#i'm a mess but i'm the mess that you wanted • study

[selunefae]

Like a vintage wine (+18) - Sylus x Reader (Love and Deepspace)

After weeks of trying to convince you to sit on his face, Sylus gets his way. And let's just say, you've never felt so thoroughly tasted

masterlist

rating: +18, MDNI

word count: 1,281

tags: sylus (lads) x reader, smut, fem!reader, afab!reader

cw: PwP, shameless smut, fingering (female receiving), oral sex (female receiving), pet names (kitten, sweetheart), slight spanking, face-sitting, sylus is a professional muncher, he'd love for you to sit on his face

notes: This is my first time writing for Sylus with an idea I couldn't get out of my head. I wrote it in the span of a few hours, so I'm quite proud of myself. xD I'm not main Sylus, so I hope I captured his personality correctly. I won't be doing a second part for this exact same oneshot, but I'm open to requests. :) Hope you enjoy it! This is not proofread, no betareader and English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes.

“Sylus… I’m not sure about this.”

Your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, because how the fuck are you supposed to remain calm with his naked body just beneath you?

You're straddling his torso, palms splayed across the hard plane of his chest, and legs tense on either side. He’s sprawled out shirtless, his golden skin stretched tight over lean muscles, chest falling with each slow breath. He looks like one of those ancient statues, carefully sculpted. His white hair’s a mess against the velvet pillow, red eyes half-lidded, and mouth twisted in that same grin that invites you to surrender - arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly sexy. 

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, lazy and far too fucking smug for your already shaky nerves. “Not sure about what?”

You hesitate, fingers twitching against his skin. He talks like he’s not the one who made you be in this situation in the first place.

You try to look down at him without losing what’s left of your dignity.

“I just…” You swallow. “What if I hurt you?”

That earns you a real laugh. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist into a thousand goddam butterflies. 

His warm hands slide up and settle on your hips, not helping your case. One of his thumbs strokes slow circles into your thigh, as if that’s going to calm you down instead of driving you even more insane.

“I’ve taken bullets round through my lungs and walked it off,” he states. “And you think your pretty little cunt sitting on my face is what’s gonna kill me?”

Your mouth opens and closes again. You look away.

“It’s just not that,” you mutter. Your face burns. “It’s… kind of embarrassing.”

He hums, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Embarrassing is me begging you to sit on my face for the third time this week.” His grin widens.  “Which I’m not above doing again, by the way.”

Your cheeks now go nuclear. You try to get off him, but his grip changes before you even move. He grabs your thighs, fingers sinking in, and pulls you right back down, your nude core flush against his abs. He doesn’t let you squirm away.

“Hey,” he says, his voice is not mocking this time. “Look at me.”

You blink down at him, caught between mortified and melting.

“Sylus -”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“You think I’d ask you to do something I didn’t want?” He reassures you, drawing gentle circles across your skin. “I want this. You. On me. Letting go. Not worrying about how you look, or what you sound like, or what I can handle.”

He leans up just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh. His hot breath against your flesh sends shivers up your spine. Your pulse skips. His gaze is locked on yours, and he seems genuine. "Ok..."

He settles back down against the pillow, eyes still tracking your every twitch, and that fucking smirk crawling back across his face as if he’s already won. 

Buzzing with nerves, you hunch forward until you’re hovering over his face. You ease your hands onto the headboard for support. Your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself lifted, because you’re still too afraid to let yourself go and actually sit on him, full weight and all. The last of your hesitation hangs heavy in the air, stretched between his mouth and your dripping cunt.

Sylus laughs.

A low, warm sound from deep in his chest - and gods, you feel it. The heat of it flares against your core, hot and direct. You're so close it’s almost contact, and the tease of it nearly makes you give in.

“Kitten,” he drawls, eyes dragging up from between your thighs back to your face, “you’re shaking like I’m about to bite.”

You might, you think.

Then one of his hands leaves your thigh, and you barely register it before the pad of his finger brushes up your folds. The contact rips a sound from your throat. A choked moan. Your hips jolt forward before you can stop yourself.

He hums low, brings the finger to his mouth, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.

“You’re already dripping,” he murmurs, voice gone darker and rougher. “And yet you’re still hovering?”

You try to protest, but no words come out, and Sylus doesn’t wait. He takes advantage of your reluctance, lifting his head to get closer. Both hands slide around and grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a rough, appreciative squeeze. Then, one hand moves around you. You jolt when he trails his fingers between your folds again. He does it once, twice, and the second time he tweaks your clit.

You jerk your body away from the sudden intensity.

He laughs again and yanks you down until your cunt is pressed directly to his mouth, his tongue already dragging through yout slit in a single, hungry stripe.

“Sylus!” You gasp in shock, trying to push back, but he tightens his grip and pulls you back into his mouth. He holds you in place as he flattens his tongue against your lips, before licking another stripe from your entrance to your clit. You tremble and finally give in. You let your weight fall onto him completely, finally sitting on his face. You feel him smile and he doesn’t wait another second to devour you.

His mouth opens wider, tongue working with more force, sipping you like a vintage wine. He groans into you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat up your spine. He grabs your rear harder, kneading handfuls of you and spreading you open for more access. You can’t help the moans that start spilling out of you. Your fingers find the headboard and clutch onto it like it’s the only thing holding you to earth. Your hips start to move on their own, rocking forward and back with desperation. Sylus groans again and spanks your ass. You cry out, more in surprise than pain, and grind down harder.

“That’s a good girl,” he growls, voice muffled by your thighs. The vibration makes your hips roll harder, chasing the pressure.

Sylus keeps licking, slurping, devouring you. One of his hands shifts, pushing into the tight space between his mouth and your dripping pussy, and without warning, he slides a finger inside you. It sinks so easily - a sloppy, slick glide from all the fluids already pouring out of you. He curls it just right, finding that spot that makes your vision blur and your spine arch. Your entire body convulses, thighs trembling violently around his head. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your legs clamp down around him, trapping his head between them while you cream all over his face.

Your vision blurs. You clutch the headboard with white-knuckled desperation in an attempt to ground yourself as pleasure tears through you. When it finally crests and crashes, you collapse -

but Sylus isn’t done.

His tongue keeps moving in slow, messy licks through your soaked hole while his finger stays inside, coaxing out every last shudder from your overstimulated body. And when you’ve finally stopped shaking, he eases you off him. You sink beside him, spent and panting with a thin layer of sweat covering your body.

When you manage to lift your head to look at him, you find his lips are slick with your fluids, and a damn smirk craved across them.

“See? “ his voice is husky and sounds far too pleased with himself. “It wasn’t that bad.”

And gods, he’s right. You’ve never felt so thoroughly tasted.

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

+18 mdni! watch your mouth; a fic where bucky's your boss, and you're his secretary. he ends up getting himself into a lot of trouble with you.

cw: dom!m!reader, sub!bucky, rimming, cockwarming, missionary, multiple orgasms (3 times), use of 'sir', and 'baby', fingering, shower sex, cuteness at the end???

word count: >6.4k

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9.1] [9.2]

!! @swiftie-fault

a/n: okay maybe i'm a little obsessed .. i had a little too much fun with this. this is a continuation to [9.1] btw! this is the last part .. for now. there will be more trust!!!

-------------------------------------------------------

you watched bucky as he walked to your study, turning on your laptop. you lingered in the doorway for a moment, before you rested your arm against the back of the office chair he was sitting on.

he’s trying to focus, trying to resume being the boss, but your presence in the room makes it almost impossible.

“what are you up to?”

“have to review my meetings before i head back tomorrow.” he muttered, already settling on your surprisingly comfy office chair.

you only hummed in acknowledgement.

“you okay?”

“mhm.”

“still sore?” you asked as you traced the curve of his back.

“a little..”

“you look good there, all settled, focused.”

“trying to be.”

“then sit like you mean it.” you leaned in, and your breath brushing against his ear was almost unbearable.

bucky’s fingers pause over the keyboard.

you tapped him on the shoulder.

“i want your back straight, hands in your lap whenever you’re not typing.”

bucky glances up at you, curiously.

you offer a small smile.

“you want to work? fine, but you’ll do it properly.” you circled the chair slowly. “if you’re going to sit in my study, then you’ll carry, and hold yourself the way i want you to.”

there was a pause, before he obeys, adjusting his posture immediately.

you watched the shift, satisfied, then walked away like it was never a request at all.

bucky adjusted his shoulders again, trying to shake off the strange weight your words had left on him.

‘sit like you mean it.’

‘you’ll carry, and hold yourself the way i want you to.’

your voice echoed in his mind. there was no fucking way he could focus now.

bucky noticed the way you had lingered after, standing behind him just long enough to make the silence feel intentional, like you were watching to see if he would listen.

‘what the fuck am i doing?’ he cleared his throat to snap himself out of his thoughts.

bucky tried to focus on the screen, clicking into a new thread:

‘performance metrics: client engagement increased by 14.58% compared to-’

pause. he felt strangely aware of himself, and the surroundings, strangely aware of your presence, and the way his thighs pressed tightly together.

you were pretending to ignore him, sitting on the small loveseat by the windowsill of your study, thumbing through a book you didn’t seem to be paying attention to.

‘feedback summary: early feedback highlights strong approval of the-.’

his mind was a mess, and his body was so sore. the static in his head made it hard to focus. every time he shifted, he felt your gaze lift.

so why the fuck did that make his cock twitch?

eventually, bucky gave up trying to ignore it.

“why are you watching me like that?”

you looked up slowly, tilting your head at him.

“like what?”

“like you’re training me.”

a beat, your smile was quiet, but infuriating.

“i told you to sit properly. you didn’t seem to take it seriously earlier.”

“i am sitting properly.” he huffed.

“you’re the one who’s slouching in my chair like an intern trying not to get called on.” you shrugged.

no reply.

you stood up, eyes narrowing as you spoke.

“no, you’re performing it. that’s different.”

bucky blinked at you.

“what does that even mean-”

“stand up.” you ordered.

his breath hitched, confusion flickering behind his gaze, but there was no hesitation. before he could settle upright, your grip tightened around his waist, and you bent him over the edge of your study desk.

“what-”

“hands on the table.”

bucky didn’t fight, just did as you told. your control was too intoxicating to resist.

your hands slid down, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of the sweatpants you had borrowed him.

“relax.” you pressed a kiss to the base of his spine. you grabbed lube from your drawer, and squirted it all over your fingers. you slid a finger slowly around his rim, tracing a delicate circle.

“wa- wait what are we-”

“tell me if it hurts.” then, you pressed your finger inside, inch by inch, before adding a second, stretching him gently.

“fuck..”

“breathe through it.” you didn’t rush. he was already sensitive, already squirming from your fingers, hips shifting gently. you murmured something quiet, soothing, as you pressed a third finger in, curling them gently.

“you’re still so soft, taking me so easy.”

“mmh..” bucky let out a slow, shaky breath. he was hard again, leaking against your desk.

you didn’t touch him there though, didn’t let him grind, just kept your attention focused where you wanted, where he was warm, slick, and twitching around your fingers.

when you finally pulled away, he whined, just a little. you pulled your own sweats down, just enough for your cock to spring out. then, you sat on your office chair, and pulled him into your lap, guiding him down onto your cock with both hands steady at his hips.

“oh my god,” he mewled. “you’re.. fuck, have you always been this big?” his fingers clawed at the edge of the desk.

“poor thing, that was just the tip.”

“i can’t.. ever get used to it. it’s.. so much.” bucky choked on a moan, he already felt so full, before he was even halfway down.

it took a moment. his thighs trembled where they straddled yours. but when he was finally seated all the way, filled to the hilt, cock twitching untouched against his stomach, he just melted, leaning back to rest his head on your shoulder.

“i.. fuck.. i didn’t think it’d feel like this..”

“like what, buck?”

“like i’m.. full in a way i didn’t know i needed.” he blinked down at the desk, trying to not fall apart.

“you’re perfect, taking me so well.”

he let out a soft, helpless moan.

“good boy, come on, sit still.”

“but-”

“shh, don’t move. you wanted to check your emails, didn’t you?”

bucky nodded, while his fingers trembled over the screen as he opened a new thread.

‘bug resolution rate: 92.5% (37/40) bugs resolved before-’

it was impossible, his vision was hazy from the sheer fullness of you, the pulse of your cock finally in him.

you weren’t even moving, but the dull ache of the stretch, and the weight of it had him clenching every few seconds, making it almost impossible to think.

still, he tried, tried to reach through the updates, the queries, calendar changes, tried to type responses, all while you occasionally shifted under him, just enough to make him twitch.

‘security review: flagged 2 medium-risk items-’

you leaned in once, murmuring in his ear.

“you’re leaking all over me, baby. so messy already. want me to take care of you after this? hm?”

bucky wasn’t sure how long it had been since you first pushed into him.

time had gone by, and he felt split open, body trembling from the sheer fullness of your cock inside him. you had whispered to him the entire time, grounding him, coaxing him down inch by inch, until he had taken every last bit of you.

and you just stayed there, still, quiet, and deep inside him.

it was almost gentle, except for the way you kept moving, just enough to make it unbearable.

the first time, it was subtle. a barely-there shift of your hips beneath him, like you were adjusting your seat on the office chair.

bucky felt it though, felt your cock press deeper against the sensitive, untouched places inside him, places he hadn’t even known existed before you taught him. he gasped, shivering, and you still hadn’t said a word

‘don’t give in, he knows what he’s doing. just stick to the god damn emails.’ he reminded himself.

the second time, it was even smaller.

‘finalise integration testing plan by-’

it was just the drag of your cock as you exhaled. even though you didn’t do anything, it moved inside him, just a hair, and he whimpered.

“stop.” he whispered, but his voice was weak.

your hands stayed relaxed on his waist.

the third time, bucky finally realised you were doing it on purpose.

you stretched your legs out slowly, shifting under him like you weren’t thinking about it, but the roll of your hips had a rhythm to it. the angle changed, barely, and he could feel the head of your cock nudging against somewhere new, sending a hot rush of sensation up his spine.

his entire body tensed, back arching instinctively, and a startled moan escaped him.

“sir, please..” he choked out, humiliated from how ruined he sounded.

you only hummed in acknowledgement, letting your fingers trace a slow, absent-minded pattern on along his hipbone.

then, came the fourth shift, it was gentler, crueler. you stretched him again, this time with a quiet little sigh. he felt every inch of you grind inside, dragging against his inner walls with a devastatingly slow glide. it didn’t feel like a thrust, just pressure, like you knew exactly how to torture him without moving at all.

bucky whimpered, burying his face into his palms.

“god, it’s like you’re everywhere..” he breathed, broken, and shaky. “i can’t breathe- feels too full..”

you still hadn’t said a word, which made it worse, so much worse.

he was close to crying. not in a dramatic way, but in the way where everything was way too much, yet not enough. the reply draft was still half-done, he couldn’t think straight enough to complete it.

you were quiet behind him, staying as still as you possibly could, arms looped lazily around his waist. except for the way you breathed, the way you shifted, the occasional brush of your lips to his shoulder.

‘this is sick. he’s not even moving and i’m already falling apart.’

then, you did it again, just a little tilt of your hips, just enough to shift the angle of your cock inside him, so deep it felt like he was being stretched out all over again.

then it hit that spot, so deep inside of him it felt like it was in his lungs.

‘oh god. oh my god. he found it-’

‘he found it, and he’s just- fuck. he’s not even thrusting, he’s just nudging against it, and i’m gonna-’

bucky’s vision blurred, he was shaking, back arching instinctively as his body tried to process the overwhelming pleasure. he shuddered, a broken noise spilling out of his throat. his hand flew to your wrist immediately, not tugging, just holding, as if the warmth of your skin could ground him.

‘he did that on purpose, he knows exactly what gets me going. he’s using me like a cocksleeve-’

he whimpered, the sheer thought of you using him was pushing him so close to the edge.

‘it’s fucking working. i- fuck, i’m going to cum like this, from nothing, from being held open like this-’

“oh, did i move?” you asked, voice soft, and frustratingly innocent, like you hadn’t shifted for the fifth fucking time.

bucky made a wounded noise.

“i’m sorry.”

“no you’re n-not.” he huffed.

“you were working so hard, sweetheart. i thought a little adjustment could help you focus more.” your cock twitched inside of him as you said it. “you know i’d never interrupt your concentration on purpose.”

bucky let out a shaky exhale, he knew, and loved that tone. it was the one you always used when you were being cruel in the softest, most innocent way possible, the most condescending kind of sweetness. you treated him like he was fragile, and dumb. his head tipped backward, body sagging in your lap.

“i can’t..”

“you can, let me help.” you spoke, and tilted your hips once more.

he whimpered, shaking his head.

you leaned forward, brushing your mouth just below his ear.

“you’ve got such a soft spot for me when i’m being nice, don’t you?” you whispered. “gets you all soft, and obedient. makes you fall apart even easier.”

he swallowed around a desperate noise.

“mm,” you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, as if you weren’t fucking tormenting him right now. “you’re doing so good, just say soft, and warm for me. that’s all you need to do.”

he nodded, weak, and glassy-eyed.

---

bucky wasn’t sure how many emails he’d replied to. three? maybe four?

his fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard as he tried not to move, tried not to let the thick, persistent ache of your cock deep inside him distract him.

even though you were acting so sweet, you didn’t make it easy for him afterwards, you never did.

at first, it was small things. a soft hum behind bucky’s ear, the slow drag of your palm down his sides, then another lazy roll of your hips, just enough motion to make him gasp, and clench, vision tunneling for half a second as he tried to focus.

then came the little sighs, breathless, exaggerated moans against his neck. as if you were the one being ruined, as if you had any right to be sounding like that.

“mmh, fuck.” you sighed, voice wet, sweet, and obscene right against his ear. “you feel so fucking good, buck.”

“stop faking it,” bucky hissed. “you’re doing this on purpose..” he could practically feel you smile against his skin. he stiffened, eyes darting back to the screen. he could still see his bullet points, too bad he couldn’t think straight anymore. his fingers hovered over the keys, then he blinked, forcing himself to finish the sentence on the screen.

‘revenue growth projections in a3 showed steady-’

that had always been the point, to get a reaction from him, to make him lose his composure.

“don’t even have to move..” you gasped, louder this time. “just feeling you on my cock, so full.. fuck..”

you were just teasing, just letting the sounds roll off your tongue. it was all for show, all for fun. you knew exactly what it did to him, when you tilted your hips slightly, and let out that breathy whimper like you couldn’t help it.

he inhaled sharply.

you liked the way he stiffened when you did it, the way he shifted, clenched, and swallowed hard. so you kept going, kept moaning, kept making those breathy little gasps, like something was building.

“you’re driving me insane.” you whined again, shamelessly. “just sitting there so good.. letting me stay buried inside you.”

“stop that-”

“i’m giving you a good show, so appreciate it.” you whimpered high, and desperate, as if bucky had rolled his hips on you, and made you feel everything all at once, even though there was nothing going on.

he clicked his tongue, blinking hard to snap himself out of it.

“please,” you whispered, in the most condescending tone ever. “please, baby, just shift a little. just once, please, i need-”

“keep faking it, see where that gets you.” he spat.

but you only whimpered again, quieter this time, like you were trying to hold it in, but it ended up slipping out anyway.

it felt good. god, it actually felt good.

you hadn’t meant for it to. you were just performing. but the pitch of your moan hit a little deeper, lower, realer.

“you’re- fuck, squeezing me. you don’t even know you’re doing it, but fuck, it’s like your body’s trying to take what it wants..”

bucky gritted his teeth, retyping a word that he had misspelled three times.

and then you moaned. this one sounded weirdly realistic. it was shaky, as if your breath had hitched on something.

“you’re.. such a tease. sitting so still, being so good.”

something had changed. your voice hitched, and your body jerked. it was just a tiny, involuntary flex of your thighs, but you made a sound that wasn’t performative anymore, it was raw. your mouth parted again, and the next sound slipped out. it scraped your throat a little, like it didn’t care if it sounded fake or not.

you hadn’t even realised your breath had changed, that you were panting now. you swallowed thickly, and tried to slow down, but your chest was rising too fast now. another moan slipped out, and this one was shaky.

bucky stilled.

“mm?”

you didn’t answer at first. your hands gripped around his hips tighter, and your breath caught again.

‘fuck.’ you thought.

you weren’t pretending anymore, you weren’t even doing anything, and somehow you felt it. you let out a shaky, desperate sound.

bucky was watching you, and you were supposed to be teasing, just playing, but now your body was convinced.

the moans came faster now, breathy, and wild, like your body was trying to catch up to the performance you were putting on, like it was determined to make it real. and it was fucking working.

you weren’t faking anymore. you were right there, and it was all because you wouldn’t stop teasing him with your moaning.

“oh shit- wait..” you panted. “wait, buck- i-i was just- mmh, i didn’t mean-”

he laid back against your shoulder. thank god he had gotten used to the feeling of you in him.

“didn’t mean what?”

you were close. you felt close.

“i was faking.” you gasped. “i was just.. making noise to fuck with you, and now i-” you let out a strangled moan, hips jerking once, before you caught yourself. “fuck, i think i actually might- buck, i might cum.. i’m not even-”

“you’re telling me you’re about to cum from your own bullshit?” he said, stunned. “from acting?”

you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his scent to ground yourself, humiliated, and clenching your fists into the fabric of his shirt.

“i tricked my brain- fuck, somehow.” you whined. “but you’re so warm, and you kept clenching, and i was just saying things but now my cock thinks it’s fucking real, and i-” you let out another whimper. “i’m just.. so close..”

bucky bit his lip, watching the cursor blink on the half-finished report. then he clenched again, intentionally this time.

you mewled, a noise that he had never heard before.

“i didn’t mean to- mmh, i was just acting, and now it’s like-”

“like your body believes it.” he continued your sentence for you.

you whimpered. your breath stuttered against his neck, every muscle in you was tense, straining to stay still. your cock throbbed inside him, helplessly.

bucky didn’t move, he didn’t need to. he sat up straighter, and slowly exhaled.

“so, what happens if i just.. stay like this?”

“don’t!” you croaked. “don’t, buck, please. don’t do this to me-”

“i thought you were faking it?”

“i was! swear on it! i was, until you started clenching, and- and breathing like that, i could feel everything, and now- fuck, i can’t tell the difference anymore..”

bucky smiled, then clenched, slightly, just enough for you to let out a sob.

“you’re going to cum like this, just from sitting still, just from the idea of it. who knew your endurance was worse than mine.”

“i-i’m not.” you said immediately, voice too high, too shaky. “i can- i can hold it..”

“oh baby,” he cooed. the fucking audacity this man had. “you can’t. you already think you’re cumming. your brain made it real.” then, he rolled his hips once, barely.

you choked on a moan, legs spasming.

“i-i’m going to.. buck, don’t.. don’t wanna cum like this, please..”

“then don’t.”

“but you’re squeezing me so good-”

“i’m not even moving, you’re doing this to yourself.”

“i know- fuck, i fucking know, just.. just don’t move, please..” your arms wrapped around his waist suddenly, holding him flush to your chest.

“what-”

“don’t move, just stay.” your grip tightened, as your whole body trembled underneath.

bucky could feel how badly you were trying to not thrust, could feel the frantic throb of your cock inside him.

“i-i’m so close, please. you can’t move, or i’ll fucking cum , i swear.” your voice cracked again. “i can’t, if i move, even once, i’m going to cum in you like a fucking idiot, and i don’t want to-”

“you sure you don’t want to?” he whispered. “sounds like that’s all you want right now.”

“i don’t- please, i need you to stay still.”

bucky stayed still, he could feel how hard you were shaking, how your arms locked tightly around him, your face buried into the crook of his neck, breath coming in ragged gasps, as if staying still took every single ounce of strength you had left.

you weren’t going to last. not like this. not with your cock fucking twitching inside of him. your brain was already convinced that you’d earned the orgasm. you clung harder onto him, nails digging into his sides.

“don’t let me cum, please..”

he tried to go back to typing, to take his mind off of this.

but you were shaking. every time you twitched, just a tiny, helpless jerk of your hips, he could feel it. he felt it deep, sharp, pressing into that spot inside him with perfect precision. and it was fucking constant.

the more you tried to stay still, the more your body betrayed you. your cock throbbed inside him like it had a mind of its own.

bucky’s breath stuttered. he shifted a little in your lap, trying to get comfortable, to breathe, but the second he did, you let out a broken whimper.

“d-don’t.. i’m holding on by a fucking thread, baby, please.” you sighed.

”i- fuck, i wasn’t trying to” he spat. one of his hands gripped the arm rest of the office chair, while the other hovered uselessly above the keyboard. his thighs trembled, and he clenched involuntarily.

“don’t squeeze me.. please, you’re going to make me- fuck..”

“i’m not trying to-” he snapped. “you’re the one twitching every ten seconds like a god damn vibrator!”

“i can’t stop it-” you groaned, pressing your forehead into his shoulder as if you could disappear into it. “i’m so close, and i’m just trying to not move.. but my cock isn’t fucking listening to me-”

bucky was leaking as well, desperately hard, and pinned still with your cock seated impossibly deep inside him. his eyes kept fluttering shut.

“fuck, i-”

“no, don’t you fucking dare.” you clamped your hands on his hips, and held him still. “you don’t get to cum if i don’t.”

he whimpered. he leaned forward on his desk, in hopes that he could focus again, like his cock wasn’t aching, like your cock wasn’t twitching inside of him.

“i can’t work like this.”

“i can’t move. this is like a fucking dead end.” you were breathing too fast, still holding him tight, still trying to hold back, but your body was doing its own thing now, hips twitching more insistently, cock throbbing with every tiny clench he couldn’t stop. you felt all of it, every single time.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

your first time.

not pinned to a desk with bucky trying to type through it, not silent moans, trembling limbs, and denial.

fuck no.

“this isn’t how i want it.” you rasped.

“w-what?”

“i don’t want the first time i fuck you to be something we barely remember. i want you writhing, i want to feel you fall apart.”

you should’ve taken a breath, should’ve fucking waited.

instead, you gathered him up carefully, and moved him onto your bed, onto his back.

bucky blinked up at you, flushed. he felt your hands under his thighs, lifting them.

you settled in between his thighs, as if you were made for this.

he stared, then narrowed his eyes.

“wait.. you’re putting me in missionary?”

you titled your head.

“yeah..?”

“oh my god.” he flopped his head back dramatically. “i spent a fucking week assuming you were going to fucking rail me by the end of it, and you pick this? are you going to hold my hand too?”

“what’s wrong with missionary? can’t i start with something nice?”

“this feels suspiciously like what a straight couple would do, boring.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

but when you rolled your hips, just enough to grind back into him? you lost the last of your self-control.

“fuck, okay, okay. i just- slow, i need to go slow.” you pulled out almost entirely, before you pushed back in with a deep aching grind.

“fuck..” bucky moaned instinctively, hands braced on the mattress as his back arched instinctively.

“fuck- say it again.. tell me.. mmh, this is boring.”

he couldn’t. he was too busy moaning, legs trembling as you started moving with slow, calculated thrusts, drawing back, and sliding in so deep each time that his back arched off the fucking bed.

your cock was hitting every spot inside him like you had mapped it out.

and bucky couldn’t do anything except take it.

“you’re.. still filthy..” he gasped. “god..”

“i’m fucking trying, i don’t want to cum yet, just.. just let me feel it.”

“can’t stay still- you’re hitting it- aah! every fucking time! you’re going to.. mmh..”

you groaned, biting back a whimper as he clenched around you again. your hips stuttered, still slow, still deep, but every motion made your eyes roll back.

“i’m going to cum..” you whispered. “going to fucking cum if i don’t stop-”

“then stop-”

“i can’t.. you feel too good, buck.. i-i can’t hold it..”

bucky’s orgasm hit him like a freight train. there was no warning, no build-up, just one deep grind, and he snapped, spilling all over his own stomach.

the clench made you cum instantly. you let out a strangled moan, loud, wrecked, and came deep, cock pulsing as you spilled inside of him.

“fucking- fuck! i told you, buck- i fucking told you..”

bucky was still panting, his body slack, and boneless. his thighs trembled with the aftershocks, his hole throbbed, wet, and gaping over your cock, which hadn’t softened at all.

“hey..” he warned.

you didn’t answer. you were quiet, still, but your hands weren’t. they smoothed up his sides, over his hips, and his waist, as if you couldn’t believe that you were allowed to touch him like this, as if you weren’t done.

“if you start moving, i swear to fucking god, i’m not-”

“i know.” you finally spoke. “you said you thought i was going to rail you.”

“yeah..?”

your breath ghosted over his neck as you murmured.

“so i will.”

bucky barely had time to react, before you drew back, just far enough to leave only the tip in, then snapped your hips forward with a sharp, wet thrust.

“shit-” his back arched, hands scrambling for something to hold onto, to ground himself. his whole body jolted, he was too sensitive, but you didn’t stop.

this time, it was different. there was no more slow teasing, no more self-control, just you fucking him like you meant it. it felt like you had been starving for this for months, like he was the only thing that could satisfy you. you gave him deep, strong thrusts, one after the other, bullying the spot that made him wail.

“fuck, baby.” you groaned. “you’re taking it so good, so- mmh, fucking good, i came, and i still need more.”

bucky couldn’t speak, he could barely breathe. the overstimulation was brutal. your cock was thick, filling him up just right, and now that he was already wrecked, already open, and full of your cum, every thrust felt like too much, but not enough to stop.

you fucked him so hard your cum was dripping out of him.

“please- i-i just came, i can’t..”

“you can, you said you wanted- ngh, filthy. this is what that means.” your grip was punishing, your thrusts got rougher, faster, but also sloppier. you leaned against him, kissing his collarbones, then bit him, just hard enough to leave a mark. “thought about this every night, every fucking time i punished you.”

“sir-”

“you’re mine now, let me have you.”

bucky moaned, loud, and broken, because he could feel it again, his second orgasm. it was all because you knew his body too well, knew how to hit the spot, how to keep him open, how to throw him over the edge repeatedly.

“i’m going to- sir, please- fuck!”

“do it,” you groaned, stuttering a little. “cum on my fucking cock right now, let me fucking feel it, let me feel you lose it.”

and he did. there wasn’t resistance, just a strangled cry.

you slated two more thrusts before you followed, voice cracking as you slowly rocked your hips through it, only stopping when the overstimulation hit.

the both of you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stayed there, until bucky let out a broken laugh.

“not boring at all.”

you kissed his neck, smiling lazily.

“told you so.”

---

by the time the both of you could function again, the sun had set just enough to cast amber streaks across your bed.

bucky was trying to move, but his limbs felt like jelly.

“don’t.. ugh, don’t think i’m going to make it home without embarrassing myself.”

you laughed, helping him up.

“i told you we shouldn’t have went again.. you said one time.”

you raised a brow at him.

“no, you said one time. i didn’t say anything.”

bucky scowled.

“bastard.”

“you’re glowing.”

“shut up.”

you chuckled, and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. then without a word, you bent down to hook one arm under his back, and the other beneath his knees, carrying him bridal-style.

“hey-”

“shower.” you said simply. “you’re not leaving covered in cum. you’d get arrested.”

“i was going to wipe myself down with a towel, and fucking hobble, but thank you anyway.”

the bathroom was warm. you sat bucky down slowly on the closed toilet lid, and started the water. steam bloomed almost instantly, and as soon as the water was warm, you helped him under the spray.

your hands moved carefully, washing away the sweat away off of him. then, when he breathed a little easier, your touch grew more deliberate. you soaped, washed, smoothed your hands down his stomach, his hips, and the insides of his thighs.

“you’re being suspiciously gentle.” he murmured.

“i’m cleaning you.”

“you’re palming my ass.”

“i said i’m cleaning.”

there was silence, just the spray of water, and his heartbeat increasing.

you knelt behind him, pressing a kiss on his spine, and he immediately knew you were up to something.

“..what are you up to now.”

“you’re messy, need to clean you out.”

the heat in bucky’s face bloomed almost immediately.

“i can do that with soap, dipshit. like a normal person-”

you pressed one finger in as slowly as you possibly could.

he jolted, one hand bracing against the wall.

“you still feel good inside.” you spoke.

“t-that’s.. not cleaning.”

“you think soap’s going to get all of this?” you whispered, sucking a mark into his hip. “nope. only this’ll do.” you twisted, and curved your fingers “i’ll make it all better. you’ll feel better if i do it.”

a second finger joined the first, and bucky gasped, knees shaking as the dull ache of the stretch became the only thing he could think about.

you weren’t rushing, weren’t trying to tease him, you were just watching, as if seeing your own cum ease out of him was more obscene than the act itself.

“you’ve got me leaking out of you, it’s only responsible if i clean it up, hm?”

you groaned, deep, and fucked your fingers in deeper, scissoring him open, rubbing gently at the spot that made him whimper, and whine against the shower wall.

“you’re going to let me fuck you again, baby?” you whispered. “one more? just to finish what we started?”

bucky chuckled.

“you think this is finishing what you started?”

you shrugged.

“no, not really.” you sighed. “but you want it anyway.”

“you’re fucking insatiable, i hope you know that.” he groaned.

you stood back up, and pulled your fingers out of him, only to guide the thick head of your cock against his rim again, slow, and steady.

“not insatiable, i just know what i want.”

the water ran hot, steam swirling thick around the both of you, mixing with the heavy, wet sounds of you sliding inside him again.

bucky’s legs wrapped around your waist, his hands clutching at your broad shoulders as steady, deep thrusts stretched him open all over again. the rhythm was slow, too slow to be a quick fuck, but just right to drive the both of you wild.

your breath was ragged, low groans vibrating through his skin as you fought to hold back your own orgasm. but still, your hips moved relentlessly.

“you’re so perfect.. can’t get enough of you.” you muttered against his throat. “if you hadn’t been a brat at work, i would’ve fucked you already. then i could’ve gotten to savour this sooner.”

bucky swallowed hard, heat pooling deep in his gut.

“well, maybe.. i like being a brat.”

“oh that’s your fault then. i could’ve fucked you so well this whole week, but you chose to go through punishments instead.” you gave him an extra hard thrust. “just had to test me.”

“baby, fuck, i-”

“shh” you hushed. “not yet.”

the pleasure built sharp, and hot, the familiar ache spreading through his core as you stretched, filled, and fucked him deep. every slow thrust hit that perfect spot.

neither of you had lasted long.

bucky’s cry was loud, and desperate as he came. his body shook with release, hands gripping you so tight it left crescent-shaped marks on your skin.

you followed, groaning deep, burying yourself to the hilt inside of him as you came in him once more.

“better?”

“much.” he smiled at you softly, clearly dazed from his orgasm.

the hot water poured over the both of you, while bucky was boneless against the shower wall. his chest heaved, while you held him up with one arm around his waist, the other braced beside his head.

“you’re going to kill me.” you breathed out a low, shaky laugh.

“you did this to yourself.” he mumbled. “three times, you fucking menace.”

you didn’t argue, just kissed his neck.

your cum slicked his thighs, again. you sighed, not in pleasure, but with a dramatic sort of dread.

“and now i have to clean you up again.” you pressed your fingers to your temple.

“you don’t have to, you know-”

“don’t even try me. you’re not going home dripping my cum down your pretty thighs.”

you knelt in front of him with a sigh, running the warm water down his thighs. your fingers were surprisingly gentle as you cleaned him up.

“still so fucking messy.” you murmured, trailing your fingers between his thighs again. “you’re just so tempting, you can’t blame me for wanting to cum in you over, and over again.”

“you’re not starting again.” he covered his face with his palms.

“mm, no promises.” you shrugged. then, you pressed two fingers into his gaping hole.

bucky’s breath came in slow, even pulls now, his eyes fluttering shut whenever your fingers got too close to that spot inside him.

“easy.”

“fuck, that’s sensitive.” he twitched when you accidentally brushed against his cock.

“i know, let me clean up my own mess.”

bucky murmured something unintelligible, somewhere between a protest, and a moan, and tried to angle his hips away, but you just held him steady. your fingers washed away the heat, and mess, but he trembled with every pass, clearly oversensitive.

“you’re still twitching.” you said, pretending to be surprised as you ran your thumb down the inside of his thigh. “what’s wrong, buck? can’t handle a little ‘clean up’ from me?”

“don’t-” his voice cracked. “don’t say it like that, i’m going to fall over.”

“you’re not going anywhere.” you said smoothly, rising to your feet, and crowding close again. you pressed your palm to his chest, steadying him. “you’re staying right here until you stop shaking.”

he blinked up at you, unimpressed.

“you’re the reason i’m fucking shaking, genius.”

“whatever.” you leaned in. “i take pride in that, so i’ll take care of you.”

by the time you shut the water off, bucky was already swaying on his feet. you wrapped a towel around your own waist, then pulled another one off the rack for him. you worked in silence, drying him with firm, steady hands, all while pressing gentle kisses on his shoulder, the side of his neck, and wherever else he could reach without making it a whole thing.

“you’re being weirdly gentle for someone who rearranged my spine less than an hour ago.”he blinked at you, still a little dazed.

you huffed a laugh.

“yeah, well, just because i fuck like a menace doesn’t mean i don’t know how to handle you after”

“you’re unbearable.” he groaned, mostly at your arrogance.

“you didn’t seem to mind when i was eight inches deep, and making you see stars-”

that earned you a shove.

“fuck off.”

you snorted, weak but genuine, helping bucky into a clean shirt, yours, of course, warm, and soft from too many washes. you pulled on your own clothes quickly, and herded the both of you towards the kitchen.

dinner was simple, leftover pasta, and garlic bread, reheated in a pan while he sat at the counter, hair still damp, eyes half-lidded. you slid a plate in front of him, and nudged a glass of warm water against his hand.

bucky didn’t even argue, just dug in, quiet, and hungry.

the both of you didn’t talk much. it was the kind of silence that was easy, worn-in. you would glance up at him every now, and then, watching him chew lazily.

afterward, you washed the dishes while he leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering towards the clock.

“i.. should probably go.” he spoke softly, looking towards you.

“you can stay, you know that right?” you dried your hands, and turned towards him, standing in the doorway of your kitchen.

“if i stay, i’m definitely not getting any sleep.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it is when you fuck like a man possessed, and cuddle like it’s a hostage situation.”

you didn’t argue, just rolled your eyes at him.

bucky rose reluctantly, grabbed his keys, and let you follow him down the hall. the both of you paused at the door, shoes on.

“you’re going to text me when you get home.”

“obviously.”

“and tomorrow-”

“i’ll be in the office.” he spoke, smirking now. “you going to behave?”

you leaned in once last time, lips brushing against his ear.

“not a chance, buck.”

[mintchocolove]

Before you go

They meet you one last time before they leave to follow their destiny, as if fate had given them something to return to afterward.

Pairing: OT7 x f!reader Instead of yn I'm going to use Eunjin as the readers name, but each Eunjin is different. I'll take recomendations. English is not my first language so please be kind.

Lee Heeseung - Late-night harmony

One week before I-Land starts, Favorite, 2020

Heeseung was pissed at himself. I-LAND was less than a week away, and even now, he couldn’t stop messing up his performance. Not everyone was rooting for him, he knew that. Many trainees had been denied the chance to participate in the reality show, and they were mad at him.

News and rumors traveled fast in the building, and he wasn’t surprised that many believed the show had been created solely to guarantee his debut. The pressure was becoming unbearable, making him want to cry. His feet moved on instinct, only stopping when he found himself in front of practice room A-16. Once again, music drifted from inside—but this time, it was accompanied by a soft voice.

His hand moved to the door handle, pushing it open gently as the voice sang the lines to “Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. A smile tugged at his lips as he caught sight of the girl inside, her back to him. She wore a bright orange sweater with purple bows—instantly recognizable. It was the same girl from the end of last year.

Suddenly, the song stopped, and Heeseung locked eyes with you through the mirror. You looked almost scared to see him standing there. But he didn’t want you to run away again like last time—his mouth acted before his brain could catch up.

“Your voice is good. Want to sing together?”

You froze, beginning to gather your things immediately, then looked up at him like you’d just heard a ghost whisper in your ear. You seemed to be searching his face for any sign that he was joking. Instead of saying more, Heeseung walked into the room and stopped in front of you, waiting.

“Sure… yeah, that…” you let out a breath and smiled, gesturing to the floor beside you. “That would be good.”

And gods, he thought, if your voice was good when you were singing, it was even better when you were just talking. His cheeks warmed with a blush, slightly embarrassed, as you grabbed your phone and opened Spotify, glaring at it like it had personally offended you.

“You choose. I’ve been having a crisis over this for the past hour.”

If it was possible, his smile grew wider. Heeseung took the phone from your hands, scrolling through songs before settling on one. You grinned at his choice, whispering how much you loved that track.

Time passed quickly. You sang together, sitting side by side, and the tension in your shoulders eased. Heeseung no longer felt the pressure that had been eating away at him all day.

After a few songs, you decided to get a snack from the vending machine down the hall. You walked quietly beside each other, and Heeseung finally took in your clothes—the hideous sweater, the mismatched Converse. You definitely had a unique style. And it made him smile.

“My name’s Eunjin, by the way,” you said, not looking at him, too focused on deciding between cookies or chips. “Sorry I ran away last time. You kinda scared the shit out of me.”

This time, he couldn’t hold it in. A laugh burst out of him, loud and genuine. You turned to him, startled, your cheeks now a deep shade of red.

“Sorry for scaring you. I’m Heeseung.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him, then turned back to the machine, shrugging as you pressed the button for chocolate cookies.

“Yeah… you’re well known in the building.” Stepping aside so he could pick his snack, you stared at his face, still boyish under the soft hallway lights. “I heard about the reality show. I bet you’ll do well, Heeseung. Don’t pay attention to the jealous trainees. Just do your best every time.”

His heart skipped a beat. He looked at you, studying every line of your face. His eyes stung unexpectedly with tears. It wasn’t that your words were the grandest encouragement he’d ever received, but somehow, coming from you, a near stranger who seemed to believe in him anyway, they meant everything.

“Then root for me while I’m there. If I debut, I’ll treat you to dinner.”

You smiled, nodding before whispering your reply. That night, when Heeseung arrived home, his phone buzzed with a message. He wasn’t surprised to see it was from you: “Lee Heeseung, I was rooting for you anyway.”

Park Jongseong - Bookstore browsing

One month before I-Land starts, Manga, 2020

Jay had not rested well last night, even as he walked around school with his hands shoved in his pockets, he wasn’t entirely paying attention. His eyebrows were knitted together as he tried to remember the lyrics of “The 7th Sense”. It had been happening a lot these days, maybe he really did need to rest. With a sigh, he started heading toward the library.

The library was silent and almost empty, except for a few students sitting near a window, apparently too focused to notice him. His eyes drifted to the second floor, and since he couldn’t see anyone from where he stood, he started climbing the stairs. The second floor was indeed deserted; the chairs and tables were perfectly in place. This was where the fantasy books and manga were kept, so it wasn’t surprising that not many people came up here.

He considered falling asleep at one of the tables. He only had two classes left, and one of them was P.E.—missing them wouldn’t be the end of the world, and he could get some rest. Finally giving in to the temptation, he sank into one of the chairs farthest from the entrance and took off his jacket to use as a pillow. The manga section was just in front of him, so chances were slim that anyone would come to bother him.

His mind drifted off quickly, falling asleep without paying much attention to his surroundings. He didn’t know how much time had passed when the sound of movement stirred him awake.

There was a girl standing on top of a chair, reaching for a manga with a slight frown, standing on tiptoe. Jay watched as the chair wobbled slightly, his body moving before he could think, just in time to stop the chair (and the girl) from falling.

“God, that was close.”

He looked up and met your eyes, you looked startled, a shaky breath escaping your lips as your trembling gaze landed on him. “Can you help me down?” you asked softly.

He nodded immediately, finally exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Once you were safely on the ground, you bowed politely. “Thank you, if it weren’t for you, I probably would’ve fallen.”

He nodded absentmindedly, glancing up at the shelf you had been reaching for. The Attack on Titan collection stared back at him. “What volume were you trying to get? I’ll help.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and you murmured that you were looking for volume two—if it wasn’t too much trouble. Less than a minute later, the manga was in your hands, and Jay was putting the chair back in its place, not noticing that you were following him. When he turned around, you were standing there again, facing him.

“I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but… have we met before?”

He almost joked that you were in the same school, so it was likely. But there was something oddly familiar in your face, the way your eyes looked at him with quiet curiosity.

Then it hit him. You were Soyeon’s friend, the one who had been at his cousin’s wedding, smiling politely but looking a little out of place in the middle of the party.

“You’re Eunjin” he said, more like a statement than a question.

Your eyes lit up, a smile spreading across your lips, revealing braces. “Yes! How do you know that?” He smiled as well, walking back to the table he’d been sleeping on while you followed. “Wait, I do know you! You’re Soyeon’s cousin, Jay, right?”

He nodded, and you looked oddly pleased with yourself, your smile widening as you sat across from him. “She said you went to the same school, but I didn’t see you after that day.”

“You were looking for me?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. You blushed, muttering something about how you weren’t. “I’m joking, Eunjin. Why don’t you tell me about the manga?”

Your face lit up at that, and you launched into an explanation, telling him you were rereading the series for an art project inspired by it. You talked for what felt like hours, and when you finally parted ways at the school entrance, Jay stood there for a moment, watching your back.

Then, suddenly, you turned around and jogged back to him, eyes lowered to your shoes as you pulled out your phone. “Could I have your number, Jay?”

You parted ways with a big smile on your face—and his heart felt lighter, his mind more at ease, even if he had only napped for half an hour. He was already looking forward to talking to you again.

Sim Jaeyun - Coffee shop

Four months before I-Land starts, Cold days, 2020

Jake tugged his scarf a little higher around his neck as a gust of wind slapped his face, his cheeks already red from the cold. Seoul winters were brutal, nothing like the ones back home in Australia. He exhaled, watching the fog of his breath disappear into the busy street, and pushed open the door of a coffee shop he’d stumbled across during a walk meant to clear his mind.

The warmth inside greeted him instantly, along with the soft sound of indie music and the hum of hushed conversations. He stomped the snow off his boots and looked around. The place was small but cozy; brick walls, warm lighting, and shelves filled with mismatched mugs and books.

He ordered a caramel latte and made his way to a corner table by the window, unwrapping his scarf and pulling out his sketchpad. He wasn’t the best artist, but lately, he’d found that doodling helped with the nerves. Practices were getting more intense—more pressure, more eyes watching. The weight of what if I don’t make it? had been sitting on his chest all week.

He was halfway through drawing a messy-looking tiger wearing sunglasses when a familiar voice made him freeze. “Jake?”

He looked up instantly, blinking in surprise. The girl in front of him had a black beanie pulled low, a thick puffer jacket engulfing her frame, and a steaming cup in one hand. But the face—and that smile—he recognized instantly. A grin spread across his own face. “Eunjin?”

She grinned, her nose red from the cold. “I thought it was you! I almost didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure. Wow.” The familiar accent almost made him tear up; he missed having someone to speak English with.

He stood up quickly, warmth flooding him despite the chill outside. “Wow, yeah,” he laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What are the odds?”

“I know, right?” She rocked on her heels before glancing around, eyeing his table. “Mind if I sit with you?” He nodded immediately, pulling out the chair in front of him. She smiled and plopped down, setting her drink on the table.

“I was at a makeup store down the street,” she said. “Thought I’d grab something warm before heading back to the dorm. I didn’t expect to run into my airplane buddy.”

Jake chuckled, the memory warming him. “That flight feels like it was a year ago.”

Eunjin nodded, muttering something about her hands still being cold before looking at him again. “How’s training?” Jake blinked, surprised she knew. Had they talked about that on the plane? He certainly couldn’t remember. At his confused look, Eunjin smiled.

“You said you were here for an audition,” she reminded him, eyes twinkling. “I guessed you made it in. I did too—not idol stuff yet, but I’m getting there, I guess.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, leaning in a little.

The conversation flowed from there, both opening up about how they were feeling these days, the pressure of not being enough, of falling behind. After a few minutes, Jake felt his hands tremble as he looked down at them.

“I want it so bad, you know? But I wonder if wanting it is enough.”

“You’re here,” she said, tilting her head. “That already means something.”

Her words settled something in him, soft and grounding. They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks, the city muffled by the foggy window beside them. Then Eunjin reached over and tapped the sketchpad.

“Your cat’s got swag, I’ll give you that,” she teased, grinning.

Jake snorted and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling for the first time in days. “It was supposed to be a tiger, actually.”

They talked for almost an hour, sharing stories of their dorms, their daily routines, and how much they both missed their moms’ cooking. When she finally stood up to leave, Jake felt the familiar tug of hesitation he’d had at the airport months ago.

“Hey, wait…” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. “Let me get your number this time.”

Eunjin smiled, pulling out her own phone. “Took you long enough.”

They exchanged numbers and stood outside together for a while, the cold biting at their fingers as they awkwardly lingered before saying goodbye. As she walked away down the snow-covered street, Jake looked down at her name now saved in his contacts.

Maybe Seoul’s winter wasn’t so cold after all.

Park Sunghoon - Ice rink

One week before I-Land starts, One last dance, 2020

Sunghoon pushed the door open slowly, letting the cold air hit him like a familiar embrace. The same scent of resin, polish, and faint sweat lingered in the air. He knew it too well. Tightening the scarf around his neck, he let out a breath, watching it fog briefly in front of him.

This place had been a second home for years, early mornings, late nights, bruised shins, and blistered feet. But in a week, it would all be behind him. I-LAND was calling, and skating would become just a chapter in his story.

Still, he laced up his skates, needing one last glide. Just one. He whispered it to himself as the ice creaked under his weight. The floodlights were dimmed, and the playlist that usually echoed through the speakers had long ended.

There was another skater on the far side of the rink, moving slowly, lost in thought. Sunghoon let the silence carry him, his body moving on autopilot; a quiet loop, a small jump. Nothing special, just a goodbye.

Then came the sound of another pair of skates scraping the ice. He turned instinctively, blinking through the low light. A slim figure in a black hoodie was gliding toward his side of the rink, her long ponytail swaying gently as she moved.

“Sam Eunjin?” he called, voice cracking just slightly. He wasn’t sure she had heard him until she turned, startled, then slowed to a stop. Her face lit up with recognition, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Park Sunghoon” she said, skating closer with the grace of someone who had practiced most of her life. “Didn’t think anyone else came this late.”

Sunghoon looked around, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how awkward he probably looked. “Just… needed one last skate.”

She smiled at that, a sad kind of understanding in her eyes. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her gaze spoke more than her words, filled with emotion, sparkling under the soft lights. “Same.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound coming from the blades beneath their feet. “I heard from the coaches you're retiring,” she said after a beat, glancing over.

He nodded slowly. “And you?” he asked, skating in sync beside her as they traced a wide loop around the rink.

She shook her head. “I got a role in a drama. Not a huge part, but… enough to finally make the switch.”

There was a pause, heavier than it should’ve been. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke again, eyes drifting across the empty bleachers. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? All those years of routines, music, medals, and then just—”

“Gone,” he finished for her.

They circled the rink in silence for a while. It was peaceful, two people giving a quiet farewell to a version of themselves they weren’t sure they’d miss yet.

“I used to think you hated me, you ran away everytime as kids” she teased after a moment, smiling as they both slowed to a stop at the center of the rink.

“I’ve never been good with girls, I get nervous” he admitted, lips tugging into a half-smile. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly, Eunjin stepped back and gave a small bow.

“One last time?” she offered. “Just for fun?”

Sunghoon hesitated, then bowed too, a smile finally reaching his eyes. “You lead.”

They moved by instinct—no choreography, no music. Their skates glided across the ice like they had for years, two quiet souls saying goodbye not just to the rink, but to the people they had been within it.

When they finally slowed to a stop again, both breathless and smiling, it felt like something had lifted.

“Thank you, for skating with me,” Eunjin said softly as they sat side by side, unlacing their skates. The silence was no longer heavy, but warm. Outside, snow had begun to fall. Like a curtain closing on a long-awaited final scene.

“Thank you,” he said back. “For letting me.”

“Hey,” Sunghoon said as they stepped out into the night. “When your drama airs… text me. I want to watch it.”

She looked up at him, a small laugh escaping. Her eyes were full of emotion—so much that he wanted to drown in them. “Only if you debut.”

And with that, they parted ways again, their steps light despite the weight of goodbye. Maybe their paths had only crossed briefly, like lines etched in ice, sharp, fleeting, and beautiful in their impermanence. But they both hoped they would cross again.

Kim Sunoo - Convenience store

Two weeks before I-Land starts, Rainy day shelter, 2020

It was raining the kind of rain that clung to your clothes no matter how fast you ran. Sunoo pulled the hood of his school jacket tighter around his face, clutching his bag to his chest as he hurried down the street. His clothes were already soaked, and the cold had crept into his bones.

He didn’t even know where he was going, really. Just... walking or running. Anywhere that wasn’t a dance studio, a classroom, or a cramped practice room. Anywhere he could just be Kim Sunoo for five minutes, not “trainee Kim Sunoo”

A neon glow appeared through the foggy blur of rain ahead: a small convenience store, buzzing quietly against the gray. Without hesitation, he darted toward it, the bell above the door chiming as he stepped into the warmth.

He shook out his hair and rubbed his arms, slowly pacing down one of the aisles, letting his breathing slow. “Still craving ice cream in this weather?” a voice said, lightly teasing. Sunoo turned, blinking in surprise.

There she was — a yellow backpack hanging heavily from her shoulder, the same one from that tiny ice cream shop weeks ago. Her bangs clung to her forehead from the rain, but her expression was bright.

“You” he said without thinking, his tone sounding almost accusing as she stepped closer, her smile widening.

“Me,” she replied, mirroring his tone with a light laugh. “I’m Eunjin, by the way.”

“Sunoo” He let out a small laugh, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “Didn’t expect to run into you again.”

“Same. I guess fate just wants us to keep meeting near frozen desserts” she replied, glancing toward the freezer section. “Though I think they don’t have many flavors here, right?”

Sunoo made a face, and Eunjin laughed, then reached into her backpack and pulled out a small, half-wet hand towel. She walked over and gently tossed it toward him. “You look like a drowned cat.”

“Wow. Flattering.” He dabbed at his face with the towel, suppressing a grin. His mood had definitely improved. “Thanks. I really needed that today.”

She tilted her head. “Bad day?”

Sunoo hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much to say. But her voice didn’t feel judgmental, and there was something comforting in the way she just stood there — as if they were picking up an old conversation instead of meeting for the second time. “Just… tired, I guess.”

She nodded, and they ended up in front of the warm drink machine, both choosing hot chocolate. They paid in silence, then sat at the small tables near the entrance, watching the rain blur the world outside.

“I’ve been thinking about you” Eunjin said suddenly.

Sunoo blinked. “Really?”

“Well, not obsessively,” she added quickly, cheeks turning pink. Sunoo noticed that she didn’t seem to have a filter — and somehow, that made him smile. “Just… sometimes.”

He looked down at his cup, embarrassed but smiling. “That day was weirdly important. I didn’t even realize it until later.”

She glanced at him, curious, so he continued. “Because everything feels temporary right now,” he admitted. “I keep meeting people, or seeing places, and wondering if it’s the last time before things change. That day, it felt like a small moment I got to keep.”

Eunjin was quiet for a moment. The rain softened slightly outside. “That’s kind of nice, she finally said. “Sad, but nice.”

They both sipped their drinks in silence again, this time a little more comfortably, like a secret moment neither of them knew they needed. Eventually, Eunjin glanced at the time. “I should head out before it gets too dark.”

“Wait,” Sunoo said before he could stop himself. “Do you want to—” She looked back at him, eyebrows raised, a lopsided smile tugging at her lips.

He cleared his throat. “I mean… do you want to meet again? Just, you know, in case we keep ending up in the same weather.”

Eunjin smiled. “I’d like that.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled receipt, scribbling her phone number with a blue pen.

“Text me next time you need someone to rescue you from bad weather or bad flavors” she said, handing it to him with a grin.

Sunoo took it like it was something precious. “I will” he said, and meant it.

She stepped out into the rain, pink umbrella snapping open, her yellow backpack bouncing with every step until she disappeared into the blur of city lights and drizzle. This time, he wasn’t going to let the moment slip away.

Yang Jungwon - Amusement park

One month before I-Land starts, Pretty smiles, 2020

The amusement park was loud, messy, full of laughing children and overpriced snacks — not the kind of place someone with a secret folded tightly in his chest should be. Jungwon was supposed to be resting — whatever that meant when your world was about to flip upside down. Only the company knew. He carried the truth quietly, like a note slipped between pages, waiting to be opened.

So he wandered. One last walk through the city. His feet brought him to the amusement park before he even realized where he was going. And that’s when he saw her.

Eunjin.

She stood in line for ice cream, laughing at something Minhyuk had said. The late afternoon sun caught in her hair, making it shimmer like something from a memory. Jungwon watched from a distance, wondering — not for the first time — if her smiles were always that soft. If she ever frowned in a way that wasn’t playful or tired. If she’d ever thought about him since the skateboard accident.

Because he had. Maybe too often.

He waited until she stepped away from the vendor, two cones in hand. Minhyuk turned, his sticky fingers pointing in Jungwon’s direction.

“Hyung!” Minhyuk called, his voice far too familiar for someone he’d only met once. He waved enthusiastically, nearly spilling his cup.

Eunjin followed the boy’s line of sight. Their eyes met. And just like that, Jungwon couldn’t breathe.

“Oh,” she said softly to herself, the word barely carried by the breeze.

Then she smiled — slow and warm, the way a smile should feel. Jungwon stepped forward, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans, trying to steady himself. “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said once they reached him.

Her smile grew and she leaned down to whisper something to Minhyuk, who nodded and took off running toward the playground. “You look tired,” she said, stepping up beside him.

“I’ve been busy,” Jungwon answered, gaze drifting to the crowd bustling around them, everyone unaware of how strange the world felt right now. He was going to miss this. All of it.

They found a shaded bench beneath a tall tree. Eunjin sat beside him not too close. The air between them buzzed with the quiet static of things unsaid.

“I’m going away soon,” he said suddenly. He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe he just wanted her to know. Even if they weren’t close. Even if she didn’t know him, not really.

“For long?” she asked, her voice low.

“It’s… complicated.” He fiddled with his hands in his lap. She nodded. Like she understood. Maybe she didn’t. But she didn’t ask questions. That meant more to him than she probably realized.

“I’ll miss this,” Jungwon murmured. “Not the park, exactly. Just… days like this. Normal days.”

“Yeah,” Eunjin replied. “Those are rare.”

He turned toward her, really looking.

There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, like she carried too much for someone her age. But her smile was kind. And there was something open about her — not loud, but like a window left ajar. He noticed a freckle near her jawline he hadn’t seen before. And when she smiled, it reached all the way to her eyes.

“You have a really nice smile,” he blurted. His ears immediately turned hot. He could feel them reddening. Eunjin blinked, surprised, then laughed — soft and bright, her eyes crinkling as she did.

“Thanks,” she said. “Yours isn’t bad either. The dimples make you look… cute.”

He looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek, smiling to himself.

Life was moving. And in a month, Jungwon might be on a screen somewhere… or nowhere at all. “I probably won’t have a phone for a while,” he said, suddenly. “But I’d really like to talk to you before that happens.”

Eunjin tilted her head. “I have your number from last time,” she admitted, her tone sheepish. “But I never called because it felt awkward to say I just wanted to see you again.”

Jungwon stared at her, surprised. His ears somehow managed to get hotter. “Call me,” he said. His voice was quiet. “Please.”

A whistle blew in the distance, signaling the next parade. Music bloomed in the air, grand and glittering. Minhyuk darted toward them again, grabbing Eunjin’s wrist with sticky fingers. “Come on, they’re throwing candy!”

Jungwon watched her get pulled away, her laughter like a ribbon trailing in the air. She looked back at him before the crowd swallowed her whole. And smiled. Her lips parted as she shouted over the music “I will call you, Jungwon!”

And that smile — wide and real and full of promise — stayed with him long, long after she vanished into the crowd.

Nishimura Riki - Bus stop

One month before I-Land starts, Umbrella, 2020

The rain had been steady since early afternoon, not heavy enough to cancel anything, but persistent in that moody, drizzling way that clings to your clothes and makes the city feel smaller. Ni-ki’s sneakers left damp prints on the sidewalk as he neared the bus stop, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He didn’t mind the rain, really—it gave him an excuse to slow down, listen to music, and pretend the world was quieter than it really was.

The stop was nearly empty. Just an older man with a briefcase and...

His steps faltered. Her.

She sat beneath the narrow awning, a pale pink umbrella closed and leaning against her knee. Even from behind, he recognized her. Same baby blue hoodie. She was staring at the bus schedule taped to the pole like she was trying to will it into making sense.

He hesitated. Debated pretending he hadn’t seen her. But before he could decide, she turned and their eyes met. For a split second, neither of them said anything.

Then her eyes widened slightly, like the memory had clicked into place. “Ni-ki?”

He pulled out one earbud and gave a small nod, a shy smile breaking across his face. His Korean was still a little rough. “Eunjin.”

“Twice in one city,” she said, standing to brush off the bench beside her with a napkin. “That’s either luck or fate.”

“I vote luck,” he replied, sitting beside her with a murmured thanks. “Fate sounds too romantic.”

Eunjin laughed softly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye while tugging at her hoodie sleeve. “Maybe I like romantic.”

He gave her a scandalized look, and she laughed again, light and warm. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it settled between them like something familiar. Rain tapped steadily on the metal roof above them. She stared at the road, her foot tapping to a rhythm only she could hear.

“You’re out late,” he said eventually. “Were you at school?”

“Drama club practice.” She turned slightly; cheeks pink. “I want to be an actress. I mean—someday. Right now, it’s just school plays and getting stage fright in front of twenty people.”

“You want to be famous?”

She shrugged, eyes lifting toward the gray sky. “I want to be seen. Heard. I want to play someone else and still be me inside it, you know?”

He nodded slowly. “I dance. Kind of the same, I guess.”

She grinned. “What kind of dance?”

“Mostly hip hop. A little contemporary.” He toyed with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m training full time now. Not sure if I’m allowed to say more.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Secret agent vibes?”

He laughed quietly. Just then, the bus pulled up with a screech and a hiss of steam. They both stood. Ni-ki noticed it before she said anything, her umbrella was broken, one rib bent uselessly out of shape.

She stared at it and groaned. “Of course.”

He held out his own umbrella—one of those plain black ones the company probably bought in bulk. “We can share.”

She blinked, surprised for just a second before her expression softened. She stepped in beside him, and for a moment, he forgot about the cold. They sat together on the nearly empty bus, still a little damp from the rain. Eunjin leaned her cheek against the back of the seat, watching the raindrops slide down the window.

“I almost didn’t go to the store that day,” she said suddenly and Ni-ki looked at her.

“But I was craving something sweet,” she added. “Funny how one decision can make you meet someone.”

He smiled faintly. “I was too scared to ask the manager for help.”

They rode in silence again, but this time it felt full. Just before her stop, she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and placed it gently in his hands. Then she took his and started typing something into it.

“Put your number there. I’m giving you mine,” she said. “Just in case you need a translator.”

Ni-ki did as told, and when the bus doors closed behind her and she waved from the sidewalk, he looked down at the contact’s name she’d left:

Eunjin 🎮

The bench beside him was empty now, but somehow, he still felt warm.

If you read this, thanks. I accept requests.

[partfae]

Sauron, Galadriel, & Tolkien's Theology of Repentance - Part One

Summary: Character meta analysis on Sauron (and Galadriel, through the lens of Sauron). Based on both Silmarillion & RoP canon. 3.5k words. Discussion of Catholic theology involved. Blanket TW for discussion of violence, manipulation, etc., because Sauron. Spoilers for S1 & S2 and the Silmarillion, of course. The tragedy of Sauron is that he gets offered so many legitimate chances at redemption and forgiveness, and he denies them every single time. But we know he wants absolution, because that’s what he sees Galadriel as: his chance to bind himself back to the light, to be Mairon again, to heal the pain that he caused and that was caused to him under Morgoth. But because he has such a warped view of himself and his actions, he dismisses genuine extensions of compassion, forgiveness, and care as simultaneously beneath him and too good for him. And yet, he still pursues redemption, but through none of the channels offered to him.

In The Rings of Power, he’s given the explicit instruction to change for the good in the village after he’s reborn. He’s given the chance leave his past behind and work meaningfully in Númenor. He’s given the chance to redeem himself by Galadriel's offer of friendship (or love, depending on your interpretation). In the Silmarillion, he's even given the chance by Eönwë himself, and comes close to leaving Morgoth behind completely!

Let's look at this passage from Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age (emphasis mine):

When Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth overthrown, Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance to Eönwë the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds. And some hold that this was not at first falsely done, but that Sauron in truth repented, if only out of fear, being dismayed by the fall of Morgoth and the great wrath of the Lords of the West. But it was not in the power of Eönwë to pardon those of his own order, and he commanded Sauron to return to Aman and there receive the judgement of Manwë. Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation to receive from the Valar a sentence, it might be, of long servitude in proof of his good faith; for under Morgoth his power had been great. Therefore when Eönwë departed he hid himself in Middle-earth; and he fell back into evil, for the bonds that Morgoth had laid upon him were very strong.

This passage is clear that Eönwë is willing to pardon Sauron--he simply did not posses the power to do so. But when Sauron was told he must appeal directly Manwë, he gave up entirely and skulked back to Middle-earth. There are a few ways to read this:

1. He was not wholly repentant

Sauron simply wanted the protection of a new master in the absence of Melkor. i.e., he was rather fickle and simply wanted to be on whatever the "winning" side was. This is supported by the text literally saying that at least some of his obeisance was completely false, and that he only made a point of feeling bad about anything once his master had been chucked into the Void and his armies and strongholds were being destroyed (Thangorodrim). In this reading, perhaps Eönwë saw Sauron's treachery and referred him to Manwë knowing that it would be a test of his true intent. However, while a valid interpretation, I believe this to be the less holistic of the two.

2. He was truly repentant

Sauron did truly feel badly and "abjured all his evil deeds," but he was unwilling/unable to humble himself after being so fundamentally broken by Melkor and developing an insatiable power lust (hey, he isn't defined in the narrative by lust and pride for nothing).

Earlier in this same chapter, Tolkien wrote that Sauron could "...deceive all but the most wary." This is in the specific context of his physical shapeshifting. But, I would argue that this can also be tied to his lies. Tolkien has a specific ethic of beauty, where physical perfection is equated with moral goodness. Sauron completely inverts what is otherwise a hard and fast rule within Tolkien's writings by being the character most frequently described as "fair"--seven times to Lúthien's six, and she was the most beautiful woman to have ever lived!

(Side note: I have another post on Tolkien & beauty in the works where I'll get more into this idea)

Why does this matter? Even though this interaction with Eönwë takes place in the First Age, Sauron could at this point be in the demonic form Mirdania describes in the forge. And, I am inclined to believe that Eönwë, as the head Maiar and herald of Manwë, would be a pretty wary guy, and thus able to sense any of Sauron's trickery. I read this to mean that Eönwë looked at Sauron and saw his potential to be Mairon again, either in absence of his evil form or in spite of it.

Because Sauron is incredibly beautiful. And even if it is a disguise of the true, depreciated form of his spiritual essence, he presented himself to Eönwë at his most beautiful. He wanted, even in his act of repentance, to make himself more favorable in Eönwë's eyes. To show up as Mairon (who was likely close friends with Eönwë before everything went down, since they are considered to be two of the most powerful Maia and would have worked closely together).

But I don't think this was all manipulation on Sauron's end. I agree with the scholars mentioned in the text who believed that Sauron was truly repentant--which is why Eönwë even bothered referring him to Manwë instead of kicking him into the Void with Melkor.

And this is the tragedy: Sauron is told exactly how to repent, and believes fundamentally that it is an impossible path for him. And yet, he still longs so intrinsically for it! He was, under Aulë, a Maia of precision, perfection, and order. Under Morgoth, he feels disordered, dis-regulated. He needs to correct the fundamental imbalance within him, so why does he flee Eönwë?

It comes back to Sauron's pride.

If he follows through with this path of reconciliation, there is no way he can hide or pretend his actions away. If he cannot trick his fellow Maiar, he certainly cannot trick the Valar. And he cannot stand the idea of submitting himself back under their rule, especially now that he has tasted power. This is a pride wound; it is why the idea of confessing to Manwë would be humiliating to him as opposed to just upsetting/uncomfortable.

Again, the pivotal moment: he is told how to make amends for crimes and determines that he cannot do it. So he returns to Middle-earth and stews in his own self-hated and self-pity for a few years. In that time, he consciously or subconsciously latches onto Eönwë's offer--forgiveness from penance. It is the way forward. And if he cannot earn penance at Manwë's hand, he will do it on his own.

The Prodigal Son

This is where we have to talk about the Catholic roots of Tolkien's work for a moment. The scene where Sauron approaches Eönwë mirrors the biblical parable of the prodigal son. In this story, a man abandons his family, spends all his money, and falls into ruin. But when he recognizes his failings and returns to his father to get help, he is welcomed back into the family without question--in other words, he is forgiven and restored to his former position.

17 But when he [the prodigal son] came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. - Luke 15:11-32, NRSV CE (emphasis mine)

The parallel is clear; Mairon, the repentant Maia, returns home with hopes of reconciliation. He is prescribed the same task that the prodigal son offered to his father: he must be bound in servitude to his father/creator in order to pay off his debts. This is a deliberate allusion from Tolkien. The story of the prodigal son models the path of reconciliation that Eönwë describes. Tolkien seems to be drawing a line in the sand with this: Sauron is unwilling to do the work required by the Valar for repentance, so he is unable to receive the grace of a warm welcome back into the fold of the Ainur. Since he did not humble himself, he has to be told to do it. And he does not want to! He wants to be loved, but he also wants his power--evidence, in a way, of how his character was fundamentally altered in his time with Morgoth.

His pride--and his fear--cut him off from the potential of grace. He does not know for certain that Manwë would subject him to servitude (though I would argue that it's textually evident that it is a custom), but this assumption leads him to flee, which allows him to slip back into his old ways.

He wants to be Mairon (admirable) again, not Sauron (abhorrent). He wants to be accepted and loved, but not punished. He wants the benefits of reconciliation without the work he would have to do to earn it or the shame he would feel as he did. It's pride, but it's also deep shame--the flip side of his extreme ego is an implicit self-hatred, one that we can see in the subtext of how he speaks about himself and about his time with Morgoth.

Even the language Tolkien uses is heavily shame-coded, especially in a Catholic context; Mairon did not go willingly, he was "seduced." He admits to Celebrimbor that he was "tortured by a god". It becomes exceedingly clear through both text and on-screen canon that Sauron was routinely broken and abused for centuries. This has fundamentally damaged his self-perception, which is ultimately what leads him to "[fall] back into evil"--whether due to pride or shame, he hides, perhaps because he consciously or subconsciously does not believe that he deserves forgiveness, no matter how much he craves it.

Naked in the Garden

His flight back to Middle-earth after meeting Eönwë is reminiscent of another biblical scene, where Adam and Eve, after committing the first sin, hide from God in shame and fear (emphasis mine):

7 Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked...9 But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” 10 He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” -Genesis 7-10, NRSV CE

The image of nakedness is, here, one of vulnerability, and Tolkien establishes that Sauron fears that which he cannot control. He needs the Rings under his power. He needs his armies and his enemies under his watchful eye. He is petrified of letting his power slip away (possibly due to never wanting to feel powerless in the hands of a Vala, fallen or not, again).

The biblical allusion here hearkens back to the fear Tolkien describes Sauron as feeling regarding his return to the Ainur. In the religious system Tolkien has established, which is likely inspired by his own religious beliefs, Sauron has sinned, and must make penance. But he is afraid of God/Manwë, and does not want to "let go" of his sin. In other words, he is not truly repentant. This reflects the Catholic sacrament of confession, which requires self-reflection and resolve to never commit the sin again.

Instead of shame driving him to contrition, it drives him to isolation.

But he still wants forgiveness. So, in his years of hiding in Middle-earth, he decides to earn it himself. His own way.

Enter the Rings.

Sauron wants to perfect the wrong he wreaked so that he can both earn his way back into the Ainur and keep his power. But what he does not realize is that this does not work. Eönwë is clear that he must forsake his true temptation--absolute power--through penance by submission. Yet Sauron in his pride thinks he can have it all. Sauron is a very carefully controlled villain, and the only times he snaps or makes significant mistakes are when his inflated self-perception is challenged, revealing the self-loathing and/or self-pity underneath. The best example of this is when he kills Celebrimbor prematurely, and cries afterwards. Why? Because Celebrimbor was right about him, and he hates it. He hates knowing that he is nothing more than the Morgoth's shadow, because Morgoth was his master as much as he was his tormentor. As Sauron puts it, his relationship with Morgoth was often defined by pain as a test to see "whose will was the mightier":

This image carries more shame, both in its implicit sexual connotations and in the simple power dynamic of it. Sauron, even though misguided, is rallying against Morgoth. He wants to break what Morgoth has created and build something new, something better, something apart from his old master entirely. But Celebrimbor confronts him with reality: he has not created something new, and perfect, and special, as he so wanted to--he can only act in imitation, not in generation. And when he got close with the Rings, it cost him everything. It's almost like he wants the power of a Vala, and loathes that he cannot attain it.

And this is why he becomes so singularly obsessed with Galadriel.

She’s his foil. They both crave power and adoration, but in the end of things, she does not fold under his temptation. She turns down everything she has ever wanted for the greater good and for the sake of her own soul. Sauron looks at Galadriel and perceives that she would have succeeded at Eönwë's test because she is willing and able to humble herself. This maddens him to the point of both desiring her and desiring to break her.

She learns that she is easily tempted and becomes strong enough to handle it (through a lot of tough love from Elrond & co.). She has to learn how to do it, but she is able to.

She grows from someone who resisted and rejected authority to someone who is trusted as an authority because of her ability to wield it wisely (see: Gil-galad allowing her to answer for him in 2x08).

In other words, she earns the trust, love, and support of her community. Sauron has to force his to comply—it is an illusion of love.

His possessive obsession with her also stems from her fairness. She was the object of her uncle Fëanor's obsessive desire for creation as well. Her hair was the inspiration of the Silmarils (see: The History of Galadriel and Celeborn; The Shibboleth of Fëanor - source with page #s here), which Morgoth desired more than anything to possess.

Sauron, wanting to spite his master, wants one better--to own that which inspired the Silmarils, to own the image of fairness (and thus of moral good) completely. This is why he wants to bind himself to her. This is why he needs her. He sees Galadriel as his mechanism of repentance, and his last triumph over Morgoth. Winning her is his salvation as much as it is proving that his will is the mightier. It is his way of dominating Morgoth. This starts, I think, as a genuine effort at proving himself to the Valar, but quickly consumes him entirely. He is overcome with the desire for revenge, just as Galadriel was at the beginning of the First Age.

And he sees this in her. Sees their similarities. Sees that she, too, is angry and lonely and so afraid of losing her power. And he leverages that to befriend her. This is where it gets ambiguous and you can read RoP as either painting the image of Sauron being earnest but completely misguided in his proposal, or you can see it as him being entirely manipulative.

I think the truth of that scene probably falls somewhere in the middle; just like when he presents himself to Eönwë, he is sincere in his desire, but only knows how to present it in an inherently contriving way. He does want to bind her to him, so he tries to only reveal to her the good aspect of that desire (and also of his desire for power, which he allows her to see because he believes that it is good and also because she understands it), and not the ugly underside of his internal struggle against Morgoth, the Valar, and himself.

And I do think, in his own way, he cared about her. Galadriel consistently shows kindness and compassion to him. In S1, they grow to know each other's minds and souls, and she considers him a close friend. He finds comfort in this, that someone could see the blackness of his heart and care for him anyway. He thought, in his isolation, that he lost that chance when he fled back to Middle-earth. And here is the very picture of the light itself telling him that she supports him, that she sees the good in him, that she wants to help him set the world to rights! Of course he is infatuated by this. Of course he also wants to use it. He is Sauron.

But Galadriel succeeds where he fails, so he stops playing nice and tries to forcibly drag her down with him. First, by baiting her with the image of the man she cared deeply for:

Then, by reminding her of all she is losing by rejecting him:

And she is still strong enough to say no. And not just to say no, but to shut the door completely. To look in the face of everything she has desired for centuries and turn it down, understanding that it will ruin her. Yes, she hesitates. Yes, she still wants it (wants him). But she wins the day by holding fast to the light that Sauron wishes so badly to bind himself to.

Because she has lost everything--her brother, her husband, the station as commander, the trust of her high king and best friend--and earns it back only through her resistance of her greatest temptation. It is a struggle, it is painful, it nearly kills her--but she does it. She wins the test that Sauron could not even bear to face.

In their headlong, self-sacrificial tendencies, they are the same. Both view themselves as fundamentally stronger/better than their peers while also being deeply lonely due to their self-imposed isolation (Galadriel's laser-focused hunt for revenge, Sauron's exile in Middle-earth). But to Galadriel, the light is more important than her pride.

For Sauron, the light is his source of pride. He desires it more than anything, but condemns himself to never being able to touch it due to his rejection of Eönwë's offer. Paradoxically, he tries to grasp at it through Galadriel, the living silmaril, and succeeds only in darkening her. We learn from Gil-galad in 2x08 that his crown piercing her flesh in an act of brutal domination nearly strips her soul from her and pitches it into the unseen world. In this, Sauron is saying: If I cannot have you, I will force you to need me. I will break you into loving me.

He says this to Celebrimbor as well. He no longer knows how to love properly. He only knows how to inflict pain until this object of his obessive desire needs him--just like how his immortal spirit was broken into submission by Morgoth. And isn't this revealing of his own sense of self? He refuses to suffer the path of light, but willingly suffers the maddening path of darkness because it is a comfortable, familiar suffering. One, he tells Celebrimbor, he even grew to enjoy (2x08). As the path of the Rings drive him madder and madder, his desire for the light (Galadriel) and the return of his power (Celebrimbor) become further disordered and corrupted until they culminate in him destroying them--and his chance at earning/owning them--entirely.

And this is Sauron's ultimate point of no return (which we will hopefully see in S3 🤞). The razing of Eregion and slaying of Celebrimbor were acts of petty rage he committed when his pride was injured. This was the final nail in the coffin. Galadriel, in her rejection of him, ruins what he sees as his true chance for redemption.

Galadriel, now stepping into the role of Eönwë, re-opens the invitation: "Heal yourself!" (2x08). But in rage and shame and stubborn pride, he turns it down again. I believe this is where his desire to heal Middle-earth shifts fundamentally into desire to dominate Middle-earth. He always wanted to rule, but now he wants to own.

[letsmcfreackingloseit]

So yes I have OF COURSE read @naffeclipse new fic Apex Polarity and yes, I AM OBSESSED!

So I decided to make a little comic of how I think their "first encounter" might have looked like from Eclipse's perspective.

I can't help but think about how alien and scary we most look to him (especially if there is a history of fasco hunting polar sirens in the past). With all that gear we look like emotionless beings, just observing and uncaring of this ice world. But then when y/n shows up and probably exudes this joy and wonder for his world + shows respect for the creatures and the environment??? Mmh yeah, I can see Eclipse falling for y/n, especially considering how alone he might be...

So yes, that's what I have for today! If you want to read the fic I'll link it right here. I can't recommend it enough, but as always, read the tags so you know what you're getting into! And lastly I also want to @themeeplord beacuse Eclipse's design is basically their design in my style (god I love their design so much, their character/creature designs are the BEST) so all the credit goes to them! Polar!Y/N is my design thou! ;P

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go read the two latest chapters-

YIPPEE!!!

[rocksanddeadflowers]

Kvasir messes me up so so so fucking much you guys. Like I understand the vikings had a different approach to death and yada yada so forth whatever arguments you wanna make they're reasonable but still it. I just.

You mean this beloved man, known for his wisdom and poem and song, and who went around helping people with his wisdom and poem and song and was dearly beloved by the gods just. You guys he was straight up murdered and his blood stolen for magic fucking mead. There's no revenge for his murder or anything it's just that Odin saved his mead.

"Folk declares that every skald (poet) has a drop of Kvasir's blood in him. ... because a world without it's poets would be too dreadful a place to image."

Messed up or not, he lives on in poets, storytellers, and songwriters alike- all those with the understanding of the power of word, the wisdom to yield it.

In The Bifrost Incident it's still the same. His blood pumping and fueling the machine, running through arcane glyphs. He's always just been used for his blood, and even more irony drawn from it likely being Odin gaining the most use from his blood.

And yet, no matter how miniscule it may seem, Kvasir still lives on in his universe there too, in poets and songwriters and storytellers- somehow, The Mechanisms carry a piece of him in their travels ever since his death and Yddrasil's fall, just as you and I may have his blood in our veins.

[vulturevanity]

I feel like SV girlies haven't seriously considered "codependent mutually obsessive JuliNemo" yet and that's a shame, really. I've seen a lot of wholesome ChampionRank (really cute but a rehash of every wholesome yuri I've ever seen, not much original content here and that's okay) and one-sided obsessive yandere!Nemona ChampionRank (REALLY do not like the villainization of Nemona's neurodivergence but eh, you can do whatever you want forever) but not as much "these two get on like a house on fire. and boy, it's dry season" ChampionRank.

Where is "battle-hungry socially starved trainwrecks who have no one but each other" JuliNemo. Where is "oh god these two exacerbate each others issues into the stratosphere and this can only end in disaster but I can't look away" JuliNemo. Where is "bringing out the worst in each other and scaring the hoes" JuliNemo. Where is "you two are perfect for each other. Never change, just never involve anyone else in any of this" JuliNemo. There's so much potential here. Toxic codependent yuri save me

[borealopelta]

i'm gonna kill my thesis supervisor the rest of the department of applied geology and then myself

[indigo-fated]

UPDATED TAGS

general tags:

【 §------⇝ Memories which made Her 】 《 headcanon. 》

【 §------⇝ Maiden in the Making 】 《 character study. 》

【 §------⇝ Can you hear my thoughts? 】 《 musing. 》

【 §------⇝ Shades of Indigo 】 《 aesthetic. 》

【 §------⇝ The purple haired fairy 】 《 muse. 》

【 §------⇝ Your order is ready 】 《 kinana; answered. 》

【 §------⇝ This is not the maiden you are looking for 】 《 april; answered. 》

【 §------⇝ Mina~ Quit messing around! 】 《 psa. 》

【 §------⇝ A delivery for the guild? Sure, I'll sign 】 《 meme. 》

【 §------⇝ Currently out of orders 《 ooc. 》

【 §------⇝ Hey! I'm in a Guild too! 】 《 promo. 》

【 §------⇝ The strongest in Earthland 】 《 promo. 》

【 §------⇝ Baked by the Maiden 】《 menu. 》

【 §------⇝ I know you all want some pie, but one at a time-kina 】 《 queque. 》

verse tags:

【 §------⇝ She was a fairie 】 《 main verse. 》 【 §------⇝ Song for you Soul 】 《 idol verse. 》 【 §------⇝ Among people she walks, not slithers 】 《 modern verse. 》 【 §------⇝ My pen is my staff 】 《 school verse. 》 【 §------⇝ I hope I didn't transform incorrectly.. again 】 《 alternate verse. 》

[dragonairice]

Question for people who use pronouns that aren't he / she /they

[queenlucythevaliant]

A Liturgy of Surviving

Scarlett always wanted to be like her mother, and maybe in another world she could have been. If the war never happened, she could have grown softer instead of sharper. She could have curbed her temper, married well, and been received in respectable homes all her days. Maybe, if it hadn’t been for the war, Scarlett O’Hara could have lived out her days in genteel artifice, just like Ellen before her.

Maybe. Maybe not. If you asked her, Scarlett would say that the question was irrelevant. “God’s nightgown!” she would exclaim. “Don’t ask me what could have been. The war happened and that’s that.”

          I won’t think about that now.  

The day after Scarlett’s world ended, she swore an oath that she would never be hungry again. 

She woke in pain. Her muscles ached and her joints creaked. She was nineteen, but she felt like she had a hundred years weighing her body down. Morning light slanted through the window and her head ached with the moonshine liquor that she’d downed the night before. From another room, she heard an infant crying. 

She passed through the dining room without eating, pausing only briefly beside her grief-ravaged father. She found Pork on the porch shelling nuts. The sun was up. Scarlett O'Hara drew herself tall and began to marshal her troops. 

Melly and her sisters were still infirm, so they were useless for now. Mammy could tend them, and Pork and Prissy were to round up the livestock. Dilcey to Macintosh, herself to Twelve Oaks; perhaps they’d find food. Yes, I know. I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Now get going. 

Those days as the war staggered to its end were some of the longest of her life. In between them, Scarlett would collapse into bed and rub the welts on her feet with clumsy fingers. Sometimes she’d picture Ellen and all her gentle admonitions to kindness and refinement, and she’d say aloud to the walls, “What happened to me? What am I doing?”

She didn’t dwell on the question, but somehow, she always knew the answer. “I’m doing what I must,” she would answer herself. “I’m surviving.”

People didn’t talk back to Scarlett anymore. They were all afraid of her sharp tongue, of the new person who walked in her body. This Scarlett bullied and cajoled until everyone obeyed her, and inevitably her orders were to work. She was all edges; any softness that she’d once possessed had been sanded away splitting rails and picking cotton. Good, she thought. Let them fear me, if it keeps us all standing. 

          I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

Scarlett was sixteen when the war began: sixteen in green muslin, fearless and unencumbered. She had her mother’s slim waist and her father’s square jaw, but her clear green eyes were her own.

She was sixteen when she married Charles Hamilton and lost him, seventeen when she bore his child and draped herself in black crepe. She got Melly and Wade in the bargain, but she didn’t want either of them. She wanted Ashley. She wanted to dance! She wanted, she wanted. She wanted Scarlett O’Hara back. 

At nineteen years old, Scarlett survived the destruction of her whole world. She could have cried for the loss of her girlhood, for her old self long gone with the soft hands and dancing slippers, but what good would it have done? Curled up in her childhood bed at Tara, Scarlett didn’t cry. Instead, she folded in on herself, knees tucked up to her chest, and tried not to feel her muscles aching. She would have to get up again tomorrow, no matter how badly her shoulders still hurt.

She had strong shoulders, Scarlett O’Hara. That was maybe the most important thing about her. At any time, at any age, her shoulders could bear whatever they were given. “I’m surviving,” she would say each morning when she rose. A stranger’s freckled face greeted her in the mirror, but Scarlett only squared her small thin shoulders, breathed in, took one step and then another.

          Tomorrow, when I can stand it.

Calluses form like this: repeated pressure or friction is applied to the skin, most often of the hand or the foot. The outer layer, which is made of dead cells, begins to be retained rather than flaking off normally. The dead cells accumulate, forming hard layers sometimes hundreds of cells thick. 

They form like this: you use your skin. The shell of hardness around it slowly thickens. 

          I can stand anything now. 

The day after Rhett left, Scarlett packed up Wade and Ella and she once again drove the long road home to Tara. She pushed her way past Suellen at the threshold, exchanged brief pleasantries with Will, and then fell into her old bed as she’d done so many times before.

The next morning found Scarlett basking in the slanting yellow light that struck the porch from the east. Her eyes were fixed on the fields beyond and there was a devilish look on her face. 

When Rhett came back—and he would come back, he had promised he would—he would find her here at Tara, where she was strongest. “He liked when I was strong,” Scarlett said to herself. That was something she’d always known, for all that she’d been blind to the true dimensions of it.

Day after day, Scarlett rose and moved through Tara’s halls. She ate her breakfasts in the place where she’d faced down the Yankee army, sorted through figures where she’d once debated with Melanie over whether they ought to risk sending Pork out on the horse to look for food. Twenty times a day, she walked past the place at the base of the stairs where she’d shot her deserter dead. Here, in these halls, she had made her greatest stands.

She’d stood more rigidly then, threadbare and starving and uncertain. She’d come to the end of herself, only to find that she had wells of strength hidden deeper than she knew. Her hands were calloused and dirty. What else could she do?

          I’ll never be hungry again.

It’s easy to view Scarlett as hard and amoral. Even those closest to her would not have contested that characterization. Perhaps Melly would have argued, but then, Melly always saw the good in everyone. Scarlett killed and she stole and she schemed and she cheated, and she did it all in cold blood. What a selfish, conniving bitch, you might say.

It’s easy to forget Scarlett’s compassion. When she beat that poor horse to keep it trudging the long road home to Tara, she regretted hurting a tired animal. Her concern for Melanie, her friendship for Will Benteen, her joy when Rhett made her laugh: these were all true and genuine.

Didn’t Scarlett love her father and mother? Didn’t she grieve to see her friends and neighbors ruined by war? Scarlett O’Hara risked her life to save Charlie’s sword for Wade to inherit, and she built her mills for him and Ella both.

None of this negates the ruthless things she did in the name of survival, but it does begin to explain them. Scarlett made herself hard when hard was what she needed to be. She determined to live without reservation, without softness and with little kindness. Rhett called her cruel, and maybe he was right. But Melly also called her sacrificial and devoted, and maybe she was right too. 

          No, nor any of my kin.

On that road home to Tara, Scarlett once said, “If the horse is dead, I will curse God and die too.” Someone in the Bible had done just that—cursed God and died. Scarlett remembered feeling like that person, a despair of Biblical magnitude.

But the horse was alive, and so Scarlett did not die. Later, she thanked God that her knees still had the strength to support her, that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. Scarlett was not Job’s wife, nor even Job himself. She was Rahab, who escaped the destruction of Jericho, who saved her whole household and survived.

“What a fast trick,” said the Old Guard when she stole Frank Kennedy away from Suellen. No, Scarlett could never be Job. She was Jacob, the trickster and supplanter.

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load.

Scarlett was easily provoked into courage; that was one of the first things that Rhett learned about her. A few insults, a pointed comment, and Scarlett lifted her chin and flounced off to prove just how brave she could be. She shed her crepe years early, and to Halifax with anyone who objected.

Rhett did that same thing to her on the awful day that Atlanta burned. He insulted her and laughed at her, and when Scarlett spat, “I’m not afraid,” it was true. Her hands, which had moments ago been shaking too badly to hold anything, were steady now, and anger had crowded all the fear out of her voice.

Rhett kept needling her all the way out of the city, until they reached the Rough and Ready where he left her. The banter kept her sharp. As long as her eyes were flashing in indignation, she hardly noticed the fire.

Even after Rhett left, his jabs stayed with her. “What would Rhett say if he knew I couldn’t do this?” spurred her back into action more times than she would ever admit. It was a petty kind of courage, and it felt smaller than the great, soaring motivation that came with thoughts of Tara, of the O’Hara name and Irish pride and red earth, but sometimes petty courage was enough to bridge the gap between strength and exhaustion.

He gave her something to hold onto, something to ground her, and even Rhett only halfway understood what that meant. I want you at your best, he never told her, but he pulled her into it by taffeta ribbons and witticisms. As the years rolled by, she rose to meet him. They swapped sharp words and insults, him always claiming to know her and her shouting, “You don’t know half!”

One day on the jostling ride out to her mills, Scarlett told Rhett about the fire that the Yankees set in Tara’s kitchen. “I’m not afraid of fire anymore,” she declared with something like pride, and Rhett remembered goading her past the flames the night Atlanta burned. “I beat it out with my skirts, and then Melly had to beat me out when my back caught,” she went on. “Now I’m not afraid of anything but hunger.”

I don’t want you to fear anything in all the world, Rhett didn’t say. Once they were married, he laughed at her appetite and teased her, “Don’t scrape the plate, Scarlett. I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen.”

           No matter, ‘twill never be light.  

After the war, Rhett had his millions. Ashley had his honor. Melly had the Association for the Beatification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead. Scarlett held a ball of red clay in her fist and whispered, “I have this.”

Her father built Tara from nothing and he loved those acres like they could love him back. He had come to Georgia a poor immigrant boy and he had won that red earth. Whatever Gerald could do, his daughter could do too: of this she was certain. This land, this firm red clay on which she stood, was both her battlefield and her prize; her birthright and her hallowed ground. She gripped it tight with all the passion of a lover. She longed for its rolling fields on cold nights in Atlanta, sleeping beside Frank Kennedy.

“Yes, I have this,” and she let the dirt run between her fingers and lodge beneath her nails. Melly had Ashley and Ashley his senseless honor. Scarlett had Tara.

          I’ve still got this.

When she rode out in her buggy with her lap robe pulled up to her bosom, Scarlett heard how people whispered. She felt indignant about it the first time, and the second time she worried what Ellen would have thought. The third time, she decided not to care.

She still complained to Rhett about the whispering as he was holding the reins one afternoon. He didn’t laugh at her, just looked sideways from the road with his dark eyes and nodded like he understood. “Be different and be damned!” Rhett said, and his tone was like a soldier who’d heard the bugle. It was so strange, how Scarlett could tell him all the worst things about her and he would always answer back like they were medals instead of secret shames. 

Most of the city was in mourning, but Scarlett wore colors. She pilfered the store’s inventory in search of bright green, washed and mended her curtain dress as many times as it would stand, and when the money came she wore gowns of emerald, blush, indigo, and scarlet. Let them stare, she thought. See if I care.

At twenty-two, Scarlett rode up to Pittypat’s in the evenings, long after Frank had come home from the store, and she felt condemned. To the well-bred folks of Atlanta, she was as bad as a Scallawag. But sometimes, when she was alone, Scarlett ran her hands beneath the lap robe and hoped that Rhett was wrong about children and grandchildren, that the child she was carrying would understand one day. I hope you’re nothing like Frank, she thought. I hope you have shoulders like mine.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

“It’s no use, Scarlett. You can’t scrub out the past,” said Rhett when at last he came to Tara. “You can’t take back the last ten years, no matter how you’ve come — to appreciate my charms.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Scarlett snapped. “There’s never any going back. Not ever. But Rhett—” she reached for his hand. “I love you, and at last we understand each other. We can build something out of that.”

They argued about it until Rhett left again, fuming and bitter, his Panama hat pulled low over his face. Scarlett made an unannounced visit to Charleston the next month. “I was thinking,” she suggested, “That we might sell the Peachtree Street house.”

Scarlett knew all the words for making men love her, so long as she understood what it was that they wanted. The Tarleton twins had wanted merry excitement; Charles had wanted to feel important and Frank had wanted to feel like a strong, successful man. Ashley had wanted someone braver and better than he was, and he’d found it in Melanie without having to risk himself on Scarlett. Scarlett had never understood what it was Rhett wanted, but she did now. Why, it’s always been my love he wants! So Scarlett spoke the right words, and this time she meant them.

“You were right when you said that we’re alike. Only—you’ve always known about me, whereas I’m just starting to know you. Will you tell me about that knife fight in California again? About the sail boat you won at cards?”

“You know those stories,” clipped Rhett. “You don’t need to hear them again.” So Scarlett went downstairs and pried the stories out of his mother instead.

The house on Peachtree Street sold within the month, snatched up by some Carpetbagger who wanted it for a hotel. Rhett traveled to Mexico, and returned to find Scarlett back at Tara preparing for spring planting.

“What do the women wear in Mexico?” she asked him, leaning on the porch railing in the slanting light. “What is your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?”

Rhett indulged her in brief, but then abruptly he chuckled and shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, you little minx.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Of course you do.”

           Tomorrow, oh tomorrow!

The clay soil of Georgia is red from iron oxides. It’s red the way rust is red, the way blood is red. If a blister splits open and your blood falls on the ground, that iron-red soil will just swallow it up. You can bleed and bleed, and the stuff in your blood will always be one with the stuff of the soil.

When cotton and vegetables sprout from the ground, it’s easy to believe they grew from your very own blood, and that your own sweat and tears watered them.

           Never look back.  

“We women were soldiers too,” Melanie said once. Scarlett didn’t respect her yet—at least, not consistently—but this might have been one of the moments where she first looked at Melly and thought not that her heart was soft and timid, but that it was a sword.

“We never expected to be – or at least I didn’t.” She looked around the circle of ladies, at India and Fanny, until her eyes came to rest on Scarlett at last. “We were children then. We all imagined the world far simpler than it was.”

Melly, India, Fanny, Scarlett. These women had all been girls together. They knew one another at seven, twelve, fifteen, swaddled in silks and trying to seem more grown-up than their playmates. They’d competed for beaus and Scarlett had mostly won, except where Ashley Wilkes was concerned. They had lived through the war together. Now, Scarlett sat among them on Melly’s front porch and tried to remember if she’d ever in her life felt like one of them.

For Christmas, Melanie gave Scarlett a small book of poetry. Scarlett never read it, except for the one verse which Melly had marked with a green ribbon. She bit back the urge to sigh when she undid the wrapping, but Melly pointed out the bookmark and said, “This one made me think of you, dear.”

Scarlett didn’t like to think of it now, but once she’d been sixteen in green muslin, confident that dimples and a clear complexion were the only weapons she’d ever need. She had been a child, but that child had not died when Atlanta burned. The belle of Clayton County was not in the grave with all the boys who’d never come riding home from war. Scarlett was alive. She was right here.

“What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost/ Or a dead man's voice but a distant and vain affirmation/Like dream words most? / Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women. / I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair/ And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of leaves on your shoulders/ And a leaf on your hair—"

Scarlett came home from her mills in the gray evening and she made her way back to the Wilkes’s ramshackle front porch. She left her buggy feeling condemned and she sat with the other ladies feeling alienated, but all the same she couldn’t bring herself not to go. The war was over, and these were the survivors. They were through fighting, hung up on glory, but Scarlett still hadn’t holstered her guns. 

“We were soldiers,” said Melanie, and in her heart Scarlett added, “Some of us still are.”

           I won’t let them lick me.

Supposing that Ashley had married her. Perhaps the sight of her in green makes him brave enough to shed his veneer of honor and say, “Yes, you’re right, I can’t live without you.” It’s a minor scandal when he casts Melanie off in her favor, but not for long. The war is beginning and besides, good men have made themselves fools for Scarlett O’Hara before. By the time the soldiers march away, the scandal is all but forgotten in favor of the fine figure they cut as they embrace at the depot: Ashley so brave in his uniform, his young wife radiant as she clutches him.

Ashley sends her long, meandering letters full of philosophical musings. Scarlett reads them uncomprehending and sends back missives full of I love yous. She kisses them when she mails them, sometimes with a Hail Mary for her husband’s safety.

Rhett doesn’t notice this Scarlett at Twelve Oaks, and so he’s caught off guard when he hears the young Mrs. Wilkes say something blunt and scathing at the Bazaar. He chuckles to himself in delight and later he asks her to dance, and of course Scarlett simpers and agrees, and it’s a merry night. But Rhett doesn’t come back to Atlanta for the rest of the war.

This Scarlett leaves for Macon with the rest of the women when the Yankees come to Atlanta; after all, she has no Melly to keep her in the city during the siege. She takes Ashley’s child with her, and it’s in Macon that he finds her after the war. He waxes poetic about the Old Days, the Horrors of War and Götterdämmerungs and the like. He looks at her with sad, tired eyes and Scarlett says yes, I heard you the first time. But what are we going to do?

Twelve Oaks is razed. They go to Tara. Ashley tries his hand at farming, but it’s Scarlett who manages to pick and plant and organize while Ashley’s fumbling attempts at working with his hands yield scant success. His heart isn’t in it, which infuriates Scarlett. C’mon, get up and fight! She looks into the tired face of the man she loved so ruinously at sixteen and wonders what she ever thought was so noble about him.

When taxes come due there’s no way to pay. What’s more, Ashley doesn’t even try. It’s here that Scarlett breaks with her husband. Between Ashley and Tara, it’s Tara every time.

So Scarlett bullies her husband into calling old debts in from a few impoverished friends and when that isn’t enough, she goes to see the tax assessor dressed in green velvet and makes some very personal insinuations about Mr. Jonas Wilkerson. From there, Scarlett bullies her one-time-beloved and does as she pleases, and Ashley has to live with the fact that it’s his wife who provides for the family. In every world, it is Scarlett O’Hara who keeps Ashley Wilkes alive after the war.

His pride lays down in the dirt and dies. Scarlett Wilkes shakes her head bitterly and plants more seed in her red, red earth.   

Supposing Scarlett could have imagined all this. What do you think she would say? Perhaps in her youth she would have cherished the idea, but the hard-eyed Scarlett who emerged after the war would have only leveled her small shoulders and said, “What does it matter what would have happened? I’ll think about it later.”

           There but for a lot of gumption am I.

The day after Bonnie died, Scarlett called for the buggy and went to her store. Rhett took this as proof that Scarlett had never really loved the little girl, that she was devoid of maternal affection as he’d always suspected, but Scarlett was grieving in her own way. She threw out two uncut bolts of blue velvet: expensive fabric over which she’d have upbraided a clerk to hell and back if he’d wasted even a few inches. 

It was true that Scarlett had never wanted any of her children when she’d carried them. She had not felt joy or love or any of the feelings that other women described when first she saw them. What she did feel, in the moments after Dr. Meade placed each child in her arms, was a fierce surge of protectiveness. She was certain that she would work and sacrifice and even die for her children, if need be. They were her blood, her flesh, her kin.

Scarlett had hated pregnancy each time it happened to her. She hated feeling large and lumbering, hated the way that her tiny waist bloated and grew until even her modified dresses didn’t fit right. She hated the inconvenience of morning sickness, the limitations on what she could do, the necessity of seclusion as delivery drew near. It was nine months of hardship and frustration capped off with many long minutes of excruciating pain. 

Bonnie had died in an instant. She’d been flying towards the hurdle and then, half a breath later, she’d been gone. Standing in the back of the store with two bolts of blue velvet before her, Scarlett swallowed back tears that Rhett would never see. It wasn’t right that a child who’d taken her so much time and effort to bring into the world could be gone from it so quickly. 

When she returned to the house a few hours later, Rhett had locked himself in the bedroom with Bonnie’s tiny body. Scarlett paused for a moment outside the door, but then she squared her shoulders and kept walking. 

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. 

Scarlett had a habit of humming “My Old Kentucky Home” while she worked. Splitting wood, planting and picking cotton, driving between her mills, keeping the books—even sewing. The song was a thoughtless thing, an instinctual thing. She hummed it the same way a person might worry lips between teeth or tear at nails. 

She repeated the words again and again until her heart pulsed to their rhythm. Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it. Tomorrow, tomorrow. No matter, ‘twill never be light. I’ll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my kin. I’ll never be hungry again. They were a mantra: something to hold onto when the whole breadth of her world had narrowed to a single point. A refrain. A liturgy of surviving.

          Just a few more steps

Rhett loved Scarlett and it was terrifying. He feared that she would treat him like one of her country beaus: a lovely toy to play with and to tear to ribbons when she was done. He was afraid, so he hid his heart behind his impressive poker face and said “I want you” instead of “I love you.” He called her “pet” instead of “sweetheart.”

Scarlett loved Rhett and it was slow. He brought her bonnets and bonbons and Scarlett thought, “Why, it’s almost like I was in love with him!” He came to help her the day Atlanta burned, and Scarlett thought that she’d like to stay in his arms forever. When he chauffeured her to the mills, she thought that he was the only person in the world to whom she could tell the truth.

"You never told me you loved me, you know," Scarlett said the next time she visited Charleston. "I never knew. That's not to say you were wrong about me - about what I would have done if you had said something. But you should have been brave enough to risk it all the same."

Rhett closed his eyes for a moment and his mask slipped away. It was doing that more and more these days.

"But I did tell you — once."

"I think I would have remembered that," said Scarlett, pursing her lips.

"Ah. ‘It is far off; and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants.’ I suppose my humble confession was the least of your worries that day."

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"The day Atlanta burned, my dear."

After a long moment, Scarlett gave a little gasp which turned into a sigh as it ended. "Oh. That's right, you did then, didn't you?" She shook her head. "Rhett, I do believe you have the worst timing of any person I know."

          As God is my witness

The day she married Charles, she wore Ellen’s cream-colored silk gown, aired out in a hurry from the chest where it had been sitting since the O’Haras married back in 1846. She couldn’t breathe for how tight her laces were —sixteen inches, like Ellen’s waist was when the dress was purchased— and perhaps that was a good thing. Scarlett was light-headed throughout the ceremony and she scarcely remembered it afterwards. 

The day she decided to have Frank, it was raining hard. Scarlett left the jail in sodden velvet and was grateful for the drops falling on her cheeks to disguise the tears. It was sunny the day of the wedding, but she scarcely noticed that. Afterwards, when she thought of marrying Frank, Scarlett would always remember the rain. 

There was a fine mist over everything the day she got Rhett back for good. Scarlett was wearing her work clothes when he came riding up to Tara; she’d been walking the cotton fields that day, overseeing the progress of the crop. They were both a little damp when he kissed her.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

O’Haras and Robillards had always known how to dig their nails in, and by God, Scarlett was both. Her namesakes had long ago fought for their own plots of Irish earth; had survived and died and been hanged fighting to hold onto it. All Scarlett’s forebears, her folk, had left crescent-moon imprints on all that was theirs when it was finally pried from her hands. Scarlett gripped her little ball of clay and felt her nails dig into the heels of her hands.

She was her father’s hot-tempered daughter, but she had her mother’s steel-hewn spine. All the years of her life, she never saw Ellen Robillard O’Hara rest her back against a chair.  When Scarlett’s own time came, she held herself every bit as straight as her mother: she didn’t rest or lean, just stood and stood.

Maybe this is what she was always made for. Her green eyes weren’t for charming young men, they were for seeing dresses in curtains. Her hands were never supposed to be soft; they were meant for digging in the red dirt. Even her lips—Rhett was wrong, they weren’t meant for kissing. Scarlett’s lips were as sharp as the words that she spoke when she wasn’t afraid what anyone thought. They were meant to draw blood.

She had been sharp all her life, even when her edges were carefully concealed in layers of satin. Scarlett was not made to be soft; her core held no gentleness. She could not pretend otherwise. All she could do was stand straight, and hold up her tired old shoulders like they were the strongest thing in the world.

           I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

One day, at the Butler home in Charleston, Rhett taught Scarlett how to play poker, and subsequently how to cheat. They were still playing hours later, counting cards and hiding them in sleeves and making all kinds of ridiculous bets on losing hands. Just as she was taking off her right earbob to call, the thought rose to Scarlett’s mind unbidden: “What on earth are we doing here?” And just as quickly, there was the answer. “We’re living.”

At the end of this most recent road home, weary and damp from running through the fog, Scarlett found her way back into Rhett’s arms. In the evenings she listened to his stories and witticisms, and late at night she listened to the sound of his breathing. I will not speak of undying glory, she thought. Rhett was still here, and so was she. They were both still here.

Scarlett took off her left earbob too, for good measure. “I’ll raise you,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this hand.” There was still an ace hidden up her sleeve, but if Rhett noticed it he didn’t say anything. 

They survived together. They built something new. There is always profit to be made in building things, and these two were nothing if not industrious.

           After all, tomorrow is another day.

[teaandinanity]

This is SO interesting, my Dark Urge character in BG3 sometimes just.... does not have the moderate and sane options that my blank slate one did. I definitely feel like this ought to be a second playthrough NG+ kind of thing but also I’m having so much fun with him that I do not WANT to finish my other playthrough first. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[fatelcved]

what kind of warmth are you?

comfort jacket

you're gentle, thoughtful in your kindness, and very careful when you're helping others. your warmth is obvious only to some──  but to them, it is life-saving. you don't think of your warmth as much. really, it feels like the least you can do. but you are providing something that no one else can. there are people out there that will not be helped by reckless optimism. but you see love as a risk, and when you take it, you will heal others ( and yourself ) in ways you didn't see as possible. you do not believe that people are good. really, you don't believe that you are good. they can be. you have been. no one is better than you at offering warmth to people who are difficult to love. i am asking you to offer that same warmth to yourself. even when you think you don't deserve it. especially when you think you don't deserve it.

tagged by: @espectres thank you peach <3<3<3 tagging: everyone who sees this bc i dunno who's done it already!!

[mauxanhduong]

this was supposed to be easy essay prompt why have i not thought of something yet

[hypnowave]

i think someone should come to my house and cast spell of explode on me. i am very nervous

[wwinterwitch]

friendly banter — bucky barnes

summary: sam asks for your help on a mission. you're reunited with him, Joaquín and Bucky. the last one really likes to banter. you think it's just a friendly exchange. it's actually a bit more than that

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (+ platonic friendships with sam and joaquín)

word count: 5k

tags: friends to lovers, sharing feelings (awkward but cute), reader is a hacker and former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, fluff, undisclosed feelings (mutual), kissing

note: this was kind of a mess but i'm back after a long time on not writing any fics! i'm currently in my last months of studying to become a lawyer (yay) and writing fics has proven to be very therapeutic during this time. this may or may not suck but i enjoyed writing it so i hope you enjoy it

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 2 (features the thunderbolts* now)

"Got eyes on it?"

You stop walking as soon as you hear that question, staring ahead in disbelief. "You mean...the huge panel in the middle of the room?" you ask with obvious sarcasm, trying to speak as quietly as possible through your comm as you make your way further inside the darkened room.

It’s a typical security room with tons of cameras pointing to every corner of the building. To your relief, the presence of your group is apparently still unnoticed as your eyes wander across the various screens in front of you, noticing no commotion or an unnecessarily large group of unfriendly-looking guys rushing to find you. The large panel control installed in the middle of the desk before you is the thing that immediately gets your attention as you walk closer, always keeping in mind the task at hand.

All you really have to do is hack into the system to disable the security protocols long enough for Sam and Joaquín to sneak into the top floors of the building to retrieve the data that they wanted from the bad guy's records in order to find out more about the gang they'll be (hopefully) putting behind bars soon.

This is not the first and definitely not the last time you'll be doing these kinds of favors for Sam. Your friendship goes way back, when you were still a nobody at S.H.I.E.L.D. that somehow managed to get on Captain America's good graces after that whole Washington fiasco. You're still unsure why Steve always thought so highly of you. Then again, he was the type of guy who never failed to see the potential in other people, even when they couldn't quite see it themselves.

Now, you get to help the new Captain America, who's also as dear to you as the previous one was...perhaps just a tiny bit more annoying, but one of your dearest friends regardless.

As you rush over to the panel, you have to jump over the unconscious body of a security guard that Bucky (another dear friend you met thanks to Steve) took care of before you walked inside, quickly taking a seat in front of the large keyboard to start doing your part of the job.

You hear the unmistakable chuckle from Joaquín as you quickly type in a series of codes and commands. "Jeez, I missed having you on our missions!"

"Awwh!" you mutter with genuine endearment. "I missed being part of these missions too, buddy!"

"And we're still going out for drinks after this, right?"

"Are you genuinely asking me that, Joaquín Torres?" you ask, sounding overly offended on purpose.

You hear him laugh again, but before he can say anything back, you hear Bucky interrupting the exchange. "How about we focus on not getting caught here and then you guys can discuss your night plans?"

"Uh-oh, old man got upset," you joke soon after, finishing to type in the last few codes to fully disable the security system. Surely they have some backup protocol that would soon trigger the alarm to alert these guys of an unwanted visitor, but by then all of you will be long gone. It really is a very simple mission.

"He's jealous you're not taking him out for drinks," Sam jokes back, and then you immediately hear Joaquín agreeing with him.

It's a normal occurrence for Sam to be making those kinds of jokes involving you and Bucky. He has been making those types of remarks for as long as you can remember, fully convinced the two of you "have something going on" as he has put it before. You really try not to think too much about it because, first off, Sam loves to say shit just for the sake of pissing you and Bucky off and, second...you really don't want to let those comments get to your head.

You don't want to let yourself wonder about the what if's of that. There was a time in your life when you did allow yourself to fantasize about the possibility of actually "having something going on" with him, but you learnt to shut off that part of your brain in order to avoid getting your hopes up regarding a situation that just wouldn't happen outside your imagination. Hearing Sam’s silly remarks would only bring you back to those days.

Bucky has been one of your best friends for years and he has never shown the slightest of hints that he might be interested in you in the way you would like (at least not that you're aware of), and there was absolutely no way that you would ever make the first move and risk embarrassing yourself in front of him or, even worse, losing the friendship you two have. You eventually just got comfortable in the abyss of eternal friendzone and learned to accept it. If there was ever going to happen something between the two of you, surely it would've happened by now.

Still, Sam seems to be holding onto that rope for dear life and refuses to let it go. You can't deny it’s a bit uncomfortable to hear those jokes though. They somehow make you feel like somehow you got caught and everyone knows you have a secret crush on Bucky, but you've learned to adapt over the years.

"First part's done.” Leaning back on the chair, you watch the percentage bar on the screen before you, completely ignoring Sam's little joke. "A few more seconds and you're up guys!"

"Hallway’s clear," you hear Bucky say, still guarding the room where you're currently in. "How much time do we have to get out of here?"

"Uh...I can't say for sure. Anywhere near five to thirty, maybe?"

"Minutes?"

"Seconds."

"Oh, great," he mutters ironically.

"Well, I'm sorry. We're hacking into a very sophisticated system that I don't entirely know how it works!" you snap back at him. "Besides, the whole point of this is to give Joaquín and Sam enough time to sneak inside without having to deal with a bunch of guards going straight for them. Bad guys will know we're down here and they'll come looking for us first."

"Isn't hacking your whole thing? How do you not know how it works?" he asks, and just by the tone of his voice you know he's trying to piss you off, because he knows that's exactly the type of comments that would make you upset. If that type of comment came from a stranger you would be strangling them right now, but it’s Bucky, and he seems to enjoy annoying the shit out of you.

"Big talk coming from someone who still asks for my help because he barely knows how to unlock his own phone."

The sound of his faint chuckle immediately makes you smile, perfectly picturing the way he's probably rolling his eyes just barely right now, trying to suppress a smirk as if you could possibly see him right now, knowing he hates when you point it out to him.

"You have to give me some credit, though. I know how to program emails on that thing now. Soon enough I'll be taking your job, so you better watch out."

You can't help but laugh at his reply, slightly shaking your head as you realize you’re getting distracted by him, trying to keep your focus on what you're supposed to be doing right now rather than indulge in a never ending back-and-forth with him. As soon as you type the last codes and the large SECURITY SYSTEM: DISABLED alert pops on the monitor, you quickly rise up from your seat. "You're up guys, hurry!"

"On it!" Sam replies as you rush outside the room.

Before he even says anything to you, Bucky is quickly guiding you down the hallway with the intent of getting out of there as soon as possible, turning to look at you with a confused expression when you stop walking and, instead, start yanking his arm to go in the opposite direction.

"What are you doing?"

"The exit is that way," you point out as if it’s obvious.

He looks even more confused now, and slightly annoyed. "Don't think so. That's the way we entered, but there's another way of leaving this place a lot faster."

"No, we can't change the plan!"

He definitely looks annoyed now, trying not to snap at you. "I'm not changing the plan. Exiting that way has always been the plan. If we go that way, we'll-"

Before he can say anything else, the loud sound of an alarm blasts through the entire building, signaling that you've been discovered and you'll be having company very soon. As if that wasn't enough, the door of the room you were previously in opens violently, and the guard that was previously unconscious on the floor is frantically alerting more people through his radio.

“Oh, that’s great,” you point out, slightly panicking right now because you’re still inside the building. “You decided to wake up early, huh?”

Bucky immediately grabs the guy by his bulletproof vest to throw him against the wall, taking his barely regained consciousness to his advantage. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice about six other guys coming towards you, turning around the same corner you wanted to run towards as part of your escape plan. Sadly, that's when you realized maybe the direction Bucky was suggesting was better.

You’re unsure of what to do now. It's not like you haven't been taught how to take down a few bad guys, but your specialities have always involved computers rather than physical combat. Almost as if he could read your mind, Bucky turns towards you for a quick second. "Go! I'll catch up to you." Again, almost as if he knew that you'd try to ask if he was sure about it, he immediately shouts yet another "Go!" before you're finally deciding to do as he says, running down the hall in the direction he has intended to go before.

Hours later, second after second that passes by, you’re more and more convinced that you'll never hear the end of it. If only you could go back in time and just agree with Bucky's plan rather than trying to argue with him. It would have spared you a lifetime of him reminding you how he was right and you were wrong.

Turns out his exit plan was the one you should've followed all along, because it actually led to the engine room which immediately meant being in a much less crowded part of the building to escape without risking bumping into more people.

All of you had enough time to change into something more comfortable to go out for drinks. Initially it was something you and Joaquín had planned alone, but evidently the two of you didn’t hesitate to invite Sam and Bucky. Of course they accepted the invite, and of course Bucky has done his very best to keep reminding you of your little mistake.

"Listen, if you don't want shit like that to happen again, just let me know your plan beforehand."

"But I did let you know. The problem is that someone is not really a good listener."

"No. Letting me know- like, properly letting me know, would've been telling me before we got inside that building."

Bucky smirks as he leans back on his chair, and it's obvious to you he's really enjoying this banter. "Plan changed at the last minute. If you would've just followed my lead, we could've left that building a lot faster."

"Ah, so you do recognize that wasn't the original plan!" you exclaim with a triumphant grin, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You changed it all by yourself and didn't tell me."

"Changed at the last minute," he repeats, as if to correct you. "You wanted me to stand there and explain every detail to you?"

"Oh, as if explaining it would've taken you hours! You’re always so dramatic."

"Children," Sam commented, interrupting the banter with an unamused expression. "I had to trust the operation to literal children."

Bucky scoffs at that comment, watching as Sam lets out a chuckle, shaking his head after witnessing this whole interaction between the two of you.

"Kinda makes you appreciate having an actual professional around, huh?" Joaquín says right after, flashing a charming smile in Sam's direction.

"Oh, please!" you, Bucky and Sam reply in unison, earning an offended look from Joaquín.

Soon after, Bucky is speaking again. "You know what? I'll give you some credit. You managed to do your part of the job…decently."

It’s obvious he wants a reaction from you, but even if your banter is entertaining, you know you can't keep bickering the entire night. Once again, you can’t help but to feel embarrassed, as if everyone at that table knows your little secret regarding your feelings towards Bucky. As if some innocent banter between friends could ever give it away. Besides, the four of you are here to celebrate your mission was a success, and the fact that you haven't seen the trio in a long time makes it the perfect opportunity to catch up.

Pretending to fully ignore his last comment, you turn to look at Sam from across the table. "You. I haven't seen your lovely face in a while," you start, watching him physically get ready for whatever silly comment you might come up with. "Tell me what you've been up to...I've seen the photos of you shaking hands with the President," the reference to Everett Ross sounding anything but endearing.

Sam sighs, shrugging. "Yeah, well, I guess you can say it's part of the job," he simply replies before taking a quick sip of his beer. "I can't say I'm thrilled about it, but I figured it's best to compromise a bit and keep the man happy. As long as he stays in line, I'll cooperate."

"Of course you're not thrilled about it, Sam. That's the same guy that put your ass in a prison in the middle of nowhere like you were some kind of top security criminal!" you reply almost immediately, still in disbelief at the revelation of any sort of alliance between him and Ross. Sam's expression lets you know that even he is still conflicted about it, not really knowing what to say. After taking a brief pause, you try to say something else to lighten the mood, not wanting him to think like you’re judging him for it. "Hey, I understand having to keep up appearances. I get it. And please accept my deepest condolences for having to deal with that piece of shit."

Your last comment makes the three of them laugh, and Bucky takes the opportunity to change the subject. "And what have you been up to?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "It's been a while since any of us has seen you."

"Well, my life has been all over the place the last few months. As all of you know, I moved into a new apartment. I loved my roommate, but I felt it was time to just live by myself, you know?"

"So no plans of leaving New York to move to D.C., huh?" Joaquín asks with a smile.

You return the smile immediately. "As fun as it would be to live closer to all of you weirdos, no. I plan to stay in New York for now. I'm just really comfortable there with the new apartment, the promotion I got a few months ago, the fact that most of my family and friends are there..."

"But not all your friends," Sam quickly points out, pretending to sound incredibly offended by your last statement. "But since we’re talking about friends and just social life in general...are you still single?"

"Why are you always so interested in my love life?" you joke with a playful grin, taking a sip of your margarita to leave him wondering the answer just a few seconds more. "Yes, I'm still single. Queen's full of creeps," you added shortly after. "Are any of you seeing anybody?"

"Proudly and happily single," Joaquín replies, raising his drink up as if to cheer before taking a sip.

Sam gives him a very visible side-eye. "Yikes," is all he says regarding that, turning back to you. "I'm not interested in dating right now, to be honest. I’m quite a busy gentleman, you know?" 

“And you say ‘yikes’ to me?” Joaquín says immediately after, looking dumbfounded.

You chime in before any of them could add anything else regarding that. “Bucky?” you ask, turning to look at him as you await his answer.

It was a bold move to directly ask him that question. On one hand, you know Bucky has always been a loner so you’re almost certain that he’s single. But there’s always that tiny percentage of probability that you’ll learn a truth you’re not sure how you’ll handle. He’s your best friend, of course you’ll be happy if he’s happy…but the idea of him revealing to you that he’s dating someone might actually make you physically sick.

You notice Bucky gets uncomfortable right away. “I’m single too.”

The pleasant feeling of relief lasts just a few seconds. The fact that Sam laughs at Bucky’s reply has your mind spinning, not understanding why he would laugh at that. Why the fuck is he laughing? Should you start panicking already?

"Actually, our buddy has been on a few dating apps, I believe."

Oh no. 

Even when you try to remind yourself not to care about anything remotely romantic involving Bucky- or at least, not to care more than a platonic friend would, you can deny the news of him possibly dating someone or even just randomly talking to any person in those apps makes your stomach turn. It really wouldn't be dramatic to claim that you could quite literally throw up right now at the thought of him and someone else right now.

It's not common to hear any sort of updates regarding Bucky's love life because...well, there's never any developments. He's never shown interest in anyone, and as far as you know he's never had any sort of relationship with anyone like that– serious or casual. What if he's interested in exploring that part of his life now? What if he has found someone already and you're about to hear him talk all about them? It makes you genuinely sick, but you try your best to act as unbothered as you possibly can, forcing you to mask your disgust and heartbreak with pleasant surprise.

"Is that so?" is all you say.

He looks even more uncomfortable by the subject, choosing to look down at his almost finished beer. "It's not...I was just trying to put myself out there," he says awkwardly, shrugging. "Long story short, online dating is not for me. I hated it."

You could tell he doesn’t really like talking about this subject, so you try to quickly ease the tension with a bit of humor. Besides, you're probably better off without hearing anything regarding that topic anyway. "It's because you couldn't figure out how the whole swiping thing worked, isn't it?"

Bucky immediately seems to relax with your joke, chuckling a bit. "It took me a few days actually." He takes a quick pause before continuing. "I probably should've asked you for help."

If there was any hidden message behind his last statement, it completely goes over your head because you genuinely thought it was just part of your playful banter regarding his lack of skills when it comes to technology. You laugh, and in return Bucky offers you a smile because that's as much hinting as he dares to do out loud, especially if Sam and Joaquín are sitting right there. He's incredibly used to you never getting his subtle implications anyway.

In front of you, the other two guys are watching this exchange unfold, and it's hard to tell which one of them has a bigger urge to tell you to stop being so fucking oblivious already. As subtle as he can be, Joaquín pokes Sam's side with his elbow to give him a quick heads-up before speaking. "Considering everyone's almost finished, Sam and I are getting another round of drinks."

The two of them are standing up when they notice you're grabbing your purse and standing up as well. "Oh, I can go with you. I have to go to the restroom anyway."

The two of them want to yet again yell at you to please get a grip on the situation, but Sam just silently takes a seat as you and Joaquín go over to the bar, quickly telling him what you want to order before heading towards the restroom.

A few drinks later the four of you are finally leaving the bar. Sam and Joaquín left to their respective houses while you and Bucky shared an Uber back to his own place. He was kind enough to let you crash in his spare room for the night. It's not like this is the first time you've ever stayed at his apartment when you visit the boys, but you can't deny the idea is both thrilling and terrifying- not like anything would happen to make you feel like that...you two are just friends...but, still...your silly head likes to get silly ideas sometimes.

Deciding not to indulge in your little fantasies, you decide to start a conversation. "Update on the food?" you ask, turning to look at Bucky, who sits comfortably on the sofa of his living room.

"Like ten minutes away," he says, taking a quick look at the screen. "How come you haven't congratulated me for knowing how to order food with this thing?" he added with evident surprise, making you chuckle.

"Because you keep saying 'this thing' like it's some mysterious device completely unknown to mankind," you reply, and before you can stop yourself, you continue. "It's cute, I guess, so congratulations."

Bucky's grin grows wider. "Oh, so it's cute?"

You try really hard not to panic, feeling incredibly embarrassed. The fact that he seems to be enjoying what you just said makes it even worse, because you know he’ll use that to tease you now. He just finds any possible excuse to do it. "Cute as in lame."

He chuckles. "Right."

Not knowing what else to say, you clear your throat before walking towards him, taking a seat next to him as you try to come up with something else to change the subject immediately. "I'm starving," is all you say, mentally scolding you for such a poor effort.

As soon as you're sitting, you unsuccessfully try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach when he leans just a bit closer...perhaps if you weren't hyper vigilant whenever the two of you are too near you might've missed it. And then, he stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, right behind you.

For a second, you even thought of mocking him for such a move, but bringing more attention to it would only make you that much nervous, and you really don't want to embarrass yourself. And most importantly, you don't want your silly mind and your silly heart to get their hopes up. You're just friends, nothing else.

"Me too," he agrees, the playful grin on his face still not disappearing. "Might have to steal a few fries from you."

"Oh, I'd really like to see you try stealing my food," you reply in the same playful tone, leaning just a little closer to him without even noticing that you were actually doing that.

"I think I deserve some compensation after what happened today. You know, for all the unnecessary ass-kicking I had to do."

"Just when I thought you had moved on from that!" you reply, jokingly slapping his knee. "It wasn't my fault, it was yours for not telling me the plan on time!"

"You should've just trusted me," he insists. "But you always have to be right on everything..."

You know he's joking. There's something about bantering with you that seems to absolutely fascinate him. "Yeah, and you always want to piss me off."

Bucky chuckles again, and that's when you feel his hand gently resting on your shoulder, his arm fully around you. What the actual fuck is going on. "What, you think I like pissing you off?" he asks, tone slightly lower than before, which inevitably makes the butterflies in your stomach multiply. "Is that why you think I do it?"

You were quiet for a moment, your brain not entirely registering what's happening. "I mean...yeah."

He stops for a second, and you almost see a hint of hesitation on his face before he speaks, letting out a frustrated sigh. "For someone who claims to be so much more clever than anyone else, I would've expected you to figure it out sooner," he starts, shaking his head with a soft smile. "I've been actually flirting with you, doll."

The comment evidently takes you by surprise and all you can do is to stare back at him like a complete fool. His arm around your shoulders, the proximity, the fact he had the fucking audacity to call you that nickname...did you somehow fall asleep on his couch without noticing and this is the type of oddly-realistic dream your brain decided to come up with? Are you still standing there like a fool just fantasizing and this one just got way too immersive? And did he really just say that he's been flirting with you?

Noticing you weren't saying anything, he decides to continue, looking a little hesitant and disappointed with your silence. "You know, it'd be really nice if you say something..."

"Awful way to flirt," is all you could come up with, which immediately makes him burst out laughing. 

"Maybe," he agrees. "But I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out. I mean…Sam and Joaquín did a long time ago."

"The three of you share the same brain cell, of course they figured it out a long time ago,” you reply, still in complete shock to be having this conversation with him. Were you really that blind? "You could’ve just asked me."

"You know I'm not direct like that," he replies, and the shy look on his face almost makes your heart melt. "Like I said, I was relying on your impressive intelligence to figure it out."

You let out a soft chuckle after his last comment, immediately giving him a warning look. "Don't." He looks back at you for a few seconds, almost wanting to challenge you after noticing the way you’re looking at him. Soon enough, he’s unable to hide his smirk anymore. "There it is," you point out, knowing he hates that.

Bucky lets out a soft grunt as a complaint, resting his head on your shoulder. Encouraged, you immediately move a hand up to his hair, affectionately playing with it. The two of you stay like that, simply enjoying being so close to each other. It feels incredibly right.

"So how do you feel?" he eventually asks, perhaps feeling braver to ask now that he doesn’t have to look into your eyes when he does.

You don’t reply right away, still feeling incredibly nervous despite knowing he does like you back. Eventually, you do build up the courage to say something. "I like you. Like, a lot."

Bucky moves back to look at you know. The look on his face gives you the impression that he wasn’t expecting you to be so honest with your answer, perhaps expecting another silly joke or sarcastic remark. And even though you thought about the possibility of choosing a more humorous approach, after keeping your feelings for him locked up and stored away for so long, you really needed to just say it.

Instead of saying something back, Bucky tightens his grip around your shoulders just enough, using his other hand to grab your chin right before kissing you. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you're quickly returning the kiss as you just completely melt in his arms, still trying to convince yourself that this is not some kind of hyper-realistic dream.

His hand swiftly moves to your cheek as the kiss continues, the gesture so incredibly delicate, a sharp contrast with the pure need he’s transmitting through the kiss. It’s desperate, passionate, intense…like he’s been waiting an entire lifetime to finally be able to experience this, grateful for the absolute privilege that it is to kiss you.

One of your hands moves up to the back of his neck and your touch seems to encourage him that much more because before you know it, he's taking the opportunity to gently bite your bottom lip, right before continuing to make out with you.

Much to yours and Bucky's disappointment, the sound of his apartment's doorbell echoes through the apartment, indicating the food you previously ordered has arrived.

He reluctantly pulls away with a soft grunt. "Food's here," he comments out loud, offering you a soft smile. He takes a brief moment to look at you, brushing his thumb against your cheek in an affectionate manner, dreading the idea of having to leave this couch. "I'll get it."

"I can help," you offer almost immediately.

Instead of replying right away, he leans in for a short kiss. "I'll get it," he insists, quickly making his way to the door after another buzz could be heard.

You sat in his living room in complete disbelief of what just happened, thankful that he's not here right now to see your goofy smile and blushed cheeks. He'd probably tease you to no end if he did see that.

Not knowing what else to do, you immediately reach for your phone, opening your messages. You knew exactly who would be the right people to share the news with.

'uhm so we just kissed??????' you texted, the first message in the group chat you just created with Sam and Joaquín.

Joaquín is the first one to reply. 'HELL YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!'

'FUCKING FINALLY.' Sam texts shortly after.