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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 5 days ago

Note

rafe gets baby fever, breeding kink with rafe.

❛ RAFE AND HIS BREEDING KINK ❜

girlfriend¡reader . . . rafe cameron

“Alright, Miss Lily, what’s the plan? Are we playing dolphins or reading about turtles?” You stood up carefully, hoisting Lily onto your hip with a little bounce that made her giggle for the thousandth time that night.

. . .

Ever since Sarah Cameron and John B welcomed their daughter, Lily Routledge, into the world eight months ago, the couple hasn’t had a single evening to themselves. Between late-night feedings, diaper changes, and the joyful chaos of new parenthood, their time as a couple has been put on the back burner.

When Sarah let slip during a lunch date how much she and John B were craving a night to reconnect—just the two of them, no interruptions—you didn’t hesitate. You’re absolutely smitten with babies, your heart practically bursting with baby fever every time you see a tiny onesie or hear a giggle.

Your boyfriend, however, is a different story—he’s never shown the slightest interest in kids, or just never shown it in public. Without a second thought, you offered for you and Rafe to take Lily for the night, giving them a chance to breathe.

You admit part of it was selfish- wanting to see Rafe, a man who’s only ever shown his soft side to you, taking care of his angel of a niece for a whole evening? That thought alone could impregnate you.

. . .

You turned to Rafe, catching the way his gaze lingered on you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You in, tough guy?”

He smirked, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the hardwood. “Yeah, I’m in. Just don’t expect me to do the voices.” He reached out, letting Lily grab his thumb, her tiny fingers wrapping around it with surprising strength.

She looked up at him, all wide-eyed wonder, and he chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that softened his usual edge. “She’s not half bad, huh?”

“She’s perfect,” you said, beaming as you swayed with her, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell Sarah, but I might steal her.”

Lily squealed as if she understood, and Rafe’s smirk widened, though his eyes stayed fixed on you—on the way you glowed in the fading light, cradling her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, Lily cradled in the crook of your arm, her head resting against your chest as she sucked lazily at the bottle.

Her tiny hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt, and every so often, she’d pause to look up at you, her eyes heavy with trust and contentment. You brushed your fingers through her curls, humming a disjointed tune—something soft and half-remembered, maybe a lullaby your mom used to sing.

“There you go, sweet girl,” you murmured, adjusting the bottle when she squirmed. “Nice and easy.”

Rafe sprawled in the armchair across from you, one leg kicked over the side, his phone resting forgotten on his thigh. He’d meant to scroll through it, maybe check the score of the game or shoot a text to Topper, but his eyes kept drifting back to you.

The way you tilted your head to smile at Lily, the gentle patience in your movements, the way you seemed to glow under the warm lamplight��it was hypnotic.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight, trying to ignore the unfamiliar ache building in his chest.

When Lily finished her bottle, she started to fuss, her little face scrunching up in that telltale prelude to a cry. You didn’t miss a beat, sliding off the couch to stand and rocking her against your shoulder.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” you whispered, swaying in a slow, instinctive rhythm. You paced the room, one hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other cradling her head as you murmured reassurances. “You’re just sleepy, huh? I’ve got you, baby girl.”

Within minutes, her whimpers faded, replaced by the soft, even breaths of sleep.

Rafe watched, transfixed, as you tiptoed to the nursery, disappearing for a moment to lay her down. He heard the creak of the crib, the faint click of the mobile switching on—a tinny rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” drifting through the baby monitor on the coffee table.

When you came back, you flopped onto the couch with a triumphant grin, tucking your legs under you. “Mission accomplished. She’s out like a light.”

“You’re unreal,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be as he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, you’re like… Mary Poppins or some shit. She didn’t even fight you.”

You laughed, brushing your hair back, still slightly disheveled from Lily’s earlier grabby hands. “It’s not that hard. She’s a good baby. Plus, I think she likes me.”

You stretched your arms over your head, your shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin above your waistband, and Rafe’s eyes tracked the movement, heat prickling along his spine.

“She’s not the only one,” he muttered, half under his breath, but you caught it, your cheeks flushing as you dropped your arms. He stood up, crossing the room to sit beside you on the couch, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

The contact was deliberate, and he felt the way you shifted slightly, your breath hitching just enough to notice.

“Rafe Cameron, are you going soft on me?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow, but your voice was softer now, playful but searching.

He turned to face you, his arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “Maybe. Watching you with her—it’s fucking with my head.” He paused, searching your face, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“You’re so good at this. Like, good good. Makes me think shit I never thought about before.”

You tilted your head, studying him, your lips parting slightly. “Like what?”

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the couch cushion. “Like you with a kid. Our kid. You’d be so fucking amazing—running around after some little hellraiser with my eyes and your smile. I can see it, you know? You pregnant, all glowy and pissed at me for something dumb, but still so damn beautiful.”

His voice dropped lower, rough with an edge he couldn’t hide. “It’s driving me fucking crazy.”

Your breath caught, eyes widening as you processed his words. The air between you thickened, charged with something electric, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you leaned in, just a fraction, your knee brushing his as you whispered, “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his hand sliding to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “I didn’t know I wanted that ‘til tonight. But fuck, I want it with you.”

. . .

The drive back to your place was a study in restraint. Rafe kept one hand on the wheel of his truck, the other resting heavy on your thigh, fingers flexing against your skin like he was anchoring himself.

The radio played low, some country song about love and loss, but neither of you paid it any mind. The tension from his confession simmered between you, unspoken but palpable, thickening the humid night air that seeped through the cracked windows.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road, but every so often, he’d glance at you, and the heat in his gaze made your stomach flip.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Rafe was on you, his hands gripping your waist as he backed you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, tasting faintly of the beer he’d sipped earlier at Sarah’s.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his body pressed flush against yours—all hard muscle and coiled energy.

“Fuck, you don’t know what you do to me,�� he growled, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, sharp enough to make you gasp, and he soothed it with his tongue, sucking lightly until you were arching into him.

His hands slid under your shirt, calloused palms rough against your soft skin as he shoved the fabric up and over your head, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Seeing you with her—all sweet and perfect—it’s been fucking with me all night.”

You tugged at his faded grey Henley, desperate to feel him too, and he obliged, yanking it off with one hand, the movement fluid and impatient. His chest was broad, tanned from endless days on the water, a faint scar under his right pec from some fight he wouldn’t talk about.

He loomed over you, breathing hard, his eyes dark and wild as he dragged you toward the bedroom, kicking the door open with a thud.

You hit the mattress first, the springs creaking under your weight as he followed, pinning you beneath him. His hands roamed, possessive and greedy, peeling your shorts down your hips until they joined the growing pile of clothes.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly as he took in the sight of you sprawled out in just your bra and panties—soft curves and flushed skin, chest heaving with every breath. “So fucking gorgeous. Gonna make you mine in every way.”

His mouth was on you again, kissing down your throat, your collarbone, nipping at the swell of your breast as he unhooked your bra with practiced ease. It fell away, and he groaned, cupping you in his hands, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked under his touch.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, and he smirked against your skin, dark and dangerous.

“Patience, baby,” he rasped, but there was no patience in him either. His fingers hooked into your panties, dragging them down your thighs, and he didn’t bother teasing—just spread your legs wide and settled between them, his breath hot against your core.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet for me,” he muttered, almost to himself, before dipping his head to taste you, his tongue flattening against you in a slow, deliberate swipe that made you cry out.

He didn’t relent, licking and sucking until your thighs trembled, his hands pinning your hips to keep you still. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he growled, pulling back just enough to shed his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free—thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need.

He stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours as he lined up between your thighs. “You want this? Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as you reached for him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, Rafe—need you.”

That snapped something in him. He thrust into you in one brutal stroke, burying himself deep, the stretch burning and perfect all at once. You cried out, back arching off the bed, and he groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, you take me so good. Always do,” he panted, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking against the wall with every snap of his hips.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he rasped, voice dark with intent, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. “Wanna see you pregnant with me—my kid, my mark on you. You’d look so fucking hot like that, all round and full.”

His words were filthy, spilling out in a rush as he lost himself in the fantasy, in the feel of you clenching around him. “Gonna keep you like this—pregnant, mine forever.”

You moaned, overwhelmed, the heat of his words igniting something primal in you. “Yes—please, Rafe, do it,” you begged, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, the pressure building low and tight.

He shifted, angling just right, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you shattered, walls fluttering around him as you came with a scream.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, chasing his own release, his thrusts turning sloppy and desperate. “Gonna fill you up—gonna cum so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days. You’re mine, all mine.”

He buried himself to the hilt one last time, his body shuddering as he spilled into you, hot and thick, a primal sound ripping from his throat. He stayed there, pulsing inside you, not pulling out, like he was sealing his promise.

When he finally caught his breath, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest, his hand splaying possessive over your stomach. “You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he murmured, voice soft now, reverent. “I’m gonna make damn sure of it.”

You lay there, tangled in the sheets, the afterglow heavy and warm, and for the first time, you let yourself imagine it too—a future with him, with a family, with a piece of both of you forever.

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the-winter-spider · 2 months ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Four

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word count: 6k

Warnings: Grief, loss, angst, fluff

A/N: This ones short is kinda a filler to get things going! And to show case more of your relationship with steve ect!

also adding if you see the name Mary let me know so I can change it I originally had an original character and instead of y/n the name was mary!

Masterpost

----

Months pass.

The seasons change. Leaves fall, then snow, then the slow bloom of spring.

And life with your little family is picture-perfect, like it always is.

Your days are filled with warmth, with laughter, with the little joys of family life that should make you feel whole. Mornings start with sleepy kisses, with Lily climbing into your bed, giggling as Steve groans and pulls the blankets over both of you. Evenings are slow, wrapped in the glow of soft lamplight, the scent of dinner still lingering in the air as Steve reads Lily bedtime stories while you watch from the doorway, a smile on your lips.

It's perfect. It’s the all american dream. It is supposed to be your dream.

But deep down,you feel like you’re watching your own life instead of living it.

Like you’re moving through it on autopilot, like a ghost in your own home.

You don’t say anything, because how could you?

How could you look at this life, this love, this man who absolutely adores you, this child who calls you ‘Mommy’ and tell them that you feel like you’re sleepwalking? That you’re not strong enough to fight off this grief, this loss.

So you keep smiling.

You keep kissing Steve good morning. You keep twirling Lily around the kitchen. You keep playing the part of a woman who has finally found happiness.

And then one night Steve hands you a gift.

A notebook.

“I know you don’t like to talk about him much,” he says, his voice soft as he places it in your hands. “And I remember you telling me about what his Mom said and I think she was right, that maybe you should write to him.”

You look down at the leather-bound cover, fingers running over the single letter engraved on the smooth surface ‘B’ Your throat tightens, you feeling like your choking “I, Steve, I don’t—”

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But maybe it would help.”

His hands rest on your shoulders, grounding, steady. “You always look like you have so much you want to say, I know it's hard” He exhales softly. “But maybe it’s time you said it.”

Your chest aches. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Steve smiles. “Start the way he did.”

And so you do.

That night, after Steve has gone to bed and the house is quiet, you sit at the kitchen table. The notebook is open in front of you, the blank pages waiting, waiting, waiting, just like you have been for ten years.

You pick up the pen and you just write.

Bucky,

I don’t even know what to say.

I guess that’s not true. I know exactly what I want to say. I just don’t know if I can bear to write it down.

But both your Mom and Steve think this will help, and they’re both probably right (usually are) So here I am.

It’s been years, Buck. Years. And somehow, it still hurts like it happened yesterday. I can’t seem to grasp the fact you're actually gone you know? Like my Bucky, my best friend is no longer here, no longer alive, no longer breathing and it's such a final thing but at the same time they never found you and I never will know what happened to you, that hurts just as much because it doesn’t feel final to have some part of you not home.

I should have written back. God, I should have written back. I read every single one of your letters, memorized them, traced my fingers over the ink like I could feel you through the pages. I use to read them and pretend the voice in my head was you saying it to me, I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss you.

But I never wrote back and you'll never truly know any of this.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that.

Yours, Always

Y/N

---

Bucky,

Lily lost another tooth today.

You would have loved her, Buck. She’s bright, stubborn, fearless. She has this spark in her, like she knows exactly who she is, like the world can’t shake her. Steve says that's exactly how Natasha, her Mother was and I can see it y’know? I've seen pictures of Natasha and she looked like such a spit fire and that's Lily in a nutshell. They’re twins inside and out.

She reminds me of you. I wish you could have met her. But I don’t think I would have ever met her if you were still here. It's such a hard concept for me to grasp, it hurts to think about never knowing her and Steve, if you were here and it hurts so much not having you here.

I wish you were here.

Yours, Always

Y/N

---

Bucky,

I had a dream about you last night.

We were kids again, running through the streets, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. I woke up with tears on my pillow.

I don’t think I’ve ever told Steve that I dream about you ever since my Mom sent that photo of us, I can't get you out of my head.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows. If he notices the way I get quiet, the way I stare at nothing for too long, the way I keep one drawer in my dresser full of things I can’t bear to throw away.

I realised something today, Steve, he's only ever seen one picture of you from when we were eight and I want someone else to know your face, so I think tonight I’m going to show him the last photo I took of you. I hope that's okay.

Yours, Always

Y/N

The house is quiet, peaceful.

Lily is spending the night at Steve’s mom’s house, which means, for the first time in a while, not that you would ever complain, it's just the two of you.

No tiny feet running down the hallway, no Fancy Nancy bedtime stories. No Spongebob playing softly in the background.

Just you and Steve and the kind of night that feels easy and warm and safe because that's what Steve is.

You had both decided on a movie night, something simple, your favorite films, a pile of snacks, the couch turned into a futon for maximum comfort.

Steve had gone all out, he spoiled you. While you were upstairs changing into pajamas, he had been downstairs making it perfect. Probably lighting candles, plugging in the heated blanket, typical Steve things.

The soft rustling of blankets being rearranged, the clinking of bowls being set down on the coffee table, the low hum of him singing something under his breath as he moves around the living room.

It makes you smile, because this is him, thoughtful, attentive. The kind of person who takes care of people without even thinking about it.

But right as you're about to head down your gaze catches on that goddamn box and your mind wanders to what you wrote today to him, to Bucky about wanting to show Steve a picture of him that wasn’t blurry and from when you were both eight..

Your breath catches. Slowly, without meaning to, your feet carry you toward it.

Your fingers tremble as they brush over the box and you open the box mindlessly digging for a specific photo, once you find it you gasp, seeing him always feels so surreal, your thumb skimming across the picture, across the familiar face staring back at you.

It was one of the last photos you ever took of him.

Bucky, standing on a rock in the middle of the woods, the golden light of late summer spilling over him. His smile is wide, easy, unguarded, his features sharp and perfect in the sunlight.

The photo doesn’t look like a memory. It looks like a ghost, a life that never got to be lived. You stare a moment longer before you head down the stairs.

“Hey, hon?” Steve’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, soft but warm. “You ready?”

You flinch slightly, realizing you're at the bottom of the stairs already quickly wiping at your eyes, tucking the photo against your chest like you need to protect it.

Steve notices he always does.

His brow creases as he sets down the last bowl of popcorn, turning toward you fully, his entire attention shifting. “What is it?”

You swallow hard, still gripping the photo. Your throat feels tight, but you force yourself to speak. “I… I wanna show you something.”

Steve straightens, his focus sharpening instantly. “Okay baby,” he says softly. “Show me.”

You take a slow, shaky breath. “I’ve been writing to Bucky.”

Steve’s face doesn’t change, but his expression softens in a way that tells you he already knew.

You start rambling, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I was telling him about you. About Natasha, about Lily. And I realized—” Your voice catches, but you push through. “I realized I’ve never shown you a recent picture of him before.”

Steve says nothing, but you can feel the weight of his attention, how much he’s really listening.

“It’s been over ten years,” you whisper, gripping the frame tighter, your heart aching. “And I just… I want someone else to know his face. I don’t want him to be forgotten.”

Your voice breaks on the last word and suddenly you’re crying.

Before you can even catch your breath, Steve is there, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he can physically hold you together.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, his hand running soothingly up and down your back. “I would love to see him.”

The relief is instant, sharp and overwhelming. You pull back just slightly, his arm still firm around your shoulders, his presence grounding.

You take another deep breath, still sniffling, before you gently hold the photo out to him.

Steve’s eyes drop to the photo his whole face changes.

His breath catches, his lips parting slightly, his brows pulling together. His gaze sweeps over every detail, taking in the boy in the photograph, the one who lived in the spaces of your past, the one who never got to come home.

“Wow,” Steve exhales, almost in awe.

You wipe at your face, watching him absorb Bucky’s image.

“He was good looking, like really good looking, wow,” Steve murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

A shaky laugh escapes you, a new tear slipping down your cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

Steve’s words settle over you like a warm, steady weight, grounding you in the moment.

“Thank you for showing me,” he murmurs. Then, he leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulls back, his hand stays on your cheek, his thumb brushing away the last trace of your tears.

“We should put him over there, if you want to.”

Your gaze follows where he gestures, the wall where all the people you love exist in frames. Photos of Lily’s bright, beaming smile. Of Steve and you on your first Christmas together, bundled up in coats, cheeks pink from the cold. Of Natasha and Steve at their college graduation.

A life carefully collected, curated, honored.

Your heart tightens, twists, aches. Bucky should have been there all along. “Okay,” you whisper, nodding.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward the wall, opening a drawer, pulling out a spare frame, scanning for the perfect spot. His movements are gentle, deliberate, thoughtful, like this isn’t just a picture to him, but a person, a piece of you, something that belongs. He hands you the frame, you carefully and wordlessly put him in the frame. Steve takes the frame with your permission, placing the photo in its new home among the others. Your fingers linger on the glass for just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” Steve says, his hand settling on the small of your back. “Now he’s here, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t remember you were holding.

Steve presses another kiss to the top of your head before nudging your shoulder lightly. “Now, come on. I have popcorn, candy, and an extremely comfortable futon calling our names.”

You laugh, watery and uneven, but real.

“Sounds perfect.”

And as you let him pull you toward the couch toward the warmth, the comfort, the life you’ve built you glance back at the photo.

Bucky’s smile stays frozen in time, bathed in the glow of a summer that feels like a lifetime ago.

---

Bucky,

Do you remember the time we skipped school and drove to the lake? We blasted music the whole way, rolled the windows down, let the wind tangle our hair? I recreated that playlist, I added some new songs I thought you would like.

I don’t even remember what we talked about. Just that we were happy. That it felt like we had all the time in the world.

I was so stupid. I hate myself so much.

We never had time, I miss you.

Yours, Always

Y/N

Bucky,

Am I horrible for wishing it was you? I am i know I am.

I love Steve. I do. He’s good to me. He’s good for me and Lily is… she’s my everything.

But sometimes, I close my eyes, and I see you.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like.

I wonder if you ever imagined it, too.

Yours, Always

Y/N

Bucky,

I miss you.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

God, Buck, I don’t know how to live without missing you.

I don’t know if I ever will.

Yours, Always,

Y/N

The words blur together as tears slip down your cheeks, staining the pages.

You squeeze the notebook shut, press your palm against the cover like it might steady the ache in your chest.

And then a deep, shaky breath.

The house is silent, the clock ticking softly in the background, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs.

You run a hand over your face, trying to ground yourself.

---

It had been weeks since you smiled, really smiled.

You had met Steve in the grief support group, exchanged quiet words over coffee, let him sit across from you in silence when you didn’t have the strength to speak. He never pushed, ever pried. Just sat there, stirring his coffee, existing alongside you in a way that made the weight on your chest feel a little less suffocating. The way he took interest in you in a way no one had before, not since Bucky. Awoke something in you.

One evening, as the sun was setting, he had walked you home. You had barely spoke, lost in your own thoughts, your arms crossed against the cold.

“You wanna know something embarrassing?” Steve said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glanced up, startled by the shift in his voice. “Depends on how embarrassing.”

“Like, life-ruining embarrassing.” He looked at you, eyes playful for the first time since you met him. “But I feel like you could use a laugh, so I’m taking one for the team.”

You didn’t respond, but something in you softened.

He took a deep breath, like he was about to confess a crime, then.. “I used to be in a boy band.”

You stopped walking. “You’re lying.”

“Nope. I was fifteen. We were called The Brooklyn Saints. It was bad, Y/N. Like… frosted tips, synchronized dance moves, matching outfits bad.”

You blinked at him. Then….you laughed.

Not a polite chuckle, not a soft exhale. A real laugh, loud and sudden, bursting out of you before you could stop it.

Steve grinned, something like victory in his eyes. “There she is.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “Steve, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know, and now you have to live with that knowledge forever.”

“I can’t believe you told me that.” Your smile was bright, beaming.

Steve just smiled, his expression so uncomplicated, so unguarded, so effortlessly warm “I’d do anything to hear that laugh of yours.”

And the way he said it, so simply, so easily, like it was the truest thing in the world.

It made something inside you stumble.

---

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Steve’s voice is soft, familiar, grounding pulling you from your thoughts as he steps into the kitchen, his sleeves pushed up, hands still damp from washing Lily’s water bottle.

You glance up from where you’re absently drying dishes, your fingers tugging at the towel like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. “Hey yourself.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there just a second longer than necessary like he can tell that something’s weighing on you, even if you haven’t said a word.

“Long day?” he murmurs.

“Something like that.”

Steve doesn’t push. He never does.

He just watches you, his eyes full of something deep and knowing, the kind of knowing that comes from loving someone long enough to understand the things they don’t say out loud.

Then, without another word, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest.

“Dance with me.”

You blink up at him. “There’s no music.”

He grins, that easy, lazy, lopsided smile that always makes your stomach flip.

“Then you’ll just have to pretend.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Instead, you let him sway you gently, his hands warm against your back, his touch steady and sure.

The kitchen is quiet, just the soft hum of the refrigerator, the muffled sound of Lily’s cartoons playing in the other room.

Steve starts humming.

It’s barely more than a whisper of a melody, something low and comforting, something that settles in your chest like warmth on a cold day.

Your body melts into his, your cheek pressing against his shoulder, and for the first time all day, you breathe.

The tension in your shoulders eases, the tightness in your chest loosens, and for a moment, just a moment the world outside doesn’t exist.

It’s just this.

Just you and Steve and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

“I love you, Steve.” It comes out quiet, unplanned, but honest in a way that makes your throat feel tight.

Steve stills.

He just looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the way you said it, the way your voice trembled just slightly, the way your hands are fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

And then, he smiles.

Not a grin, not something playful, something softer, deeper, something meant just for you. “I know.”

His thumb brushes gently over your cheek, his eyes searching yours like he’s seeing every part of you, even the pieces you try to keep hidden. “But I love hearing you say it anyway.”

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his shirt, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But instead he just holds you closer. He presses his lips to your temple, lingers there for a long, quiet moment, then rests his forehead against yours. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

---

It had been slow.

Careful.

You weren’t ready for love when you met Steve.

And he knew that because neither was he.

But the first time he kissed you really kissed you, not just a gentle press of lips against your cheek, not just something fleeting and casual.

It had been different.

You had been standing in your living room, laughing about something stupid, and then suddenly he wasn’t laughing anymore. His gaze had shifted, soft but intense, full of something you didn’t know how to name yet.

And then, his fingers were on your jaw, tilting your chin up, his breath warm against your lips. “Tell me to stop.” His voice had been so quiet, so steady, but his hands were shaking.

And you didn't tell him to stop.

Instead, you had leaned in and you let yourself be held.

---

After Lily is asleep, after Steve has showered and climbed into bed beside you, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling.

His arm is draped over your waist, his body warm against yours, his breathing slow and even. But your heart still feels heavy.

You shift carefully, reaching for the notebook on the nightstand, flipping it open to a blank page.

And then, in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you begin to write.

Bucky,

I had a good day today.

Steve is everything, I know he is. I feel horrible about how I can't be truly happy. But I’ve started to wonder if he is too, we never truly talk about it all. I wonder if he wishes I was her sometimes, Natasha. I’m sure he does and it doesn’t hurt to think that, because I get it. I know if I told him or even let him read what I wrote he would.

Lily lost another tooth. We made pancakes this morning, and she got syrup in her hair, and I spent twenty minutes trying to wash it out while she giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world.

And for a second, just a second, I almost felt like I was really here.

I wish you could see her, Buck.

I wish you could see me, the person I’ve become. I don’t know if you’d recognize me.

Some days, I don’t recognize myself.

I don’t know what I’m doing, Buck.

I love them. I love them so much. But sometimes, it feels like I’m living a life that was never supposed to be mine. Like I stepped into someone else’s shoes, and I��m too afraid to take them off.

I’m happy, I think.

I just wish you were here.

I wish I knew what you’d say.

I wish I knew what you’d want me to do.

I miss you.

Yours, Always,

Y/N

You stare at the page for a long time.

Then, slowly, you close the notebook.

Steve stirs beside you, pulling you closer in his sleep.

You let him.

And in the quiet darkness, you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling like half of you is somewhere else.

---

The wine is making your head light and airy, and you feel like you’re floating in the best way possible.

You and Steve are curled up on the couch, legs tangled together, empty glasses on the coffee table, the world outside quiet and still.

It had been one of those perfect nights, the kind that feel golden, weightless, wrapped in warmth and safety. Lily had been asleep for hours, and the two of you had spent the evening talking about everything and nothing, the way you used to in the early days.

Now, you’re both tipsy and giggling, his arm lazily draped around your shoulders as he tilts his head back against the cushions, grinning at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“You look happy,” he murmurs, eyes soft, warm, steady.

You laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “I am happy.”

His smile deepens, and for a long moment, he just watches you, blue eyes tracing every inch of your face. “Would you ever marry me?”

You blink.

The question comes so easily, so casually, like it just slipped out of him before he could stop it.

But there’s something real in his expression.

Something hopeful.

Something soft and unguarded.

Your heart swells, lifts, aches, all at once. “Instantly,” you say, without hesitation.

Steve blinks this time, eyes widening slightly, his whole face lighting up with surprise. “Really?”

You laugh again, grinning as you reach for his hand, squeezing it between yours. “Of course, Steve. I love you.”

His breath hitches, something raw and beautiful flickering behind his eyes.

“What would you want?” he asks after a moment, voice soft but eager, like he’s already picturing it.

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Nothing fancy.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“We could elope.” You shrug, biting your lip as you picture it. “No stress, no big parties, just us and Lily.”

Steve is grinning now, but you’re not done.

“And for our honeymoon?” You lean closer, your voice low and conspiratorial. “We take Lily camping. Like she keeps begging us to.”

His laughter is pure and golden, his head falling back against the couch.

“Our honeymoon is camping?”

“It would be perfect,” you insist, giggling, warmth blooming in your chest. “It would be us.”

Steve shakes his head, still laughing, still looking at you like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

He reaches into his pocket.

You freeze.

Because suddenly, he’s holding a ring.

A simple, beautiful ring that you know he’s had for a while, just waiting, just hoping.

“So that’s a yes?” he asks, voice quiet, full of something too big for words.

Your breath catches, your heart stuttering in your chest, and suddenly you’re giggling again, shaking your head, covering your mouth in disbelief.

“No way.”

Steve is grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. “Way.”

You laugh, eyes stinging, chest too full “Yes,” you breathe.

And before you can say another word, he’s on you.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, spinning you onto the couch beneath him as he smothers you in kisses, your cheeks, your nose, your lips, anywhere he can reach.

“You’re my best girl, you know that?” he murmurs against your skin, voice breathless, full of love.

“Mmm,” you hum, smiling, laughing, kissing him back. “I better be.”

And for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Your mind flickers.

Just for a second. Just long enough for a different face to appear behind your closed eyes.

Just long enough for a memory to whisper through you.

A different voice, a different boy, a different life that never got the chance to exist. You tune it out like you always do, locking it away.

---

The drive to Sarah’s house is filled with laughter and music, the soft hum of the radio blending with Lily’s endless chatter from the backseat.

“And then, Mommy, guess what?!” Lily gasps, her little legs kicking excitedly against the booster seat.

You glance at her in the rearview mirror, smiling at how animated she is, her wide eyes glowing in the golden evening light. “What, baby?”

“I painted a unicorn! But Miss Martinez said it looked like a cow, and I said ‘No, it’s magic,’ and then, and then, Maddie spilled her juice, but it was okay ‘cause I shared my napkin—”

“Wow,” Steve cuts in, turning slightly in his seat to look at her. “So not only are you an artist, but you’re also a hero? That’s a big day, Lil’.”

She beams, her dimpled cheeks puffing up with pride. “I am a hero!”

You laugh, shaking your head as you pull into Sarah’s driveway. These are the moments that feel light, weightless, untouched by the past.

You get out first, opening Lily’s door, and she immediately reaches for you, her small hands wrapping around your hands as you walk to the front door.

“Are you excited for your sleepover with Nana tonight?” you ask her softly.

Lily pouts, playing with the sleeve of your sweater. “But I wanna go with you and Daddy.”

“I know, but we’re just gonna be boring grown-ups for a little while, and you’re gonna have way more fun with Nana.”

Steve ruffles her curls. “And if you’re extra good, she might let you have cookies before bed.”

Lily’s face lights up again, the betrayal instantly forgotten. “Two cookies?”

“You’ll have to negotiate with Nana on that one.”

Sarah appears at the door, arms open wide. “There’s my girl!”

Lily squeals, letting go of your hand and running up the steps. You and Steve exchange a look, fond and full of love, before following after her.

Sarah leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Go have fun. You two deserve a night out.”

The four of you are three drinks in, and everything is light. You're out with Steve and his childhood best friend Wanda, and Clint. Who'd you come to learn over the years was Natasha's best friend.

Clint is mid-story about a truly disastrous work event, Wanda is laughing so hard she has to clutch Steve’s arm for support, and for once, you’re actually having fun.

It’s loud and warm and full of life, the kind of night that should feel untouched by ghosts and for a while, it is.

You lean into Steve’s shoulder as you laugh, genuine, real, the warmth of the alcohol making everything a little softer, a little easier.

The music changes. The opening chords hit like a gut punch, you know this song. Your fingers tighten around your glass, then the lyrics start.

‘I'm coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine, Gotta gotta be down, because I want it all’

It’s your song.

Yours and Bucky’s.

The one you blasted on your road trips. The one you screamed the lyrics to in his car. The one he promised that the two of you would tear down every club in New York when it came on.

The air thickens, the room suddenly too small, too loud, too much.

You push back your chair. “Be right back,” you mumble, voice strained.

Steve looks over at you, confused. “You okay?”

Wanda, ever perceptive, rests a hand on his arm. “She’s probably just going to the bathroom. Give her a sec.”

You don’t stop to hear more, you just walk.

Steve watches you disappear outside, his chest tight, aching, conflicted.

Something in him wants to go after you immediately, but before he can even move, Clint exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“She never really talks about it, huh? Never really came to terms with it?”

Steve turns to him, his expression unreadable, but Wanda stiffens slightly, already sensing the tension that’s about to unfold.

Steve is quiet for a long moment before he finally says, “I spoke to my therapist about it.”

Wanda and Clint both turn to him, waiting.

“He said that losing someone is harder when it’s not final.”

Clint scoffs. “But it is final. It’s been, what, six, seven years? That’s what you said, right?”

Steve’s jaw tightens.

“No.” His voice is low, even. “You don’t get it. There was never a body.”

The table goes silent.

Wanda’s brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

Steve shifts slightly, uneasy. “I really shouldn’t talk about this. It’s not my story to tell.”

“But?” Wanda presses gently.

Steve exhales, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

“Bucky wasn’t just killed in action. He went missing. They never found anything. Not his body, not his dog tags. Nothing.”

Wanda’s lips part slightly, her expression softening.

“That kind of loss… it doesn’t feel real,” Steve continues, voice quiet but heavy. “And it doesn’t help that they fought before he left. That she never got to say goodbye.”

Clint sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, man. I get it, I do. But dealing with her loss isn’t good for your loss.”

Steve’s brows pull together. “What does that mean?”

Clint leans forward, leveling him with a pointed, sharp look. “What I mean is you’re playing house with somebody else who will never be Nat.”

The words hit like a gut punch.

Steve’s expression darkens instantly. “Watch it,” he warns, his voice low, dangerous.

Clint shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just saying, man. You sit here talking about her grief, but what about yours? Huh? You think Natasha would want this for you?”

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Steve snaps, his entire body tensing, a fire burning behind his eyes now.

Clint’s jaw flexes, but his tone stays cool. “You loved her. I get it. But Y/N? She’s never gonna be able to give you what you had with Nat. She’s always gonna have one foot in the past, Steve. And you’re always gonna know that.”

Steve leans forward, his voice deadly quiet now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says, his knuckles white against the table. “You think I don’t wake up every day missing her? You think I don’t look at Lily and see what she lost? That I don’t feel it every time I think about what Natasha should have had? But I didn’t get a choice, Clint. None of us did.”

Clint opens his mouth, but Steve cuts him off.

“And don’t you dare sit there and act like you know what’s best for me. You don’t get to judge how I moved forward. You don’t get to act like you wouldn’t have done the same damn thing if it had been me instead of her.”

Clint’s face hardens.

The two of them stare each other down for a long moment, the weight of grief and loss and love unspoken pressing between them.

Then, finally, Wanda sighs.

“That’s enough,” she says softly. “All of it.”

Steve shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he pushes back from the table.

“I’m gonna go check on her.”

The air outside is cool and crisp, the distant hum of the city filling the quiet.

Steve finds you standing near the curb, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

You don’t turn when he approaches, but he knows you hear him.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You let out a shaky exhale. “I don’t know.”You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “It’s so stupid. They were just playing our song.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “That’s not stupid.” Steve steps beside you, his hands tucking into his pockets.

You swallow hard, your throat tight, aching.

“I should be happy, right?” you whisper.

Steve watches you, his chest tightening. “There’s no right way to feel about this, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens, your hands clenching at your sides. “What’s wrong with me, Steve? Why can’t I get over this? Why can’t I be like you?”

Steve freezes, caught off guard. “Like me?”

“You moved on. You let yourself be happy. I don’t—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”

Your jaw trembles slightly, but you shake your head.

“I just… I thought I was finally getting better. I thought I was moving on. But now? It’s like, I don’t know how to exist in this moment. I don’t know who I am if I don’t have to grieve him anymore.”

Steve exhales, looking up at the sky for a long moment before finally saying, “I still mourn her, you know.”

You turn to him then, finally meeting his gaze.

“I will mourn Natasha for the rest of my life,” he admits, his voice thick with something raw. “And it hurts every time I look at Lily. Every time I think about what she lost. What she’ll never have with her Mother.”

Your breath catches.

“And yeah,” Steve continues, voice quieter now, “she gained something incredible. She got you and I will never take that for granted. But that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t still there, it doesn’t mean I’ll ever truly move on from that and that's okay, I don’t have to.”

You stare at him, your heart aching for him, for Lily, for all of it.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Steve says gently. “I just, I need you to know that this isn’t something you just get over. It’s not something you just let go of. But that doesn’t mean you don’t keep living.”

You swallow hard, your vision blurring slightly.

“How?” you whisper.“ Tell me what to do, Steve!” Your voice rises, desperate and breaking apart at the seams. “Tell me how to stop feeling like I’m drowning. I need to know, please, I need to know.” Your breath is ragged, uneven, frantic.

“I exist with it, I’m happy I got to know her, I’m grateful I got the chance to be loved by her and to love her.” He pulls you into his arms. “I think you need to talk to someone again.”

You press your face into his chest, your shoulders shaking.

“I think you need to let yourself heal.”

Steve watches you for a long moment before finally reaching for your hand, his fingers warm, steady, unwavering.

“One day at a time.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x steve #steve rogers x reader

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misskitxx · 3 months ago

Text

Necromancer Jayce who brings Viktor back to life AU

Necromancer Jayce x Zombie Viktor, heavily inspired by this work

Viktor is dead.

Jayce does not know how to exist in a world where that is true.

The words are a blade lodged in his ribs, twisting deeper every time he breathed. Dead. A clinical term, sterile, a word for dissections and autopsy reports. It doesn’t belong here, in the oily lamplight of their shared lab, where Viktor’s shadow still lingers in the smudges of equations on chalkboards, in the half-drunk cup of tea gone moldy by the sink.

Jayce had refused to let them take the body.

He’d barred the door, roared at the councilors, the enforcers, even Heimerdinger’s mournful whimpers. “You don’t get to bury him,” he’d snarled, hammer sparking in his grip . “You didn’t know him. You didn’t love him.”

Dead. A lie. A mistake. A joke in wretched taste. The lab reeks of formaldehyde and copper, of lilies left to wilt beside the lab table—their petals browned, stems slumped like broken necks.

Now, Viktor lays on their workbench, bathed in the cold glow of alchemical lamps. Jayce had washed him himself—slowly, reverently—scrubbing the blood from his lips, the soot from his hands. But death was not kind.

Jayce spends days watching him rot.

By the first night, Viktor’s skin is still warm, his lashes casting delicate shadows as if he might wake any moment. He kisses Viktor’s knuckles, his throat, his eyelids—begging the universe for a flinch, a sigh, a miracle. Presses his ear to Viktor’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing comes. “You’d hate this,” Jayce mutters, voice raw. “The theatrics. The… the waste of time.”

Viktor at his desk, sleeves rolled up, scars silvered by lamplight—a lattice of old burns, surgical incisions, the jagged kiss of shrapnel. Jayce traces them with his thumb, teasing. “You’re a walking disaster.” Viktor doesn’t look up from his schematics. “And you’re a distraction. But here we are.”

The second night, tries shaking him awake. By the third one, rigor mortis turns Viktor’s limbs to stone. Jayce pries them open anyway, intertwining their fingers together. “You’re being sentimental,” Viktor’s ghost seems to chide. “Sentiment is inefficient.” Jayce laughs, sharp and broken. Presses his lips to Viktor’s, desperate, hoping that somehow, somehow— and vomits into the sink.

Midnight in the lab, Viktor’s mouth hot against Jayce’s collarbone, teeth nipping, breath hitching. “You’re insufferable,” Viktor murmurs, but his hands are already fumbling with Jayce’s belt. “Insufferably brilliant,” Jayce corrects, pinning him to the desk. Papers scatter. Viktor laughs—a rare, unguarded sound—before silencing him with a kiss.

By the fifth, rot arrives in blooms. A violet stain spreads beneath Viktor’s collarbone, the skin splitting like overripe fruit. His lips shrivel, browning at the edges, and Jayce catches himself leaning in—still, still—hoping to taste the iron-sharp wit on his tongue. Instead, his mouth fills with the cloying sweetness of decay. By the sixth, Jayce can’t bear it.

Viktor’s finger tapping a petri dish, alive with microbial swirls. “Decay is just another form of energy,” he says, grinning. “We could harness it. Redirect it.” Jayce leans against him, cheek to his temple. “You’re mad.” “And you’re staring at my mouth.”

By the seventh, he breaks.

Viktor’s hands rest on his chest, fingers curled inward like withered petals. His lips are cracked, his throat shadowed with the bruises of rot. He is still, so horribly still. He has never been still. Viktor, his lovely Viktor, could have seemed so to a stranger. Not to Jayce—never to Jayce. Because Jayce has been reveling in his every microexpression: the pout of his lips when he thought, the subtle lean on his cane in extortion, the hands—those hands that he would catch, mid-air, and pepper with kisses as Viktor was busy explaining his new theories. Animated. Expressive. Alive.

He reaches out, almost expecting warmth, but Viktor’s skin is cold. It should not be cold. Sure, Viktor has— had certain issues with his blood circulation, and Jayce would always curse at him when he’d press his ice-cold feet against his own warm thighs. Viktor would grin, a beautiful, mischievous sight.

He swallows back bile and presses his thumb against Viktor’s palm. He remembers this hand, remembers tracing the scars along his knuckles in the late hours of the night, murmuring half-formed apologies into the space between them.

"You work too much," Jayce whispers, pressing lazy kisses to the ridges of old burns, of past failures. "You’re going to wear yourself down to nothing."

Viktor huffs a laugh, curling his fingers around Jayce’s own, squeezing just once. "And yet, here I am.”

Here he is. But not really.

Jayce clenches his jaw and forces himself back to his feet.

The book is waiting.

He does not remember finding it, only that it was there when he needed it, slick leather beneath trembling fingers, pages thick with time. The words slither into his mind, curling around his desperation like a vice. Necromancy is not magic—it is defiance, an affront to the natural order. The price is steep.

He does not care.

This is heresy, the kind that got men burned in Piltover’s history books. But Viktor’s corpse stares at the ceiling with milky, clouded eyes, and Jayce thinks, What is heresy to a man who’s already damned?

It is a cruel thing, ancient and hungry. The words crawl beneath his skin, curling into the raw spaces between grief and madness. He should not listen. He does not care.

Sacrifice the living. Mend the dead.

The ritual calls for blood.

His own.

Jayce strips to the waist, the lab’s chill biting his skin. The dagger glins—Viktor’s dagger, the one he used to pry open Hextech casings. Its edge still bears flecks of his fingerprints, still nicked from the day Viktor sliced his thumb and swore in two languages.

Blood wells from Viktor’s thumb. Jayce grabs his hand, sucking the cut clean. “You’re ridiculous,” Viktor mutters, ears reddening. “And you’re bleeding on the blueprints.” Jayce grins. “Call it a collaboration.”

The first cut is a confession.

He drags the blade down his sternum, hissing as blood wells. ”Vertical incision… to bridge the veil,” he recites, voice steadier than his hands. The next cuts are symbols: jagged glyphs over his heart, spirals down his ribs. His blood drips onto Viktor’s body, sizzling where it strikes rot, knitting muscle where it meets bone.

The dagger bites deep. Flesh splits. Blood spills in thick, sluggish rivers down his arms, over his ribs, staining the floor beneath him in crimson offering. His hands shake, his breath comes in gasps, but he does not stop. The sigils must be carved deep, must be perfect.

The final cut is a vow.

Jayce slices his palm open, presses it to Viktor’s. Their blood mingles, black and crimson. The room thrums, pressure building until the windows shatter. Glass rains down. Viktor’s chest jerks, and Jayce stumbles forward, pressing his shaking hands to Viktor’s face. The cold is worse now. It leeches into his fingertips, seeps into his bones. His throat is raw. His skin burns.

“Come back to me,” he breathes, voice breaking.

Continue reading on AO3!

#jayvik #jayce x viktor #viktor arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis #jayvik fanfic #jayce x viktor fanfic #arcane #jayvik fanfiction #jayce brings viktor back from the dead #he comes back craving his flesh

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thebiscuitlabryinth · 1 year ago

Text

[prev]

Nowadays, Pure Vanilla has gotten used to his sleep fluctuating wildly between turbulent dreams and sleep like the void itself has swallowed him whole. It seems like a game of chance whenever he rests his head down, and neither option leaves him any less tired the next morning.

Today, his dreams are absurd, swirling and spilling into each other, and vividly upsetting in a way he can't identify. He shut his eyes tight, but that doesn't block out the rest of his senses. He can hear begging, crying, shouting, and the scent of something burning and wilted lilies clashes in the air, creating a suffocating smell that winds around him slow. It is awful, but it is slightly less so, now that he knows how to recognise when he is in a dream. More importantly, he has a question, and he is more than aware of Shadow Milk's lingering presence.

"You founded the study of Dark Moon Magic, didn't you?"

It is a soft question, but one that is sure of itself. Instantly, the sounds and smells and sensations that had been plaguing Pure Vanilla disappear. Pure Vanilla keeps both his eyes closed for the time being, just in case. Tonight, his staff is absent like a missing leg, and he misses the added security of being able to look through it.

"Oh, come on! Don't interrupt the scene, we were just getting to the good part!" Shadow Milk's voice responds with frustration, the sound coming from all sides. It is precisely because it comes from all sides that Pure Vanilla keeps his eyes closed, not quite trusting that the shards of his nightmares have been fully swept away. He doesn't want to find out what Shadow Milk could possibly consider to be 'the good part' amidst the sounds of suffering and anguish.

Instead, Pure Vanilla sighs. "It was your choice to stop everything when I asked that, wasn't it? You can't blame me for that."

"Bzzt! Wrong! I can blame you because you did interrupt. It doesn't matter what I did in response, a disruption is a disruption." Shadow Milk declares loudly, voice a little rougher, as if he was daring Pure Vanilla to argue back. But his voice is now only coming from one source, right in front of him, so Pure Vanilla cautiously opens his eyes to check the surroundings.

He finds himself in the library of Blueberry Yogurt Academy, and nostalgia eagerly rears its head within him, somewhat surprised. He's stood beside a littered table, surrounded by the deep blue bookshelves of his youth and the comforting smell of aged paper. The details blur a little past that, some of the shelves lighter, more like the bookshelves in his chambers in the Vanilla Kingdom, leaving it less like a perfect replica and more like a collage made out of bits and pieces of his lifetimes' worth of memories, but it is mostly the Blueberry Yogurt library.

Shadow Milk is across the table from him, tutting when Pure Vanilla takes too long to reply. He leans his elbows on the table, propping his chin on the bridge of his linked fingers. "Sneaky, silly-Vanilly, trying to use me to get out of your funny little nightmares. Very, very sneaky."

"It worked, didn't it?" Pure Vanilla says, a bit stiffly, because that had never been his main intention, mostly because Shadow Milk isn't nice enough for him to think it would work. No, his main intention is genuine curiosity, and that is exactly why he continues to prod. "...You didn't answer my question."

"Because it's a stupid one." Shadow Milk hums back, tilting his head to the side. He tilts it far enough that his cheek is now resting against his hands instead of his chin. "You should be able to figure that out yourself. Didn't I already tell you where my home is?"

Pure Vanilla doesn't answer for a moment, laying a tentative hand on the edge of the table as he tries to squint at the papers across its surface in the dim lamplight. It takes him a second to realise that they're all forbidden texts on Dark Moon Magic, and when he does, he murmurs back. "It's better to clarify than assume, isn't it?"

This time, Shadow Milk is the one who doesn't answer for a moment, instead staring at him with those piercing eyes. Pure Vanilla can feel more around him, behind him, lurking in the shadows pooling in the nooks and crevices and he can't help it – he shivers slightly.

That reaction must be enough for Shadow Milk, because he snorts, and pushes off the table to lean back, kicking his feet up onto the table and right on top of texts, which is already enough to make Pure Vanilla wince. Poor library etiquette aside, the movement is horribly uncanny to watch, partly because he is leaning back onto thin air instead of a chair, partly because he moves so quickly it's like his limbs snap into place, and partly because his smile is stretched far too thin as he does so.

"Of course I did. I'm very talented, you know." Shadow Milk announces smugly, his eyes never leaving him. They narrow slightly, all of them in suspicious synchronisation, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly. "But I must admit, I am crumbling to know why you brought it up."

Whys are always difficult to answer, especially for something as difficult as motives, which can morph and change over time. Pure Vanilla hates lying, but he hates lying in front of Shadow Milk even more, because he seems to recognise every single one and Pure Vanilla doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

But he really can't admit the core of the matter to his face. He can't admit that ever since he glimpsed the ghost of Shadow Milk's past, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. He can't admit that he is actively trying to glimpse it again, and what better way to try and draw it out than with any scholar's pride and joy – their work?

"It's impressive. I, myself, have mastered White Magic over the years, and I certainly contributed to its development, but I cannot claim that I created it as a school of magic." Pure Vanilla explains instead, and it isn't a lie either, just lacking all the details. He fidgets a bit, tugging at his own sleeves, adding quieter. "Dark Moon Magic is forbidden too, so there aren't many detailed sources left on it. I want to know more about its founding."

I want to know more about you.

There is another lapse of silence, and Pure Vanilla is tense with tentative hope. After all, if Shadow Milk was really against the topic altogether, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of plucking him out of his nightmares.

Shadow Milk's smile is sharp like a knife, clashing with the casual way he folds his arms behind his head, almost languid as he finally muses. "Oh, really? That doesn't sound right. I'm sure there's enough details lying around to get the gist of it. After all, you've used Dark Moon Magic before, so you must know something about it already."

Pure Vanilla flinches back, and it isn't a surprise that he knows about that too, not anymore, but it still leaves him with unstable footing. Regardless, he doesn't let that scare him off the topic, which he suspects is exactly why Shadow Milk said it. "...I've only really used it once, and I don't remember much about what happened. So I may know something, but that something is rather little."

It's a confession, and the truth. His brief tangle with Dark Moon Magic is a complete blur in his own mind, watered down to blinding sensations and a heartache so intense he had felt like he was crumbling. Theoretically, he knows enough about Dark Moon Magic to hold a conversation, but he remembers nothing about it in practise.

"You know who could help you with that?" Shadow Milk asks, seemingly unbothered, but the words curl with open mockery and a smirk. He tilts his head back slightly so he can look down on Pure Vanilla and throws his arms out dramatically. "Our beloved, newly coronated Guardian! She has plenty of experience with–"

Pure Vanilla's heart lurches painfully.

"Don't talk about her!" He interrupts, voice bursting out louder than he expected and panic fluttery in his chest. He doesn't want to hear him tear at her old wounds, even if she can't hear it herself. He knows how vulnerable that cry makes him seem though, and he fumbles to lower his voice to something softer, less shaky. "Don't– please, I'm asking you for a reason."

Shadow Milk giggles, a strange grating sound that climbs higher with each breath, until he is laughing in earnest. He curls into himself, arms wrapped around his middle, and the position looks painful with his feet still planted on the table. Pure Vanilla watches him warily, a little shaken by the mention of White Lily, and wonders if maybe, he was wrong about what he thought he saw in Shadow Milk. He has been seeing more things that aren't there, recently.

His laughter stops abruptly. The stillness that follows is jarring, but doesn't last long.

Slowly – so slowly that it is unnerving, for someone who typically moves as erratically as him – Shadow Milk reaches forward with one hand and plucks a scroll up from the table. He unrolls it with a lazy flick of his wrist, the other end tumbling away over the edge of the table and across the floor. It is a smooth movement, Pure Vanilla notes through the pounding of his heart and his scrambled nerves, a practised motion that speaks of thousands of opened scrolls.

Shadow Milk peers over at the contents of the scroll with an empty, disinterested expression, his legs melting through the table until he appears to be sitting somewhat politely again. The sudden switch to this from his near hysterical laughter leaves Pure Vanilla disturbed, unsure if this is progress or not.

"I wanted to strike a balance between Black and White Magic." Shadow Milk says, his voice a disconcertingly low murmur, almost monotone. While his main eyes remain steadily on the scroll, the rest are eagerly burrowing into Pure Vanilla from all sides. "Black Magic draws from the void, making it unpredictable and destructive by nature, but full of potential. White Magic draws from the moon, primarily, and other celestial sources, making it safer and easier to use, but limited in its purity. If I could find the middle ground, I could harness magic with more flexibility and power but less unpredictability."

Shadow Milk pauses then, his eyes sliding up to stare right at Pure Vanilla, and his lips quirk upwards. When he speaks again, his voice gains a little more character but remains mainly flat, like a poorly-delivered theatrical monologue. "The dark side of the moon was the obvious choice for a source of that kind of power, because it's the natural overlap between the moon and the void. Once you figure out a source for magic, it's simple to find a way to draw from it, and to make it simpler, I had access to the knowledge of the Witches at my fingertips. All I had to do was write everything down, and the school of Dark Moon Magic was born. Easy-peasy!"

Shadow Milk throws the scroll to the side with little fanfare, not even sparing a glance at those ancient texts as they land in a heap of old paper on the floor, uncaring of if they damage or rip. And why would he? They both know this is a dream, and even if it wasn't, he had written that scroll himself.

Pure Vanilla would have cared, dream or not, if he wasn't wholly distracted, reduced to only a wide-eyed blink.

Because Shadow Milk may feign a bored face and voice, as if reading off a report or a particularly uninspiring script, but when their gazes meet, his eyes glitter like shooting stars, sparking with pride and passion and something else.

It captivates Pure Vanilla, the very same shine that comes with a breakthrough for every researcher. It is exactly what he had been hoping to see again, but the sight still leaves him feeling unmoored, even if pleasantly. Intruige and hope swirl within him, and he suddenly finds himself desperate to hold onto this ghost of the past, to make it stay longer and help it spill into the present.

"What does it feel like?" The question comes out before Pure Vanilla can think it through, focused on continuing the conversation before Shadow Milk can pick up his showmanship again in full. "Dark Moon Magic, I mean."

Shadow Milk huffs, a playful grin settling on his face again, and a sickening mix of dread and disappointment trickles through Pure Vanilla as he watches him lean over, crushing more texts beneath his palms. For a scary moment, he expects him to make another quip towards his previous use of the magic, or worse, bring up White Lily again.

He doesn't. Shadow Milk kicks his legs up behind him, so that he is laying on his stomach in mid-air, and cheerfully asks, "How about I show you?"

He doesn't wait for Pure Vanilla to process what he said, let alone reply. He reaches out and ensnares Pure Vanilla's hand, the one normally occupied with his staff, and laces their fingers together. Pure Vanilla doesn't reciprocate the hold, surprised, but only tries a small unsuccessful tug in response.

Shadow Milk's grip is an oppressive pressure, tight but not quite painful. He presses their palms together firmly, and Pure Vanilla gasps.

Magic bursts through the contact, rushing through his jam in a dizzying, warm flood. It is thicker, heavier than the magic Pure Vanilla is used to, thrumming and twisting as if it has a mind of its own, almost scratching at his dough as if trying to consume him, and he can't even concentrate on it because– because–

He can see everything.

Pure Vanilla really, truly can. He can see Shadow Milk's curling smile in front of him, he can see the Faeries having a feast, he can see Black Raisin greeting the moon from one of the Vanilla Castle's towers, he can see Dark Cacao striding through the citadel, he can see White Lily going through her morning routine, he can see his own sleeping body, and places and Cookies he doesn't have the presence of mind to recognise, all simultaneously. He doesn't know what to focus on, doesn't even know how to focus on anything, and his head hurts like it is falling apart.

This is how Shadow Milk has been watching me, he thinks deliriously, the only thought he can manage as he drowns in his sights.

And then, in a snap, he is back in the library with only one scene to see. His vision swims a little at the edges as if it didn't get the message, and he wobbles in place.

Shadow Milk is still holding his hand, but the grip is slightly looser, and the stream of his Dark Moon Magic is gone like a whisper. His grin is sinister and too big for his face, but his eyes still burn like stars.

"Fun, isn't it?" Shadow Milk coos, giddy like it is a shared secret, lifting Pure Vanilla's trembling hand and brushing a kiss to the back that buzzes with Dark Moon Magic. "My very first masterpiece."

Pure Vanilla wakes up disoriented, with a ringing headache and an itch in the back of his hand. White Lily notices his poor state almost immediately when she sees him – wonderful as she is – and she asks if he had a nightmare with that gentle, concerned slope to her brows.

Pure Vanilla adjusts his grip on his staff, leaning against it more than usual.

"No." He assures her lightly, not quite the truth and not quite a lie.

[next]

#oops this was longer than i expected #i mainly just wanted an excuse to wax lyrical about possible interpretations of their magic systems <3 #sm is having the time of his life btw. pv? not so much #writing this is like a tightrope act between pv's idealistic hopes and sm-related psychological disturbance #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #shadowvanilla #vanilla milkshake #pureshadow #echo paradox au #the biscuit library

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