“Different.” Zane finishes, “I have changed.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd turn forward, staring down in his lap.

No one says anything. Lloyd feels like he's royally blowing this conversation and making everything worse.

“...When I first returned from the Never Realm, I was... in a dark place. It was easier to hide and sort through things on my own, But I… had not dealt with it as well as I could have. After I spent that time alone and I returned to the team, once more joining with the group socially, I was still a mess. I did not know who I was, and I did not feel like anyone- not Zane, and not the emperor. So I looked in my memory banks and pretended.”

Lloyd looks back at Zane, who’s eyes are fixed resolutely on the moon and not Lloyd's reaction. “You… what?”

“I did not want to worry you. My theory was that If i acted like I was okay, I would be. I hoped I could figure it all out before anyone realized I was wearing a mask, that I could fix myself to the point where I could stop pretending.” He links his hands together on top of his stomach, “Then Cyrus Borg put me in touch with his therapist." Two times a week, every Monday and Thursday. Lloyd knew that. "She helped me realize that this act I was putting on was not a positive move for me and my recovery. It is not that I have regressed, Lloyd- i have simply stopped pretending to be who I used to be.”

“You were trying to protect us?”

There’s another pause, “It was partly selfish, too. I was… afraid. I was scared that if you and the others realized just how much I had changed, you would not see me the same. That the love you had for me would not be able to adapt to who I have become.”

“I- of course we would love you! Always!” Lloyd insisted immediately, “It’s not- I didn’t mean- I was just worried. I’m sorry.” He feels shame curdle in his gut at his earlier words, unintentionally picking at Zane's insecurity.

“I understand your feelings, Lloyd. You do not need to apologize,” He smiles softly at him and its not the same smile Lloyd is so used to, but it has its own warmth, “Change is not… a bad thing. The circumstances leading to this were, but this is what healing looks like for me at this point. I am figuring out who I am again- I do not bird watch or cook or meditate, no, but I think you’ll be surprised at how good my knitting has gotten.” He offers Lloyd another tiny smile, “I am finding my happiness again.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Zane's soft blue eyes flicker back up to the stars and his smile turns gentle, “You are always helping, even if you do not realize it. All of you are.”