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shutupheathersorryheatherr · 2 years ago

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“Tea, and a warm feeling”

Summery: based on the prompt “you make me tea when I’m sick and I get the urge to kiss you. deliriously I ask if I can. You come the the conclusion that we’ll kiss after I stop sneezing.” Friends to lovers fluffy fluff

A/n: oh my god me??? Posting a fic??!! Who knew I could do that lmao. Anyways this is for the lovely anon who requested this. I had a little trouble writing it as y’all could tell from how long this took because I have trouble writing for someone I don’t feel attracted to 😭🤣 because life has been busy and because I can barely write fluff lol. But I tired really hard to! And I hope this is up to your expectations, dear anon. And I hope everyone else to reads it likes it as well :)

warnings/info: Mentions of food, obviously sick reader, kissing, extremely fluffy, as fluffy as I could make it, a very small mention of underwear in a laundry basket (🤣,) reader and seungmin are really good friends, friends to lovers, a couple curse words, mentions of drifting off to sleep (man, if I could do that lol) and I think that’s it! Please let me know if I missed anything!

~this is simply a piece of fiction. My imagination onto “paper”. This is in no way meant to be taken as anything actual or a real representation of anyone.~

•••••••••••••••••••

When you had sent Seungmin a plain "S.O.S" text, (which was code for "get over here and bring food") you didn't expect him to come over so quickly. What? Was he waiting down the street or something? He dropped off the food onto your bedside table and unknotted the bag, taking the styrofoam container out and letting that sweet sweet smell of comfort food waft through the air of your room to your nose. He wondered why he was so fast getting over to your place too. It did more than cross his mind about why both of you acted like this with each other.

It wasn't like you two were together. Nonetheless, an electric shock shot up his back at the thought. You and him-- being together. He tried to dismiss the feeling of his hands shaking, his mind spinning, and his heart thumping in an erratic pattern as he handed you a fork for your food. "You're not gonna have any?" You asked nasally, nose so clogged that it sounded like someone had stuffed half a box of tissues in each nostril. He visibly perks up at your words. "There's plenty." You remind him. How come now that hes here he suddenly can't think of anything besides you?

It was odd, but he still liked having his mind blank and only clouded by you. The thought of you made nice clouds. How could he suddenly forget that he had gotten two servings so both of you can eat your late lunch? "I know, I know." He sung, getting up to get a dish from your kitchen. He comes back to you on your bed, bundled up in blankets, head against the wall, and skin a couple shades darker than usual.

"You didn't put your fork in again, right? I don't want to get infected." He laughs. But really, the both of you knew that he was only joking. If you needed to, he'd let you have the last piece of food that existed at the expence of him. Just so you could be a little stronger. Even more so, anytime you came over to where he lived you could take his favorite snack and "barrow" his jewelry. You did that sometimes-- take some of his rings or necklaces then giving them back later, asking of course, but it always made him smile when he saw you wearing them. It made him feel like... like wearever you were you could have something of his that reminds you of him. That you thought of him throughout your day. Overall made him feel just that much closer to you. Not just that you were wearing it, but also because he let you take it in the first place

"No, Seungmin," You wheezed out a laugh, "I'm not trying to poison you." He takes a bite from his own portion. "Yeah, that would be pretty out of the ordenary for you. I didn't do anything deserving of death by good food." He triesm god, he really tries to make you feel better at a time like this. He just wants you to forget about whatever is hurting and how you can't breath through your nose and to feel relaxed. Having that calm feeling and enviornment always helps when youre sick. Whnever you try to speak, even if it is to give a small word of agreement to whatever he talks about, he urges you with more concern than a mother to "Please, not talk if it'll hurt your voice and throat even more." Noting about a speady recovery has anything to do with making your thoat even more sore ans scratchy. He hands you your water when you start to sit up, antisipating your moves like he was inside your head.

His fingers slid against yours, making him look up at you in surprise. You didn;t seem to mind though, a smug smile on your face like you were the mastermind in all this-- like you had wanted for it to happen anyways. He thought about, not just the very distracting tingling feeling now spread up his hands; the type you'd get when on the edge of a cliff in your feet. Somehow, in all of it, the waters down below him looked safe as ever. BEcause they were... they had you in them. The ocean that was you that seemed to be calling out to him, airy feeling intering his lungs and scent wafting past in nose... it was warm, and safe, and inviting.

He quickly withdrew his hand when the glass he had filled up when he got here was gripped in your hand. That was another thing: he never failed to make double sure that you had it. Whatever it was didn’t really matter. But what was important was how before ever letting go he would make sure you could handle it. Whether that be a glass of water when you're sick or something bigger. But he always, and I mean always made sure you were good with whatever it was.

He also thought about the reason why he was so in tune. You only had to move an inch and he already realized what you wanted. "Shouldn't you be sitting farther away? Whatever this is, it's nasty you don't want it." He was in such a deep daze that you had finished talking before he could gently scold you about talking. WHy hadn't he thought of that? He wondered. Well, if he was farther away how would he bring you your water so you wouldn't have to get up when you needed it? Reluctantly thought, he still got up and moved across your bedroom. He still had his mind about him, you know.

once you Finish your food, he stands up with a jolt. You raise your head, sensing he had an idea. You liked his ideas. Most of the time, that is. But no matter what, whenever he’d give them you’d listen. Knowing that it could take some courage and lots of effort to formulate them and to put them into the right words. He pats his knees as if you weren’t already giving him rapt attention. Your eyes only on him. Him and his wide eyes. “You know what? You need some tea, yeah?” Your dry mouth watered at the thought of something warm and soothing slide down your throat.

You can't help but smile at his request, and he knows it, getting up to your kitchen. Thats just who he he is, thats just how you both are. Making each other smile and press your lips together and look down at your shoes and the stupidest things. You hear your stove turn on, it was always loud. He had stayed over one night and you two had shared a joke about waking the neighbors and getting noise complaints. BUt it never made you feel unsafe or uneasy about it. Rather, the jokes you two took part in, the minutes of his and yours lives were you could both just breath? It made you noting short of calm. Thats what he always did for you.

In a matter of a few minutes the tea was done. Your body was still flopped on your bed as you hear his socks slide across your floor. You could barely smell it, the faint whiff of the herbs he brought into your bedroom soothed you none the less. Your eyes were heavier than the pit growing in your stomach. You wanted so badly to blame it on how it was only his affection while taking care of you that made you feel this way. How you didn't even need to ask and he was there. He didn't really do that for anyone else right?

But you cant think about that now, can you. Not when he's two feet into your door and placing a cup with a plate on top, and telling you not to drink it for a few minutes because it needs to steep. "I'm not a baby, you know." You grumble as if he's just told you not to touch the hot stove. "I know you're not... baby." he laughs, bumping you with his shoulder. It's a tease, for sure. Stupid little confident menacing tone passing out from his stupid pretty lips along with words that should either make you mad or chuckle and not melt further into your pile of blankets like you are.

"Thought you--" You say, mostly through your clogged nose. He tisks and rolls his eyes as you, reaching over to your nightstand and giving you your phone. "No talking." He says as soft as a fluffy blanket washed in fabric softener and fresh out the dryer-- still warm and comfy. You snatch your phone out of his hands. The same ones that rub your shoulders when you're stressed. The same ones that fix something on your clothes or hand you an item he thinks is "cute" and he thinks "would look cute on you."

"If its so cute why dont you wear it? They have your size." you sometimes say. "But it's for you. I said it would look cute on you. Not on me, not on the hanger. You. Colors go nice with your skin." he always smiles back.

What is it?

You see pop up at the top of your screen. Not unlike what happens between the both of you usually. Back and forth, up making your heart jump with anticipation then back down again and making your stomach sink, dodging thoughts and feelings with halfway written then scrapped text after halfway written and scrapped text.

Thought you didn't wanna get my germs?

You say. And to your surprise his body doesn't shoot up in disgust. Youre laying on your side, unable to really see him on the other end of your bed.

Look up

The second you do he points to his mask. You see the sides of his eys crinkle like tissue paper from a bagged gift. You smile. But really, in this room, he is the gift. Not the tea or food he brought. Him. His care. The warm feeling he brings along with him everywhere he goes. You see it like a trail following him. Slight and hard to see. But still there none the less. He seems to breathe in air and let out warmth to all around him.

whyr you smiling at me?

The buzz in your hand makes you come back to reality, looking at your phone. Why are you smiling at him? You know why. You don’t like to think about it, though. Because the more the thought of him lingers in your mind like the memory of a good dream, the more you know you’ll smile at him. The more he might figure it out. The more you think about it, the more you’ll be admitting to yourself how much you like him.

And my fucking god, you really do like him. Before you can think of it any more, you quickly type something out that isn’t a four paragraph long love letter/confession to the man.

Noting weirdo

Your eyes catch his roll from above his mask, leaning further away from you. You think it’s just him being dramatic. But really, how dramatic is physically having to move yourself away from someone to keep yourself from embracing them? How dramatic would having to scoot further away because oh my god how did they get even cuter just now? Doesn’t matter that you’re sick. To him, you took one smiley look at him and it has his brain pushing himself toward you. He grips the footboard of your bed for support as he gulps. He sounds stupid, he knows. But he can help smiling when you smile… or when you wrinkle your nose…. Or when you look down at your hands and play with your sleeves or fingers… or when you— he has to stop. He seriously has to stop thinking like this. You’re his friend. Not someone to swoon over.

Drink your stupid tea

“Stupid? You made it lol” you’re about to type,

But Before you can wonder why the hell he’s put so many emanation points on his text, the coffee mug of tea is already to your lips, plate in his hand as he crouches down in front of you. “You ok there, Seungmin?” You wonder, almost laughing at, not only how quickly this all transpired, but also at the very uncomfortable and awkward position he’s in. “Tea!” He reminds you, nearly grunting as he puts the plate on the bedside table. “Dude, you’re gonna fall—“ him pushing the tea closer to your lips effectively shuts you up.

you give up, finally drinking the warm liquid, soothing you immediately. And thus, soon, you’re falling half asleep with him still at your feet, now occupying himself with folding the laundry you’ve had in a basket since you’d gotten sick a couple days ago. You wonder if he’s sure he really wants to spend his time on your floor. You pick up your phone to ask him through text, knowing the tisky look he’lol give you if you didn’t save your voice.

“oh?” He wonders aloud, the thought of wanting to get up from beside you never crossed his mind, “no, I’m good here.” You see his cheeks lift up and eyes crinkle in a smile you can’t help but return.

I just feel so bad

You say, and you’re not lying. Your floor hasn’t been cleaned in a while. Not being done when you usually do it because of well, being terribly sick. Why was he being so sickeningly sweet? Folding your clothes on his own initiative…You already had a bad infection of some type, you didn’t need anything else.

duh ur sick 🙄

You’d kick him in the head with your foot if you weren’t so week and buried under so many blankets it feels like a ton of bricks is on top of you, rendering you unable to move. And he’s not wrong, though. You felt more tired than you think you had in several months. Tea soothing you, acting as a lullaby to drift you to sleep. Nose is as runny as ever, too. Maybe some sleep would do you good.

“Go do sleep” He said, as if reading your mind. You’d jump back in surprise if, again, you could move. He didn’t even need to turn his head to know how tired you were the second you stopped rocking back and forth to warm yourself. “I’ll be here.” He says. A Small voice, but something you heard loud and clear.

You can leave if you want!

He gave you a knowing look, like: I don’t think you want me to. And, as always, Seungmin was right. You didn’t want him to leave. You wanted him to climb in your bed and cuddle you to help you stay warm, not really caring if you got him sick. “I’ll stay.” He says definitively. You know he’s not gonna budge. And quite frankly, you don’t want him to. Honestly, you only told him he didn’t have to as a formality. “I’ve got food and a phone charger. Plus, you” he chuckled. “That’s what friends are for.” He shrugs like: welp that’s my job. And neither of you want to think too much about how you don’t want the word friends to be the only thing people describe you as.

You made me tea already tho…

“That, I did.”

You smile to yourself, comfortable silence sitting between the two of you, you falling into an even more tired state as the clock ticks on, and on, and on, and on. Finally, you take the last swig of your now room temperature tea. Still tastes good, you think. And Seungmin is still on your floor.

A while later and— You’re half asleep when you ask him. That’s what you blame it on. If you had your minds about you, maybe you would've paid more attention to how he was getting to the bottom of your laundry basket and how you definitely did NOT want him to see your underwear. See? You were Delirious and sick, you ask

“Man, that tea was so good I could kiss you. Wanna?” You slur your words, nodding off. Your hand is over your feverish and aching head, trying to keep the pain at bay. You don't even realize what you're saying when you do. Only thinking of it as something more than just a simple question to your best friend when he looks at you differently than he ever has. No fear is behind his perfect eyes though. Rather, love and warmth for you is the only thing that adorns them. He stops folding mid-shirt, a couple others on his lap. And all he does for the next minute is look into your eyes

You don't shrink back, fearing that if you do, you'll miss something in his eyes, telling you what his next move is. You almost want to say you're sorry. But really, you're not by bringing it up. You have the urge to kiss him most of the time he's around you, why not at least make it known? Him placing the clothes with the others folded neatly in a pile and inching closer to you brings you out of your thoughts. You look him up and down, your palms glued to your sides as he leans over your figure in your bed. All his weight on his knuckles on either side is you. And you can hear him swallow the lump formed in his throat before speaking, "Sure, we can kiss after you stop coughing so I don't get infected. Once you can talk, too." You see a smile adorning his eyes and you can't help but look down in admiration at him as he sinks back to your floor to fold the remainder of your clothes.

Because of how out of it your were, you don't think much about it, only smiling to yourself as a blissful feeling as relaxed as his expression fills your body. Suddenly you feel warm and at peace. And you can finally drift away into sleep.

A couple minutes later and he's patting your clothes to get them a little neater inside your drawer and scooting the laundry basket away. He wants to say something, to talk to you more about what you had just suggested and what he'd said. Not taking it back, bacuse, you were well, you, he'd be a fool not to jump at the opportunity to be close to you like that. He presses his lips together as he remembers how much he dreams about it. And he's about to step away but then, a spur of the moment choice, he leans back and whispers to your sleeping form, "I'd like that more than you'd imagine. Sleep well, please get better."

He says the last part honestly. But really, this was you he was talking about. You getting better meant he could kiss you. Fast recovery equills faster he can fill you soft as butter lips on his. He wants to you get better, he swears, but you kissing him just made it all the more better.

A few days later and you text him that you're feeling better. You would've called but you didn't want him to know about all the excitement in your voice just yet. Did he really need to know? You two had still kept in contact with each other those few days . But with the passing of time all he could think about and do was coming over again and again-- making you hot drinks to warm you. As nice as they felt in your stomach and on your tongue, his smile to you placing the hot drink on your bedside table is what really made your insides heat up before taking the first sip. Mouth never burned, but cheeks hurting from smiling so much.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting when he got your text. He takes a breath as his fingers hover over the keypad. "You sure?" He laughs when he gets sent back a wordless picture of you flipping him off. Guess so, he thinks.

And now, here he is, hot drinks in his hand that he insisted on making for you again. You guide his hands to put them on the bedside table, now not so littered with tissues you didn't even know where the bottom is.

His hands find their way to your forearms. Seungmin, careful as ever as he looks into your eyes for whatever reaction you wanted out of him. If it all was a joke? Or if you did really wanna try. All he knew is that he liked you. So so so much. And he wanted, no needed to have this with you. but if it was a joke he didnt think he could handle it. His lips sink into yours. Softly. Like the breath of air you and him breath out at the contact.

His finger tips trail up and down your arms, running slow delicate circles right above your elbows. He wants to gasp you tighter, make sure you never can leave leave… at least for the time being. But he can’t seem to find the will to move from this perfect place he’s in with you. Even an inch. You, with your pretty couple fingers locked behind his neck. You, and him, making warmth spread throughout the both of your body’s as if he’s your own personal radiator. You might not still be sick and shivering cold, but you don’t temper feeling this wonderfully warm before this. Were you somehow always this cold beforehand?

A breeze seems to flow through your body even thought the windows aren’t open. Carrying with it the sweet smell of his cologne, smiles and new beginnings. Bringing the smell of his world to yours in a way it hadn’t been before. The breeze flowing through both of you and carrying something spring like and new.

~~End

Annnnnd that’s it! Thanks so much for reading! Please leave some love like comments and reblogs if you liked it :)

taglist: @impuritywritings

ps. If you’d like to be added to my permanent taglist just comment!

#xdinary heroes #xdinary heroes fluff #xdinary heroes o.de #xdinary heroes imagine #ghosts writing #Requested by my good friend Anon Shades #xdinary heroes o.de x reader

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dyouevendraw · 10 months ago

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About me

So, I thought I’d probably be best to just make a pinned post with some info so I’m not just a void who throws art a a wall. (I’m probably gonna edit as things change) But here we go:

My tiktok is dyoueven

My instagram is dyouevendraw

My name is D, sometimes people still call me Fay, I don’t mind that either

I’m 22 years old

I use they/them pronouns, I’m fine with he/him too. I’d call myself nonbinary or even agender, leaning towards the masc side. It’s a struggle

Additionally to that, I am ace and my romantic attraction is 🤷🏼. I like androgyny and femininity if that says anything lmao

I have a hypermobilty condition, thus, my physical health is very inconsistent. Sometimes I feel fine for weeks, sometimes I can barely move my arms. Luckily, I don’t dislocate easily, I mostly get joint pain, pinched nerves, random bruises and badly healing wounds. Additionally, I seem to have a mild variant of long covid, which is making my lungs weak, so sometimes physical activities winds me badly even though it’s not hard work.

I am autistic and only found out around 2 years ago, thus, school burned me out! I was bullied by my teachers and they ignored all the signs of a struggling student, so I developed bad social anxiety (added by other events with former friends and general genetics probably). I took a year off of art to focus on getting a better mindset, and I guess I’ve been back since this year.

I am a clumsy and unlucky person, that’s why I say I am like Xie Lian a lot (send me a Hua Cheng)

I like k-pop. Currently, I like BTS, TXT, SKZ, LE SSERAFIM, New Jeans, Red Velvet and SHINee.

Other artists I like are: Tatsuya Kitani, Eve, The Oral Cigarettes, Vaundy, King Gnu, Queen Bee and MCR (what a mix)

Fandoms I’m in include(I’m sure I’ll add more danmei when I’m done reading them):

TGCF (I have beef with it but I’m deeply in love)

MDZS

SVSSS (still reading, on volume 2)

JJK

AOT

Sometimes I like Marvel. I only care about Spider-Man and Loki

TLOZ

Pokémon

(Always open to suggestions for more things, especially when they’re queer🤠👍🏻)

I write my own stories and am working on an AU that includes many fantastical being, though I am not entirely sure if that’s ever gonna see the light of day bc I don’t see anyone caring about my writing lol (it already has 137.000 words I’m not even joking it’s not funny, why am I writing this)

I’m sure I’ll post more of my OC’s when I find the time. My favorite is Harumi, he’s the main character in the fantastic beings AU, as a werewolf

I am so sorry my humor is super trauma based, bare with me it’s okay to laugh at my pain, it’s how I process, I swear

My favorite food is anything indian (especially aloo mutter, I bathe in that), pizza (only the one I make), and (red) thai curry.

That’s the only thing that sets me apart from Xie Lian, I eventually did learn how to cook and apparently people like my food!! (I add cinnamon and chili to everything, maybe that’s the key?)

I love building lego and organizing things by category (why I didn’t get diagnosed with asd is beyond me, I’ve always been like that)

I mostly draw on an Ipad with procreate, but I wanna get into watercolor and copics too, I just feel like I’m wasting the suff when things don’t turn out how I wanted them to be

I am horrible at texting and get anxious over it

I had another account here I was running for years, but I was in a pretty icky fandom and didn’t want to associate with the reputation that came with it, thus, I left. I am not the stupid, hurt and depressed teenager I was anymore, and that’s great!

I am german, though, I speak English so much I might as well be a native speaker

That’s it for now, you can always feel free to ask my questions, my (anonymous) asks, submissions and reblogs are always open, I just won’t answer if you’re rude🤠✌🏻

#artists on tumblr #about me #about myself #about the blogger #about the artist #art #random #text post #pinned post #danmei #tgcf #anime

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ode2rin · 1 year ago

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ISAGI DEBUT, ISAGI DEBUT ON ODE2RIN! THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS ONES FOR THE ISAGI KISSERS (me).

isagi is the cutest in my opinion, he remains my lover no matter what other characters are introduced. everyone else is my side chick. but isagi definitely gives sun after the rain energy. you’ll fall on your face a few times and he’ll be there to help put you back. which is why him hanging out with people who’ve been stood up sounds like a canonical event in my mind. the small conversation about coffee, yeah he gonna do his best to engage someone. this plays well with his soft personality to the other boys of blue lock when he’s off field. that episode of additional time where barou, nagi, and chigiri realized how much they rely on isagi for help on basic tasks. yeah he’s got a good heart in my mind and is just a helpful guy who wants everyone to feel good.

MOVING ON, the descriptions in this piece? yeah mimi, i might need to live in your brain for a minute.

your descriptions of readers bad experiences with love hits home to all hopeless romantics who just get met with a wall of disappointment.

“and coming from someone who has been gravely hurt in the name of so-called love, it’s impossible not to wonder if such love even exists in this world or if it's merely a figment of your imagination born from those contemporary romance books you read on your lonely nights.”

yeah i’m in this, and i don’t know if i like it or i feel seen.

ALSO, how you describe isagi? im in your walls??

“it's an understatement, as a matter of fact. the guy before you is downright mesmerizing. if you could gaze at his face for more than two seconds without being called weird, you could map the entirety of how blessed this man’s face is — the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he speaks, the subtle strength in his jawline, and the way his hair falls in a perfectly disheveled manner”

AND

“amidst the lively exchange, you catch glimpses of isagi's gentle nature, his ability to make you feel at ease, and his genuine curiosity about your thoughts and experiences. it's a refreshing change from the superficial interactions you've had in the past, and you're left wondering if the man in front of you is even real.”

delicious, delectable, i love him desperately. i don’t know if anyone has mentioned this but your writing has definitely made large amounts of improvement in the short time you’ve been active. it’s honestly fun to see you become more detailed in descriptions and conveying deep insights about the reader through words. in a post you mentioned that in something you were writing that the reader was feeling to similar to you and i’m going to guess that this one might be the one in particular due to how vivid you describe their feelings and thoughts. i’ve been reading your posts since sometime in may and i absolutely adore anything you write or post. so i will fight all your mean and nasty anons for you! we will box them deadass!

have a great day mimi! xoxoxoxoxoxo (extra today)

(🏹 anon)

sorry for the extra long wall of text, i hope this reaches you well! i gave myself an emoji i hope it’s not taken yet. love you mimi, mwah!

[sorry this took a while i was really like this 🥺 the whole time i was reading thru it ]

you don't know how much this means to me. i often joke about not needing any attention for my writing because i write for myself and for my silly pookies. but at the end of the day, i am still a human sitting through hours of pouring my heart out and translating my thoughts into words. and as much as one might try to deny it, knowing that someone enjoyed the piece of writing i put out here can really make a difference, especially when you're someone who receives 'flop' in your asks like me lmao (enough negativity, shoo shoo shoo!). i love hearing your thoughts, 🏹 anon (ps. i actually call you paragraph anon in my mind XD).

no, but you're so right about isagi giving off 'sun after the rain' energy. if you haven't seen it, i actually mentioned in a previous ask how isagi is the guy who comes after heartbreaks (if you want to read it, here!). i wanted to portray him as someone who naturally exudes comfort in his presence, to the point where you can't help but lower your guard and let him in, if that makes any sense. that's just the vibe i got from him, especially in the first few episodes when chigiri was struggling to free himself.

you wouldn't want to live in my mind, even for a minute, i assure you 😭 and not at you pulling out these sentences jsaksklajs

i'm glad to know that my intention in writing the reader's background has reached the right audience. i was contemplating the direction i took with how i wrote the reader's experiences. i wondered if it would still be relatable or if i made them a bit too sappy (which i did, but it was for the plot T^T). and yes, you're right!! i was referring to this fic when i said that the reader is a little bit too 'me' XD. and now, reading your thoughts, i guess it's you and me hehe. don't worry, if you feel seen by the reader, i'm happy to let you know that i was attacked (and it kind of felt like i was oversharing as a writer, by the way T^T).

“i don't know if anyone has mentioned this, but your writing has definitely shown significant improvement in the short time you've been active” stop ✋🏻 you're making me cry ✋🏻 as someone who goes into hiding after posting because she doesn't have a good relationship with her works, this means so much to me, you don't understand :( i'm actually trying to focus more on writing the reader better. my past works were heavy on the characters' thoughts because i wanted to characterize them properly (i hope i did, oh my god), but in “just maybe”, i wanted to try writing solely from the reader's point of view.

thank you so much, anon! i'll be printing this out, and it will replace my awards on our walls.

i hope you're well and having the time of your life! love you lots <3

(don't worry, the emoji is not taken hehe. i'll go and search for your other asks to tag them properly so i can come back to it 🫵🏻)

#you made my day and maybe my whole week actually #letters to mimi ✿#letters from: dearest 🏹

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your--isgayrights · 2 years ago

Note

re: that ask about barthes/hsy. I feel like it's not an outright framework against the traditional constructed system of classifying media but rather a critique about how it's not always best to solely rely on the author's intentions but rather a mix of both(like not all interpretations are gonna be correct as well too, like you said thats delusion)? and honestly it's interesting because orv also sends the message to not be overly reliant on escapism. This ain't even an ask lmao idk where i'm going with this but yeah

Yeah you're probably right I'm not really a theory expert so my experience of death of the author definitely isn't in directly trying to interpret Barthes' assertions but like seeing how other people have interpreted/applied his framework in their own works. Like I think because I'm a fandom guy and not an academia guy I see a lot of people misinterpreting death of the author or applying it to their experience of like commercial lit/storytelling. I will say tho I am like a mega liberal in terms of what I consider 'literature' because I think folk/pop literature is really special and important to me. Took a lit class once where I argued that a gas station receipt is literature.

That being said I def get that Barthes' in context is critiquing a status quo of his time like you say, and I don't disagree at all that like ultimately lit analysis needs insight from reading the text as well as attempts at understanding the author behind it. In terms of tragedy/the delusion, the aspect I was focusing on is more like the literary/thematic element of death of the author as a tragedy if that makes sense? Bc like while it's cool that source texts are so much easier to find/document in modern storytelling traditions, there's still this mythos/feeling of a story that gets so big it leaves the hands of the author entirely to become its own thing. Like I love humans bc that's the kind of thing that started religions and pantheons in the past, stellar, love how powerful stories can become and the ephemeral nature of true origin in that case, but again the power the story has is then no longer in the hands of the author once the story is viewed by a reader, which is why in ORV KDJ is the one running the universe on his subconscious lol.

Like bc of that evolution of author death in modernity though, like based in the reality of webnovels like ORV as commercial texts that get reinterpreted and transformed by translators and fans over and over again with anonymous authors we might not know much of anything about, the delusion I'm speaking of is that some of those millions of readers may not think of author intent at all and just view the finished work as a Product, something consumable. This is what I meant by apathetic delusion when I got into the part you agree with here of readers who only see text as an outlet for their own escapism.

The feeling you have of 'mix of both' is exactly what I'm trying to convey by the "impossible communication." Because text is ultimately speech, storytelling is conversation, it is an attempt to communicate from one author to however many readers. The writing on the wall idea from ORV is very related to this in that you are trying to convey this thing that you are not sure anyone will ever see just in hopes of one day being understood or seen by others, even if you'll never see those others or know how your words affected them. This is why I felt that orv's emphasis on text as Relationship between author and reader.

#personal #orv #orv spoilers #ask #anonymous #again its morning for mee so idk if this is totally sensical lol

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progmanx · 1 year ago

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Hello, hi. First of all, I just want to say that I LOVE your Jeckole fic. It's honestly so great and everything from the dialogue to the various HCs to fill in the space left by the game makes so much sense. I was reading the comments, though, and saw that you said that you were going for a biromantic Nicole. This really struck me as an interesting choice because it really kind of clashes with my interpretation of what's presented in the game, IE complete disgust with men in all circumstances. Since everything else about the fic is so clearly well thought out, I was wondering if you have any specific reasoning for that decision?

In either case, like I said, I really love your fic, and want to thank you for writing it.

Hi! Thank you so much! <3

Mmk, so, "going for" is not really how I meant it, or intended. Yes, there was a lot of thought put into that decision to “write” Nicole as biromantic gray/something/she's seventeen she's not gonna have this shit figured out, though in all honesty that ideally shouldn't be distinguishable from any interpretation one may have in the actual text of the fic.

If it is, dear God, tell me. Because I whiffed something if you can. The fact that you were this surprised suggests that you couldn't, but, just to be safe lol

All of this is interpretative, and has no real bearing on how I'm writing Nicole, as she's still who she is first and foremost. Whatever she is to you, that's what she is. End of story.

This is basically the equivalent of flavor text (I seriously mean it; this isn't supposed to have any kind of noticeable or even actual influence on how she is written), but, since you asked, sure! :)

*inhales*

First, teenage boys are, by and large, disgusting. They don't really have hygiene figured out, or put in any effort into their appearance, and this can continue well into the 20s for many cis straight men. They smell. Boys smell. No one likes stinky people.

Second, teenage boys in 2009 also, by and large, identified as straight by a WAY wider margin than they do now. I can't stress enough how massive a difference just NOT being straight at all---even for those who don't even know they aren't---can radically change a dude’s perspective and behavior even at that age.

However, the ones who are unknowingly closeted are also unlikely to make enough noise to really be noticed at all half the time, because having any kind of crack in that brick wall of bullshit makes engaging with it absolutely revolting and horrifying.

It's just a constant stream of "this is not okay" and not having the language, nor authority, nor support, to do anything other than do your best to not make it worse. Because if you try to help without fully grasping WHAT is going on and WHY (which, you can't, because you're not high on the same bullshit as the other dudes) you WILL make it worse.

The sheer toxicity of what masculinity presented itself to be (and continues to), is probably the LEAST romantic or generally attractive thing ever for many, many people. It's hostile, aggressive, and has zero interest in acknowledging anyone's existence or feelings.

This is even WORSE with her male authority figures (Coach Colby, the counselor), who honestly really shouldn't count towards any consideration since she's a minor and they have a massive amount of power over her.

So, they don't. Just wanted to mention them here to make sure it was clear I didn't forget about them.

Anyway, if all the guys you knew were ones like Kylar (an obviously closeted rapist), Crispin (pbbbbth), Braxton, Trody, or Jeffrey---like ACTUAL Jeffrey, not just 'the nerdy anime kid', no the MASSIVE red flag stalker who THINKS he's a Nice Guy (tm) and sensitive---and AT BEST you'd get lucky with Hunter (ew) or Kyle (lmao, and also a stalker), and you didn't HAVE to date dudes, and understood that about yourself, dear God, why would you ever bother?

That being said, Nicole's general viciousness and misanthropy is rather heavily implied, imo, to be mostly reaction to her most recent move, so all of those guys hitting on her at her old school doesn't seem to be something she actively despised, since the social leverage she gains isn't presented as anything negative initially.

That's not to say Nicole did not have the capacity for all of this, she absolutely did, but I don't think she pushed it NEARLY as hard as she does now.

Anyway, the boys, at her old school, were still stinky, but with 'the popular girls' comes the guys who actually know what deodorant is. If she were constantly disgusted and revolted by the guys at her old school, I don't think she'd be THIS PISSED and not okay with moving somewhere else, since that is SO MUCH of high school social life, endlessly.

Nicole, at least how I'm reading this, is disgusted with everything about masculinity and men that she absolutely should be. There is no gray area here. I don't think she is inherently disgusted with the existence of men in general as a concept.

In the start of the first game, she honestly kind of DOES give the guys half a chance. They're just all generally terrible and do nothing to disprove any of her preconceptions since she's done this so many times and met so many people, and since boys really aren't encouraged to TRY, why would they be any different?

I'm not saying she'd jump at the first guy who wasn't a total piece of shit to her and was sincere about it (she would NOT fucking believe it wasn't part of some long play to fuck her and fuck with her head, and honestly I wouldn't either in her shoes) but rather that the idea of 'dating a guy' isn't inherently repulsive down to her bones, but rather that all of the guys she knows make the distinction, for the moment, essentially non-existent.

Now, yes, by Senior Year (so parts of the first game, and all of Re-Up), she has zero fucks left and zero patience (hence her amped up hostility from moment one compared to September 2007) since none of them, have EVER done anything to prove her wrong. And if someone did, like I said above, she wouldn't believe them anyway.

All of that said, I mean. Yeah, she probably massively prefers girls. If you could choose one or the other in that context, and you didn't give a shit about how people saw you, or what your parents would say, or any of that, who would pick dudes?

Hopefully that answered your question, and thanks for reading!

#fanfiction

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thueenz · 1 year ago

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Have you "come out" with your identity to your parents/friends? How did you do it? Completely ok if you don't wanna answer or give too many details. Hope ur safe and happy

hi! i don't mind answering at all ! ! im gonna put this under read more for the sake of not throwing a wall of text on peoples dashes

i have come out to my parents, and as for friends, ive only ever had to come out to one because the rest are lgbt in some way LMAO 😭 i dont know anyone close to where i live so thats a bit of a cheatcode. in an evil way because the con is i dont know anyone near me wouldnt recommend to be fair BUT !

it was like, years ago now, so the details are a bit foggy, but i literally just sat them down while shaking in my boots and told them , said i had something i wanted to tell them all and came out, it wasnt too complicated for me since my family is like...well, theyre not hateful, i'm not going to call them allies considering the first thing they told me was that they found my identity too hard to grasp ��

i eventually confronted them on that and it didnt do much either, they use the proper pronoun more often in front of my friends but never really when im alone and they have a bunch of other issues with that stuff, theyre like, the type that think theyre progressive but arent lol. I.e i used he/him for a friend for months and they did too but they heard the friend is trans and immediately stumbled using she/her constantly and were like oh well im not used to it 🥺🥺 girl wtf youve been using he/him for months!! so stuff like that yk?

as for the One Cishet Friend I Met On A Game, i also just sort of did the same thing? he was a lot more accepting though, very sweet, he was googling what pronoun to use in his native language for me so that was a lot more touching after my last experience 😭

it's a bit annoying but i dont really put much mind to it! i dont really care what my family thinks anymore on that even if its bothersome, ive got a lot bigger fish to fry with my family LMAO and boy are they frying... theyre positively cooking

i hope that answers sorry i don't have many details i have poor memory also it just wasn't very eventful aside from me being very anxious each time

HOWEVER this gives me the chance to share my favourite story to share with people because its so stupid. OK SO! about a year before i came out? idk, my mom literally asked if i was gay 😭😭 and i was closeted so i was like shaking in my boots and i was like no why.. and she said because i never had a crush on a fictional male character, like my sister liked shrek as a kid so she "knew.." she was straight it LINGERS IN MY MIND ITS SO FUNNY LMAO like please diagnosed as gay by your mother because you didnt get a crush on shrek. DIAGNOSED AS STRAIGHT BECAUSE YOU DID GET A CRUSH ON SHREK ?? I literally like men too though so she was right but also not but also what the hell LMAO

i hope youre safe and happy too! ♥️♥️tyvm for being sweet feel free to send any more asks if i didnt cover something! i havent eaten breakfast yet so im a bit scattered im gonna do that 🫡

anyone whos read this far gets a gold star 🌟

#oatmeal timeeeeeeee #hopefully idk ill find something else if that doesnt work out but i want my oat meal </3 #ask #pers

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geodetojoy · 5 months ago

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!!!VENT POST!!!!

I just really needed to get this out of my system I’m not expecting anyone to read this but if you do helloooo lmao

GOD I fucking hate my parents dude. Just had the worst meltdown I’ve had in weeks in their kitchen while they were in the living room with not a care in the world. And it’s an open floor plan it’s not like I was hidden behind walls or anything. I was sitting at their island with tears fucking streaming down my face, hyperventilating, unable to speak, and shaking like crazy, all while trying to hold myself still bc they’ve told me that my stims are “weird” and “make them uncomfortable”. And they’re just both sitting not even ten feet away from me not giving two shits. If anything it was like they were trying to make it worse.

It didn’t like come out of nowhere either, no, there’s a shit ton of lead up here. I had just come from my room after my mom called me on her phone to wake up and eat food which she had apparently gotten an hour ago. I knew she was getting it, I even texted her my order AND told her I was gonna take a nap and asked her to wake me up when it got here, but I saw that she just sent one lousy text and gave up when I didn’t come down. Then called me a whole HOUR later, so my fast food was just left cold out on the counter. And I fucking HATE warming fast food back up. I’ve already got tons of food sensory issues but let me tell ya warmed up fast food is one of the WORST ones. And they know this!!! So I put the burger in the fucking microwave, which, again, disgusting, while they blare the tv from the other room at full volume, the dogs are in the cage (only because my parents don’t want to deal with taking care of them, I’m the only one who actually does anything for them) barking to no end, and EVERY. SUNGLE. FUCKING. LIGHT. is on. Then my mom goes to take a shower and the dogs just get louder and crazier, so what does my stepdad do? He shouts at them of course. The louder they get the louder he gets. And the louder he gets the worse I shake, both from overstimulation and fucking trauma from my bio dad bc he was exactly the same.

Then he got fed up with the barking and let them out of the cage, not paying attention to them at all until one peed on the carpet (they’re still new so not fully potty trained, and I also don’t know when they took them out last so that could’ve been entirely his fault) and he fucking kicks her in the side (not sure how hard, at this point I was fully stiff staring straight down while tears fell on my plate) and starts yelling again

THEN, when he goes to clean it up, he uses my carpet cleaner that I use when my cats throw up that I gave him because he didn’t want to get his own (then they went and got another at some point and gave me the almost empty one. Thanks a lot.) and uses it entirely fucking wrong and wastes so fucking much of it and complains that there’s none left. And I’m sure they’re gonna make me go out and buy them another one. Which, they might pay me back for it, but the store is another sensory nightmare (again, that they know about) that they subject me to multiple times a week.

Anyway, I think I even dropped my burger at some point and I didn’t have the stomach to finish it so I just ended up throwing it away and essentially ran back to my room with my cats and under my weighted blanket where I am now. All I’ve eaten today is a chocolate entenmanns donut and like three bites of a dq cheeseburger. It’s 8:46 pm. (Tbh it’s kind of a lot for me I usually don’t even eat that much)

God I just fucking hate being here. They got these dogs with no intention of actually caring for them, leaving me to do all of the dirty work while they just shower them with affection and treats anytime they’re around so the dogs don’t like me anyway (I don’t touch the treats because, wouldn’t you know it, sensory issues) and they just blatantly do not care about me or my struggles and just use me whenever they don’t feel like doing something on their own.

I actively try to avoid them and do not go to the main floor when they’re in there bc it’s always just immediate overstimulation. The issue then is that I’m only there when I’m home alone watching the dogs, which is just a constant thing that I can’t leave for any reason, including to go to the bathroom or eat something, and then when they are home, I can’t go into the kitchen to get food bc I will have a meltdown. So now pretty much the only things I eat are small snacks I’m able to sneak into my room and the occasional dinner I get when just my mom is home (don’t get me wrong she still sucks but at least she doesn’t always have the tv on)

AND MY BROTHER WASNT EVEN THERE TODAY I couldn’t even imagine how much worse that would have been. All he ever does is stuff I’ve told him makes me uncomfortable, like eye contact and watching me when I eat, and he always just sits too close and hits me like a fucking toddler and also yells at the dogs bc he’s also too lazy to actually take care of them.

I’m just. So fucking sick of this. I’ve still got a year left of this bs but it just gets harder by the day.

I’m gonna go play some mc now I need to de-stress

EDIT: there’s more! Yippee! /s

Mom just burst into my room and grabbed the carpet cleaner (the vacuum thingy not the spray) while I was in the bathroom. Oh I should also mention my room is the basement lmaoo yes I live in my parents basement sue me. Anyway we love the lack of boundaries and privacy yayyyy.

#vent post #tw vent #I’m better now dw #writing this helped a lot actually #who knew /silly

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rollforjackass · 1 year ago

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i'm gonna go ahead and answer all the questions from this fic writer ask game here, because. why not! i'm bored and i'm not used to talking about my own writing. gotta cut the cord on that shame game sometime.

(and if y'all wanna answer some yourself, the post is linked above! absolute guarantee i will send some if you do bc i'm nosy like that)

💘 - Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

oh god yes, a lot of them. i've got chronic perfectionism.

if i were to be kind to myself and narrow it down to one, my poor little Person of Interest fic deadman's switch was my first venture into the fandom i would come to adore, and it could definitely do with some tuning up. with a few rare exceptions, i've never liked post-episode fics that just recap the events of the episode with a few extra sentences of meta thrown in the mix, and unfortunately, i think that's exactly what i did with this fic. i don't think it deserves a complete do-over, but a re-work with a new direction and a concrete destination would do it good.

💫 - what is your favorite kind of comment/feedback?

any and every, but the ones where people share their favorite quotes and tell me what it made them think of and expound on their personal theories and thoughts, AGH!!!! i adore those!!!! go off about all the things you love about the characters and your scenarios for missing scenes, i promise you i am enjoying it immensely!!!!!

🌈 - is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

i mean, by default i feel like i'm a bit of a tryhard with my writing and i feel like that's fairly obvious a lot of the time (for better or for worse 😬). but i guess the one that's outwardly the most relaxed bit of writing and was actually really difficult was the burning question, because. how the hell am i supposed to translate a groupchat format into a fic and keep all the nuances of technology, i.e. nickname changes & people sending walls of text, that are meant to be funny??????

it took me Forever to settle on formatting that i felt maintained the spirit of the jokes, and there's so many folks that think groupchat fics are cringe that i don't think anyone would consider how much effort i had to put into it for a now quite outdated joke lmao. i love groupchat fics myself, though, so i am content with the cringe.

🦋 - what are you most insecure about when you post a fic?

always always ALWAYS characterization. i have the fandom attention span of a mayfly and the combination pizza hut/taco bell that is ADHD/autism to boot, so i pick up strong attachments to characters/media quickly and write my feelings almost as fast as i feel them. which means lots of one-offs that are barely two seasons into a series/one movie into a trilogy. i'm always worried that i'm missing the mark by a mile because i was too impatient to reach a Big Backstory Reveal, or that i've latched onto a single trait not indicative of the whole.

🌻 - what makes you want to give up on writing? what makes you keep going?

what makes me want to give up: the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known. i used to be super confident in putting myself out there, but i haven't always had support for my special interests and i've rarely had anyone willing to read my writing when asked. makes it hard to enjoy what i'm doing when i've got that annoying little earworm asking me what people would think if they ever eventually read it, even when it's a self-indulgent little thing that i don't plan on posting.

what makes me keep going: i love writing, plain and simple. i love to borrow people's habits, their thoughts, their dreams and hopes and fears and nightmares; i love to see the world from new perspectives. and the idea that what i have to say might connect with people, that people might recognize parts of the characters and stories that they care for in my writing, is pretty damn intoxicating, too.

🌿 - how does creating make you feel?

there's a book series i loved as a kid called The Secrets of Droon, which is about three kids who discover a staircase to another world in their basement, and writing has always felt like that to me. i open the door, and i am somewhere else. these other worlds don't need me to be there for events to unfold, but i can still try to change the things that i don't like if i wanted to. and nobody needs to know that i've been to these worlds, but if i mentioned 'hey i've been to another world', someone somewhere might be interested in what i saw.

idk if that makes sense shdjk but i just!! i like writing. i like seeing what would happen if i changed something. and it feels amazing when something i care about deeply connects with people i don't even know, and who don't know me. it's scary to venture into other worlds, but there's always the chance of finding yourself - and finding new friends - down that magic staircase!!

🍉 - in what ways has writing helped you process trauma and/or navigate through your own life?

whoof, i mean. how hasn't it.

i had a very difficult upbringing that left me absurdly angry with the world and only able to conceive of living as fighting for survival. i wrote stories where i could escape and be free, and i wrote stories where the fight was all there was so i could feel less alone. hell, my first favorite character on tumblr was gabriel from supernatural, running away from his family and still loving them even when it hurt, and writing stories where he was happy or angry or sad felt like validating those feelings in myself. i could fix his problems, even if mine weren't that easy.

these days i struggle with a lot that's out of my control, like PTSD with a very hard-to-avoid trigger. but writing is something that i can curate, that i can tailor to a situation. it's completely in my hands. so when i'm going through something, i can always pick up a pen and scribble out the strong feelings in a way that makes sense to me, if not to anyone else, and then i can close that book or tear the page out or burn it, whatever i want to do with it. i can shuffle through the life of a fictional character and find the times when they felt the way i did, and wonder how they got through it, and sometimes in doing so, i find ways that i can, too.

it certainly helps that i've found myself a good number of favorite characters who go through a lot but still remain hopeful. ones who make a place for themselves in the world that is safe and good, who manage to find the best in people even when being shown their worse.

🎀 - give yourself a compliment about your own writing

i like that i'm willing to try my hand at pretty much anything and give it every ounce of passion i've got, no matter how short a time i may have been in a fandom or how different a character might be from the ones i'm used to writing. tech geek with conflicting superiority/inferiority complexes? sure thing. prim and proper angel who's secretly a bitch? give it a whirl. chain-smoking self-sabotaging magician who's a time capsule of the 80s? devoted dad with apeshit anxiety? codependent gay cannibals? fuck it, we ball.

🎈 - describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

mmmm depends on how you define style. i want to say that it's generally all the same, but i do think i change tone A Lot, based on who i'm writing about. partially because i bounce between a lot of british and american shows and i tend to try to adopt the vernacular of the culture the media is based in to make the story more immersive, but also based on the tone and overall themes of the piece, i.e. who's hurt and who's comforting and what their relationship looks like, if one's more comedic or they both are or neither of them are.

i'm a bit of a metaphor & simile hound, for sure, that part's pretty fixed. i tend to like comparing simple things to grandiose ones, if only because i write 90% hurt/comfort and the things i always remember most about times when i've been hurting are the gestures that the comforter doesn't even remember making later on. i think i have consistent struggles in certain areas and consistent strengths in others. but i almost never want the version of me who wrote for, say, Good Omens, writing for Mission Impossible, because to me those are two wildly different atmospheres with wildly different stakes and baseline truths. if that makes sense? so i do try to switch up my style when i feel like it's appropriate.

🎉 - how often do you celebrate completing & posting a work? how often do you give yourself the credit/validation that you seek from others when you post? (if you don't, you should!)

i don't think i celebrate much at all, per se. it's always more of a relief that i've gotten all of the most pressing ideas out of my head for the moment than it is an accomplishment, i guess? i'll probably start trying to celebrate now, though.

as for credit/validation, i don't really know how to measure that. i'm able to acknowledge that i've sent something out into the world to bear scrutiny, and i'm usually able to like what i've written once it's out there, so i guess i give myself credit that way??

💞 - what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language

characters. always the characters. sometimes to the detriment of the rest of the story.

idk, i tend to start stories because something about a character's reactions/choices grabbed my attention, and flesh out a scenario around how those reactions/choices would be seen by others vs how the character would see it themselves, so the character is always at the heart of my storytelling. i'm always thinking about the faces we put on for different people vs the ones we wear when we're alone. i usually find that as long as i follow a character's patterns of behavior, priorities, and methods of self-expression, the story writes itself.

💝 - what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

i don't really have expectations when i post, but the outpouring of love i received for Red Witness was definitely a shocker!! i mean, i'd never even heard of The Mentalist while it was airing from 2008-2015, so i was definitely a latecomer to the fandom, but apparently a lot of folks either rewatched it when the pandemic started or remembered it fondly enough to be excited about me writing for it, so that was a lovely surprise!!

🤍 - what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

i mean, one of the things i love about writing for fandom is all the variation in opinions and the different takes on what parts of canon are rock-solid vs which should be different, so i don't think it's possible for people to not "get" a fic. it's just one lens through which a set of events and people can be viewed.

that said, i suppose waiting for the hammer to fall didn't land the way i'd hoped it would, as far as my investment in the ideas i was trying to convey vs audience engagement goes, but i can definitely see why it wasn't "gotten". i spent a lot more time trying to mimic the style and feel of Good Omens and relying on that style to convey my ideas for me than i did figuring out how to explain what, exactly, those ideas were.

my intention was to explore "how does someone as buttoned-up as aziraphale, who has lived millennia in peaceful denial, come to terms with an impending confrontation that he absolutely can't avoid or weasel out of?", and that's still something that is very enticing to me, but the fact that he had been in denial his whole existence wasn't something that aziraphale would have been able to recognize on his own. so the execution fell far short of the mark, and i ended up with a few snippets of passable wit and imitative texture that couldn't have connected with a reader even with an operator on the line.

so, as far as the message of the fic goes, i suppose people didn't "get" that one, but it takes reliable postage to deliver a message and i left off all the stamps. (do we think there's been enough methods-of-communication metaphors for one day? everyone's knees sufficiently slapped?)

🕯️ - was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

come together (over me) was a BRUTAL undertaking for a number of reasons, which is also why it hasn't been updated in two fucking years, for all my vain intent to finish it.

not only was it my first ever attempt at a multi-chapter fic, but it was also a long and involved discussion of the many different ways that grief can affect people that i started writing less than a year after losing a friend of mine to a tragic accident (which was also the way the mighty nein lost mollymauk). i started writing it in the first place in an attempt to comfort my partner at the time, for whom molly was an all-time favorite, so i was pushing myself obsessively to meet the perfect balance of canon-accurate and partner-approved characterizations, and giving myself a lot of grief about it.

at the same time, the outpouring of shock and despair from the Critical Role fandom was like nothing i had ever experienced before. this was the first PC death of their 2nd campaign, under circumstances that meant it would be a permanent one, and on top of that, mollymauk was - at the time - the only openly queer character in the party. people had become understandably attached.

unfortunately, though, IMO, this meant a large portion of the fandom deified him to unrecognizable extremes. to a lot of new enthusiasts, he became a saintly sacrificial lamb unjustly slaughtered, or worse, "bury your gays" in action (it was a random encounter at a time when the party cleric was away giving birth. just saying). people who disagreed or people who didn't like him all that much were met with outrage. wars of righteous indignation were waged. lines in the sand were drawn. it was a mess.

all this to say, a fledgling fan trying to be as canon-accurate as possible in my characterizations of people who'd known mollymauk, and of mollymauk himself, for this fic centered around what was now the most controversial fandom event i'd ever seen firsthand, had a higher-than-usual chance of getting me absolutely obliterated on the internet. the horror.

so overall, while i did get a lovely response from what i did end up posting, the circumstances of writing it were unexpectedly exhausting. i had a lot of great ideas, still have a solid outline for the rest of it, and i like what i managed to get done, but just thinking about continuing it (especially so long after it was relevant and after so much has been revealed in canon since) is. haunting

💥 - find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

oh Time Doesn't Stop. (but it should), we're really in it now.

my dear, sweet, first ever foray into posting on ao3, i'm still quite proud of you. it's one of the few times i've felt like i could say more with absence than with explanation. it's a time capsule of confidence in myself and in my skills, and i think i did a pretty good job depicting the ways that constantine both self-destructs and lashes out when faced with a situation that he can't worm his way out of. i like the fact that i let each section in the 5+1 format have room to breathe, rather than trying to blend them together into a seamless narrative; it feels more authentic to me, like time has actually been passing.

🍭 - why did you start writing?

re: writing in general, i genuinely can't remember. i've been writing stories since i was old enough to read them. maybe i've always wanted to create something that thinks the same way i do?

re: fanfiction, because i was an insatiable bookworm as a kid and there were never enough stories about the characters and settings i loved to satisfy me, so i decided to start making them up myself. it ain't a party until obi-wan kenobi is helping a larvitar set up a picnic for every legendary pokemon plus dustfinger from Inkheart.

💎 - why is writing important to you?

i don't really have a good answer for this, because i can't think of a reason it wouldn't be, honestly. i guess the closest thing would be: it's important because i've never been good at speaking my thoughts and feelings out loud, but on paper i can say exactly what i mean and have a better chance of being understood. no need for facial expressions that might be misconstrued, no way for anyone to misread my tone of voice, just uncomplicated self-expression.

it also means that i get to share my passions with folks who are just as passionate as i am, and that i have a less awkward social avenue for expressing my appreciation of their candor. integrating and crediting headcanons you adored into your personal interpretation of canon, writing something inspired by a one-off post because it made you feel something...there can be such confounding social rules around complimenting people when you do it verbally or in person, it's nice to be able to say "thank you for caring as much as you do!" by just. applying your craft.

📡 - why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

because of what i said for the last question, it's all a way of sharing how you feel!!! people write because they feel strongly about a subject, whether they love canon or despise it, whether they want to refute a popular characterization they disagree with or expand on an AU that's been making the rounds. not to quote spongebob, but there's love in every stitch, whether you love the way you think about a character/a story or you love the way somebody else does.

it's also a way of preserving fandom over time, as well as the present moment! fan fiction started because of Star Trek fans in the 70s and they're still making trek shows today, the critical receptions of which are strongly influenced by fan interpretations so time-honored as to become gospel!! (snw you know what you did.) writing fics and sharing them with each other is a tradition of story-telling that will outlast us by centuries, and it is damned wonderful to know that what we leave behind are affirmations of love and dedication.

🪄 - what is your post-writing/sharing aftercare? How do you take care of yourself or celebrate yourself when you've finished a fic?

my aftercare is closing out the tab and running away from my computer sdhjk. i'm always very anxious about posting my work, and that's before sharing links or putting it anywhere else, so i usually post any writing i've gotten done right before i go to bed, and then in the morning i can read it with fresh eyes and a calmer brain and pat myself on the back for getting it done. that's a celebration in its way. other than that, drinking water is probably what i do the most after completing something.

🎙️ - which one of your fics would you like someone to make a pod-fic of?

actually, somebody already MADE a podfic of my groupchat fic the burning question, which would have been my answer!!!! the wonderful frecklebomb absolutely made my life when they put that together with their friends, i've never felt anything less than absolute joy remembering it.

🤲 - what do YOU get out of writing?

catharsis, baby! i write a lot of hurt/comfort to fill in gaps that i find myself thinking about between episodes/movies/chapters, and it often ends up being very therapeutic. i get the double pleasure of comforting someone and imagining being comforted, with the cherry on top that is narrative completion (at least by my standards).

💋 - when you leave comments on a fic, do you want to hear back from the writer?

i wouldn't call it a priority when i'm leaving those comments, but it's always lovely when they do reply. i'm a collector of joy, knowing with certainty that i've "repaid" someone for their labor of love is never a bad thing, but i definitely don't expect or seek it. hoard all those compliments for a rainy day, y'all deserve them!!

☯️ - how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

"healthy" really comes down to your point of view in fandom, but i do think that multi-platform engagement for fic authors lets you exercise a level of boundary-setting on social media relationships that the rise of tiktok has sort of blown out of the water.

i'm very tired so i'm not sure i could explain my thought process properly if i tried, but basically, going from an author's works on ao3 to their tumblr/twitter often feels like a delightful sneak peek into the mind behind the magic, while going from an author's tumblr/twitter to their works on ao3 can be like walking into a neighbor's studio and realizing they're michelangelo reincarnated. either way, multi-form engagement makes you value them as a person as much as you value the fruits of their labors.

on a less labyrinthine note, getting a message or comment from someone who read your stuff and loved it can be really comforting! someone who liked your work is among the followers who see your fandom theories and wildly thirsty tags. no matter how self-conscious you may get about Being Perceived, you now have at least one person who liked what they perceived.

that's what comforts me, anyway, as someone who is frequently anxious about making bad impressions and bothering people. it also encourages me to send off that complimentary message i've been thinking about sending for ages, even if i only do it anonymously. if i think i would appreciate getting a message like that, then it's worth doing.

🧿 - what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to?

i really can't stress enough how much i write and post for myself more than for a potential audience. i tell the story that i want to read, not the one i've seen people wishing for. if the two end up being one and the same, that's the best feeling in the world, but it's not the motivating factor behind me writing/posting/sharing.

sometimes i do get less engagement on a fic than i thought i might and it makes me worry that i misread a character, or i write something that i find really funny that never gets commented on, but then i have to remind myself that i only post in the first place when i like it enough to post. if it's up, i've decided i liked it. i didn't decide it was perfect, and i didn't mind-read the fandom to figure out what they're looking for in a fic, and i don't need to as long as it's good enough for me. that's really the only step i take, i guess.

💌 - share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

rubbing my grubby little paws together because OH BOY, i have a Mission Impossible benji & ilsa hurt/comfort dawning-friendship fic coming down the pipes that is very soft and sweet to me, and involves benji braiding ilsa's hair because she's failed miserably at doing it on her own and she's never had anyone to do it for her. it's my sweet angel baby right now, at least until good omens comes out in 24 hours and my synapses misfire to permanently sear the word 'GAY' behind my eyes.

#enter at your own risk this shit took forever #cool ass questions tho #oxly hollers

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samingtonwilson · 3 years ago

Text

my little love

summary: there is a difference between hiding the grey of falling in love accidentally and shining in the brightness of choosing to grow in love purposefully-- so you’ll choose him as many times as you can.

pairing: bucky x reader

warnings: language, some angst, a lot of pining, very tiny sex mention. it’s me so there’s a lot of fluff and jokes.

a/n: no tag list because i couldn’t compile one lmao. this is just a former-fwb to friends to lovers fic that i started writing before wandavision or fatws came out so let’s pretend those shows don’t exist for the sake of this story! shout out to my best friend @allcaps1928 for the text “IDIOT!BUCKY RIGHTS” after she read this.

also yes i know what the adele song i took the title from is about but it’s also about feeling love in a time of loneliness.

The sip of coffee turns to ash on your tongue— acrid. Caustic when you swallow.

You smile, though. Bright, it convinces Bucky.

He grins around a sip of his latte. Cinnamon, brown sugar— something warm and sweet which sticks like glue to ribs gone brittle under decades of ice burn. His tongue sweeps over his lips, still smiling.

You could keep it up for that. Hide the grey and let your smiles radiate every color he needs.

Blue like ice when he’s on fire, green like sycamores when he needs to breathe. Something yellow to keep him warm, white to guide him home. Pink and red crêpe paper hearts, roses and boxes of chocolate— Valentine’s Day grins glowing with love.

There’s something purple about this one. Velvety and comforting. A promise in the curve of your lips, in the twinkle of sleepy eyes. Lavender aromatherapy turns to smoke when he looks away. Soot in your lungs, you cough.

It burns, doesn’t it? Singes your tongue with every breath? Maybe that’s why you can’t speak.

Maybe it’s why you haven’t spoken for weeks now, the extent of contact lying in a wave to say good morning across the line of treadmills and ellipticals, a nod to say good night as elevator doors slide shut.

He’d asked about it. Had the good manners to not blame you entirely with a soft concession that he hasn’t been around much lately anyway. Not good enough manners to leave you be as you’d gotten up to walk out of the conference room, though. Not good enough manners to just let some things go with a shrug— manners rotten enough to demand coffee in the name of playing catch-up.

The café is a familiar space.

It began as a place of refuge from missing the echo of Steve’s voice in the quiet halls of the Tower. A place so different from Tony’s labs where Peter and Morgan would spend hours tinkering with suits left behind for no one in particular while Pepper handled business. Somewhere you wouldn’t find Natasha’s hair ties or those pastel pink plates and mugs which she knew would be met with questions only to preemptively decree that she likes pink, okay? Sue me.

It hosted the two of you after a mission in Kolkata and withstood the degradation of its lukewarm, overly spiced chai in comparison to the sweet, piping hot doodh cha in clay cups you’d snuck out of the hotel for at four in the morning, sleepy Sam in tow. The mustachioed chaiwala had made no comment of your black eye, the bump on Sam’s forehead, and the limp in Bucky’s step and instead offered striped packets of Parle-G. The café walls didn’t hear the end of that for the hours the two of you spent huddled in the corner.

It kept the two of you cool in the summer of 2024 when a teenager in cork sole sandals and a light blue mesh top with cloud print told anyone who would listen— and yelled at those who would not— about how you are all so fucked, how climate change is gonna get us all because of the oil companies and the fucking government. You think the fires and disease are gonna stop? Get a goddamn clue, New York! You’d nodded along, applauded by snapping your fingers in agreement while Bucky glared down anyone who even contemplated opening their mouths in opposition.

It calmed the fire behind your ribs after nights— and sometimes afternoons— marked by urgency, a solution to loneliness and a-far-from-guaranteed tomorrow. Iced green tea with a squeeze of lemon and a brown sugar latte with a touch of cinnamon, a shared slice of apple crumble. Shyness in the colliding of your forks despite the bareness of only a small while before, unacknowledged and ignored intimacy beyond physical forcing your silverware apart. An echoing of the promise to maintain brick boundaries, words unsaid aching in the hand you want him to hold, the lips you wish he’d kiss outside the darkness of your bedroom.

It’s your space. Yours and Bucky’s. Holy perhaps to no one, but sacred to the two of you.

And it feels ruined now. Under snowfall and ash, frostbitten noses, your fingers burnt from desperately clutching the few remaining embers of wasted emotion, the café feels ruined. Your crumbling Parthenon.

He smiles at a tricolored corgi seated on the floor a few tables over. His question takes a sledgehammer to one of the remaining pillars, “Fuck the sneezing. I should get flowers anyway, right?”

“Flowers?” an attempt at a nonplussed expression, a casual sip of tea. You aren’t sure of your success.

“Yeah, my ma would make a big stink about it whenever I’d take a girl out.” His smile is fond, nostalgic. Only a little sad— he’s been working through it. “S’a li’l old-fashioned, I know. But it’s been three months. Feel like it’s the right time to get a little cheesy.”

You’d thought about calling it off. The bricks had fractured, grout eroded from love which burnt like acid.

But he’d beat you to the punch. Something about a third date. Something about going steady. Monogamy. He’d smiled, too, as if the words tasted like candy. Perfect white teeth bearing down on your heart as you could only grin along. Yellow with warmth even as you felt yourself freeze over.

Was it all his responsibility?

Or was it your palms, blistered and sore from pushing, pushing, pushing?

“Flowers are nice.” You draw the number 8 in your drink with a paper straw. “A little cheesy is nice.”

He returns your smile with one of his own, flicks a finger against your knuckle. “Tell me what’s goin’ on with you.”

You shrug. “Nothing to report.”

“Find that hard to believe. I can hear you an’ Sam getting back late at night, you know?” He taps the curve of his ear. “Super soldier hearing, remember?”

Eyes rolling, you skate a fingernail around the rim of your tall glass. “I’m coming back with Sam. What could I have to report if I’m coming back with Sam every night?”

“Fair enough,” he says after a moment of thought. There’s laughter in his voice, bright and happy, and, though you know he isn’t taunting you, there's the pang of an insult in your stomach. “Just thought something— someone— outside the Tower might be keeping you busy.”

It’d started on a Wednesday. Rainy and so windy you’d watched a woman lose her umbrella from your window and hissed sympathetically through your teeth. After one of those dinners Sam arranged on a night most of you were free, smiling over Doordashed gnocchi in an attempt to keep the few of you who were left together.

Wanda, green eyes dull and haunted, had spoken for the first time in ten days. Told Sam he should be proud she’d dragged a brush through her hair for him, stared at her plate with sight blurred by tears when he said he was.

Peter had dropped a can of soda and screamed at the burst, apologized with his hands over his ears.

Sam, for the first time since you’d known him, had looked defeated. Something so profoundly fractured deep within him rose to the surface. The shield comes with a lot, he’d once said after a mission went south. Just gotta find the right stance to balance it all.

During the mission he’d smiled, but that night over dinner you’d seen beneath it.

So, since that Wednesday night, you’ve taken up more missions. Carried more responsibility. Played Mother Goose to Wanda and Peter. Become Sam’s sounding board for strategy. A lap for him to lay his head in on nights in and a shoulder for him to lean against in cab rides after nights out.

If he needs reminders, you’ll paste Post-It note affirmations to his mirror. If he needs to forget, you’ll take him to his favorite bar and match him drink for drink.

He’s healed since that night. Found a stance which favors balance, set the fracture and let it mend under a cast wrapped in red, white, and blue.

Yet, because of the nights you drink more than he does and the nights you cry into a bowl of popcorn at movie scenes meant to bring warmth, he lets you imagine you’re stitching his heart together when your fingers really work to keep together the walls of your own.

You held his hand through it so he’ll hold yours. No matter whose benefit you think you’re doing it for.

“Work things,” is your explanation to Bucky. You smile then. “Saving the world is more time consuming than I thought it’d be.”

“S’a real shame they don’t cover that in orientation. I went into this thinkin’ it’d be a straight-forward nine to five.”

“Those ‘out of the office’ emails just don’t work the way they used to.” Before he can smile, you sit up straight with an apologetic frown. “So sorry.” You slow your speech, raise your volume, and make large gestures, “An email is electronic mail. It’s sent via this thing called the internet through, like, electronic devices—”

“Christ’s sake,” he laughs, loud and happy. Rolls brightened blue eyes. “You think you’re a real fuckin’ riot, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you say through laughter of your own. “Why? You gonna tell me I’m not?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sits back, grin firmly in place. “Who am I to tell you the sky ain’t blue?”

“Wow, don’t give out compliments too freely now. I might start to think you missed me.”

He hums out a sigh. There’s a gentleness despite the intensity in his stare. “You wouldn’t be wrong if you did.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know,” he nods. He drains what remains in his cup and smacks his tongue against his lips. “Work things.”

An uneasy silence seems to set over the café. Something unsaid and ignored in the skepticism of his voice is a suffocating blanket spread over words which, free of context, are innocent enough. You think you could scream under the heavy blanket and go unheard, struggle with all of your strength and remain tangled. Fleece in your fists, fleece in your lungs, fleece between your teeth. It may be easier to lay there, may be more difficult to struggle.

It’ll all go unseen anyway.

An incoming notification brightens the screen of your phone.

Two hours have passed.

Two hours in asking if he should go with the grey button-down— it’s smart, brings my eyes out, too— or the black sweater— I like black, always have.

Two hours in wondering whether the restaurant Pepper suggested is a good option— Stark took her there n’ I’m no fuckin’ Stark; that Depression frugality stuck— before he settled on Sam’s suggestion— Wilson knows a good plate-a food, I’ll give his dumb ass that.

Two hours in thinking about some chocolate— hell, I could use some chocolate myself. Maybe flowers— is sneezing unattractive? Because roses fuck me up fast.

You sit in the ruins, temple pillars reduced to dust and rubble at your feet, and remind him, “You’re gonna be late.”

He shakes himself from the daze of expectation. “Right.” A drag of his hands down the lap of his jeans and he gestures vaguely toward the exit. “Come on—”

“Sam’s actually my ride. Pepper signed us up to build sets for Morgan’s play.” Setting your chin in your palm, you look up at him as he stands and smile. Shake the snow from weeping willow trees to make it reassuring. “Have a nice time tonight.”

It’s interesting to inspect the damage to the temple once he leaves. To see the debris of delicate stone deities and the spilled wax of burnt out candles. To hear the echoes of prayers once whispered and laughter once sung like hymns. To feel Earth stop its slow spin in mercy. And to be the only one to experience it.

The barista still places cardboard cups under the espresso machine, her manager coaches himself into presenting customers with rehearsed smiles. A family of three sits by the window, two smoothie glasses and three straws between them. A girl in a tennis skirt places a kiss on the pouted lips of a girl in tight black jeans, eyes wide and loving. Small temples of Pentelic marble. Complex, but sturdier. Foundations of intention, rather than accident. In their golden age while you sit, Athens fallen around you in a loss against Sparta.

Sam orders a three-shot oat milk latte, extra hot— to go, even though he moves to sit for a couple-a minutes. Murmurs something about having a long night ahead of him when he takes the seat Bucky had occupied. There’s concern in the deep brown of his eyes as he appraises you.

Frowning, he means to ask but twists his mouth in a grin instead when the café manager— rehearsed smile in place— sets a slice of reine de saba in front of him.

“On the house, Cap. I mean, Mr. America,” the manager, a tall short man with a mop of brown hair, pauses as he registers what he’s said. “Mr. Captain Wilson, sir.”

Sam has enough manners to only smile. You, however— forced to cover your lips with your hand to laugh quietly— seem to have forgotten the concept of manners.

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, digging a fork into the slice. “S’why we do what we do. The free cake.”

Sam wastes no time once the manager walks away. Scooping up what should be a decent mouthful of cake and slivered almonds, he asks, “Wanna tell me why you look like that?”

“Like what?” you take the fork he offers you and cut a small piece for yourself. Eyes narrowed, you drop the mere morsel and cut a bigger portion. “Keep in mind that I’ll suffocate you in your sleep if you say anything other than ‘ethereal’ or ‘radiant.’ I know where you live, Mr. Captain Wilson, sir.”

“I was gonna say ‘like shit,’” he tells you. He laughs when you hold your fork up to threaten a stabbing. “I’m sorry. Like radiant, ethereal shit.”

“Sleep with one eye open,” is your response, accompanied by a glare. To answer his question, though, “I didn’t get much rest last night.”

“Why’s that?” You shrug. “Those melatonin gummies are a damn lie. S’just shitty candy.”

He doesn’t buy it. Skeptically, “You sure?”

“Yeah, it just sticks in my teeth. And what kind of flavor is ‘midnight berry’ anyway?”

He says your name. In that low, sighed way. Pushes what remains of the gateau in your direction so he can focus more directly on his coffee. “If you’re—”

“I’m fine,” you say with a laugh. You poke at the cake. “Gonna try that Sleepytime tea nonsense tonight and if that doesn’t work, I’ll come to your room. One of those painfully boring stories of yours and I’ll be out like a light.”

“Boring, huh? I think you might be mistaking me for Barnes.”

“As if. Look how handsome you are,” you reach across the table and roughly pinch his cheek, grinning when he slaps your hand away. “Barnes doesn’t even compare.”

“Don’t think flattering me is gonna get me to stop worrying,” he warns. “I’m persistent.”

“I think what you mean to say is ‘a pain.’”

He rolls his eyes but otherwise drops it. The sip he takes of his latte is long and slurped, the sound drawing a laugh from you. “Tastes better that way.”

“Yeah? Does obnoxiousness bring out the notes of chicory?”

“Molasses, actually.”

A fond shake of your head and you rise when Sam does, waiting as he stuffs a small bundle of bills into the tip jar on the counter.

“Did you ever find out what play they’re putting on?” he asks when you walk ahead of him to the door. He reaches around you to pull it open, holding it as you pass through.

“Jack and the Beanstalk.”

He frowns in consideration as the two of you reach where his car is parked. “Do we know which character Morgan is playing?”

“Not yet. Auditions are tomorrow. She’s gunning for the bean saleswoman.”

“The what?”

“Bean saleswoman,” you repeat just a little louder, laughing when Sam exaggerates his confused expression further. “She’s the one who takes Jack’s cow and gives him magic beans.”

“I thought that was supposed to be a scary old man.”

“Morgan thought about all the characters and their motivations and decided she liked the bean seller’s motivation the most.”

“Which is what?”

“According to Morgan, ‘the bean seller has lots of beans and no cow. And she really wants a cow.’ Morgan likes cows.” Grinning when Sam snorts, you sit back against the plush passenger’s seat.

“Why isn’t Barnes helping?”

“He has a date tonight,” is your sighed reply. It earns you a brief look from Sam. “And with the way his relationship’s going, probably his wedding next week.”

“He’ll have to postpone holy matrimony.” Sam shrugs when you glance at him. “There’s a situation in Kyiv and I’m sending you two on Saturday.”

“You were sitting on that in the café?”

“The car’s a secure location, right?”

Shocked laughter is fractured by a nervous tremble. The world turns slowly once more. Your mouth opens, shuts, and opens again until you land on, “But the play—”

He offers you a strange look. “It’s only three days. You can build sets when you get back.”

Your movements feel slow, as if you’re moving through syrup. You feel each aching centimeter of your stomach falling, each flexing and stretching muscle when you nod. “Okay. What’s the situation?”

“Ukraine’s got parliamentary elections coming up. Prime Minister Shmyhal is worried about what the Svoboda and Batkivshchyna parties have planned.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee and puts the cup in the holder again. “There are rumors of a repeat of 2012 and 2013 when Svoboda and Batkivshchyna deputies accused MPs of voting for absent colleagues. It escalated to fist fights and xenophobic chants during a televised speech, and the Batkivshchyna stormed the podium in parliament to prevent swearing-ins. These guys have attacked members of the press, allegedly killed four national guardsmen, and constantly threaten violence if they don’t get their way. All the rumors are made worse by the new president dissolving parliament during his inauguration.”

“Can he do that?”

“Court said it was legal when the last guy did it and called for snap elections. The Svoboda hate this guy and the idea of losing whatever seats they managed to hold onto during the Blip. So it’s not a good scene.”

“And all of that is only gonna last three days?”

He shakes his head but keeps his eyes on the road. “Fury’s had his agents in place since the presidential election. They noticed Svoboda party members flyin’ in from Lviv and getting rooms near the Verkhovna Rada building two days ago. Timing’s off, need to do some recon to see what it’s about.”

“You can’t come with me instead?”

Another strange look. “Barnes can speak Ukrainian, spent a couple months there when he was on the run so he knows his way around. You gotta talk yourself into some places, blend in in others. You can’t do that with both of us knowing fuck all about the language.”

Sam watches as you attempt to burrow into the seat further, your arms crossing over your chest. “Fine.”

A brief pause, thick and lingering like smoke, floods the car until, “Is something goin’ on?”

“Huh?” You watch the light change from red to green. You ignore the burning feel of Sam’s stare. “No, not that I know of.”

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

You sit in the glow of five bright screens.

Eyes narrowed beneath a pair of thick glasses, your fingers are sticky with grains of sugar and citric acid. One leg rests on the dining table, one is bent with your knee at your chest. A tablet sits unsteady on your thigh, blueprints of the hotel suite and floor digitized with X’s marking the areas covered by a camera, their scope accounted for with dashed-line borders.

Bucky winks into the camera he’s set up. The leaves of a fern— which sits in a corner of the living room— cover part of his left eye, blur the cockiness of his expression. He grins when your scoff rings through the comms. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Buck.”

“Got a good view?”

“Wouldn’t know,” you reply, popping another Sour Patch Watermelon into your mouth. Bucky can hear the smile in your voice. “Your giant head’s in the way.”

“Oh, that’s the best view, honey.” Your poorly suppressed laughter receives a small smile in return, more to himself though it’s captured by the camera. “Can you see both couches?”

“Not really. Turn the pot about 30 degrees clockwise.”

“Come on, it’s been 15 minutes of turning the damn—”

“We can argue later. Agent H said their session wrapped as of four minutes ago and they’re heading back.”

Sighing, he crouches out of sight and the view shifts. You have a clearer view of the desktop— not clear enough, however. “S’better,” you say. “There’s a leaf in the way.”

Vibranium fingers struggle to tuck the leaf aside and a handful of too-long seconds pass this way. You watch as his frustration grows. Exasperation shines over his features until he rips the leaf from its branch, the force of which moves the camera a few inches. “Fuckin’ stupid—”

“If you’re done fighting a leaf, you just moved the camera.”

His eyes meet the lens. Pleading. You almost feel bad. “I can’t just stick this shit on a table?”

“This is a better vantage point. The tables are too close to the center of the room.” You glance at the other screens. “Okay, slide the pot two inches to the right.”

He crouches again. Once the view shifts very slightly, “That good?”

It’s fine. Yet, “Not really. Slide to the right.”

You hum when he complies. “Now slide to the left.” The plant is moved less than a few centimeters to the left, leaves rustling. “Take it back now, y’all.”

The plant is scooted barely half an inch back before Bucky stands and glares at the camera. The chill of ice is felt through the screen.

Nonetheless, “One hop this time.” A pause. “Right foot, let’s stomp.”

A roll of his eyes.

And he stomps his right foot.

“Left foot, let’s stomp.”

He stomps his left foot.

“Cha cha real smooth.” Drumming a beat against your thigh, you attempt to beatbox along with it, not deterred in the least that he is standing entirely still. “Turn it out.”

Bucky— long-suffering expression, long-suffering tone— asks, “Can you see the whole room?”

“Can you do the Cha Cha Slide?” When he only glares, you sigh. “It was fine before. Move it up half an inch and to the right half an inch, buzzkill.”

“Is that right? I’m a buzzkill?” He rights himself once the plant is in place. “Who was it that told Sam about my plan?”

“You wanted to tie these guys up in our room until the elections were done without evidence of wrongdoing. That’s kidnap.”

“It’s incapacitation, you li’l tattletail.”

“Incapacitation by kidnap.”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “Semantics. Besides, I wasn’t gonna charge ‘em ransom.”

“You don’t have to ask for ransom money for it to be a kidnap.”

“Yes, you do. Otherwise it’s just hangin’ out. And a spectacular waste of time.”

A less than attractive raspberry bubbles past your lips. “Your legal knowledge is changing my life, Bucky.”

“And it’s free of charge. You struck gold when you met me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming message from Agent H: Entered hotel lobby, heading toward elevators.

“They’re headed to the elevators.” You check each screen, note the perimeters. “The cameras are fine where they are. You should—”

The door to your room clicks shut.

Bucky— much too casually in your opinion— makes his way to you as he removes his gloves. He snorts at your gun still pointed in his direction, his jacket landing in a pile on the couch as you flip the safety back on.

He doesn’t notice your incredulous stare until he’s beside you, checking each camera angle for himself. He returns your stare with one of his own, brows lifted. “What?”

“What ‘what’? I could’ve shot you.”

You receive a skeptical look in return. “You aren’t rash enough.”

“You don’t even wait for my signal? You just stroll back?”

“You said they were headed to the elevators,” he shrugs. His hands are set on the table, one on either side of you, so he can stare at the monitors comfortably. The warmth rolling from his chest seems to thaw the tension in your shoulders. “Don’t worry. I checked if the hall was clear.”

“What if the camera angles were still off?”

“I prioritized not getting caught,” his voice is now an absentminded mumble, chin set on top of your head.

He slides the hotel service folder toward himself and flips through the laminated pages with vibranium fingers. There’s a faint scritch scratch of his stubble against your hair when he asks, “How do you feel about dessert for dinner? They’ve got medovyk.”

He pumps his eyebrows twice when you tilt your head back to look at him. He grins wide in an attempt at persuasion.

The person who boarded the Quinjet just two days ago was resolved to maintain a modicum of professionalism. A certain strength of boundary. That person sat far from the cockpit. Played music loud enough to ache the eardrums below shaking buds. Cracked open a book which had gone unread for eight long years.

It took one conversation for that person to vanish. Just a casual question about exfoliation and you set your book aside. After all, should one really break an eight year pattern?

You and Bucky fell into your usual rhythm over those two days. You shared looks across Verkhovna Rada chambers when you posed as security guards. You hid your laughter behind cups of coffee as you met with Agent H and Agent L for morning briefings. You took half of his deruny at dinner and he took half of your varenyky. No pillow border divided you at night, nothing to stop your toes from burying themselves in the warmth of his legs or his nose from nudging your forehead.

You wave a dismissive hand and use the tablet to disable the looped footage you’d sent to the hallway security camera feeds. Both of your legs now rest on the table, crossed at the ankle. “Order what you want. I’m not too hungry.”

He straightens and shakes his head in disappointment. “How can you be when you fill up on junk?”

He scoops a handful of tiny sugar-coated watermelon slices from the bag of candy and tosses it all into his mouth. He wags his finger in your face as he chews, nearly striking your nose. “Shit’s awful. You’re gonna pass out one day from malnutrition.”

You hum and watch as he takes another handful. Your lips curl in playful anger. “Yeah, maybe I’ll adopt your diet. What’s it called? The ‘everything in sight’ diet?”

“Are you saying I eat a lot? That’s rude, sweetheart, and I’m sensitive.”

He rolls his eyes at the pout of sympathy you offer him while you set your hand under his chin, guiding his head to the left, then the right. Eyes narrowed, you inspect his features and place your fingers against his pulse point, concluding seconds later with, “You’ll live.”

His sole response when you laugh and sit back, thoroughly satisfied with yourself, is a sarcastic smile.

A sarcastic smile which shifts seconds later into something genuine. Something soft.

Two days of stepping in that old rhythm and Bucky’s taken a dive into familiarity. Headfirst. Nothing graceful, not at all coordinated. He’s sure he’s going to bash his head against concrete soon enough, yet he kicks and kicks hoping it’ll get him there sooner.

It’s sadistic, isn’t it?

Craving the pain of it. The crimson blood stains going brown against the sidewalk. Everything inside of him— all the sadness, the devotion, the love— spilled at your feet only to be scrubbed away moments later so your steps aren’t given a chance to falter. He’s prepared an apology for the marks on your shoes, for the heart your heel goes right through.

It may be for the feel of the fall. The floating when his legs ache from kicking, the soaring when he spreads heavy arms. A smile and wordless conversations over morning coffee, a laugh if he’s lucky. He would spill his blood all over the pavement, let you tear his heart to shreds under your soles, for that.

“You got time for the café when we get back?”

“You’ll have to ask Morgan.” Your voice comes muffled, head in the minifridge in the search for a cold bottle of water. Bucky has a plain look over his face once you stand. “She’s in charge of scheduling for the play staff and has taken all of my free time. If I want time off, I have to file a request at least 48-hours in advance. She has forms and everything.”

“Christ, is this a Broadway production? Is she in charge of that fuckin’ John Adams show?”

Water bottle at your lips, you pause. “Do you mean Hamilton?”

“I guess,” he shrugs.

“No,” you snort, “but she’s taking her job very seriously.”

“Play hooky,” is his simple suggestion. He pushes the menu aside, determined to order all three entrées he finds appealing. He then attempts to level you with a wide-eyed look. “C’mon. It’s a post-mission tradition.”

A frown pulls at the corners of your lips. “I made a promise. Besides, don’t you have to go see a certain someone when we get back?”

He scoffs away the playful lilt of your voice. “I’d still make time for you.”

You smile. Warm as the sun. You watch him melt in it. “Well, that’s sweet but I’m sure she wants all the time with you she can get. I’ll make you a latte with brown sugar for the debrief with Sam, though. I’ll even write ‘Bunky’ on it and it’ll be like we’re right there in the café.”

His own smile is brief. “S’not just about the latte, you know?”

If you tell him the temple has been leveled under ash and snow, that all the candles have been extinguished and all the hymns have come to an end. If you tell him deities you’d sculpted from delicate clays and sands have fallen to dust, if you tell him the sight of the ruins breaks your heart all over again, would he hear you?

Has he seen it?

Has he felt the universe pause in mercy?

He stands on a foundation of intent now. Not like the foundation the two of you built in search of something else. Can he feel the difference?

“I know.”

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

“You wanna hear my Cab Calloway impression?”

Passing him the plain black duffle you’ve spent nights begging him to replace, you receive a sideway glance from Bucky. It lingers for a beat too long, even as you avert your gaze to the tear running parallel to the struggling zipper. “You have a Cab Calloway impression?”

“Locked and fucking loaded.” You’re emptying your weapons locker into your own bag intending to clean the guns later, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “You know the Betty Boop version of Snow-White? From 1933?”

You start humming St. James Infirmary Blues in an attempt to jog his memory, giving him your bag, too. You gesture with your hands, widen your eyes as you walk down the jet’s ramp to the helipad. “You know?”

Bucky stops even as he’s several steps behind you, stopping you as well with a simple, “I’m sorry.”

You turn to see him staring confusedly, brow furrowed at you. “How the fuck do you— Are you older than what you’ve been letting on? Because if you’re from the fucking thirties or forties, too, —”

“No,” you say once you’ve laughed sarcastically. “Turns out some of the nonsense from those racist, anti-Semetic, awful times manages to be great now, too. Some of the music, some of the movies, —”

“Some of the people,” his smile growing as his voice trails off.

You tilt your head. Features twisted in question, you blink. “What people?”

You can’t help your laughter when his teasing stare slowly fades into a glower. “Like Cab Calloway, you mean? Yeah, he’s still cool.”

His sigh is heavy, lips struggling against another smile.

“Do you mean Steve?” you ask, voice higher pitched as it pinches in withheld giggles. “Miss that guy.”

A step in your direction. “No, I don’t mean Steve.”

“One of the other Commandos then?” you punctuate your question with a wink, a nod in sly understanding. But his budding grin falls as soon as you say, “That Gabe Jones? He was hot. Drew hearts all over his picture in my history textbook and everything.”

Your laughter grows louder as he walks right up to you, a dark look in the grey-blue of his eyes. “You’re such a fuckin’ little punk, I swear to—”

His name is hollered behind you. Voice higher than yours, lighter than yours. There’s an effortless joy to the way she says his name, to the way she races up the ramp to meet him halfway. She stands a few inches shorter than you do, but her smile stretches miles wider. She’s uncorrupted and bright, stares up at him with an unrivaled openness. Just like he deserves.

You don’t notice the way he continues to watch you, don’t notice the halfheartedness in the hug he barely manages to return.

But you smile at her when her eyes find you. She’d hesitated looking away from him. Didn’t want to tear her eyes away for even a second. It’s sweet as honey, and you hate her for it. “It’s good to see you.”

She says something back— something kind— and Sam approaches the three of you only to throw an arm around your shoulders, but Bucky’s only focused on your outstretched hand. Your eyebrows lifting when he only gapes back. “I can take my bag. You two probably wanna catch up.”

“No,” Bucky answers even as you manage to wrestle the bag away. He notes the narrowed look being sent to him from his left, but keeps his attention on you and Sam. “No, we have to debrief and—”

“I can handle it.” The reassurance he finds in your smile feels like a cold breath to aching lungs. A forest the morning after rainfall. It shifts to something tighter when your eyes lower to his left. “Have a nice night, you two.”

Sam and Bucky nod at one another as the latter passes. Soft fingers thread through those of vibranium, and their departing steps come with the low hum of hushed conversation. Bucky’s eyes meet yours before the elevator doors shut and cut the thread between you, and you exhale a burning breath from your tight posture and slump onto Sam’s shoulder.

Knowing, he asks, “Have a good mission?”

“Incredible,” your gaze is still fixed on the elevator, voice strained. Sam notices. He’s always noticed.

“In love with Bucky?”

You nod and meet his eyes. Deep brown— coffee-hued, coffee-warm. “Yeah.”

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

You used to find an empty gym blissful. A quiet space in a Tower that always bustled enough with laughter, and arguments, and life to echo in memoriam for months.

Those echoes began to linger like ghosts. Waiting for you behind every corner, refusing to be drowned out by the hum of a treadmill or the smack of a fist against a punching bag. So you played your music as loud as you could, you laughed at Sam’s jokes with all the joy in your body. Pulling it from your limbs, your fingertips, your toes.

In the morning it was as if you could see them in thick rays of carmine yellow when the sun shone in through the long wall of windows. And at night they rode along the sparkle of city lights. Often you asked FRIDAY to roll down the panels of blinds Tony never expected anyone to actually use, often you asked the AI to keep the overhead lights as bright as they could go. Hiding from shadows, from the sun like the moon and from the moon like the sun.

But you refuse to hide now. You refuse to muffle the echoes that sound like home. The sun shines on your back, your shadow dances against the wall.

Your heart aches in your chest, but it beats. Full and rhythmic.

“Haven’t heard from Peter in a while.”

Sam is sent a few centimeters back with the strength of your punch against the bag, shoes sliding over the smooth floor. He braces the bag tighter. “I know. It’s great.”

You level him with a plain look, lowering tired arms. “Sam.”

“Keep going,” he says. He waits until you assume your stance again to continue, “Happy’s keepin’ track of him.”

“Is anyone looking out for Wanda?” The angle of the next punch you throw is off, an ache splintering along your wrist. “She hasn’t called me back in a while.”

“She’s—” he sighs, allows you to relax for a minute when he lets go of the bag. “She’s hard to find if she doesn’t want to be found.”

You catch the roll of tape Sam tosses you, unraveling the mess around your knuckles. It’s an easy task, sweat wetting it loose. “So it’s just us three on the roster?”

“For most jobs.”

“Which means, hypothetically,” you begin— slow and easy, “if I said I was benching myself for a little while— that’d be a pretty big problem, huh?”

You meet gentle eyes when you look up. Watch him smile something adoring. “I don't know how long I’ve been asking you to take a break and now that you finally wanna take one— Ain’t a problem at all.”

“You sure?”

“Barnes and I can handle the field.” He catches the tape you throw to him easily. “Did you attain enlightenment overnight?”

“In some ways,” you laugh. Shaking out your shoulders, you find your stance. “I’ve wanted to take a break for a while now. Since Berlin, maybe. I just kept waiting for the world to calm down enough or for something to force me into it. But then we got snapped away and— I need to do the things I want. Wanting them is a good enough reason to.”

“The world’s never going to calm down.”

“It can’t. And trying to make myself less of a person won’t ease the pain of that. I need to heal, which I can’t do if I keep acting like I’m not hurt.”

Sam stares at you silently for several moments. “Should we start paying your therapist more?”

Snorting, you throw a hard enough punch to force him into a stumble. “Make the check out to yourself. Your little support group’s been helping.”

“I’ve never seen you at—“

His mouth screws shut when you smile at him. “Baby, I’m a spy. You only ever see me when I want you to see me.”

“You creepy shit.”

You drop your stance to laugh, hands on your knees before you take a short leap and flick your fingers against Sam’s forehead. Screaming when he springs into action, you spin around immediately and run across the gym as fast as your feet can take you. Your words and laughter jumble together, “You called me creepy!”

“You fuckin’ are!” he shouts back, chuckling, too.

You face him once you’ve rounded the long line of treadmills, shifting from side to side just as Sam is. There’s a teasing glint in the brown of his eyes, his usual warmth omnipresent as the machines divide you. “Still shouldn’t say it! I don’t point out how— how—“

“How what?” he asks. He’s grinning as he takes off in the direction you decide on. “Can’t find jack shit to say. S’what happens when you’re fuckin’ perfect.”

“If you’re perfect,” you start, coming to a slow stop when Sam is only a few feet from catching you, “then I really did attain all enlightenment last night and am now Buddha.”

You emphasize your point by placing your hands in abhayamudrā and shutting your eyes for less than a second. You open them in time to see him lunge for you and are only able to whirl around before he wraps a strong arm around your waist to lift you from the ground. Your gasp easily fades into a laughing scream, breath knocked from you.

“Is this kinda workout not available for anyone else, Sam?”

Sam sets you down, still chuckling as the door comes to a slow close behind Bucky. “I’d throw my fuckin’ back out trying to pick you up.”

Bucky, short hair damp from a long run, snorts but nods a moment later. “Yeah, fair enough. Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Buck,” is your grinned response. It glows in pink and red, loving and bright. He can almost taste chalky heart-shaped candy.

“Haven’t seen you since Kyiv.”

Sam leaves the two of you to gather his water bottle, phone, and headphones from the bench closest to your punching bag and you shrug, smiling at Sam when he nods, supportive. “Yeah, I’ve—“

“Been busy?” Bucky guesses. He lets his eyes run along your profile. The slope of your nose, the length of your eyelashes. The smile still comfortably on your lips, reaching the subtly creased corners of your eyes.

You shake your head and meet the curious blue watching you. “Not really. I’ve been around. Doing paperwork, training, —“

“Being creepy as hell,” Sam interjects, passing you to the door. His eyes are narrowed.

“Building sets,” you amend to Bucky. Door shutting behind Sam, you call, “I’ll see you in your dreams tonight, Sam. There’s no hiding.”

You can hear his laughter even as he walks down the hall, smiling to yourself at the sound.

“What’s that about?”

“Apparently hiding in the shadows during his support group meetings is frowned upon,” you snort. “Go figure.”

“He just doesn’t know how to take a compliment.”

Sighing, you nod. “You always get me.”

Warmth blooms in your chest at his chuckles, his small grin.

Going to Kyiv felt like coming home.

Riding alongside Bucky in the Quinjet, laughing and holding his stare a little too long, felt like home.

Seeing him now, smiling at you with that same playfulness in his eyes and comfort easing his posture, feels like home.

“Bucky.”

A home with a foundation you can strengthen by acting purposefully. Intending to choose Bucky and doing so over and over.

He nods. He’s rolling tape onto his knuckles, placing his phone on the bench as you sit. “Hm?”

You pick at the tape around your own hand, peeling it slowly. “I kinda— I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.”

It’s silent for a few beats. Long enough that he looks over his shoulder, eyes kind and questioning, before he turns to face you completely. He smiles and whatever bricks remain of that terrible wall your heart had spent months clawing at crumble away.

He’s so handsome. So sweet, so kind, so understanding—

“What’s—”

It pours from your mouth on the notes of a quick exhale, “I love you.”

His smile falls and that little wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens.

“I’m in love with you. And I know you’re— That you have someone and I think she’s great. I’m really so happy for you.” You hope your smile is as green as you intend for it to be. “And I don’t want to blow it up by saying something I probably have no right to say but— I've been losing my mind holding this in. I need to do right by myself and by you and finally be honest.”

He’s still silent, still staring. He looks like he’s expecting you to say more. Unmoving, unsure.

You stand, thick band of orange tape hanging off your palm. “That’s all.”

“I don’t—“ his voice stutters as miserably as the heart in his chest.

“You don’t have to say anything.” You jab your thumb in the direction of the door. “Morgan’s got me on a tight schedule so— So I’m gonna go.”

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

Bucky’s pacing. Cockpit to his locker, his locker to the cockpit. His boots barely make a sound, steps so light Sam is scared out of his mind every time he hears a heavy sigh just inches away.

It’s been days of this. Watching Bucky pace, hearing him sigh like the weight of the world is compressing his lungs. He’s lost several slices of pizza to Bucky’s insistence that he’s not hungry only to practically inhale everything Sam’s ordered for himself. He’s lost hours of sleep to knocks on his door at three AM, because Bucky needs to ask about the plan again.

What’s the strategy? Who’s rescuing the hostages? How much are they willing to negotiate? Are they willing to negotiate at all? Is it true a cat took Fury’s eye?

Frankly, Sam’s had enough.

But he’s resolved to not interfere. It’s not his business.

But it’s been three fucking days. “If you sigh one more fucking time, Barnes, —”

“Sorry.” Nonetheless, Bucky sighs again. Falls into the co-pilot’s seat, leg bouncing and thumbs twiddling. “Sorry. I wasn’t— I thought we had another two days before coming back. It’s throwin’ me off.”

“Thought it was a good thing to wrap shit up early,” Sam mumbles. His gaze remains focused beyond the windshield. “Get a nice break. I can make it to Morgan’s play, you can see your girl. Maybe take a fuckin’ nap.”

“We—” another sigh. Sam might put his foot through the jet’s damn wall if this keeps going. “I ended that. I couldn’t pretend to be available to her when— when—”

“When the girl you love said she loves you.”

Humorless chuckle, and he shakes his head once. He should’ve known you’d tell Sam. “Well, yeah. But I ended it the night we got back from Kyiv.��

The way Bucky says your name— like something so soft and precious, almost intimate— makes Sam think it’s wrong for him to even hear. “It felt too good to be around her again, felt like I was cheating. And that day in the gym, when she said she— I didn’t know what to say.”

“I don’t think she expected you to say anything.”

“Sam, she ran off last time. When shit started to get real, she pushed me as far away as she could and ran off.”

“I can’t promise you anything. But the change I’ve seen in that girl,” he shakes his head. So much for none of his business. “She’s takin’ a break from work, letting herself be a person. She lights up at someone even mentioning you and brings you up whenever she can. She’s different now and wouldn’t have told you what she did if she was plannin’ on running off.”

Bucky’s leg stops bouncing, but his thumbs still knot together. The vibranium plates of his left palm pinch his delicate skin. Voice rough as gravel, “Still fuckin’ scary.”

“Yeah. Shit works out sometimes, though.”

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

“You know, there’s no shame in saying ‘no.’”

“Yeah? Did that get you here?”

You look up from the student in the seat placed before yours and meet Pepper’s gaze. Her eyes sparkle in humor, her smile poorly hidden. She nods toward your hand, covered in stray flecks of face paint and makeup, and then at the sponge you’re using to spread white paint.

“I don’t count,” you press. You get back to work, holding Keith’s face in one hand to get the white paint as close to his ear as possible. “I’m not her mom. And I like doing makeup. Especially Keith’s.”

Keith grins at you, chubby cheeks blown wide when you wrinkle your nose at him. Dipping a thin brush into a pot of black paint, you nod at him. “Okay, no more smiling. Your spots will look weird if you do.”

He nods back and immediately drops his smile, letting loose a single giggle at his own abruptness. He peeks at you with a teasing green eye and looks away as soon as you gasp.

You smile to yourself as you outline a series of black spots. One or two on each cheek, one around his right eye. “You can’t let Morgan throw an after party. She’s a kindergartener. You can’t start letting them throw after parties until, like, third grade. Gotta set boundaries.”

“And you know this from all the kids you’ve parented.”

“I don’t have kids,” you reply, tongue poking through your lips in concentration as you fill the spots using a new sponge. “None that I know of, at least. I’m just a genius. Keith, I need you to hold still if you want to be the cutest little cow this school has ever seen.”

He stops wiggling and Pepper snorts. “He looks like a dalmatian.”

“A cute dalmatian.” Once the spots are filled, you paint on a small pink nose and allow him to place the headband with floppy cow ears into his chestnut hair. “Those beans better be worth their weight in gold.”

He straightens the white and black crewneck sweatshirt he wears and turns to the mirror, grinning at his reflection and bursting into laughter. “I’m a cow!”

“You are!” you cheer back, laughing with Pepper when he moo’s as loud as he can. He hops out of the chair and onto his feet. “Be careful, you’re not fully dry yet! How much you wanna bet he’s gonna fuck up his makeup before the show can even start?”

“I’ll put more on you getting caught cursing before the show can start,” Pepper says with a roll of her eyes. She sits in the seat Keith had occupied, the wood creaking under an adult’s weight, as she helps you clean the sponges and brushes. “I know Morgan hasn’t said it yet— she was planning on making a speech at her after party— but we appreciate how much you’ve been helping.”

“It’s no big deal.” You look to the mirror and take a cleansing wipe to the streak of white on your forehead. “I’m trying to take a break from avenging and haven’t really found other things to do yet. This was a nice way to get out of the Tower.”

Pepper hums. “Morgan’s got a whole thing about how her favorite Auntie Avenger saves the day and the show.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you should let her have this party.”

She barks a sarcastic laugh and stands when she hears a shrill “Mom!” shouted across the backstage area. “Try to hold the ‘fucks’ in.”

“No promises!”

One more swipe across your forehead to fully clear it of white paint, and you sigh to yourself at the creaking of the chair. “In those five seconds, I managed to hold the fucks in—”

Blue eyes— so soft, so gentle and kind— watch you expectantly. He waits for you to focus on him, pays little attention to the relaxing of your grip and the package of wipes which falls to the floor as a result. A small smile, one he can’t help, begins to pull at his lips. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Buck.” The silence which settles over the two of you is comfortable, broken when you reach to pick up a brush. “Did you need your makeup done?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, backstage is cast and crew only,” you pout playfully and grin when his shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

“I guess I don’t have long to say this.”

He sits up straighter, drags his hands— metal and flesh alike— down the lap of his dark jeans. He rehearsed what to say on the drive over, asked Sam if what he wanted to say was too blunt. Asked if he should add a preamble of some kind, maybe a disclaimer that he hasn’t had a grip on his mind or heart for months.

He can’t remember any of it now that you stare at him from that canvas and wooden chair, blinking owlishly and looking at him with so much love it steals the breath right from his lungs.

“I— I forgot everything I wanted to say.”

“That’s okay. Take your time.” You lean in and he feels himself pitch toward you as well. At your smile he feels the softness of velvet, the comfort of lavender. “If anyone tries to kick you out, I’ll fight ‘em. I’ll fight a kindergartener.”

He laughs, loud and bright. “Fight a kid, huh? You must really love me.”

He watches you sober, he watches you choose him.

Your grin shrinks to something pink and you take as deep a breath as you can. You nod. “Yeah, Bucky, I do.”

He hums, he chooses you, too. “So do I.”

“What?”

“I love you. And I’ve wanted to tell you everyday since you took me to that café.”

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff

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