#optimized winter movement

[civilotterneerredlines]

Gonna do this when it finally snows here.

[fudgeez]

From Teasing to Temptation - Giselle x fem reader

Synopsis: Within the intense world of aespa, Y/N is legendary for her calm, a stark contrast to Giselle's playful, sometimes mischievous, behavior. Curious about Y/N's unwavering patience, Giselle starts teasing and playfully mocking her, wanting to see how much she can handle. Y/N always responds with a smile, which amuses Giselle.

Warnings: smut | 18+ men and minors dni (masterlist)

Aespa's members are celebrated for their unique talents and genuine personalities, endearing them to fans worldwide. Karina, their leader, is a powerful dancer with a shy yet captivating charisma. Winter's passionate dedication shines through in every performance. Giselle, known for her charisma and optimism, is especially playful with close friends, particularly Y/N. Ningning's strong vocals and charming personality captivate audiences. Finally, their youngest, Y/N, is admired for her multi-talented nature and remarkable patience, especially when dealing with Giselle's relentless teasing, which knows no bounds.

Dance Practice Room:

The bass thrummed, and the mirror reflected the synchronized movements of aespa. Y/N, focused, moved with precision.

During a complex footwork sequence, Giselle’s foot connected with Y/N’s ankle.

"Whoops! Slippery floor, huh?" Giselle chirped, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Giselle, you know this floor isn't slippery," Y/N said, her voice calm but firm. "Just be a bit more careful, please."

"Oh, come on, Y/N-ah, lighten up!" Giselle replied, a playful smirk on her face.

"It was just a little slip."

Y/N's smile tightened. "Little slips can lead to big injuries," she said, before resuming the choreography, refusing to let Giselle derail her focus.

Variety Show Segment:

The studio was a whirlwind of lights and laughter. During a chaotic segment involving a whipped cream pie fight, Giselle, knowing Y/N’s dislike of mess, deliberately smeared a dollop of cream on Y/N’s cheek.

"Oh, my hand slipped!" she exclaimed, feigning innocence.

"Giselle!" Y/N exclaimed, wiping the cream with a forced smile. "Really?"

"What? It was an accident!" Giselle insisted, her eyes twinkling.

"Besides, it's just whipped cream. Don't be such a clean freak."

Y/N, maintaining her composure for the cameras, chuckled dryly. "Right, an accident," she said, her eyes flashing a silent warning. "Let's just get this over with."

Music Video Set:

The set buzzed with activity, cameras rolling for Y/N’s close-up.

As Y/N delivered her lines with focused intensity, Giselle, just off-camera, started making silly faces and whispering jokes.

"Psst, Y/N-ah, you look like you're about to sneeze," Giselle whispered, trying to make her laugh. "Or are you trying to look serious?"

Y/N, maintaining her professional demeanor, delivered her lines flawlessly. "Giselle, please," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"Oh, come on, where's your sense of humor?" Giselle retorted, making a goofy face.

Y/N’s grip on her prop tightened noticeably, but she didn’t break character. "Later, Giselle," she said, her voice firm. "Later."

Management Meeting:

The meeting room was tense, Y/N presenting a carefully prepared strategy.

Giselle, however, seemed determined to disrupt the proceedings.

"But what about the fans in…," Giselle started, asking a completely irrelevant question, interrupting Y/N mid-sentence.

"Giselle, that's not relevant to the current discussion," Y/N said, her voice calm but firm. "As I was saying…"

"But I think it's important!" Giselle insisted, interrupting again.

"The fans are our priority, right?"

"Of course, they are," Y/N replied, her voice laced with a hint of steel. "But we need to focus on the presentation. We can discuss fan engagement later."

Giselle continued to whisper and ask irrelevant questions, testing Y/N's patience.

Y/N, though visibly irritated, calmly addressed each interruption, her voice holding a steely edge that silenced Giselle, for the moment.

The aespa dorm was quiet, a rare moment of peace. Other members were occupied with their individual schedules, leaving Giselle and Y/N alone. Y/N meticulously organized her lego airplane set, a calming ritual. Giselle, lounging on her bed, watched with a mischievous glint.

"Y/N-ah," Giselle drawled, "did you know that my horoscope said I'd be particularly clumsy today?"

Y/N, focused on arranging the runway pieces, replied, "Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Giselle continued, a playful smirk spreading across her face. "And you know what that means, right?"

Before Y/N could respond, Giselle "accidentally" knocked over the finished runway design, scattering the pieces. "Oops! See? Clumsy!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise.

Y/N sighed, a hint of exasperation. "Giselle," she said calmly, "I just organized those."

"I know, I know," Giselle said, waving her hand dismissively. "But hey, at least it's not permanent damage, right?" She then "accidentally" tripped over Y/N’s slippers.

Y/N’s jaw tightened, but she bent to pick up the pieces. "It's fine," she said, her voice even. "Just try to be a little more careful, okay?"

Giselle, disappointed by the lack of a dramatic reaction, pouted. "But where's the fun in that?" she whined. "Besides, you're so good at cleaning up! It's like you're a professional organizer or something."

Y/N took a deep breath, her patience wearing thin. "Giselle," she began, her voice low, "I'm not in the mood for games right now."

"Oh, come on, Y/N-ah," Giselle said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Don't be such a spoilsport. It's just a little bit of fun." She then grabbed Y/N’s favorite Snorlax plushie and began throwing it around the room.

Y/N, known for her extraordinary patience, finally snapped.

She pushed Giselle onto her bed, eliciting a surprised squeal from the older member. Giselle, seeing Y/N's expression, stammered, "Look, maknae-ah, I'll help you clean and rebuild your lego." She swallowed hard, seeing Y/N's jaw clench. Then, a playful idea sparked.

"Or," Giselle purred, a hint of seduction in her voice, "you could punish me for being a bad unnie."

"Is that what you want, Unnie? Is that why you keep pushing my patience? Are you jealous of Ningning? Do you think I don't notice?" Y/N's voice was low, laced with a quiet intensity. Giselle bit her lip, a flush spreading across her cheeks. Y/N's words hit their mark; Giselle did feel a pang of jealousy whenever Y/N and Ningning were together, a feeling she knew was irrational, considering their close, sisterly bond.

"Where's the playful unnie I know?" Y/N continued, her voice gaining an edge. "Why are you so quiet now? Are you aroused because I'm on top of you?"

Giselle couldn't suppress a soft moan. This scenario had been a long-held fantasy, and Y/N's sudden dominance ignited a fire within her.

"Maybe," Giselle whispered, her voice husky. "I wanted to see this side of you, Y/N-ah. The one you keep hidden."

Y/N leaned closer, her gaze intense.

"And what if I decide to punish you, Unnie?" she murmured, her voice a low purr.

"What kind of punishment would you like?" She slid a hand down Giselle's arm, her touch sending shivers through her. Giselle’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening with anticipation.

"Surprise me," Giselle managed to say, her voice barely a whisper.

Y/N's eyes darkened, a playful glint replacing the earlier anger. "Surprise you, Unnie?" she repeated, her voice a low, seductive hum. "I think I can manage that."

"First," Y/N whispered, her thumb tracing the curve of Giselle's lower lip, "We're going to clean up this mess." She gestured to the scattered lego pieces with a playful smirk. "But not in the way you expect."

Y/N stood from the bed and retrieved a vibrator from her drawer, handing it to Giselle. "Put this on, Unnie," she commanded.

Giselle, her breath catching, complied, inserting the device. 

"You're going to pick up every single piece while wearing that," Y/N murmured, her voice sending shivers down Giselle's spine. "And if you miss even one, Unnie, there will be… consequences."

Giselle swallowed, a mix of anticipation and nervousness swirling within her. "And what kind of consequences?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Oh, Unnie," Y/N purred, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You'll just have to wait and see." She pulled back, her gaze lingering on Giselle's flushed face. "Now, get to work."

She hopped off the bed, retrieving a container for the lego pieces, and placed it within Giselle's reach. Giselle, still slightly dazed, sat up, her eyes following Y/N's every move. The shift in power was intoxicating, and she found herself eager to obey.

As Giselle began to gather the scattered pieces, Y/N watched her with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with a mixture of amusement and desire.

The sight of Giselle, usually so mischievous and playful, now diligently following her instructions, sent a thrill through her.

"Good girl," she murmured, her voice laced with a playful dominance.

Giselle knelt, the vibrator sending waves of pleasure through her. "Fuck!" she gasped, the sensation intensifying. She felt Y/N increase the vibrator's intensity.

"Unnie, get to work," Y/N teased, a smirk playing on her lips. "You still have a lot to pick up."

Giselle's breath hitched, her body trembling with each pulse of the vibrator. The task of picking up the scattered lego pieces became a sensual torture, each movement sending waves of pleasure and frustration through her.

"Y-Y/N," she gasped, her voice thick with desire, "this isn't fair."

"Fair?" Y/N echoed, her voice laced with amusement.

"Who said anything about fair, Unnie?" She watched as Giselle's cheeks flushed, her body arching with each surge of pleasure.

"You've been playing games for weeks, Giselle. Now it's my turn."

She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Besides," she murmured, her voice a low purr, "I'm just helping you learn some self-control."

Giselle groaned, her fingers fumbling with the tiny lego pieces. The combination of pleasure and frustration was driving her wild.

"Please," she begged, her voice barely a whisper, "turn it off."

"Not yet, Unnie," Y/N replied, her voice firm. "You still have a few pieces to go." She watched as Giselle's body trembled, her moans growing louder.

"Remember, every piece counts. Miss one, and there will be consequences."

Giselle's body arched, her muscles clenching around the vibrator. She was so close to the edge, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. Just as she was about to succumb, Y/N reached down and turned the vibrator off.

Giselle collapsed onto the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Y-You," she stammered, her eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and desire.

"Me?" Y/N asked, her voice innocent. "I just turned it off. You finished, right?" She then picked up one tiny lego piece that Giselle missed. "Oh look, you missed one. Consequences, Unnie."

Giselle's eyes widened, her heart pounding in her chest. She'd been so close to release, the sudden cessation of the vibrator leaving her aching and frustrated.

"No," she whispered, her voice pleading. "Please, Y/N, don't."

Y/N knelt beside her, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and desire. "Oh, Unnie," she purred, her fingers tracing the curve of Giselle's jaw. "You know the rules. Every piece counts." She leaned closer, her breath warm against Giselle's ear.

"And you, my dear Unnie, missed one."

"Say ahh," Y/N commanded, and Giselle, her eyes filled with anticipation, obediently opened her mouth. Y/N, with a slow, deliberate motion, removed her pajama pants, revealing her cock.

Y/N held Giselle's gaze, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

"That's a good girl," she murmured, her voice a low rumble. She positioned herself, then slowly, deliberately, lowered herself until the tip of her cock brushed against Giselle's parted lips.

Giselle's breath hitched, her eyes widening. The sight of Y/N's arousal, so close, sent a wave of heat through her body. She instinctively reached out, her fingers tracing the length of Y/N's shaft.

"Not yet, Unnie," Y/N whispered, her voice husky.

"You'll have to earn it." She moved slightly, teasing Giselle with the proximity, but not allowing any contact. "Open wider," she commanded.

Giselle obeyed, her mouth stretching to accommodate Y/N. With a slow, steady motion, Y/N slid into Giselle's mouth, the taste and feel of her sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.

Giselle's hands gripped Y/N's thighs, her body trembling with anticipation. Y/N began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm, her thrusts deep and deliberate. Giselle's moans echoed through the quiet room, a mixture of pleasure and surrender.

Y/N watched Giselle's face, her eyes filled with a mixture of desire and control. The sight of Giselle, so submissive, so eager to please, sent a wave of raw power through her.

Giselle whined as Y/N withdrew her penis from her mouth.

"You're such a slut, Unnie," Y/N teased, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Are you enjoying your punishment?" Giselle nodded, her eyes glazed with desire, seemingly lost in a haze of pleasure. "Please...hngg," she begged.

"Please what, Unnie?" Y/N asked, her voice a low rumble.

"Put your cock back in, Y/N," Giselle pleaded, her voice thick with desire. "Make me your slut."

Y/N's eyes darkened, a possessive gleam entering them. "My slut, you say?" she murmured, her voice a low growl. "That can be arranged." She shifted, straddling Giselle's hips, her hands gripping her thighs. "You want me inside you, Unnie? Then beg for it."

Giselle, her face flushed and her body trembling, met Y/N's intense gaze.

"Please, Y/N," she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

"Please, make me yours. Make me your slut. I want you inside me."

A satisfied smirk played on Y/N's lips. "That's what I wanted to hear," she said, her voice husky. She leaned down, her lips brushing against Giselle's. "But you're going to have to work for it, Unnie."

Y/N repositioned herself on the bed, removing her hoodie, revealing her toned abs and the tattoo etched along her ribs. "Do whatever you want," she commanded, her voice a low growl. "You're my slut, Unnie."

Giselle, her eyes filled with a burning desire, crawled across the bed, her hands tracing the lines of Y/N's abdomen.

She leaned in, her lips meeting Y/N's in a slow, sensual kiss. Her hands explored Y/N’s body, her nails lightly scratching the defined muscles of her abs.

"Chill, Unnie," Y/N chuckled, but Giselle seemed lost in her own world. Her lips trailed down Y/N's neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses, while her hand rhythmically stroked Y/N's length.

"You want that, Unnie? Ride it if you want," Y/N murmured, her voice laced with a playful challenge. Giselle nodded eagerly, her eyes filled with a burning desire. With trembling hands, she removed her remaining garment, revealing her slick entrance. She then carefully aligned herself with Y/N's length, her anticipation building with each passing moment.

With a soft gasp, Giselle lowered herself onto Y/N, her body trembling with anticipation. The sensation was immediate and intense, a wave of pleasure washing over her as Y/N filled her completely. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, her hands gripping Y/N's hips for support. Y/N remained still for a moment, letting Giselle adjust to the fullness, her eyes filled with a possessive heat.

Then, with a groan, Giselle began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm, her movements guided by pure instinct and desire. She threw her head back, moaning softly as the pleasure built, her body moving with a newfound confidence. Y/N watched her, her hands roaming over Giselle's back, her eyes filled with a mixture of desire and pride. She could feel Giselle's heat, her body clenching around her, and it drove her wild.

"That's it, Unnie," Y/N murmured, her voice husky. "Ride me."

"Y/N," Giselle gasped, her voice laced with pleasure. "Oh god, this feels so good."

"You like that, Unnie?" Y/N teased, her hands gripping Giselle's hips, guiding her movements. "Tell me how much you like it."

"I love it," Giselle moaned, her body rocking against Y/N. "I love the way you feel inside me. Oh, Y/N."

"Good girl," Y/N purred, her fingers digging into Giselle's skin. "Keep going, Unnie. Show me how much you want me."

Giselle's movements became more frantic, her moans louder, her body slick with sweat. "I want you so much," she gasped, her voice ragged. "I want to feel you everywhere."

"Then take me, Unnie," Y/N urged, her voice low and demanding. "Take every inch."

Giselle threw her head back, her hair falling in a cascade down her shoulders. Her movements became more forceful, her body rocking against Y/N with abandon.

"Y/N! Y/N!" she cried, her voice filled with a mixture of pleasure and desperation.

Y/N watched her, her eyes burning with desire. She reached up, her hands cupping Giselle's breasts, her fingers teasing her nipples. "You're so beautiful," she whispered, her voice husky. "So fucking beautiful."

Giselle's cries intensified, her body trembling on the edge of release. "I'm… I'm going to…!" she gasped.

"Let go, Unnie," Y/N urged, her voice a low rumble.

With a final, shuddering cry, Giselle's body convulsed, her muscles clenching around Y/N. She collapsed against Y/N, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Before Giselle could catch her breath, Y/N flipped their positions, and began to thrust slowly and deliberately.

"Y/N, I'm still sensitive, hngg," Giselle protested, her voice laced with a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion.

"But this is still part of your punishment, Unnie," Y/N smirked, her eyes gleaming with playful dominance. "Do you want me to stop?"

Giselle shook her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of desire and surrender.

"Good girl," Y/N purred, praising her as their lips met in a heated, intense kiss. Their bodies moved together, a symphony of moans and gasps filling the quiet room.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. Y/N's hands roamed over Giselle's body, tracing the curves and contours, igniting sparks of pleasure with every touch. Giselle's hands, now free, tangled in Y/N's hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.

Y/N's thrusts grew more forceful, her rhythm relentless, driving Giselle closer to the edge. Giselle's moans echoed through the room, a mixture of pleasure and surrender.

"Y/N," she gasped, her voice ragged, "I can't… I can't take much more."

"Yes, you can, Unnie," Y/N whispered, her voice husky. "You're stronger than you think." She nipped at Giselle's neck, eliciting a soft moan. "Let go, Unnie," she urged, her voice a low growl. "Let me take you there."

Giselle's body trembled, her muscles clenching around Y/N. She cried out, her voice filled with a mixture of pleasure and desperation. "Y/N! Y/N!"

Y/N's own release was building, her body shuddering with each powerful thrust. She leaned down, her lips brushing against Giselle's ear.

"That's it, Unnie," she whispered, her voice thick with desire. "Let it go."

With a final, shuddering cry, Giselle's body convulsed, her muscles clenching around Y/N. She collapsed against the sheets, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Y/N followed soon after, her own release a powerful wave that washed over her, her body shuddering as she emptied herself into Giselle.

"Where are you going?" Giselle asked, her voice soft, as she felt Y/N begin to rise from the bed.

"I'm just going to prepare the bathtub," Y/N replied, giving Giselle a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"Just rest here for a moment, Unnie. Don't worry."

Giselle watched as Y/N moved gracefully across the room, a soft smile playing on her lips. The afterglow of their shared intimacy warmed her from the inside out. She snuggled into the soft sheets, a contented sigh escaping her lips.

A few minutes later, Y/N returned, the bathroom filled with the soothing scent of lavender and the gentle sound of running water.

"Bath's ready, Unnie," she announced, her voice soft and tender. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

She gently helped Giselle to her feet, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders. Giselle leaned into Y/N's touch, her body still pleasantly sore from their earlier activities. Together, they walked into the steamy bathroom, the warm water inviting them to relax and unwind.

Y/N carefully helped Giselle into the tub, the warm water enveloping her body in a comforting embrace. She then joined her, settling behind Giselle, her arms wrapping around her waist.

"How are you feeling, Unnie?" Y/N asked, her voice soft and concerned.

"Amazing," Giselle murmured, leaning back against Y/N's chest. "Just… amazing."

Y/N chuckled softly, her lips brushing against Giselle's ear. "Good," she whispered. "That's what I wanted to hear."

She began to gently wash Giselle's hair, her fingers massaging her scalp, sending waves of relaxation through her body. Giselle closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"You know," Y/N murmured, her voice thoughtful, "I didn't really mean to punish you, Unnie."

Giselle opened her eyes, turning her head to look at Y/N. "You didn't?" she asked, her voice laced with playful skepticism.

Y/N smiled, her eyes sparkling with affection. "Well, maybe a little," she admitted. "But mostly, I just wanted to… show you how much I care about you."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against Giselle's. "I know I don't say it enough," she whispered, "but I love you, Giselle. I love your playful energy, your mischievous spirit… even when it drives me crazy."

Giselle's heart swelled with warmth, a soft smile spreading across her face. "I love you too, Y/N," she whispered back, her eyes filled with affection. "And I promise," she added, her voice laced with a playful tone, "I'll try not to drive you too crazy."

Y/N chuckled, pulling Giselle closer. "That's all I ask, Unnie," she said, her voice filled with tenderness.

They stayed like that for a long time, simply enjoying each other's company, the warm water and the soothing scent of lavender creating a perfect haven of peace and affection.

[byhuenii]

You had me at hello

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis Bucky retreats to a quiet town. You’re the barista, The first time you meet, he doesn’t know what to order, so he asked you for a recommendation. He’s soft-spoken, but there’s gentleness behind the tired eyes.

He smiles—just barely—and says:

“Hi. I’m Bucky.”

And you’re like: I’m done. That’s it. I’m yours.

Word count 8.8k

Themes + Warnings POST TFATWS!! Barista!reader , Fluff angst but not for long , FLUFF! , Misunderstandings , gentle healing Bucky era , did I mention fluff

— You had me at hello don’t say. Don’t say goodnight you know you had me at hello

M. list | Request (open)

The door creaked open at exactly 7:42 a.m.

You noticed because it was quiet—too quiet for this hour in early fall when regulars shuffled in with tired eyes and worn travel mugs, rustling newspapers and complaining about the cold. But this time, no one said anything. Not a single familiar boot scraped across the tile. No jacket slung onto a stool. Just a hush, like the whole place was waiting for something.

Or someone.

You didn’t look up right away. You were halfway through stacking cinnamon scones in the front display case, half-tuned to the hum of the café’s old indie playlist and half-cursing the crooked chalkboard sign that kept tilting like it had a grudge against gravity.

The bell over the door gave a quiet chime. And then: stillness.

Your eyes flicked up.

He didn’t look at you first. He was reading the chalkboard, lips slightly parted like he wasn’t just scanning for caffeine options—he was reading it like he needed to decipher it. Like he was trying to understand this new terrain: small-town morning rituals written in curly white lettering, soaked in too many exclamation marks and too much optimism.

He wore a leather jacket—worn at the collar, creased at the elbows. One hand in a pocket, the other gloved. The shape of it struck you: not thick winter gloves, but one singular dark glove. The other hand was exposed—metal, black and gold glinting under the weak light as if it breathed differently than the rest of him.

He was too still. Still in a way that told you movement cost him something.

And then he looked at you.

That was it.

That was the moment you felt the pull. The drop.

No romantic swelling music. Just your breath, catching somewhere behind your ribs. And a thought that came uninvited:

He looks like someone who hasn’t been warm in a long time.

His eyes were the kind you don’t expect to find in a sleepy town like this—cool, storm-colored, like they’d seen cities burn and hearts close. But they weren’t cold. That’s what undid you.

There was kindness there.

Tired kindness. Tense kindness. But real.

He stepped forward. Careful steps. Measured. Like every inch of him was trying not to occupy too much space.

“Hi,” he said.

Just one word. One syllable.

Rough-edged, but gentle. Like someone who knew what it meant to be feared and was doing everything not to be.

You blinked. Words escaped you. It was ridiculous—you weren’t the nervous type. But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the one unfamiliar thing in the room, shook your center of gravity.

“Hi,” you said back, trying not to sound like your heart had just tripped over itself. “What can I get you?”

He looked at the pastry display. At the coffee list. Then at you.

“I’m… not sure. Whatever you’d recommend,” he said quietly, voice low like it was half apology, half surrender.

Your chest ached.

You don’t have to try too hard, the song in your head whispered. You already have my heart.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He nodded once. Barely. But you saw it. A flicker of trust. Like maybe the world hadn’t completely shut him out yet.

By 7:48, you’d handed him a mug—something warm, cinnamon-laced, not too sweet—and a cranberry scone still steaming from the oven. He didn’t ask questions. Just gave you a faint thank-you that settled over your skin like a snowfall.

He picked the back corner. Away from the windows. Back to the wall.

You watched him go. How he moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen but didn’t want to be alone either. Like the space between those two things was the only place he knew how to live anymore.

You didn’t stare.

Much.

But you noticed.

The way his eyes scanned the café like a soldier in a new war zone. How he sat with both feet flat on the floor, metal hand resting near his thigh like it was ready to act but didn’t want to be.

How he kept looking at the door.

He wasn’t just new to town.

He was unmoored.

You turned back to the counter. Your hands were warm from the mug, but the rest of you felt cold now—like he’d carried winter in with him, quiet and slow.

Still, beneath it all, you could feel something else stirring. Something not cold.

Hope, maybe.

Or the beginning of something unnamed.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story.

But when he looked up one last time before leaving, eyes catching yours across the café—

It wasn’t loneliness in them.

It was something older. Something deeper.

Recognition.

Like maybe he’d seen this moment before. In a dream. In a memory he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

And just like that, it happened.

The invisible thread. The quiet click.

The knowledge that this wasn’t just a stranger walking into your café.

He had you at hello.

The next morning, he’s back.

You don’t hear the door open—you feel it. That hush again. Like the café itself inhales when he enters.

You glance up from behind the counter, hand wrapped around a still-warm mug. He’s dressed the same: dark layers, leather jacket zipped halfway up, gloved hand gripping the door handle a moment longer than necessary.

He’s rain-speckled. Drops cling to the ends of his hair, darkened by water. The shoulder of his jacket shines where the drizzle hit hardest. He looks like he’s walked through more than just the rain to get here.

But he’s here.

You don’t speak. Just nod, quiet and knowing. Then you turn and start preparing his order without asking.

He notices. You know he notices—because he hesitates.

You can feel his eyes linger on your hands as you reach for the cinnamon scone. You slice it in half—he always eats half, then carefully wraps the other like he’s saving it for someone who never shows up.

You hand him his mug, same way you did yesterday. Your fingers brush his gloved hand for half a second.

This time, he looks at you when he says, “Thank you.”

Still soft. Still quiet. But this time, there’s weight in it.

Like the word itself has to pass through something dark to reach his mouth.

He chooses the same booth. Back corner. Back to the wall. Eyes on the door.

The second he sits down, a few of the regulars filter in, boots squeaking on the damp floor. You catch Bucky’s jaw clench when one of them—Sammy, old local with no awareness of personal space—steps too close behind him while moving past.

It’s not a dramatic reaction. No sharp movement. Just the subtle tension of someone ready for a fight that won’t come.

You watch him try to relax.

Try to melt into the quiet.

The way he flinches—barely—when a cup falls behind the counter and crashes on the tile.

The way his metal fingers twitch when the wind pushes the door open too hard.

The way he always watches the door—not paranoid, just… prepared.

And the way he says “thank you” like it’s foreign on his tongue. Like it’s something he’s still learning how to mean.

He walks like a man who’s afraid of his own gravity.

Not afraid of hurting someone.

Afraid of being too much.

You don’t speak much. Not yet.

But you bring him a sugar packet without asking. And when he struggles to open it, gloved fingers slipping, you slide a small butter knife across the table without looking directly at him.

He stills.

Looks up, surprised. Maybe even a little…embarrassed.

“You’re okay,” you say, quietly.

And that—that is when it happens again.

He looks at you. Really looks. Something unreadable flickers in those eyes. Something worn and bruised, but curious. Not about the coffee. Not about the weather.

About you.

“You don’t have to try too hard…”

That’s what you think as you meet his gaze.

“You already have my heart.”

On the third morning, you finally ask.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone light as you pour his drink, “are you just passing through, or…?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Trying to be less haunted,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing.

“Thought a small town might help.”

Your chest tightens—not because it’s dramatic, but because it isn’t.

You nod. Like you understand. Because maybe you do.

You don’t ask what haunts him. You don’t ask his name.

But the next morning, you get it anyway.

“Bucky,” he says softly, when you hand him his coffee with that same tiny smile you’ve started reserving just for him.

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says. “You should know it. Since you keep saving my life with these scones.”

Your laugh is soft but genuine.

“Bucky,” you repeat, tasting the name.

It feels right in your mouth. Like it’s meant to be said quietly. Meant to be kept close.

Tuesday morning. It rains again.

The windows fog. The smell of cinnamon, espresso, and wet pavement fills the café.

A tray clatters to the ground near the front. A customer curses. You see Bucky stiffen—his hand shoots halfway toward his hip like it’s habit. Instinct. Then stops.

His eyes go distant.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You act fast.

“Careful with those,” you say with a soft smile, stepping out from behind the counter to help the customer. “We’ve only got most of our mugs left.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. But he does come back. Slowly. And when you bring him a napkin a few minutes later, he murmurs, “Thanks,” with something close to relief in his voice.

That’s when you realize: he’s used to protecting himself.

You want to be the kind of place where he doesn’t have to.

He stands to leave. You hand him his to-go drink, as always. Your fingers brush over the back of his glove. Just lightly. Bare skin to fabric.

He pauses.

And then—

That faintest flicker of a smile.

Not the kind people notice. The kind people feel.

“Don’t say goodnight… You had me at hello.”

You smile back. Not expecting anything. Not asking.

But you realize, watching him step out into the soft drizzle again:

He’s not just staying for the coffee.

He’s staying because for the first time in a long time,

this place doesn’t feel dangerous.

He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back.

It’s not the coffee.

It’s not even the scone.

It’s you.

The way your voice doesn’t try to fix him. The way you don’t flinch when he walks in. The way your fingers brush his hand like he’s not made of broken pieces.

He doesn’t have the words for it yet.

But if he did, they’d sound like this:

“She looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon.”

“And for a second, I believed her.”

It starts on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that drizzles instead of storms.

The sky is gray, the sidewalks are wet, and you’re wiping down the counter when he walks in.

You don’t look up right away.

You don’t need to.

You feel him before you see him—like gravity shifting in the room.

The quiet kind. Familiar now.

He doesn’t go to his usual booth.

Instead, he chooses a table one seat closer to the counter. Just close enough to be noticed, not close enough to require explanation.

You raise your eyebrows. “Switching it up?”

Bucky—because you know to call him that now—glances toward the old record player in the corner.

“Better view of the playlist.”

He doesn’t look at it.

He looks at you.

You smile without asking more. And you hand him his drink without waiting for him to order it.

Late morning, it starts.

The café’s playlist is always a little bit yours—an eclectic mix of rainy-day indie, old soul, and songs that sound like they’ve been aching in someone’s chest since before they had a name.

And then it happens.

The old speakers crackle gently. Then:

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word…

’Cause you ain’t saying nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

He stills. Subtle, but you know him now.

His grip tightens just slightly on the ceramic mug.

Plus, all them words get buried when the beat’s so loud…

And the speakers blowin’ up to this dance song…

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

The way his eyes shift—not away from the sound, but into it—tells you everything.

You’re wiping down a table later when the chorus returns, and without thinking, you hum it.

Just a bar or two. Soft. Absent-minded.

But his head lifts. Eyes locking on yours.

“You know this one?” you ask, casually.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than usual:

“Used to.”

Like it belonged to a version of him that’s buried too deep to reach most days.

You nod. You don’t push.

But something flickers between you—the unspoken understanding of what it means to lose whole decades, and still show up for the morning.

You don’t mean to tell him.

But it’s one of those late afternoons when the rain comes soft against the windows, and the air smells like cinnamon and wet leaves.

It’s quiet. No customers. Just you, a rag in your hand, leaning on the counter as he sits nearby, elbow on the table, thumb grazing the edge of his mug like it’s something to be studied.

“This town helped me breathe again,” you say, almost too low to hear yourself.

His eyes lift. Watching.

“I lost someone,” you say, because you don’t know how else to phrase it. “And after, everything felt like a fire drill. Like I was going through the motions of being alive.”

You exhale, then glance away. “Coming here… I don’t know. Something in the quiet made it feel okay to be sad.”

You risk a look.

He hasn’t moved.

But he’s listening. Like if he shifts, even slightly, he’ll miss something vital.

He doesn’t respond with a story of his own.

But he stays.

You’ll learn that’s how Bucky says the important things: not with words. But with presence.

The door swings open too fast. The bell clangs sharp—louder than it should be.

It startles you, but it stiffens him.

He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t snap. But you see it—the way his whole body locks. The flicker in his eyes like something deep in him is checking exits.

Without thinking, you step around the counter.

Your hand finds his sleeve.

Just a light touch.

A tether.

“Hey,” you say gently, like the sound of your voice can pull him back. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t pull away.

In fact… for a split second, he leans into the touch.

Then it’s gone.

You both move on like nothing happened.

But it happened.

And the air remembers.

It’s nearing close.

You’re behind the counter, and he’s finishing the last sip of his drink. Neither of you seems eager to move.

Outside, the rain’s eased to mist.

He stands, slowly. Shrugs on his jacket.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

The song plays again. The line lingers in the room.

And when he heads for the door, something in your chest tightens.

“Don’t say goodnight…” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

But he hears it.

He turns halfway. Eyes soft.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s the lyrics.”

A pause.

“See you tomorrow?”

It’s a question. Not a promise.

But you nod like it’s both.

As he turns again, you catch him watching you—not like a soldier.

Not like someone surveying a room.

Like someone seeing light.

“You’re staring, Barnes,” you tease, grabbing a dish towel.

He smirks. Almost too subtle to catch.

“You know my name.”

“You told me.”

A beat. A breath.

Then—just before he pushes open the door—he says it:

“Sunshine.”

Soft. Almost swallowed by the wind.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

But he doesn’t take it back.

The apartment is too quiet.

He sets the coffee cup on the small table like it’s breakable.

The song still plays in his head.

Your voice, humming it, somehow louder than the original.

He lowers himself to the couch. Leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

And thinks—

She doesn’t flinch when I go quiet.

She doesn’t push when I pull back.

She makes the silence feel less like punishment.

He closes his eyes.

Lets the quiet wrap around him.

And for the first time in years…

It doesn’t feel like armor.

It feels like breathing.

It happens after midnight.

After the rain has stopped. After the apartment has gone still.

After he’s let himself fall asleep for once without the TV humming low like a safety net.

He dreams in layers.

Not chronological. Not logical.

Just images, sound, sensation.

The dream begins the way most do:

Too loud.

Guns. Screams. Dust in his mouth. He’s running—he’s falling—he’s fighting someone he doesn’t recognize, who wears his face, who calls him asset—

Then—

You don’t have to try too hard…

The song threads in from nowhere.

Like light filtering through broken glass.

The chaos doesn’t stop, but something softens around the edges.

And then it’s your voice—not yelling, not commanding.

Just laughing.

He’s sitting at a booth that doesn’t belong to any place he knows.

Not really.

But there’s coffee in his hand. And you’re behind the counter, humming like the world is simple.

You say something—he can’t make out the words—but your eyes are warm and the light through the window looks like home.

You bring him a scone, set it down gently, brush his fingers when you do.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes.

That part always breaks the dream.

You’re sitting beside him now.

You’re not saying anything.

Just resting your head on his shoulder. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s safe.

And he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it, just slightly, until—

“Sunshine,” he murmurs.

You look up, smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What?”

He smiles back.

“Nothing.”

But this time in the dream, he doesn’t lose it.

He holds onto the moment just a little longer.

He wakes slowly.

The sheets are tangled. His throat’s dry. The sky outside is still blue-black.

But something’s different.

The weight isn’t gone. But it’s not pressing quite as hard.

And when he turns his head on the pillow, he whispers the word again like a secret:

“Sunshine.”

Not nothing.

This time, he means it.

You’re already behind the counter, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hair pinned back messily. It’s early enough that the world still feels like it’s exhaling from a bad dream — fog on the windows, street slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with quiet. Your hands are busy, but your heart feels like it’s listening for something.

The bell over the café door chimes.

You don’t look up immediately.

You don’t have to.

His footsteps are heavier in the mornings — not in volume, but in presence. Like he carries gravity in the soles of his boots.

He walks in like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to.

You glance up as he approaches the counter, his eyes scanning for you — like he doesn’t breathe right until he finds you behind the bar.

You slide his drink across the counter before he can open his mouth.

“Morning,” you say gently.

He looks down at the drink. Then back at you. Something flickers in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief.

“You remembered.”

He always says it like that. Like remembering him is an act of rebellion against everything he’s known.

“Of course I did.” You tap the lid. “And your scone’s waiting in the warmer. But I left a note.”

You hand it to him on a napkin scrawled with your messy handwriting:

“Wednesdays suck less with pastries.”

His lips twitch. A real smile tries to break through.

He doesn’t comment.

But the corner of his mouth betrays him — and that’s enough.

He moves toward his usual booth, only—

Today, he stops one seat closer to the counter.

“Your usual table’s open,” you say, teasing.

“Better view of the record player,” he mutters.

You catch the faintest flush in his ears.

You don’t point out that the record player is behind him from that seat.

You wipe down the counters. He pretends to read.

He’s brought a book the last few days. You know the title. You know it because he’s had it open to the same page every single time.

Today is no different.

“You know,” you say, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder, “for a guy who keeps coming in with a book, you’re not making much progress.”

He doesn’t look up.

“You timing me?”

“I’m just concerned you might’ve forgotten how to read.”

That gets a snort out of him — low, surprised.

Then, before he can stop it — he laughs.

Not just a breath. Not a polite exhale.

A laugh.

It catches both of you off-guard.

He brings a gloved hand up to his mouth, like it slipped out without permission.

Your chest tightens. Not with worry — with wonder.

“Was that…” You narrow your eyes. “Was that a laugh?”

He mumbles behind his fingers, “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late.

There’s a lull in the rush. You’re both standing behind the counter, pretending not to be watching each other. The song on the record player has faded into some soft acoustic hum.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I used to draw.”

You blink.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

Just… wait.

“Before everything,” he adds after a beat. “Back when it was just something I did. Before it got… lost.”

“What happened?” you ask, gently.

His jaw tightens. Eyes stay on the wood grain of the counter.

“Forgot how to.”

You consider that. Let the silence stretch long enough that it doesn’t feel like a demand.

“Doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t have a name yet.

But it’s starting to grow teeth.

The café playlist shifts. And you feel it before you hear it.

That one track. The one that hit him last time.

And this time, the room seems to still as the lyrics begin.

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word

’Cause you ain’t sayin’ nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

You hum it as you rinse a cup. Barely aware of it.

He’s watching you again.

Not like a soldier scans a threat.

Like a man who’s watching sunlight stretch across floorboards.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He closes his eyes.

Not in pain.

Just—like it hurts to be seen this clearly.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

And in that moment, something invisible uncoils between you both.

Something heavy and golden and quiet.

You’re both behind the bar again — you asked him to help restock cups, half-joking.

He said, “Bossy,” with a ghost of a smile.

You reach for a ceramic mug at the same time.

Your fingers brush his glove.

And neither of you move.

Not for a second.

Not for two.

His gloved thumb shifts — just barely — over the ridge of your knuckle.

You feel the shape of the moment. Warm and fragile and wanting.

Then—

The bell over the door rings.

You flinch.

He steps back.

But your hand still feels the shape of his.

And for a moment — neither of you say anything.

The mug is in his hands.

The one you let him keep.

Not the chipped ones. Not the plain ones.

The good one.

“It’s just a cup,” you’d said.

But he remembered what he told you in return.

“No one’s ever let me keep the good cup before.”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

But it was the truest thing he’d said all day.

He sets the mug on the table, next to the sketchbook.

Open now.

The page is half-filled with a pencil rendering — soft lines, gentle shading.

A face. Not finished. Not labeled.

But it’s you.

Your profile. Your hands. The shape of your jaw when you smile.

The song plays again — on his old speakers. He downloaded the playlist. Needed to keep something from the café with him.

You don’t have to try too hard…

He presses the pencil to the page. Doesn’t draw.

Just holds it there.

You already have my heart…

He whispers it.

Not to the page. Not to the song.

To you.

Wherever you are right now.

He dreams.

For once, it’s not war.

It’s not metal or blood or sirens or glass.

It’s the café.

Afternoon sun warming the floor.

You’re there, behind the counter. Wearing that oversized sweater. Hair up in a clip. Humming. Smiling.

He’s sitting across from you.

No glove.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

You’re calling him something soft.

“James.”

The name sounds safe in your mouth.

He wakes up before he answers you.

As he leaves that night, you pause with the key in your hand, ready to lock the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask.

You’re still facing away from him when he answers.

“Yeah.”

Then—

“I like the quiet here.”

You turn just enough to meet his eyes.

You don’t say it.

But it’s there in your smile.

In the breath between you.

It’s not the quiet.

It’s you.

The morning starts with a missing piece.

No boots at the door. No quiet knock of knuckles against wood. No half-smile from the man who’s come to feel like gravity disguised as routine.

You keep glancing at the entrance anyway, like the bell might ring if you will it hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Still, you make his drink. Just in case. You set it on the warmer, and every few minutes you check it—switching it out for a fresh one before it goes cold.

You tell yourself it’s muscle memory. Not hope.

When he finally walks in—late, soaked in the gray of the day—something in your chest unstitches.

His jacket is damp from the rain. His hair curls slightly at the ends. He looks tired in that way you’ve started to recognize—not from lack of sleep, but from holding back everything he won’t say.

You say nothing about the absence. Nothing about the hour.

Just:

“It’s still hot.”

And when you slide the cup toward him, it feels like offering shelter instead of coffee.

He doesn’t smile, not really, but his eyes soften. And that’s enough.

Outside, the storm hits its stride.

The windows fog at the corners. Rain streaks across the glass like brushstrokes. The world turns watercolor.

Inside, it’s all warm light and the hush of things unspoken.

He stays longer. Doesn’t pretend to read. The book in his hands is open, but the pages don’t turn. Every so often, his gaze finds you like he doesn’t mean it to.

You catch it once. Hold it.

He doesn’t look away.

Later, you say it without planning to.

It slips out soft, like a confession disguised as a comment.

“This place didn’t used to feel like home. Not until recently.”

You don’t say because of you.

You don’t have to.

He stills. Hand around the mug, knuckles pale.

Sets it down.

He looks at you like he wants to say something that would crack his chest open—but instead, he just exhales. Slow. Measured.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

A small shake of the head.

You don’t push.

You just smile.

And something in him shifts at the sight of it—like a fist slowly uncoiling.

Evening falls without fanfare.

The café empties. The storm presses close against the windows.

He’s still there, drying mugs that don’t need drying. Like he belongs behind the counter now. Like he’s forgotten how to leave.

“You know this isn’t your job, right?” you tease.

He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

You hand him the same mug you let him take last time. No words, no ceremony. Just an understanding.

Then—something different. Something new threads the silence.

You almost say it:

“Wanna come over?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Walk me home?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

The air between you pulses, like it knows how close you are to saying something that could change everything.

And instead, he says:

“You hum when you’re thinking.”

You blink. Caught.

“I didn’t realize.”

“I like it,” he says. Simply. No pretense.

Like he means it.

The playlist shifts again. A soft beat. Familiar now.

You hum under your breath, not thinking.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He hears it. You feel his attention before you look up.

Then—

“You already have my heart.”

It comes so softly, like he’s saying it to the rain. To the empty room. To no one.

But you hear it.

You stop moving. The cloth stills in your hand.

You turn, and he’s standing there, eyes on yours. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

He doesn’t take it back.

And you don’t ask him to.

That night, in a room that’s never felt more hollow, he sketches again.

The mug you gave him rests beside the paper. Still warm from memory.

He draws your laugh—not your face, exactly. Just the shape of your mouth mid-smile. The curve of your eyes when you tease.

He doesn’t show anyone.

He doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t know, he thinks, watching the lines take shape.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.

Then, quieter:

Or maybe she does.

And she’s waiting for me to catch up.

In his sleep, he dreams.

Of you.

Of the café, candlelit and empty. Music curling around the corners.

You’re there—barefoot, swaying. Humming that same song.

He watches from a distance. Doesn’t want to disturb the way you glow in the low light.

Then you turn.

Reach for him.

“You don’t have to try,” you whisper.

And he takes your hand.

Wakes up with his fingers curled into nothing.

The next morning, he opens the to-go bag you packed.

Inside: the spoon. A worn, unassuming one.

There’s a note wrapped around the handle:

“For late-night cereal.

Or ice cream.

Or bad dreams.”

He reads it twice. Once for the words.

Once for what they mean.

Something in his chest cracks open. Quietly.

Like breath through broken ribs.

He walks in earlier than usual the next day.

Doesn’t order right away. Just stands in front of you, eyes full of something steady.

When he reaches for your hand—he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t need to.

And you let him.

Because this time, you don’t flinch.

Neither does he.

The café hums low, the way it always does after close—like it exhales with you, both of you finally breathing now that the world is gone.

You’re wiping down the counter. It’s habit by now. Not because it needs it. Because it’s how you delay endings.

Bucky reaches for a towel without asking, like he always does now. But today, there’s a quiet about him. Not the guarded kind. The kind that comes from being somewhere you don’t want to leave.

You hand him a fresh cloth. His gloved hand brushes yours as he takes it—leather warm from the air. He starts to wipe the far edge of the counter.

And then it happens.

The glove slips.

Just a bit. Not much. But enough.

The gleam of metal catches in the lamplight—smooth and quiet and unmistakable. Not warlike. Not monstrous. Just… part of him.

His hand stills.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move to hide it.

He waits.

You don’t gasp. Don’t freeze. You just pick up another rag and start wiping the other end of the counter like nothing’s changed. Because nothing has.

He watches you. Long. Hard. Like he’s reading your silence and doesn’t trust it at first.

Minutes pass.

Then, without looking up, he says—quiet, almost like it’s breaking something in him:

“Most people look.”

You pause. Just for a second.

Then you glance over, soft and unshaken.

“You’re not most people.”

There’s silence. A long, soft, waiting kind.

And then he says, low and steady—

“Neither are you.”

He doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders loosens. Like you just told him he could stay.

Later, thunder growls low, like the sky is thinking of collapsing.

Rain taps the windows, insistent. The lights flicker twice—nothing dramatic, just enough to draw both your eyes to the ceiling at the same time.

You’re at the register, half-laughing.

“Well. That’s a vibe.”

Bucky shifts his stance. Glances out the window. The street outside is ghosted over—wet and reflective, traffic down to a crawl.

You glance at him—then the rain—then back again.

And you say it. Light, no pressure.

“You can wait it out here. I’ve got tea. A really ugly blanket. Probably some old books I lied about finishing.”

He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw flexes once.

Then:

“You sure?”

You nod.

“Of course.”

And maybe he doesn’t realize it yet, but this is the first time he accepts a kind offer without thinking it’s conditional.

He follows you to the back corner couch. You bring out mismatched mugs, light one small candle—lavender, half-burned. You sit cross-legged with your tea. He lowers himself to the edge of the couch like he’s afraid he’ll break it—or worse, break the moment.

But he stays.

And you don’t ask him to explain why.

“You cook?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Used to. Not much opportunity now.”

You hold up a dusty box of pasta. “Well. Welcome to culinary mediocrity.”

The kitchen’s small—barely two people wide—but you move around each other like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve been doing this in dreams.

You hand him the wooden spoon. He holds it like it’s a grenade. Squints at the back of the box like it’s written in code.

“What does ‘al dente’ mean?”

You laugh.

“It means ‘not mushy.’ Stir slowly. Pretend you care.”

He stirs like he’s defusing something.

Then, softly:

“I haven’t done this in a long time.”

You don’t press. Just smile and say:

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe you mean the soup. But maybe you mean more.

He doesn’t answer. But he stirs with more care than before.

Dinner’s done. Dishes are drying in the sink. The rain hasn’t stopped.

You hand him a folded blanket—soft, a little faded. Your favorite one. You don’t say that, but maybe he can tell by the way you pass it over like it matters.

He spreads it out on the couch. Settles in slowly. Like it’s new territory. Like the couch will reject him if he breathes wrong.

You go to switch off the lights.

He watches you the whole time.

And just as you’re turning away, he says—quiet, but not uncertain:

“You make it easy to stay.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

But later—when he’s curled under the blanket, half-asleep—you walk over and tuck the edge of it tighter around his shoulders.

You pause there, fingers brushing the fabric.

And he doesn’t open his eyes.

But you feel it—the way he exhales, just a little easier than before.

It’s past midnight. The storm is softer now—like the world is whispering instead of yelling.

You’re washing a mug at the sink when you start to hum.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until the lyrics slip out, barely a whisper:

You don’t have to try too hard…

From the couch, voice rough with sleep, he answers:

“You already have my heart.”

You freeze, fingers still on porcelain.

You turn, slow. His eyes are open now. Watching you in the quiet.

“You keep saying that.”

He shrugs. One shoulder under the blanket.

“Because it keeps being true.”

And the room is silent.

But everything inside you is loud.

Hours pass. Neither of you sleep.

There’s no light except the soft gold from the hallway and the blue-gray shimmer of moonlight against the windows.

You’re curled up in the chair across from him. He’s on his side now, facing you.

And then, not looking at you, he speaks.

Low. Raw.

“I forget how to be around people sometimes.”

You shift. Watch him carefully.

“You don’t have to try around me.”

His eyes flick to you. Almost searching.

He nods. Then—another breath.

“I’m scared of messing this up.”

You smile, small. Sad. True.

“Me too.”

He studies you. Then he says:

“I never thought someone like you would notice someone like me.”

You lean forward, just a little. Just enough.

“It’s all I notice.”

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

Next morning. The rain is gone. A film of light lays over the floorboards.

He sits at the table while you make breakfast. The good mug in front of him.

And in the notebook he never lets anyone see, he writes:

She didn’t ask what I’ve done.

Didn’t ask who I’ve hurt.

Didn’t even ask what this was.

She just asked how I wanted my coffee.

I think that might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Later that afternoon, the café’s empty. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something sweet neither of you can name.

You’re locking the front door.

And he reaches out—slow, but certain.

Fingers curl around yours.

Not by accident. Not because you’re brushing past each other.

On purpose.

You look down.

Then up.

And he says it. Soft. Fragile. Weighted.

“There’s something I need to tell you. About before.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t say it yet.

He just looks at you like maybe he’s scared this is the last moment before it all changes.

Like you’re the thing holding him still in a world that keeps spinning too fast.

And you squeeze his hand.

You don’t ask him to be brave.

But you stay anyway.

And that? That’s braver than either of you has ever been.

It happens just after midnight.

You’re curled up against him on the couch, the blanket tucked under your chin, the warmth between your bodies soft and steady. Your head rests on his shoulder like it belongs there. His gloved hand is draped over your knee.

The movie’s still playing, but you’re asleep now. He can feel the rhythm of your breathing shift.

And he’s not watching the screen anymore. He’s watching you.

He thinks, quietly: This feels like something real.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he hears the buzzing—

A low, harsh vibration against the wood of your coffee table.

Your phone doesn’t ring. His does.

He shifts slowly, careful not to wake you.

CALLER ID: Sam Wilson

He answers low. Quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Buck. We need you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

His gut tightens.

“How long?”

“We don’t know. Could be a week. Could be three. It’s bad. It’s not covert. It’s not clean. We go in fast, we end it faster.”

“I can’t— I need to tell—”

“There’s no time. I’m sorry.”

There’s silence.

Then a breath.

Then:

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

He ends the call. Looks back at you.

You’re still asleep. One hand curled under your chin. Lips parted slightly. Trusting.

He wants to wake you.

To say goodbye.

To say I didn’t leave you, not really. I’m coming back.

But you look peaceful. And part of him—selfishly, stupidly—doesn’t want to see that peace turn into panic.

So he doesn’t say anything.

He just kneels beside the couch for one moment longer, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. He thinks about writing a note. But what would he say?

“I’ll be back.”

“Don’t stop waiting.”

“This was real to me.”

It all sounds like lies when he’s not sure if he’ll survive.

So instead, he kisses the edge of your blanket, whispers:

“Please still be here.”

And walks out the door.

—

You glance at the clock.

9:07.

Nothing unusual.

9:12.

You find yourself checking the door.

9:18.

Still not there.

You make his drink anyway—out of habit, you tell yourself.

You steam the milk exactly how he likes it. You even pick the mug he always pretends not to care about but never fails to use.

It’s warm in your hands. It feels like waiting.

By 10:00, it’s cold.

You throw it out before anyone can ask.

He’s not late anymore.

He’s just not coming.

You still make the drink.

Still pick the mug.

Still set it down in the same spot.

The pastry too.

By the end of the shift, it’s dry. The sugar glaze is hardened and cracked.

You wrap it anyway. Put it in a bag.

You don’t know why.

The coffee smells like memory now.

Somewhere in the Alps, or maybe the Andes. He doesn’t know anymore.

It’s snow. Cold. Gunfire. Broken comms.

He’s crouched behind a ruined truck. Blood on his sleeve—some his, some not.

He should be focused. But instead:

He thinks of your laugh.

The way you hummed around the kitchen.

The softness in your eyes when you told him he didn’t have to try so hard.

The way your hand rested just near his knee, like you belonged there.

And he thinks, too late:

“I should’ve woken her up.”

You don’t want to spiral.

You don’t want to jump to conclusions.

But you’ve never been this wrong about a feeling before.

The look in his eyes when he held your hand.

The way he whispered “you already have my heart.”

None of it felt halfway.

And yet—

Here you are.

No call. No message.

Nothing.

You sit down in the back room of the café, shaking slightly. You don’t know if it’s anger or fear or something worse:

Hope.

Hope that he still might walk in.

Hope that you didn’t just imagine it all.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

And still—

You make his drink.

He’s back at base. Finally.

Bandaged. Bruised. Bone-weary.

His hands shake as he opens his pack. Amid the gear, the blood, the torn field notes—

The spoon.

Your spoon.

The one you tucked into his bag with that post-it:

“For late-night cereal. Or ice cream. Or bad dreams.”

He presses the note to his forehead.

Fists the spoon in his hand like it’s armor.

“She thinks I left.”

“She thinks I didn’t care.”

“She probably stopped waiting.”

He wants to scream.

Instead, he curls on his side and whispers your name.

You:

Sitting on his windowsill. You came here once, unable to stop yourself.

The place is cold. Impersonal. Like it shut down the second he walked out.

You leave a small mug on his counter.

His favorite one.

Just in case.

Him:

That same night, he stares at a payphone.

Doesn’t dial.

Doesn’t even know what he’d say.

Doesn’t know if you’d pick up.

Doesn’t know if your silence would be worse than the distance.

You:

Lying in bed, the spoon you gave him now curled in your fist. You kept another one. A matching set.

You whisper into your blanket:

“Where are you, Bucky?”

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

You stop making his drink.

It feels like letting go of something you didn’t want to admit you were holding.

You tell yourself maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you read too much into the silences. The glances. The “you already have my heart.”

That one hurts the most.

You tell yourself maybe you dreamed it.

Maybe you wanted something so badly it started to look like love.

The café feels colder now.

You hum less.

The window where he used to sit starts to feel like a bruise.

You sit at his table.

It’s raining again.

The kind of rain he used to linger for.

You make tea just for yourself.

You start to close up for the night when the bell above the door doesn’t ring.

And somehow, that silence feels louder than any goodbye could have.

You look at the empty spot where his cup used to be.

You whisper it, this time, out loud:

“Where the hell did you go?”

You don’t expect an answer.

But you still wait a second longer before turning out the lights.

(Border)

The café is dim. Quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of your nervous hands cleaning cups that are already clean.

You’ve stopped humming.

Stopped looking at the door.

But you haven’t stopped hoping.

That’s the cruelest part.

And then—

The bell chimes.

You freeze. Back turned.

You feel it.

That gravity shift.

That soul-deep awareness that he’s there.

You close your eyes. Grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles scream.

Then, a voice. Rough. Ragged. Like it’s clawing its way out of regret.

“…I didn’t know how to come back.”

You turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky.

Bruised. Dirty. A split lip. A healing gash under one eye. One arm still bandaged.

But it’s him. He’s here.

And he looks like he’s been walking through hell just to reach this moment.

You don’t say anything.

Don’t move.

Your chest rises and falls too fast.

Your throat is tight and your stomach is full of glass.

He takes a shaky step forward.

“I wanted to wake you. I should’ve told you. I—I didn’t think I had the right—”

You hold up a hand.

He goes quiet.

You’re trembling now.

“You left.”

Just two words. But they tear out of you.

“I know.”

“You didn’t say a word.”

“I thought—” he swallows hard, “—it would be easier if I didn’t.”

You shake your head. A harsh, bitter laugh slips out.

“Easier for who?”

And that’s when he sees it.

Not just the anger in your voice—but the hurt behind it. The rawness under the rage.

Your hands are fists. Your chest is heaving. Your mouth quivers.

You want to scream.

You want to collapse.

You want to kiss him until it erases all the missing.

But mostly—

You just want him to hold you like he should have before he walked out that door.

He moves toward you. Slow. Wary.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care. I never—”

He reaches for your arm.

You smack his hand away.

Then you grab his collar.

Pull him to you.

And you kiss him.

Hard. Desperate. Furious.

Your teeth clash. Your lip splits.

He gasps into your mouth like he’s drowning and your kiss is oxygen and punishment all at once.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it. Hands flying up—one gripping the counter behind you for balance, the other cradling your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

The kiss slows. Softens.

And then stops.

He pulls back, breathing like he just survived a war.

You won’t look at him. You’re crying now. Quiet, messy tears that drip down your chin like shame.

“I hate that I missed you this much,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I hate that I made you wait.”

You finally look up at him. Red eyes. Wet lashes.

And he sees everything.

“I didn’t want to need you,” you say. Voice breaking. “But I do.”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Then need me.”

“Don’t say good night,” you say—almost a dare.

He breathes out—like a man who’s been holding it in since he left.

And then he says it.

Low. Wrecked. Certain.

It’s quiet when you stir. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

No café noise. No city hum. Just the soft hush of a world not quite awake yet.

You shift beneath the blanket—his blanket. The one he threw over the two of you sometime around 3am. Your back is to his chest, his arm draped loosely over your waist, fingertips curled in the fabric of your shirt like he’s still trying to anchor himself to you in his sleep.

You can feel his breath, warm and even against the curve of your neck.

He doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t dream.

Just rests.

For maybe the first time in years.

You reach down. Lace your fingers with his. Slowly. Gently.

He stirs, but doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and his voice—rough with sleep and rasp—comes against your skin like something holy:

“Still here?”

You nod, not trusting your voice yet.

“Good,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to open my eyes and find out I made you up.”

You feel your chest crack open a little at that.

Because it’s not a line.

It’s not pretty.

It’s just true.

You press your forehead against his arm and whisper:

“You didn’t.”

“I’m here.”

He lets out a shaky exhale, then presses a slow kiss into your shoulder—like it’s a thank you.

The kitchen is small. Sun-washed.

The kind of space made for mugs with chipped handles and sleepy morning songs that hum just beneath conversation.

You hand him a spatula and tell him to flip the eggs.

He stares at the pan like it’s a disarmed landmine.

“It’s not going to explode, Bucky.”

He side-eyes you.

“You don’t know that.”

You laugh. “You’ve survived wars. You can survive breakfast.”

He flips the egg—terribly.

You grin and bump his hip with yours. “Good enough.”

He mutters something under his breath about “civilian combat,” but when you glance at him, he’s smiling. Really smiling. The rare kind. The kind that feels like sunlight.

You eat with your knees touching under the table.

He watches you more than he eats.

Like he’s memorizing you.

You raise your brow at him mid-sip.

“What?”

He just shrugs a little, mouth tilted up.

“You’re the first thing I’ve wanted to wake up to in a long time.”

You freeze for a second, your chest rising slowly.

Then you whisper:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He reaches across the table.

Takes your hand like he means to keep it.

You end up on the couch after breakfast. He’s sitting back, legs spread, arms along the cushions. You’re curled beside him, knees tucked up, one of his arms around your back. It’s lazy. Comfortable. But there’s a hum beneath it—like something unsaid is pacing the room.

You glance up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That same look in his eyes again—recognition.

Not like you’re perfect. But like you’re his.

You blink. Smile softly.

Then whisper:

“Hey.”

He tilts his head, just a little.

“Hmm?”

“You already had me.”

His brows furrow. He’s not confused in the bad way—just a little lost in how honest it feels.

So you elaborate. Eyes still on him.

“From that first day. The way you said hi. The gloves. The stillness in you. It didn’t scare me.”

“I think… maybe that was the moment. Even if I didn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just blinks. Slowly.

A long pause.

Then—quiet, like he’s offering it from the deepest part of himself:

“Hi,” he says.

“I’m Bucky.”

And it wrecks you.

That he’s still trying to earn it. Still trying to believe this isn’t just borrowed time.

You crawl into his lap—gently, deliberately.

Straddle him with care, your knees on either side of his hips. You’re not rushing.

He looks up at you. Like you’re the answer to a question he never thought he was allowed to ask.

You whisper:

“That’s it. I’m yours.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Hands coming to your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He doesn’t pull you closer.

You do.

And then—

Not urgent. Not desperate.

Just full.

Of history.

Of hesitation finally released.

Of love that’s been blooming in the shadows, now stepping into the light.

You kiss him like he’s precious. Like you’re learning him. Like your lips are asking “Are you ready?” and his are answering “I’ve always been.”

He deepens it slowly, tilting his head, one hand curling up into your hair, the other pressing flat to your back like he wants to feel every breath you take.

You pull back only when you’re both breathless.

Your foreheads rest together.

And in the silence, you hum the song again.

“Hold, hold, hold, hold me tight now…”

His voice is a whisper, matching yours:

“’Cause I’m so, so good to go…”

You smile. Eyes closed.

He brushes his thumb beneath your lip, voice softer now.

“Don’t say, don’t say good night…”

And together, at the same time, you say:

“You had me at hello.”

(You’ve got mail!) DONT SAY DONT SAY GOODNIGHT YOU KNOWWW! YOU HAAD ME AT HELLOOOOO!!! oh my god this is my favorite dcom song every. WELL ONE and I was thinking about it and was like awww omg Bucky with this would be so cute :((( AND THEN I REMEMBERED I MAKE FICS. I promised 3 fics I just forgot to post it. So here’s 2/3!!

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[brainrotcharacters]

First Snow Day

After a fantastic session last night, Gavin's favorite part of the following morning was spooning Freelancer once more into his body. Relishing in the gentle, warm way their body curled into his own took all of one minute before he felt them go rigid.

"Is that snow?" Freelancer was blinking at the window―at the flakes of white sticking to the glass pane and softly falling from the sky. Winter was in full swing.

So were Freelancer's legs, arcing up from the blankets before Gavin could brace himself for the sudden movement. His partner winced only once at the soreness that the motion caused, but quickly put on a robe and some slippers.

"What's the rush?" He chuckled, voice still hoarse from sleep.

"I wanna know what it's like!" Freelancer brushed their hair out of the robe's neckline. "This is my first winter!"

A number of memories tugged at his mind. They had conversations about the seasons here, and since Freelancer always got nightmares whenever they felt hot, the idea of winter made them adorably happy. Gavin only ever said it was nothing to write home about, but Freelancer had lived every day since in perpetual optimism for the first snow they'd experience.

They were down the stairs and out the door before Gavin managed to extract himself from bed, laughing to himself. It didn't take long for the sound of sneezing and sniffing to reach him as he strolled in the same direction.

"Having fun, deviant?" He opened the door. Freelancer had one hand over their nose and mouth, the other upraised to the fluttering snowflakes. They watch as it melts into their skin, and then failed to resist the urge to sneeze.

Gavin opened the door wider. "Darling, come back inside. Warm yourself up first."

"But this is so weird and pretty!" Freelancer poked a snowflake. They stared at the pad of their forefinger before lightly licking it.

"Your snot is gonna freeze onto your nose, and your tongue is going to stick to your finger. Change into warmer clothes. Please." Gavin said, smiling fondly as Freelancer rushed back inside, passing him. "Honestly, why am I the voice of reason between us?"

Fifteen minutes later, wearing a complete winter appropriate clothing, Freelancer waded through the rising span of snow and twisted their body. Diving backwards, they were all smiles and giggles as they made a snow angel.

Gavin stood at their periphery, tilting his head. "A prodigy of all things magic, and here you are, delighted by snow. You're a marvel."

"Magic! Right," Freelancer adjusted, and then put both gloved hands to the snow. A moment passed before the snow around their body flared red and instantaneously melted, causing Freelancer's entire body to sink to the grass below.

Taken by surprise, Gavin could only bark a laugh. "You alright there, deviant?"

A raised hand with a burnt mitten was Freelancer's response.

When Gavin spent another second giggling to himself, Freelancer said, "Help me, you stupid bitch! I can hear you laughing!"

"Oh, okay." He grabbed Freelancer's forearm, hoisting them back up to their feet. He wiped off the snow on their beanie and clothes. "What next, hmm? Your first snow day needs to be special. We can't stop now."

That beloved bright-eyed smile was enough to keep Gavin warmed against the winter morning breeze that tousled his hair. "I don't know! It's not a school day. Maybe a snowball fight? Or we could make snowmen?"

"Good choices, good choices." He grasped Freelancer's hand as they returned the way they came. "I hear that and I raise you: we could stay in. And cuddle. I'm yet to receive my affirmations for a night well spent, after all."

Freelancer mockingly made a face. "Oh, you clingy little fiend! You know you did a good job."

"I know, I know."

[mrs5sn0w]

Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> III : A Symphony of Heartbreak ->IV : Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance -> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

Warnings : Arranged marriage, HEAVY ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame: Before, during and after tbosbas

Synopsis : In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

The grand ballroom of the Capitol glittered with opulence, a testament to the excesses of power and control. She, who was adorned in a gown of muted elegance, stood beside Coriolanus Snow, a man whose eyes reflected the iciness of the society that had moulded him.

The festivities, a celebration of their union, felt like a masquerade of emotions, each step a painful reminder of a love lost.

The dance floor beneath them, once a stage for shared dreams, now echoed with the hollow sounds of a fractured connection. Coriolanus, draped in indifference, turned to her with a gaze colder than the winter winds that swept through the Capitol.

"Do remember that our union is a political necessity, not a playground for your emotions." His words, sharp as a blade, cut through the remnants of her optimism, leaving wounds that bled with the anguish of unfulfilled promises.

"Coriolanus, please," she implored, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken pain.

"Can't we find a way back to what we were?"

A scoff escaped his lips, a venomous edge to his tone.

"What we were is inconsequential. The Capitol demands sacrifices, and sentimentality is the first to go."

The cruelty in his words struck her like a physical blow. She felt a chasm widening between them, a chasm fueled by the Capitol's relentless demands and his willingness to succumb to its frigid embrace.

As the night wore on, the symphony of forced smiles and hollow conversations played on, but in the private moments between the grandeur, she attempted to breach the fortress of Snow's indifference.

“Can't you see that we're sacrificing more than just sentimentality?"

Her voice carried the echoes of a heart desperate to be heard, a heart that still clung to the fragments of a love that once defied the Capitol's constraints.

He turned to her, a sneer playing on his lips. "Love is a weakness, Flare."

The words, like acid, burned through her defences. He calls her by her last name, refusing to call by his.

The balcony, once a refuge for shared dreams, now became the stage for the unraveling of her heart. Tears welled up in her eyes, the anguish of his callousness too much to bear.

"Why are you doing this, Coriolanus?" Her plea hung in the air, desperate for an answer that could stitch together the tattered remains of their connection.

He met her gaze with a steely resolve. “Don't be foolish to ask that question again and again. You know why.”

His indifference, a fortress that seemed impenetrable, shattered the last vestiges of her hope. The balcony, witness to the tender moments of their past, now bore witness to the agonizing dissolution of their bond.

"You're heartless, Coriolanus."

His laughter, cold and devoid of empathy, echoed through the balcony.

"Your sentiments won't change our reality. Accept it or suffer the consequences."

The finality in his words landed like a crushing blow. A love that had once defied the Capitol's chains now lay broken and discarded. The dance through time, a once graceful movement, had devolved into a painful and discordant rhythm, echoing the hollowness of their loveless marriage.

As the grand celebration continued below, she retreated into the shadows of her pain. The ballroom, aglow with the Capitol's decadence, became a theater for the tragic unraveling of their connection.

The night was far from over. The masquerade of their union continued, a relentless dance that forced them to confront the haunting melodies of a loveless marriage. Each step on the dance floor mirrored the jagged edges of their fractured connection.

She was a prisoner of her emotions, sought solace in the shadows. The whispers of the past intertwined with the discordant notes of the present, creating a symphony of heartbreak that reverberated through the ballroom.

Coriolanus, detached and composed, navigated the dance with the finesse of a puppeteer pulling the strings. His eyes, devoid of warmth, scanned the room with the calculated precision of a man who had embraced the callousness demanded by the Capitol.

In the quiet interludes between the grand movements, she attempted one more plea, a desperate hope that some shred of humanity remained within the man who had once been her confidant.

"Coriolanus, can't you see what this is doing to us? We're sacrificing more than just love; we're sacrificing our very souls."

He turned to her, his gaze an icy dagger that pierced through her vulnerability.

"Souls are a small price to pay for power. I suggest you learn to accept it."

The words, a proclamation of the Capitol's ruthless influence, left her breathless. She felt the weight of their union pressing down on her, a heavy burden that threatened to suffocate any lingering traces of hope.

As the grand celebration reached its climax, the dance through time descended into a chaotic frenzy of emotions. The ballroom, once a space of decadent revelry, now became a battleground for the remnants of their connection.

Coriolanus, unmoved by the turmoil within her, continued the dance with an air of indifference. The discordant notes of their fractured love played on, drowning out the music of the Capitol's triumphant fanfare.

In the dimly lit corners of the ballroom, her tears went unnoticed. The pain, too private to be displayed in the spotlight of the Capitol's scrutiny, carved deep trenches in her soul.

As the night drew to a close, she, a mere shadow of the woman she once was, found herself standing alone on the balcony. The Capitol, with its glittering facade, seemed worlds away from the desolation within her heart.

Coriolanus, his duty to the Capitol fulfilled, approached her with the calculated demeanor of a man who had shed the vestiges of sentimentality.

“Whatever it is we had it the past, don’t ever look for it, it won’t ever come back.”

His words, devoid of any flicker of remorse, echoed through the empty spaces of her heart. The dance through time had reached its bitter end, leaving behind the fragments of a connection that had crumbled under the weight of the Capitol's expectations.

With a final glance, Coriolanus Snow, now a stranger draped in the trappings of power, left the balcony, leaving her alone with the haunting melodies of a love extinguished. The Capitol's grandeur faded into the night, and she, standing on the balcony, felt the chill of isolation in the air.

As the Capitol slept, shrouded in the deceptive allure of power, she remained on the balcony, grappling with the ruins of her heart. The night, once a canvas for shared dreams, now stretched before her as an endless expanse of emptiness.

In the aftermath of the celebration, the opulent ballroom now lay silent, a stark contrast to the tumult within herself. The masquerade of their union had unveiled the harsh truth — she was entwined in a loveless marriage, a puppet in the Capitol's grand theater.

Alone in the sprawling bedroom, she found herself on the sofa, a cold and unwelcome piece of furniture that mirrored the frigid atmosphere that had settled between her and Coriolanus Snow. The grand bed, adorned with lavish silks and plush pillows, stood untouched, a stark reminder of the chasm that had grown between them.

Her wedding gown, once a symbol of celebration, now felt like a heavy shroud, constricting her movements as she navigated the unfamiliar space. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow on the elaborate patterns of the carpet, each thread whispering tales of a union strained by the weight of Capitol expectations.

As she stepped into the bathroom, the opulence of Capitol excess confronted her. The glass-encased shower stood like a transparent witness to her vulnerability. She turned on the water, hoping its cascade would wash away the residue of the day's trials.

The door swung open, and Coriolanus Snow entered with a casual nonchalance.

His eyes, indifferent to her modesty, met hers in the reflection of the gleaming mirror. The involuntary shriek that escaped her lips was met with nothing more than an eye roll from him. He faced the mirror, a razor in hand, seemingly oblivious to the invasion of her privacy.

“Excuse me ? Do you mind giving me a bit of privacy ?” she protested, the words barely audible over the rush of water.

Coriolanus, razor against his jaw, spared her a fleeting glance, his response as cutting as the blade against his skin.

"You know, Flare, the Capitol may find your attempts at modesty amusing. But let's be clear, you're not even interesting to look at, even when you're trying."

In haste, she sheathed her body in a robe, a thin shield against the rawness of his indifference. The scent of expensive bath oils mingled with the palpable tension, creating an atmosphere that underscored the compromises demanded by the Capitol's opulent facade.

As the echoes of his cruel words reverberated in the room, she chose silence.

The night, meant to be a culmination of shared dreams and whispered promises, had transformed into a haunting symphony of solitude. The echoes of distant laughter from the Capitol's revelry reached her ears, a stark contrast to the silence within the grand room.

She gazed at the grand bed, its expanse an unspoken testament to the distance between her and the man she had once called a friend.

"You're sleeping at the Sofa" he hissed

As she settled onto the sofa, the cushions felt cold and unforgiving.

She gazed at the grand bed, its expanse an unspoken testament to the distance between her and the man she had once called a friend.

The refusal to share a bed, a symbolic rejection that echoed through the silence, carved a deep wound in her heart.

Tears welled in her eyes as she replayed the events of the wedding night—the vows exchanged without sincerity, the applause that masked the absence of genuine joy, and now, the solitude that defined her first night as Coriolanus Snow's wife.

The sofa offered little comfort, its unyielding surface a reflection of the emotional distance that had grown between them. She slept alone on the sofa, the grand bed bearing witness to the ache of a connection lost.

The first light of dawn painted the Capitol in hues of gold, but for her, it offered no warmth. The reality of her situation loomed larger than the grand structures that adorned the city. She descended from the balcony, her steps heavy with the weight of unshed tears.

Days turned into weeks, and the semblance of a life continued. The Capitol, indifferent to the personal tragedies within its glittering facade, carried on with its relentless demands. She, who was once a beacon of creativity, moved through the motions with a hollow gaze.

Coriolanus Snow, now consumed by the machinations of power, remained a distant figure in her life. The corridors of their grand residence echoed with a profound silence, a testament to the emotional chasm that separated them.

One evening, as the Capitol bathed in the twilight glow, she found herself in the Academy library, a place that once witnessed the blossoming of their connection. The shelves, lined with volumes of forgotten dreams, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time.

In the quiet solitude of the library, Her fingers traced the spines of familiar books. Memories flooded back — shared laughter, whispered dreams, and the unspoken bond that had defined their youth. She closed her eyes, attempting to capture the fragments of a time when love still flourished.

Weeks turned into months, and the grand wedding, a distant memory, held no solace for her. The corridors of their residence, once filled with shared laughter, now echoed with the hollowness of a connection irreversibly fractured.

As the Capitol skyline glowed with artificial brilliance, she stood on the balcony, a silhouette against the backdrop of a city that demanded everything but love. The echoes of their past laughter lingered, mingling with the distant hum of Capitol life.

Coriolanus Snow approached, his gaze fixed on the sprawling expanse below. The balcony, once witness to their private moments, now served as a stage for the remnants of a connection that refused to be forgotten.

"The Capitol's demands grow more strict, could you stop acting all sad, asking attention from the public ? It’s pathetic, we must play our parts better, give the Capitol what they want so-” he remarked, his voice a detached melody that echoed through the night.

“So you can get more power ?” She scoffed

“What more do you want from the people now that you’re President ?”

A bitter smile played on her lips. "Our parts, Coriolanus, are nothing more than roles in a tragic play. The Capitol demands perfection, but it has no regard for the cost."

His gaze, cold and unyielding, met hers. "Cost is not important when compared to the splendour of power. You knew the rules when you entered this dance, Flare."

The balcony, bathed in the soft glow of Capitol lights, became the theater for a final act. She was weary and disillusioned then locking eyes with Coriolanus Snow — a man she once loved, now a stranger draped in the trappings of power.

"Coriolanus, I once believed in a world beyond the Capitol's expectations. But we are prisoners, dancing to a tune composed by a heartless regime."

His laughter, devoid of warmth, cut through the night. "Prisoners, perhaps, but also architects of our destiny. Embrace the role, or be swept away by the currents of irrelevance."

The question hung in the air, a heavy cloud of unspoken tension settling over the room. Her voice, though calm, carried a subtle edge as she uttered words that dared to touch the forbidden.

"Would it be different if she was the one to marry you?"

Coriolanus Snow, his features frozen in an icy mask, felt the room temperature drop several degrees. The mere mention of Lucy Gray Baird, the elusive victor of the 10th Annual Hunger Games, was like a sharp dagger thrust into the depths of his guarded emotions.

His eyes, usually cool and composed, flared with a sudden anger that he struggled to conceal.

"You dare bring her up?" The words hissed through clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with a venomous disdain that seemed to materialize from the depths of his resentment.

Though she was well aware of the sensitivity of the topic, pressed on with a quiet determination. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the weight of unspoken histories loomed.

"She's the one you cheated the Games for, isn't she? The girl you loved and then conveniently let disappear,"

she continued, her voice unwavering despite the storm brewing in his gaze.

A cruel laugh escaped him, devoid of any genuine mirth.

"You think you know anything about her? About us?"

The tension crackled in the air as he paced, the room feeling suddenly too confined. His anger, a turbulent undercurrent, sought an outlet in biting words.

"Let me make something clear, Flare. Lucy Gray was never meant for someone like you to understand. She was extraordinary, and you…"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her form with a disdain that cut through the air.

"You're just a pale imitation, desperately clinging to a reality you can't grasp."

Though wounded by his words, she refused to back down.

"And yet, you married me. So, why don't you tell me, Snow ? Would it be different if she was the one standing here in this lavish room, wearing this elaborate dress, playing the part I am assigned ? "

His eyes, stormy and unforgiving, locked onto hers.

"Maybe she would have had the decency not to bring up the past to throw your own indiscretions in your face."

The words hung in the air, an unspoken challenge between them. The room, once a sanctuary, now bore witness to the unraveling of a carefully constructed facade, revealing the cracks beneath the surface of their strained union.

Undeterred by the venom in his words, Seraphina met Snow's stormy gaze with unwavering determination. She fought back, her voice cutting through the charged atmosphere.

"If Lucy Gray was so extraordinary, then why is she not here ? If she really loved you, wouldn't she have stayed ? Or maybe, she vanished because she realized what a heartless, cold creature she had involved herself with."

Her words, a counterattack fueled by the fire of her own pain, struck at the heart of his defenses. Snow's stoic facade wavered for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability surfacing in his icy eyes.

"You want to believe in a love that never wavered, but you're deluding yourself. Lucy Gray saw through you, just as I do now," she declared, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The room felt like a battlefield of emotions, each word exchanged a weapon aimed at the other's vulnerabilities. Seraphina pressed on, refusing to let his harsh words break her spirit.

"And here we are, in this grandiose room, in this sham of a marriage. You can't escape the fact that I am your wife, Coriolanus, and no matter how much you resent it, I'm not going to disappear like Lucy Gray."

A bitter smile played on her lips, a mix of defiance and resignation. The Capitol lights outside seemed to dim in comparison to the intensity of their verbal clash. The echoes of their unraveling union reverberated in the silence that followed.

The room, once a symbol of their forced unity, now stood witness to the fractures that no extravagant facade could conceal. She turned away from the balcony, leaving Snow to grapple with the lingering echoes of her words and the stark reality of their entangled fates.

TAGLIST : @randomgurl2326 @rosewine-5

[xxlady-lunaxx]

It was winter when Tengen realized that he was in love. For his wives, it was hard to remember when he’d truly grown fond of them. Given that their marriage had been for the clan, initially, he hadn’t loved them immediately. It was a gradual process, and he couldn’t recall exactly when it hit him that he loved them. But somehow, it was easy to tell for Kyojuro.

For one thing, Kyojuro had always been very sudden, in a way. Bright and cheery, so optimistic. In the way that made it feel like the world didn’t deserve someone as sweet as him. He was good at catching people off guard unintentionally because of how easy it was to relax around him. Equally, he’d popped into Tengen’s life seemingly out of nowhere.

Admittedly, Tengen had been expecting Kyojuro to be something like his father. For a brief time, Tengen, Gyomei, and Shinjuro had all worked as the sole Hashira before others began popping up. But he was proven wrong with Kyojuro’s stronger determination and energy full of smiles and laughter. The sunshine amongst the layers of shadows threatening to bury the Hashira under. As much as Sanemi might hate it, Kyojuro’s optimism was most admirable. It wasn’t something many Demon Slayers could muster. (Tengen included).

Easily, Tengen and Kyojuro got along. Two peas in a pod. Tengen could’ve called Kyojuro his best friend, at this point. Even if he’d known Gyomei for longer, Kyojuro still managed to become his closest friend amongst the Hashira. And he wasn’t complaining.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Tengen was beginning to see Kyojuro in a new light. There were practically stars in his eyes when he saw the man, now, and he couldn’t understand himself for it. Same sex relationships weren’t the most common in Japan, and Tengen was only really vaguely aware of them. Which was why it took him until a day in the snow to realize that the feelings akin to the ones he loved his wives with was, truly, love.

Kyojuro had always loved every type weather. The coldest snowed-in days of winter were no exception. Therefore he was undeterred by the three feet of snow and dragged Tengen along giddily. Clouds obscured the sun from the sky, and they would likely have to get to their missions soon. But they allowed themselves a moment of content (somehow, despite the freezing temperature), wrapping up in scarves and hats and gloves to trudge around outside.

Understandably, Hinatsuru, Suma, and Makio refrained from following them out. But Kyojuro was insistent Tengen followed him and, simply because Kyojuro appeared like the most excited little puppy, he complied.

It was hard not to shiver as they traipsed into the snow, and Tengen was already in half mind bundling back inside. But then Kyojuro stopped, a wide grin spread over his face that enunciated the flush of his nose and cheeks from the cold as he waved his hands in a ‘ta-da’ motion.

Tengen peered at the blindingly white sheets of snow before realizing that it was now a blindingly white lopsided pile of snow. He cocked his head to the side, curious as to what he was looking at. Noticing his puzzlement, Kyojuro followed his gaze. Almost instantly, his smile turned into a pout and he hurried forward, moving to and fro trying to fix what he’d intended to show. When he turned back, triumphant with his quick fix, he did the waving-hand movement again.

It was some sort of snowman, melting ice barely keeping the not quite compact enough snow together into two spheres. There were two sticks lodged into either side of the torso, meant as arms, but one of them was in too far and the other was on the brink of falling out. Kyojuro’s hasty makeovers on the failed snowman were loud and clear and made Tengen laugh. Kyojuro huffed, telling Tengen to stop mocking him. As Tengen went to reply, starting to deny such thing, his eyes flickered from the snowman, to Kyojuro, to the smile the fire-colored man was trying to suppress. And his words faltered, eyes widening a fraction as it hit him. Oh, fuck. Tengen loved him.

A bit concerned over the sudden mood swing, Kyojuro went to console him. But then, behind him, the snowman gave out and collapsed into a heap of snow and (two) branches. Kyojuro yelped as some of the snow decided to seep into his clothing and Tengen recovered, grinning as he tried to help stop the slushy ice from soaking Kyojuro and only succeeding in making it worse. They clambered back inside with the reassurance that they could try and make another snowman later, comforted with the warm tea Hinatsuru provided them and the change of clothes Suma offered. With the promise of no missions that day, from crows that arrived, and the little bit of free time they could gain from that, Kyojuro bed his goodbyes, assuring them that he’d be back another day. And still, Tengen was stuck on that single thought.

He went through the motions of changing and seeing Kyojuro out and drinking tea with his wives, but his mind blanked from his revelation.

It was winter when he realized he was in love with Kyojuro.

[whimsimille]

THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 3: Cherry Blossoms

Jeong Jin-Man x Reader!

Ensuring the cold steel pin snapped back into the slide with a click? Check. Carefully inspecting the barrel, the recoil spring, and guide? Check. Examining the magazine, the safety mechanism, and the trigger, testing each one to guarantee they were functioning at their optimal level? Check.

“Yeah... I still got that," you murmur to yourself, the words barely audible over the soft crackling of the vintage radio playing a forgotten tune from the 60s in the background: Cherry Blossom Ending. Mom’s favorite. 

Taking another long drag of your cigarette, you savor the rich taste of a blend of Turkish tobacco that Pasin introduced you to.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, you watch it drift upwards lazily before dissipating into the stale air of the room. The sight brings back memories of foggy winter mornings back home, when the world seemed shrouded in a blanket of mist. But, unlike those mornings, there's no fragrance of dew-kissed roses or the sweet scent of mom's freshly baked apple pie to erase your nose scrunching—not when this place smells like a battlefield. The distinct aroma of gunpowder and the sharp tang of sweat mix in the air like a witch's potion, creating an unsettling olfactory cocktail.

Your eyes fall on the poster of an old concessionary you once visited, featuring a sexualized pit girl with improbably large breasts for her leather crop top. You sigh. No amount of decoration, no matter how weird or random, can erase the sensation that men in tactical gear might spring up through the gun stock’s door any minute. In your mind’s eye, they empty all the shelves as they run, their gazes wild with bloodlust, chins coated with saliva as the drugs they took to make them more alert take hold of their minds.

Yet, amidst the chaos, your eyes notice the old wooden table, scarred with years of use and abuse. Its familiar creaking sound, especially from the third leg, the one that always needed fixing. Despite its oddities, this place has a certain charm.

As a woman, you know that there are environments that society still judges as masculine. But whether you want it or not, whether you identify as a feminist or not, these judgments don't matter to you. 

Whilst memories flood back—your father patiently teaching you how to shoot, your mother cheering you on at the shooting competition—you can't help but listen to the echoes of your parents amidst the gunpowder. The rusty corner nearby the Glocks shelves reminds you too much of your old house, of mom and dad dancing across it the way they used to on Saturday nights, their laughter filling the room. Even the leftover smell of Gun's piss on the floor brings back how Honda brought home that forsaken cat that you've learned to love. 

These memories remind you that this has nothing to do with being feminine or masculine. This is about being you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated, breaking your shitty reverie. It was a muffled sound by the work table, buried somewhere beneath the scattered assortment of guns—pistols, rifles, and shotguns—in your twin's meticulously disordered workplace.

Discarding your half-smoked baby into the overflowing ashtray, you slowly rise from the creaky stool, stretching your stiff muscles. A dull ache radiates from your lower back—the result of countless hours spent hunched over the workbench. 

Ignoring the discomfort, you navigate through the maze of scattered tools and disassembled machinery, your boots echoing against the concrete floor, until you reach for the incessantly vibrating device under a pile of blueprints.

You lean against the graffiti and poster-covered wall, its coldness seeping through your top. Your gaze drifts to the multiple monitors displaying the gradually emptying streets of Seoul, illuminated by the neon glow of streetlights.

Honda always had an obsession with surveillance, with keeping an eye on every single movement outside. 

To the uninitiated, it might come off as paranoia. But in your line of work, it was a necessity. The last thing you both needed was someone sniffing around your... less-than-legal activities.

You swipe the screen, bringing the encrypted chat to life.

Younger brother by 6 minutes:

Hey, sis! Just checking in.

I trust Sukku's client came to pick up his custom order—the modified Glock 19? Did he give any trouble? Notice anything out of the ordinary? Are there any signs of suspicion that we might need to worry about?

Considering the late hour and the fact that you've been alone in this place all evening, do you want me to swing by? Gunpowder is already fast asleep. I took her to the vet earlier. They think it might be chlamydia. Apparently, it's a thing in cats.

Big sister by 6 minutes:

Chlamydia? In a cat? That's news to me. Is she going to be okay? Will she need any special treatment?

As for the client, there are no issues whatsoever. He seemed satisfied with the custom Glock. Even complimented the grip modifications.

And don't worry about me. I'm used to the workshop without you by now. Besides, I’ve been productive. Uploaded a few of our modified guns and encryption codes on our site for our initial clients to browse.

I also completed a thorough maintenance check on the old Sig Sauer P226. Replaced the recoil spring, cleaned the firing pin and even polished the slide rails. It's as good as new now. You know, just in case we need some extra firepower.

But yeah, if you're free and not too worn out, do swing by. We can grab a late-night snack from the 24-hour joint down the street. Their kimchi jjigae has been on my mind.

But for now, don't rush. I'm fine on my own. I will keep the place locked down and secure until you get back. It's not like we have a shortage of security systems.

And tell Gunpowder her noona got her back. And ask her to keep her paws off my toolbox.

Watching the gray bubble with your message pop up on the screen, you hit send.

Just as you were about to pull up the Murthehelp site on your phone—the one you had coded from scratch after many long, caffeine-fueled nights—a sudden flicker on one of the large monitors caught your attention. You squinted, setting your phone down on the table.

There, in the grainy black-and-white footage, you could make out a figure. It was vague and blurry, moving in the shadows, but their height and gait unmistakably suggested a man.

He was coming towards the workshop, his path unwavering and purposeful. You quickly glanced at his attire—a dark jacket and a baseball hat pulled low over his face. Not exactly the outfit of someone who was just strolling by, especially not at this late hour when even the nocturnal creatures had retreated to their burrows.

Keeping your nerve, you reached for the console, fingers nimbly dancing over the buttons to turn off the monitors. You didn't want the soft blue glow of the screens to betray your presence in the otherwise dark room. 

Leaving the gun stock downstairs, you entered the quiet workshop, the smell of oil and metal heavy in the air.

After tiptoeing towards the reinforced steel door, you hid behind a towering metal shelf cluttered with an assortment of spare parts, rusted tools, and half-assembled machinery, their metallic sheen glinting dimly in the ambient light.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the steady tick-tock of an old clock on the wall. Your heart pounded in your chest as you braced yourself for a loud bang, anticipating a forceful break-in. But instead, the soft rustle of someone kneeling near the entrance reached your ears. The muffled clicks of a lock being picked followed and then the door was gently pushed up, its usual creak betraying its motion conspicuously absent.

The moment the man stepped in, you sprang into action and the workshop transformed into a battleground.

You dove under a swing. A wrench grazed your arm—a missed punch. You retaliated with a swift kick, watching as he stumbled back, barely keeping his balance. But despite your best efforts, your back soon hit the cold metal of an old car under repair.

Cornered, with no way out.

A thin ray of light from a partially opened window cut through the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows. As your eyes adjusted, you saw him—Jinman. His face was as cold as the winter wind, revealing nothing of his intent. He held a knife in his hand, the cold steel pressing ominously against your stomach.

"Complacency could get you killed," he admonished as he tossed his baseball cap somewhere in this place. "In Babylon, I trained you to be sharper, faster, but you've let yourself grow soft. One inch to the side, and this blade could have nicked an artery. It would've been a messy end."

“Damn you, Jinman! What the hell were you thinking, barging in here like some low life thug?" Your hand instinctively went to your side, where your trusty Smith & Wesson lay as you watched through hooded eyes as he leaned against you, his nose scrunching in what might be the unique signal of pain from your attacks. “I mistook you for some gangster trying to get a hand on our stash! I could've shot you, you reckless idiot!" You pushed his hand away, stepping out of the claustrophobic corner.

“Do you remember our lesson on critical injuries?”

"The intestine, when damaged, can lead to sepsis," you replied, his voice flat, your eyes never leaving his as he begrudgingly sheathed his knife. You quirked up an eyebrow as you saw blood under his nails, but you didn’t dare say a thing, you knew he wouldn't talk about it anyway. Jeong was stubborn like that.

"And if left untreated, the mortality rate is high, even with immediate medical attention.”

Ignoring his continued lecturing, you moved past him, heading towards the narrow staircase that led back to the lower level where the gun stock was kept. He trailed behind, his usually light steps now heavy and labored.

"So, care to explain your sudden, unannounced break-in, Jinman?" You questioned, the cool air from the underground level hitting your face like a welcome reprieve. Without waiting for his response, you kept talking, "And why the sudden interest in giving me a lecture on gut wounds? Planning on stabbing my twin next?

"Because you..." he began, but his voice trailed off, replaced by a pained grunt.

Alarmed, you turned around just in time to see him stumble, clutching his side. He landed heavily on the last few steps, letting out a string of curses.

"Jinman?" you called out, rushing over to him. "What's wrong?"

His response was a mere groan, his face a sickly pale hue contrasted by the cold sweat forming on his forehead. The hole in his shirt as he shed his coat could be a smudge of dirt from his shoveling chore, and the blood that has soaked his shirt is almost invisible in the dim light. He's now making a strange whistling noise each time he inhales. He'd been shot. Near his intestines.

"Oh, God, Jinman! This... this is serious," you stammered, your hand shaking as you reached out to check his wound.

You have seen injuries before. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, broken bones are occupational hazards that come with your line of work. But seeing Jinman, your former partner and mentor from Babylon, bleeding and weakening struck a nerve. A sudden adrenaline rush surged through you, coupled with a rising protective instinct. You had to act quickly, keep your wits about you. Panic wouldn't help either of you now.

"Alright, Ahjussi," you said, forcing a steady tone into your voice. "We need to get you lying down. Now."

He lets go, or maybe just loses the strength to hold on, as you maneuver him onto a makeshift bed—a heap of old, worn-out blankets and tarps that you usually use when working on cars. You pull back a little—not far. His eyes regard you from their deep and blackening sockets. They are as brilliant as ever, but you see, they are also full of terror and (this is what frightens you most) some wretched, inexplicable amusement. 

Still speaking low—perhaps so only you can hear, maybe because it's the best he can manage—Jeong says, "Listen, little woman. I can handle myself.."

 "No—you have to stop."

He pays no attention. He draws in another of those screaming breaths, purses his wet red lips in a tight O, and makes a low, incredibly nasty chuffing noise. It drives a fine spray of blood up his clenched throat and into the sweltering air.

He turns his head to the side, spits a wad of half-congealed blood onto the hot tar, then turns back to you. "I guess it's karma.”

You understand that he means it, and for a moment (surely it is the power of his eyes), you believe it's true. He will make the sound again, only a little louder, and in some other world, Bale, that lord of sleepless nights, will turn its unspeakable, hungry head. A moment later, if you don’t just move and fucking think, in this world, Jeong Jin-Man will simply shiver in this old place and die. The death certificate will say something sane, but you’ll know: his dark past finally saw him, came for him and ate him alive.

“I guess I’m getting old, huh?”

Leaning even closer. Into the shivering sweat and blood of him. Leaning in until you can smell the last palest ghost of the Prell he shampooed with that morning and the Foamy he shaved with. Leaning in until your lips touch his ear. You whisper, "Be quiet, Jin-Man. For once in your life, just be quiet. Don’t you dare make this pussy sound again.”

Looking around, you knew no bandage in your medicine cabinet would be enough, so you ended up tearing long strips from a sheet. The sheet is old, but you mourn its passing just the same—on a waitress's salary (supplemented by niggardly tips and only slightly better ones from the faculty members who lunch at Pat's), you can ill afford to raid your linen closet. But when you think of  stuffing it into his mouth to muffle his screams and grunts, you don't hesitate.

You caught sight of an old bottle of Korean whisky, a forgotten souvenir from a past mission to Jeju Island. Honda had won it in a high-stakes game of poker but never got around to finishing it. Now, it seemed like a fitting antiseptic.

Raising the bottle to your lips, you took a swig, the liquid burning its way down your throat—a twisted semblance of courage. Then, with a grimace, you drenched the wound with the help of a cloth, the sharp smell of alcohol mingling with the raw scent of blood. Jinman’s body tensed, a deep groan escaping his clenched teeth.

“I’m hot.”

"Shit, Ahjusshi." Emboldened, you rubbed your freezing, leaking hand along his right cheek, his left cheek, and then across his forehead, where drops of whisky-colored water dripped into his eyebrows and then ran down the sides of his nose. He hums in satisfaction. "You should have been more careful."

The room was filled with a heavy silence, the only sounds being the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere overhead and Jinman’s labored breathing.

You remembered a mission in Gwangju, back when you two were still new to the field. It was a stormy night, the air was so heavy with rain that it felt like you were walking through a cloud. The neon lights of the city were blurred, painting everything in an ethereal glow. There was a sense of surrealism to that night, a feeling of being detached from reality. That was the first time you had seen Jinman truly vulnerable, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to panic as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

“It’s just a scratch,” he had grumbled, his hand tightly gripping yours as you tried to clean the wound. He licked at his lips. You saw the blood on his tongue and it turned your stomach, but you didn’t pull away from him.

Now, years later, history is repeating itself. But this time, the stakes were much higher.

"Listen to me, old man," you began, your voice breaking the overwhelming silence. "We've been through worse, haven't we? Remember that time in Busan when that crazy bastard tried to stab you with a switchblade?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes half-closed, the sheets between his teeth stained with blood and saliva. "Yeah, and you broke his nose."

"You're damn right, I did," you chuckled, your fingers gently tracing the outline of the wound, assessing the damage, before rising up again in search of your purple lighter somewhere in this place. "And we made it through that night, didn't we? So, we're going to make it through this shit too. But you need to stay with me, alright? Don't you fucking dare drift off on me!"

Found it!

As you kneeled again and prepared the needles and threads, sterilizing them over a small flame, your throat felt as dry as the barren lands of the Mojave Desert. Words stuck in your mouth like cotton, but you forced them out. 

"Do you remember that pawnshop in Itaewon? The one with the old, rusted sign hanging crookedly and the fat, ginger cat named Tofu who would lazily sprawl across the counter? The owner—what was his name? Sungmin, right? He had this weird obsession with Elvis Presley. Used to play vintage vinyl records on that old gramophone he had all day long. You hated it; you said it was too 'old-fashioned' for your taste. But I caught you humming 'Love Me Tender' once."

His eyes met yours, a faint glimmer of amusement in them. You could see his chest rise and fall, each breath a little more labored than the last. But he was listening, a hint of a smile tugging at his bloodstained lips.

"And then there was that time in Hongdae," you continued, your fingers gently manipulating the sterilized pliers inside his abdomen. He hissed and jerked, the sudden movement causing the tools in your hand to clatter loudly. But a stern glance in his direction had him stilling, his jaw clenched tightly to suppress any further sounds. "We stumbled upon this cute little bakery at three in the morning. The owner was this old lady, who claimed her red bean buns were the best in all of Seoul. You were skeptical and said nothing could beat your grandma's recipe. But, after the first bite...”

You paused, recalling the look of sheer surprise on his face. "You devoured five of those buns in a matter of minutes. You even tried to flirt with the old lady, hoping to score the recipe."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, his grip tightening around your free hand. "And she said... she said she had a... strict policy. No sharing recipes with… playboys."

"Exactly!" You exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you noticed the mischievous light returning to his eyes. "She definitely put you in your place, didn't she?"

“Shut…up.”

“I like you too. Please don’t die on me. I don't want to hear Honda crying in my ears at your funeral.”

As you finally found the bullet, the harsh reality of the situation loomed over you, a grim reminder of the danger he was in. But for now, for just a few moments, it felt like old times. Just you and Jinman, bleeding wounds, guns on your feet and hips. You and him.

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

The short walk from the taxi to Jin-Man’s porch had been enough to thoroughly drench you, with your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Raindrops dripped from the brim of your hat, splashing onto the porch's wooden planks, causing the aged wood to glisten under the feeble light from an old lamp hanging precariously above the door.

A sudden gust of wind made you shiver, and you quickly pulled your coat tighter around yourself, silently cursing the weather. You couldn't help but take a moment to observe the changes Jin-Man had made to the entrance—the broken lilies and the shattered pot had been replaced by beautiful blue hyacinths. You admired them briefly before bending down to retrieve the spare keys hidden beneath the ugly cat statue.

"Hey, ugly one! Been taking care of them for me?"

As you straightened up, key in hand, the door suddenly swung open.

Jin-Man stood in the doorway, his eyes softening as they took in your soaked floral skirt, the one he had always nagged you about, and the top that clung damply to your torso. He looked spent, with dark circles under his eyes and the distinct smell of ink and gunpowder clinging to him. The stubble on his face stood out more prominently against his tired features.

"I didn't think you'd come home.” Unusually, he started to balance on one foot while his hair was too long in the back—he needed it cut badly. You know he looks in the mirror and sees a Kpop star but you look at him and see a vagrant out of a Woody Guthrie song—dust in the wind.

What Jeong didn't say was, "Why didn’t you come in earlier?" Or, "Why do you look so hurt?"

As Honda had pointed out on more than one occasion, Jin-Man had what was surely among the rarest of human talents: he was a business minder who did not mind too much if you didn't mind yours. As long as you weren't making explosives to throw at someone, that was, and in your case, explosives were always a possibility. 

You shrugged off his remark; the tension between you two is still palpable. "I'm not here for you, Jin-Man," you replied, your gaze hardening. "I'm here for Ji-An."

Stepping past him, you entered the house, your gaze scanning the familiar surroundings—a mix of vintage and modern decor. Everything was just as you remembered it; the mahogany coffee table with its assortment of vintage car magazines, the worn-out, leather Chesterfield couch that bore the imprints of countless lazy afternoons, and the rustic brick fireplace that still smelled faintly of burnt cedar—the same furniture, the same arrangement, the same scents.

As you moved further into the house, a familiar sound reached your ears: the quiet jingling of a collar. Turning around, you saw Gunpowder padding towards you, her amber eyes glowing.

"G-Pow," you called, crouching down to her level, your hand reaching out to her.

The moment stretched uneasily as she mulled over your extended hand and her new master, standing a distance away. “Betrayal alert: Hostile territory,” seemed to be the message running through her kitty brain.

Just when you were about to etch another loss, Gunpowder decided otherwise; tail held in festive high, she padded towards you, meowing a soft welcome.

A chuckle rippled through you as your fingers slid behind her ears, playing briefly, "Missed all this mess, didn't you darling?”

Gunpowder meowed in response, her tail flicking playfully.

“My good girl.” You kissed her fur before she ran away to the couch.

Standing back up, you turned to face Jin-Man, your gaze hard but determined. "Is Ji-An asleep?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you remembered well. "She's had a long day. But she'll be excited to see you in the morning."

"That's good," Bidding your drenched jacket and your hat goodbye onto the nearby coat rack, your eyes danced around the familiar kitchen layout till it landed on the kitchen counter, noticing the half-eaten sandwich and the glass of milk. "Eating habits are still the same, I see."

Jin-Man shrugged, his gaze avoiding yours. "Habit is a hard thing to break."

"You should try sometimes. It wouldn't kill you to have a proper meal."

His gaze finally met yours, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "I can take care of myself, Y/N."

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "I know you can, Jin-Man. But taking care of yourself doesn't mean you have to do everything alone."

He didn't reply, his gaze dropping to the floor. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head; his mind was probably grappling with the fact that you were back in the house after months of absence.

Deciding to break the silence, you moved towards the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents. "I'll make dinner. It's about time we had a decent meal. And while I do that, could you fetch me some dry clothes? I'd prefer the black shirt with the Nirvana logo if it's still around.”

He sighed, closing the fridge door abruptly. “Stop it,” he demanded, his voice carrying that note that you hated so much. The note of a boss talking with his partner. “Stop thinking about me and go take a shower. You’re freezing, and no shirt, Nirvana or not, is going to help with that.”

"Okay, okay, bossy much?" You rolled your eyes as you moved past him, heading towards the doorway. "By the way, I'm not freezing. I'm just a little wet."

With a sense of nostalgia, you began to tread softly down the hallway, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards echoing in your ears.

Gliding past Ji-An's room, you lightly pressed the door ajar. Bathed in the subdued glow of her nightlight was a picture-perfect scene—a tiny human swaddled in warmth, clutching onto her fluffy bunny with all the ferocity her little fists could offer. 

With feather-light steps, you ventured further in, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead as whispers of "Goodnight, Noona" danced around your heartstrings.

Clutching your top hem, your mind began to drift back to the past as you continued down the hallway. The memories of nights you spent in this house were like a movie playing in your mind: the arguments filled with passion, the shared meals around the worn-out dining table, and the shared silence that spoke more than words ever could.

After Honda’s death, you hadn't wanted the slice of cheesecake he would bring home from the restaurant for dessert, and you certainly hadn't wanted to go to any Hollywood movie... but you had wanted all those things with Jin-Man. Yes. Because over the last couple of months, and especially over the last months, you’ve come to depend on him in a funny way. Maybe it's corny— probably—but there's a feeling of safety when he puts his arms around you that wasn't there with any of her other guys; what you felt with and for most of them was either impatience or wariness. (Sometimes fleeting lust.) 

But there is kindness in Jeong (hidden between the rusty corners and dark basement of his heart, but, yes, there was), and from the first you felt interest coming from him— interest in you—that you could hardly believe, because he's so much smarter and so talented. And he speaks a language you grasped greedily from the beginning. Not the signing language, but one you know very well, just the same—it's as if you were speaking it in dreams.

But what good is talk and a special language if there's no one to talk to? Someone to cry to, even? That's what you needed tonight. You’d never told him about your crazy fucked-up family or your past before him—oh, pardon me, that's crazy smucked-up talk in Honda's speech—but you meant to tonight. Felt you had to or explode from pure misery. 

Walking into the bathroom, its altered landscape consumed your attention. Pristine countertop occupied by practical necessities: a single toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and straight razor aesthetically laying on top screamed 'functional' compared to it once being decorated chaotically with personal effects nestled among skincare bottles alongside makeup and a carelessly thrown hairbrush—an exquisite mosaic of a life once lived.

Stepping into the shower, the hot water cascaded down your body, washing away the grit and grime of the day. Still, no water could stop you from remembering the last time you were in this shower—the last time you were in this bathroom.

"Can I join you?" Jin-Man's voice had echoed off the bathroom tiles, the door creaking open slightly.

Looking back, you found him leaning against the door frame, sleep-ruffled hair visible over the frosted shower barrier—a low-hung towel only embellishing his irresistible nonchalance.

“If you promise not to fuck me against the tiles again, sure, why not?”

“Alright, alright,” he had chuckled, opening the shower door and stepping in. The water immediately started soaking his hair, the droplets trickling down his face and chest. “I promise, no fooling around.”

You had laughed then, tilting your head back to rinse the shampoo from your hair. “Good. Because I need to get ready, and I don’t have time for your… shenanigans.”

Jin-Man simply smiled at that, his hands reaching out to help rinse your hair. His fingers were gentle as they massaged your scalp, working through the tangles. “I’ll behave. Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes at his antics but not being able to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

"But I could have been. Imagine how good I would have looked in the uniform."

You laughed at that, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. "Yeah, right. You would have been the rebel scout. I can just see you now, trying to start a fire with a pocket knife and a piece of flint, and ‘accidentally’ burning down the entire camp because some weird boy thought it was funny to pull on my pigtails."

"Probably," he agreed. His hands moved to your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. "But I bet I would have been the best at telling ghost stories around the campfire."

"That's true. You do have a knack for dramatic storytelling. You could have scared all the other scouts half to death."

His hands stilled on your shoulders, and he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against your back. "I only scare people because I care," he murmured in your ear, his breath warming against your skin.

"Is that so?" You turned to face him, a soft smile on your lips, and you reached up to trace the line of his jaw. "Well, in that case, I guess I should be grateful."

"You should be. Now, let's get you rinsed off. We wouldn't want you to be late, now, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't.”

As you stepped out of the shower, you reached for the towel hanging on the rack.

Dressed in the Nirvana shirt and a pair of his boxers, you padded back into the kitchen, finding Jin-Man leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He looked up as you entered, his eyes automatically dropping to take in your attire. He said nothing, but you could see the flicker of something in his gaze—the ghost of a memory, perhaps.

His other friends saw his talent and were dazzled by it at first. You saw how he sometimes struggled to meet the eyes of strangers. You understood that, underneath all his smart (and sometimes brilliant) talk, in spite of his stern expressions, you could hurt him badly if you wanted to. He was, in your dad's words, cruising for a bruising. Had been his whole charmed smucking—no, check that—his whole charmed fucking life. Tonight, the charm could break. And who could break it? You could.

Any tension laying dormant was pushed aside as you reached into the refrigerator, selecting ingredients for tonight's culinary endeavor: crisp bok choy leaves, thick udon strands slightly sticky to touch, and leftover samgyeopsal marinated with sesame oil, which filled the air with a slightly charred meaty smell while cooking yesterday. The symphony of chopped vegetables thudding on a wooden cutting board, accompanied by a sizzling pan flanked by the soft purring of the refrigerator, announced another evening feast showtime.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore.

“Stop staring and say something, Jin-Man.”

He blinked, his gaze lifting from the coffee mug in his hands to meet yours. “You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief, turning back to the stove.

“I wasn’t going to say you look good.”

“No?”

"Nope," he said, maintaining eye contact while parking his well-loved first edition Penguin mug with a soft thud. "You've got this 'This is my kitchen' glow about you—no make-up, tousled midnight hair against your cheeks, and my shirt on your body... You look like you belong at home, in this kitchen, with me."

“Oh, shut up, Jinman. Are you sure that coffee isn't spiked? That cheap bag of Dong Suh you've been hoarding since you bought it from that old market in Gyeongju?"

He laughed then, a deep, rich sound that echoed warmly around the room, bouncing off the peeling sunflower-yellow wallpaper and the worn-out, wooden cabinets. "I promise, it's just regular coffee. But if you're not careful, I might start spouting poetry next.”

"I'd like to see you try," you challenged as you moved to add the noodles to the boiling pot.

At the same time, however, a soft melody began to fill the room. Turning, you saw Jinman’s back turned towards you. He was hunched over an old radio placed precariously on the window ledge over the sink—an old Philco with a cracked case. It had been his mother’s; he kept it out in the barn and listened to it while he was choring. It's the only thing of hers that he still has, and you keep it in the window because it's the only place where it will pick up local stations. It was secondhand even then, when Jin-Man gifted it to her after earning his first paycheck, but when it was unwrapped and she saw what it was, she grinned until it seemed her face would crack and how she thanked him! Over and over!

The tinny sound of the old device was playing a song that you recognized immediately—it was your mother's favorite song. A smile tugged at your lips as you watched him, his fingers delicately turning the knobs to get the best reception.

At the end, he cocked a thumb at the radio and said, stupidly proud of his useless knowledge, "That's Busker Busker. The original indie version."

"Jeong…I—”

You had no idea where to go from there, and it seemed there was no need. The man raised the forefinger of his left hand like a teacher who meant to make a particularly important point, and the smile actually resurfaced on his lips. Some sort of smile, anyway.

"Wait," he said.

"Wait?"

He looked pleased, as if you had grasped a difficult concept. "Wait."

And before you could say anything else, he simply walked off behind you, turning off the stove before his hands found your waist. His warm body pressed against your back, his head burying itself in the crook of your neck.

The aroma of your cooking, mixed with the familiar scent of Jin-Man and the sound of the old song playing on the radio, transported you back to simpler times. Times when life was not about surviving, not about fighting, but about living. About enjoying moments like these.

He began to sway, his movements leading you in a slow dance around the kitchen. His touch was gentle yet firm and you allowed him to lead, your body moving in rhythm with his as you danced barefoot on the cold ceramic tile floor.

Beyond the rustic kitchen windows, Mother Nature cooed her own ballad—soft chirps cushioned in cool country air under the moon's watchful eyes, dressing everything in stretched-out shadows—that played on repeat. Gunpowder was outside too busy bullying a moth under a moon-bathed silhouette, while Ji-An’s gentle snores added a comforting motif to your nighttime symphony.

It felt like you were in some sort of dream, the reality of your world forgotten for a moment. You were not a killer, not a fighter. You were just a woman, dancing in the kitchen with the man she secretly might like.

Turning you around, he looked down at you, his gaze soft and filled with emotions you could not decipher. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers idly playing with the hem of his worn-out puma shirt.

The world outside did not matter at this moment. The only thing that mattered was Jin-Man and the way he held you, the way he looked at you. You could see a mirror of your own emotions in his eyes—longing, fear, and a hint of sadness.

As the last note of the song played, you rose to your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was filled with promise, with hope—a kiss that said more than words ever could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the two of you stood in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of your cooking still lingering in the air.

"Welcome home, Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the radio.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged.

[mesetacadre]

How do you avoid becoming a doomer with politics? I want to be more politically active but the current political climate makes me feel depressed.

talked more about this here but essentially, nothing is static. Conditions change all the time, the quantity of organized people can fall and rise (with parallel but not necessarily 1:1 development of quality). What today seems like an impassable wall, tomorrow (not literally tomorrow) will more and more began to be seen as a necessary step for an improvement to happen. The fact that there exists a scientific method of analysis of history and capitalism also acts as an accelerant; how much time passed between the first bourgeois state and the first formulation of scientific communism, 50 years? That is unprecedented in the history of modes of production, and it only took another 50-60 years after that before the first relatively permanent instance of the next mode of production.

The way I see this, inaction and pessimism feed into each other, pessimism favors inaction, and inaction reinforces pessimism, by limiting your perception because it limits personal experience. And that cycle can only be broken by first stopping that inaction, since it is possible (not always) to force yourself to act against your general feelings. And then, only by working against that inaction and finding an organization/party or general line of action that works for you, can you begin to sustain an action-optimism cycle (of course, it isn't this simple and I would not call my outlook to be optimistic, but this is the best way I can think of explaining this). This cycle is, in my experience, very fragile, and somewhat often I continue to act through periods of relative pessimism by inertia and by the continuance of the responsibilities that bind me to my party most strongly. I can keep talking about the way society and the economy evolve, but at a personal and more inmediate scale, this is the only way to avoid "doomerism", at some point you're going to have to start acting if you want to avoid it, and rethoric can help, of course, but you'll only start to internalize it once you experience becoming an active part of these mechanisms. For me, it sometimes feels like a hobby, other times like a chore, and most times like the best thing I could ever do with my life. But it's crucial that you're not only driven by blind hope. The amount of effort and time you can contribute as an individual will vary wildly, depending on your own personal circumstances, and in my experience the most common type of organized person you'll encounter is the one that can only really dedicate a few days a week or a couple of hours every few days.

There is some nuance to "you have to end your inaction" too, of course. I'm not saying to join the very first group you encounter and dedicate every minute of free time to it, but you also can't be waiting for the perfect opportunity or org to come along. I contacted my ML party on a Tuesday during a winter academic break, while I was only just beginning to stabilize out of a suicidal episode but still depressed, and while considering myself mostly an ancom (I was very lost in that regard, my beliefs were not truly emergent from any proper anarchist core, but I digress). You don't need to have read x books or need to have encyclopedic knowledge of your local movement to begin to organize yourself, and you also don't need to believe 100% in the emancipation of workers. The best time to begin is the next time you have some free time to research and begin to contact some orgs/parties, that's as best as I think I can put it. I can't assure you that it'll be straightforward, but I can assure you that you can't get out of doomerism just by thinking about it.

If it's too daunting, think about those executive dysfunction "tricks". Joining A Party can sound very big an unapproachable, but you can break it down into looking, for example, for "Communist Party of [your country]". Look at their socials, see what they do and say, maybe you find an offshoot org that looks better, or run into a completely unrelated group. Then you contact them, ask when they're doing something in your area or if they can invite you to some kind of meeting, etc. Be willing to contact them if you find a couple of drawbacks too, sometimes rumors turn into the thing everybody says about x or y org, without really reflecting reality. Have criteria, of course, if some org is talking about immigrants like they're invaders, for example, it is probably not worth your time. Everything depends on what your local scene looks like. Getting experience at a mediocre org is still better than staying at home and looking on at the state of the world like it's hopeless. this isn't a very well-structured post, I've been writing this across a few days when I can, I hope it's helpful

[sadiecoocoo]

Hazel, Sweet and Dynamic Chp. 3 - Arcane Fanfiction

Summary - As Jayce spends more time trying to find a way home, Viktor grows bitter with neglect

Chp. Word Count - 2927

Total Word Count - 8,907

Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Chapter 1

Notes: I definitely tried a bit of a different writing style with this one, but I'm really proud of it! originally this chp was going to be longer, but I decided where i left it off would be a better cut-off point anyways, enjoy :)

Every few nights, Jayce cried, and Viktor held him silently. He didn’t mind.

He never shushed him, or told him things were okay, because they truly weren’t. It didn’t help to be given false platitudes just so he could feel better in the moment.

Jayce would refind his optimism anyway. He didn’t need Viktor to tell him to chin up. He just needed Viktor to be there.

He held him silently, rubbing his back and resting his chin in Jayce’s hair.

That was usually how they fell asleep. Jayce would be as pressed against him as much as he possibly could be, and Viktor would welcome it gladly.

Every morning that he woke up with Jayce in his arms, and Jayce holding him tightly in turn, was the start of a good morning. 

He was honestly starting to think that he’d be okay with this. If they didn’t find their way home, they’d at least have each other. Their only worries would be finding scraps and cooking bad food.

He knew Jayce would never give up, he left too much behind to be content with what they had now. Caitlyn, Vi, Mel, and his mother were out there somewhere, and he could never leave his mother alone.

Viktor didn’t have anyone left, only Jayce. He would be content with him, so he would follow him wherever he went.

He would work on trying to find a way back home, write equation after equation. He would go as far as the bridges and gather as many supplies as he could, watching as more and more husks seemed to follow his movements. He would make sure Jayce understood how to treat his injured leg, how to not make anything worse.

It was dark outside now, there weren’t anymore neon chemlights to brighten the night. If he looked out the boarded up window, he wouldn’t see a thing.

He supposed it made it easier to sleep. At least it should have. He could almost forget that there were the husks just outside. He could almost forget about the one that reached towards him when he walked past it.

He hadn’t told Jayce. He didn’t plan to. The man had enough worries already, and this should be something Viktor can handle himself.

It had only happened once, but the feeling of cold, lifeless fingers grabbing onto his arm haunted him. It had been forceful, and he had to pry himself away. They left indents in his strange purple skin that looked just a shade darker for a day or two.

He had abandoned the box of supplies he had found, leaving it to clatter against the ground. He only had half the mind to not barge into the house and worry Jayce.

Viktor ended up spending about an hour sitting out in the alley they had been in before, the two husks clutching onto each other his only company. He stared again at the burst of muted colors traveling up the walls like a disease. His panic had bled way to disdain after glaring at it long enough.

He knew Jayce suspected something was wrong by the time he got back. He had asked, but Viktor only shrugged him off with a half-baked excuse. He didn’t push anyway, just waited for Viktor to open up, even though he never did.

Now the two of them were curled up next to each other. Jayce’s light snores were the only sound aside from the occasional rustling of the covers.

No matter how hard he tried, Viktor couldn’t sleep. It was getting colder every day, and they were well into the winter months. It had even snowed a couple of times.

Their blanket wasn’t cutting it anymore for keeping them warm. Jayce managed fine, he had always run hot, but Viktor felt the cold chilling him down to the bone.

It was still foreign and overwhelming. The involuntary shivers racketing his body felt forceful. The way goosebumps rose along his strangely colored flesh felt wrong.

And Jayce treated it like it was normal. To him, it was. Viktor, despite how guilty it made him, resented him for it.

Beside him, Jayce burrowed himself into the covers more. He pressed his face against Viktor’s neck. The other man swallowed the lump forming his throat.

He would never get used to how easily Jayce showed his affections. It felt unfair, like he didn’t deserve it. Because despite all of Jayce’s insistences that he did, Viktor really didn’t deserve it.

Everything just seemed wrong now. He didn’t deserve any of the little peace they had found here. He didn’t deserve getting to enjoy his mostly fixed body, with his only aches being when he slept wrong. He didn't deserve Jayce.

Even so, being from the undercity, Viktor learned to take what he didn’t deserve. He hadn’t deserved to go to the academy, he hadn’t worked harder than any of the other kids that had dreamed of it.

So he would take. He would crave what little he had. He would do anything to keep it.

Viktor pressed himself closer to Jayce, resting his chin in the other man’s hair.

There was a husk standing right outside the alleyway. Viktor stared at its blank face. Its head was tilted ever so slightly to the side.

This one seemed different than all the others. It was a marionette, not a husk. It had a crown-like halo behind its head.

Viktor thought of the first person he had healed, the shimmer addict that held a knife to him and cried about how he was sorry to be trying to mug Viktor.

That man was standing before him now. Changed into something that would be unrecognizable to anyone else.

It hadn’t moved anymore than it already had, but it blocked the entrance to the alley way, trapping Viktor inside for reasons unknown.

He wasn’t sure if the marionettes were a threat or not. He had been able to control them, he might still be able to if he really tried.

He didn’t want to try. He would be happy to abandon that power and forget it ever existed.

The marionette tilted its head to the other side, almost like it was working out a crick in its neck. He heard the jangling of metal as it moved.

Viktor took a step back, closer to the entrance to their shelter.

It took a step forward.

He froze. It did too. It was mimicking him, trying to intimidate him. He took in a shaky breath.

His throat was dry with apprehension. It could get inside, they didn’t have a real door, just a curtain. It could get inside and attack them. It could get to Jayce.

It could ruin everything if Viktor didn’t find a way to stop it. He couldn’t let any of those things touch Jayce ever again. 

He took a step towards it, his fists clenched at his sides.

It took a step back. He willed it to.

When Viktor came back, it was empty handed.

Jayce had been working away at their theories again. He turned and the evident disappointment in his eyes hurt Viktor. He had been expecting new parts that they could use, and Viktor failed to deliver.

“Sorry,” He muttered, fighting to relax his clenched fists. He hadn’t relaxed since he had left.

“No, it’s alright,” Jayce assured, “I can’t expect a treasure hoard every day.” He smiled lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looked tired.

He heard walking outside. It was the sound of metal clanking against the ground in the rhythm of footsteps.

He stared at the boarded up window, not seeing a thing through the shadows of the night.

Then there was a small glimmer of light as it passed the window. It stayed there for too long to be coincidental.

“Leave us alone,” he whispered. Then the light moved, and the clanking footsteps got quieter and quieter.

It was there again. Viktor only stared at it for a second before moving to walk past it.

It turned its head to watch his movements as he passed. It moved no further into the alleyway.

 He would not let it.

He found nothing again. They had bled the sumps dry of useful supplies. He would have to start going further. Maybe he would have to go to Piltover soon.

The thought made him shudder. A sense of apprehension flowed through him. There was something telling him that he should not go there without Jayce, but at the same time he didn’t want Jayce there either.

He couldn’t risk putting him in danger. If he saw that the marionettes were moving, he could panic. He could get hurt. Viktor would not allow that to happen.

Said man was once again at the chalkboard, muttering to himself as he looked over the same notes he did every day. He was getting obsessive with it.

Viktor tried to tell himself that that was simply what they did. They worked and worked and worked until they collapsed or found a solution.

He thought Jayce couldn’t afford to collapse. Dark bruises became more prominent under his eyes every day, and he adjusted his weight off his bad leg more often than he used to.

“You should get a cane.” Viktor blurted, trying to use a tone that said it wasn’t a suggestion.

Jayce only glanced at him before shrugging. He crossed something off on the chalkboard with a loud scrape.

Viktor frowned. He walked up behind Jayce and peeked over his shoulder. The chalkboard seemed even more a mess than it did the day before.

“Let’s take a break, we need to eat.” Viktor said. He raised his hand to Jayce’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“No, I’m alright.” He answered, waving his hand dismissively. He tapped the walk against his chin, leaving a small white mark.

Viktor scrunched his nose in annoyance. If this was how Jayce felt all the times he couldn’t get Viktor away from the lab, he was starting to understand how frustrated he would get at times.

“Jayce,” Viktor said again, “go eat.” He ordered.

Jayce looked at him then, truly looked. It wasn’t dismissive, his mind wasn’t elsewhere. He finally looked.

And Viktor saw that he looked tired. Weary. His chest ached as Jayce looked at him. Those beautiful hazel eyes looked dull. It brought a scowl to his face. They weren’t supposed to be that way. They were supposed to be vibrant, to contrast all the muted colors that snaked around buildings and objects and corrupted everything else in this world.

“Alright,” Jayce said quietly. He glanced at the board again, his lips pursed as he didn’t want to leave it. It would be there an hour from now, Jayce was worried over nothing.

They ate silently. Viktor stole tentative glances at his partner, he watched the way he chewed slowly, like he was physically forcing himself to. He watched as Jayce stared into his stew sadly, like it had kicked a puppy in front of him.

It made Viktor angry. He didn’t know why. He felt like Jayce didn’t have the right to look so miserable. They had a good life now, no longer under the thumb of the council and no longer standing under the guillotine that was Viktor’s sickness.

Jayce didn’t have the right to be so upset anymore. It had been his choice to stay with Viktor in the first place, even though he had asked him to leave. It wasn’t fair that Jayce was leaving him now.

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, worse than the food that still tasted like sump water. He almost apologized to Jayce, even though he had no idea what Viktor had been thinking.

That night Viktor held onto Jayce just a little tighter, like if he didn’t, he wouldn’t wake up by his side.

The lightbulb died yesterday. Sputtering once with a final flicker of fight, then flushed them into darkness like an omen.

“Why do you care so much about going back?” Viktor hadn’t meant to say it. He hasn’t meant for it to sound so bitter, so cruel. At the same time, he was glad it was up in the air, instead of simmering in his mind.

“What?” Jayce asked, turning fully to look at him. It wasn’t a side eye, or a quick glance. He looked, finally looked.

And he looked hurt.

“Why do you care,” Viktor asked again, unable to stop now that he had started. Jayce had just given him an out, a way to avoid a grievous mistake, and he ignored it. “There’s nothing left for us there!” He gestured with his hands.

Jayce blinked.

“Are you joking?” He asked. It sounded so condescending that Viktor had to fight the urge to kick the cane from Jayce’s hands. The cane that he had only just gotten Jayce to finally use.

“Does it look like I am?” He asked rhetorically. He finally stood, putting the two at equal height. Jayce had to be slightly hunched to actually put his weight on the cane.

“Don’t do this,” Jayce warned. And oh, if only Viktor heeded his warning. If only Viktor had learned to listen to Jayce when he was giving a warning. He thought he should have learned after he almost destroyed the world. He thought.

“If we go back, there’ll be nothing for us but glares. We’ll get no rewards, hell we might be sent to Stillwater!” He continued. He knew that wasn’t true. Jayce would get awards. Jayce could get a holiday after him if he really wanted it. It was difficult to talk about them without using “we,” though.

“You don’t know that!” Jayce insisted. He slammed the chalk onto the rim of the board, louder than he meant to. Or maybe he did mean to, and it just didn’t work at intimidating Viktor. “Mel would-“

That was what did it. That was what cut the line and made him snap.

“Of course, you’re doing this to see Mel!” He spat her name like a curse, tired of the woman that he felt took everything from him, “you just want to go back to her and leave your genocidal partner to rot!?” He screamed.

“No!” Jayce spluttered, he waved his hands wildly as he spoke, “no- I could care less-“

“I know what you did with her!” He interrupted, “I know that when I collapsed in the lab and was on my deathbed you had been sleeping with her! I know that when I was being transformed into the monster that I am now you went to her! I know-“

“I just want to see my mom!” Jayce screamed. Viktor stared, breathing hard. Jayce was crying. “I want to get away from this dead place that only serves to remind me of the months I spent rotting at the bottom of a fissure!”

He was crying, and he didn’t go to Viktor for comfort, not like last time, not like the countless other nights that he had. He shied away when Viktor reached a hand towards him. He scowled and looked to the ground, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m not gonna let anyone do anything to you if we find a way home.” Jayce continued, much quieter than before, but much more determined to make Viktor listen. He almost preferred the yelling. The yelling didn’t make him feel like a bad person. The yelled made him feel like they were both bad.

“I don’t care what you think I’m not gonna let you go to Stillwater, or get exiled, or- I don’t know!” He threw his hands up in the air.

“I know I messed up before, and I know I’m not being the best right now,” his voice was shaking, “but you don’t have anyone you left behind, and I miss my family.” He finished with a broken sob.

“You never should have stayed.” Viktor muttered. He was eternally grateful to Jayce for staying, but now it was causing them more pain than if he had let Viktor die alone. It was causing Jayce pain.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Jayce didn’t say it. He didn’t go that far. Viktor could see it on the tip of his tongue, see it in the way he looked to the ground and started scratching at his wrist.

Viktor was out the door hardly a second later. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t watch Jayce break down because of him. He couldn’t be the one to keep hurting him. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't.

 Viktor didn’t turn back when Jayce called after him, because he didn’t sound mad anymore. He sounded broken. He sounded as broken as Viktor had felt all those years he worked beside someone who seemed implausibly perfect, and Viktor could never handle himself at his worst like Jayce had.

So Viktor walked away. He walked away like he always found some way to do. He walked away like he had when he found out what the Doctor did to Rio. He walked away like he did from the undercity. He walked away like he did with Heimerdinger. He walked away like the day he muttered something useless about affection as an excuse.

He walked. He didn’t hear the tell tale signs of footsteps behind him. He didn’t know if that made him hurt more or not.

End Notes: yippee cliff hanger also I have decided that this fic will have whump, but it's going to be minor

I also would like to say that the mention of Mel was not at all me being personally mad at her about that, I honestly love Meljay and Meljayvik, I just thought that since Viktor and Jayce are both tense and worried about a lot of things it’d be an easy way to set Viktor off (because bffr who wouldn’t be jealous of Mel) anyway, I always appreciate comments <3 (please someone talk to me about the symbolism and foreshadowing I added please I'm begging you)

if anyone would like to be tagged for updates please lmk, I'd be happy to do it!

Next Chapter

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Researchers discover new mechanism to cool buildings while saving energy

With temperatures rising globally, the need for more sustainable cooling options is also growing. Researchers at UCLA and their colleagues have now found an affordable and scalable process to cool buildings in the summer and heat them in the winter. Led by Aaswath Raman, an associate professor of materials science and engineering at the UCLA Samueli School of Engineering, the research team recently published a study in Cell Reports Physical Science detailing a new method to manipulate the movement of radiant heat through common building materials to optimize thermal management. Radiant heat, which is felt whenever a hot surface warms our bodies and homes and is carried by electromagnetic waves, travels across the entire broadband spectrum at ground level between buildings and their environments, such as streets and neighboring structures. On the other hand, heat moves between buildings and the sky in a much narrower portion of the infrared spectrum known as the atmospheric transmission window. The difference in how radiant heat travels between buildings and the sky versus the ground has long presented a challenge to cooling buildings with less skyward-facing surfaces. These buildings have been hard to cool in the summer as they retain heat from the ground and neighboring walls when the outside temperature is high. They are equally difficult to warm in wintertime as the outdoor temperature drops and the buildings lose heat.

Read more.

[aroquips]

Yo! Today marks the first day of spring! To celebrate, I came up with five different spring themed writing prompts. I hope you all enjoy them and that they bring you some inspiration this season.

Rabbits are a popular motif in various forms of fiction, think of Alice in Wonderland. They are also an animal constantly associated with spring. Whether that be the Easter bunny, newborn bunny rabbits, or pagan folklore. So...

1: Write a story where the chain of events is kicked off by the actions/presence of a rabbit.

Spring is when nature gets its reset. Winter dies and the sun returns, marking the start of a new season. Bringing new life to the Earth and new opportunities.

2: Write from the perspective of a character that is starting a brand new life or seemingly starting their whole life over.

New chapters are one of the hallmarks of spring. Coldness fades away to warmth, encouraging movement and change. Spring is often the time for new starts—everything comes back to life when spring hits after all.

3: Write about a character starting a new chapter in their life. College, a new job, a new relationship, etc. 

Nature is a huge part of spring. It’s beautiful, powerful, and completely unbiased. It can't be contained or controlled. Instead it has the power to completely overtake us.

4: Write about nature somehow overtaking the world and how the characters are forced to adapt.

Flowers are often associated with spring, but especially flowers like daffodils, tulips, and lilies. They break through the damp, cold Earth and reach up towards the sun. Letting the world know that spring is finally here.

5: Write a story where flowers/flower language plays a key role.

Daffodils represent new beginnings, hope, and optimism

Tulips represent love/romance and beauty

Lilies represent purity/innocence

If any of these strike inspiration with you, I'd love to see what you all end up creating! Feel free to share, give suggestions, or add your own prompts!

[astrology-with-charu]

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗦𝗼𝗹𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲 & 𝗨𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀

First ray of sun of summer in Northern Hemisphere or the first chill of winter in southern hemisphere comes with the longest day or longest night to mark that change is afoot. Change thats not external but driven by us and supported by the wind and nature cause as they say one thing is constant and thats change. Cardinal seasons come with the impulse to move, do things, change things and initiate. Those changes evolve, shift shape and become something completely different by the next season.

In today’s volatile moment as both Saturn and Neptune challenge the cardinal initiation of this season, Sun waits to embrace Jupiter’s optimism midweek to tell them despite the uncertainty, one can grow and come out expansive out of all of it. No change comes out of comfort.

𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸𝗹𝘆 𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘀

𝟚𝟚/𝟚𝟛 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕊𝕦𝕟 𝕊𝕢𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕊𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 ℕ𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖

𝟚𝟛 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕤 ℚ𝕦𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕦𝕟𝕩 ℙ𝕝𝕦𝕥𝕠

𝟚𝟜 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕊𝕦𝕟 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕛𝕦𝕟𝕔𝕥 𝕁𝕦𝕡𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕦𝕟𝕩 ℙ𝕝𝕦𝕥𝕠

𝟚𝟝 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : ℕ𝕖𝕨 𝕄𝕠𝕠𝕟 𝕒𝕥 𝟜º ℂ𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕣

𝟚𝟞 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕤𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕌𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕦𝕤; 𝕊𝕦𝕟 𝕤𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕤;

𝕍𝕖𝕟𝕦𝕤 𝕤𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕖 ℕ𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙 ℕ𝕠𝕕𝕖

𝟚𝟞 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕚𝕟 𝕃𝕖𝕠 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝟚 𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥

𝟚𝟟 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟

𝟚𝟠 𝕁𝕦𝕟 : 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕖 ℕ𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 ℙ𝕝𝕦𝕥𝕠

Cancer season would like us to go to our comfort zone, be in the shell of our “home”, enjoy the sun or hot coco depending on where you are and whatever we define home & comfort as. But Aries challenges that - you do not even know who you are and what you are becoming - how can you be at “home”. Neptune in Aries makes us see ourselves bigger than who we are right now - activating a dream yet it makes our identity flaccid, confusing and not so well defined. Saturn in Aries tries to thrash the living dream out of that expansive vision through some real life slaps and reality checks. We ofcourse need both so we got both. So you start to do what you think is best for your family, home and your long term protection / comfort yet seems you are cowering a reality into existence versus an expansive dream. Like defending yourself from imaginary demons versus aspiring to create a future worth actually living. They are both ways to get somewhere but one has a horrible journey. One of them is decidedly horrible way to live.

Cardinal Saturn is not fun if I say that myself as a cardinal dominant but oh the element of longevity it creates. Children of 1996-1998 or people who lived that time and remember probably know this well. Cardinals are known to start but may not finish but cardinal Saturn makes sure you do finish what you started cause you wouldn’t have an identity to live with if you do not. Threat feels really existential. Yet Neptune would like us to find the dream in the reality & toughness of the moment, in the work, in the toil. Yes they say you could make something real out of the imaginary, the dream when both Saturn and Neptune are in the same sign and when they make harsh aspects to personal planets like in coming days with the new moon this week, yes you have the opportunity to seed first concrete step of a seemingly impossible reality. It will feel like walking in muck or drying concrete but it would be forward movement. Optimism will get challenged with the collective anxiety or even darkness as Pluto makes Quincunx with Jupiter. It’s usually our sign to find a scenic route that makes the resistance internal or external go away. Use this week to ease into an uncomfortable start.

Mars Pluto quincunx of 23rd could mean something worst for sure. But existing in worst case scenarios is like I said not really a fun way to live. It’s an aggressive transit and we stay off the aggression’s path is what we can do and take the scenic probably longer route but it would show us what we need to probably see which changes the destination ahead of that new moon midweek active for next two weeks. Pluto quincunx is embedded in this new moon ahead of us, so we would need to find a channel for our inner need to control the outcome or even inner aggression in ways that it doesn’t damage our safety & home or people we call our own home. This does form a Yod with Jupiter quincunx with Pluto. Pluto is at 3º Aquarius conjunct fixed star Altair - the flying eagle - representing US & its army which is the focus of this Yod. There isn’t much for me to say here as now it’s news. Pluto spends entire year conjunct this fixed star & when such configurations are made we see physical events. Personally it gives us courage to bring together parts of ourselves which would normally not work - ideological transformations happen through some uncomfortable paths. Courage to be “weird”, not part of the flock is imparted here & you would be surprised how much you had all the tools within you all along to bring your disparate parts together to make a workable whole. Yod activations are not comfortable, it would not feel comfortable yet action might help you see the next step versus overthinking outcomes.

Meanwhile Saturn/Neptune at ~ 2º of Aries comes with a contrast - in form of our reflection in another person or place - it shows the cost of not acting on what feels like our calling in a practical way. The cost of inaction. We could use the Mars Pluto intensity to channel into productive pursuits whereby instead of trying to get everything right or worst criticise ourselves on what we haven’t achieved so far, we narrow down the focus to that one practical step that can mark the emergence of form. First degree of Aries is impulse to be and second is consciousness of this impulse and what goes into becoming that. Fire season (Leo) will help with this effort & we start seeing that with Mercury entering Leo this Friday - where it would stay till 2 Sept as we would refine our mind & message. While fire helps, brighter you shine stronger the opposition so Pluto aggression of opposing forces, outside fear / jealousy & physical expression of our inner demons will meet us head on too in coming weeks / weekend as we get bolder in talking of what we want to do or who we want to become in this year long cycle ahead. Every opposition helps us go deeper, get more sure and resolute in the pursuit. Ex 28th Jun we have some supportive aspects on 26/27 Jun this week. Mercury opposition to Pluto over 28th can bring some arguments or intense conversations.

Have a great season ahead ♥️

Luv, Charu

[katatonicimpression]

For the prompts game, Sambucky and Sleep deprivation ❤️

Send me Prompts!

Thank you so much for the ask!

The Winter Soldier was allegedly able to go five days without sleep while maintaining optimum performance. This was, as far as Bucky could tell, a complete and utter lie. No human being, no matter what serums you gave him or what circuitry you put into his spinal cord, did well after missing one night’s sleep. Bucky’s personal record was three, on a mission for Hydra in the 70s, and he remembered how he felt that final day and it was not “operating at optimal parameters.”

He suspected that whoever quoted the “five days” stat was overselling to impress some higher up.

That being said, he did better on no sleep than most people did. 

He threw a glance at Sam, standing beside him and staring straight ahead but looking at nothing. He was swaying a little, just a little. 

“Hey,” Bucky said softly. “C’mon.”

He reached up and gripped Sam’s upper arm, steering him along the sidewalk. The agonising few feet between the sign for the bus stop, and where the bus had actually pulled up.

He was surprised that Sam let him, but then again he had been awake for two days straight.

They clambered onboard. Sam fumbled with their remaining Euros while Bucky negotiated with the luggage rack. These things weren’t built for supersuits, vibranium wings or shields. 

They sat down right at the back. The bus was, blissfully, empty. Not surprising given that it was three AM in the middle of nowhere. Even better, this rattling old thing went all the way into the city, and terminated at the train station. It would take about two hours, Bucky reckoned. Two hours of rest before they needed to think about how the hell they were gonna get back to the States. Two hours before they needed to make a single decision at all. Two hours before they even needed to move.

Sam seemed to have realised this too, and was settling into the very corner of the seat for a nap. His face rested against the window, which didn’t look comfortable but he was clearly too tired to care.

He looked adorable, really. Sam was at his best when he was all smiles and sunshine, or when he was flipping and flying - kicking ass and taking names. But he had his charms like this too. His soft features relaxed, his body pliant and his touch soft. Not that Bucky would normally think about these things too much, or stare as much as he was right now. Clearly, Bucky was also too tired to care.

Two straight days of fighting, of running and hiding and then fighting some more. They’d won, in the end. For once. Maybe it would feel more like a victory when they were finally home. They’d stay at Bucky’s when they got there, he thought. It would make sense to. Sam in his bed was a very appealing prospect. He liked it when he stayed over. He liked it when his sheets smelled like Sam.

Jesus. Bucky was in way over his head here.

The bus jolted, hitting a pothole, and Sam jerked away from the window. His body leaned against Bucky’s as a natural result of the movement and then there was a moment. A second where Sam could have leaned back the other way - and even though his eyes were still shut Bucky could tell he was conscious and thinking about it - but instead he shifted his hips a little in the seat, and settled against Bucky’s side.

And then it was Bucky’s moment, Bucky’s decision which he took without thinking. He gently lifted his arm and placed it around Sam, pulling him in to rest his head on his shoulder.

He shut his own eyes then, and the moment he did he knew they would refuse to open until he’d finally slept.

[thesuccesstrategy1]

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Would you feel confident trading with a broker that ticks all these boxes?

[starker-raving-mads]

For you: Part IV

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX

›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹

"It's easier if we come up to see you," Bucky had said, Steve murmuring his agreement in the background of the phone call. "We're gonna be in the city anyway and besides, ain't it better to do it where you can do all the scans and stuff?"

The plan was sound, and made sense to Peter at the time. But here and now, with Captain America and the Winter Soldier making their way up to the penthouse labs in Stark Tower, the vigilante was questioning his judgement.

"Fri do we - "

"Yes, Mother, we have the schematics loaded and ready for display in both holographic and flat form."

"Okay, okay but do you think - "

"You've practiced attaching and detaching the device enough times that your fluidity of movement has increased by 313%."

"Sure but - "

"Peter," the AI cut off the teen's frantic questions. He fell silent, chagrined; she rarely called him Peter anymore and when she did, he knew it was because he was being too much.

He let out a deep sigh.

"Okay, I get it," he gave up. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be I guess."

"You are," the super intelligence agreed. "I'm glad you've come to see reason. Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers will arrive on the elevator in ETA 10 seconds."

They were coming by so that Peter, 18-year-old, clumsy Peter, could attach Bucky's new prosthetic based on Mr. Stark's assemblage instructions. He was, for lack of any better words, fucking terrified.

It wasn't so much that Bucky and Cap scared him, at least not any more. He had a healthy respect for the pair after everything they'd gone through, but the few meet ups he'd had with the group as a whole had made him appreciate the less-obvious qualities that each hero had in turn. Sure, Bucky was scary as heck in a fight, but outside of that he was quiet and kind of contemplative. Steve was the driving force for optimism and doing the right thing - and also an absolute mother hen.

Instead it was the fact that he was basically going to be attaching this thing, that he did not create, that cost Mr. Stark probably at least a million dollars? Onto the body of a super soldier while his - best friend or boyfriend or whatever they were, Peter really never got clarification - watched over his shoulder. He was having performance anxiety, big time.

He concentrated on those better qualities of theirs as the elevator door opened.

An hour later, he wasn't sure why he'd be so scared in the first place.

"You're really a natural at all this, huh?" Steve asked, peering over all the holodisplays Friday had helpfully pulled up for Peter as he went along attaching circuitry, wires, and faceplates. The blonde's eyes were wide trying to take everything in while Peter, finally confident in the face of the older man's perplexity, worked slowly but surely on finishing the attachment of Bucky's new arm.

"Sort of," the teen chuckled. "Mostly it's just that I spent so long growing up without any of the bells and whistles - oops, sorry," he grimaced after a slight spark made Bucky flinch. They were bound to happen, given that the battery that was Bucky's natural electrical system couldn't be turned off like one could a computer they were changing the parts in. " - that now that I've got all this stuff to make it so much easier, it's more understandable than it probably would've been otherwise, if that makes sense."

Bucky hummed in agreement. "Kinda like training with weights then goin' into the fight without 'em on." His Brooklyn accent was stronger than it had been before. Maybe it meant more of his old self was returning. The thought made Peter happy for the other man.

"Yeah, yeah exactly!"

"You know, I always thought Tony was one of a kind with how smart he was," Steve admitted after a few more moments of silence scattered with the light clinks of metals and wires being maneuvered in Peter's sure hands. "And he is, I'm not saying he wasn't, but you really do him justice here, Pete."

Peter ducked his head, flush blossoming in a great pink wave across his cheeks and the back of his neck.

"Nah," he disagreed quietly. "I'm nothing special. I bet there's thousands more people who would be able to put all this to better use." He sighed.

"No they wouldn't," Bucky said in a sure, firm tone. Peter looked up at him, his curls - getting too long, needing a cut - falling slightly across his eyes. "I've seen a lot of people, kid, and trust me, you are one in a billion."

Peter's breath caught and he stared at the assassin in shocked silence. He was brought out of it when Steve laid one of his large hands over Peter's slight shoulder, engulfing him in warmth.

"Buck's right, son," Steve agreed. A warmth Peter hadn't known since before Uncle Ben passed away washed over him. Something that felt like acceptance and family all rolled into one.

"Thanks," he replied quietly to the both of them. Steve kept his hand there for just long enough that Peter could pull on that warm memory with ease later.

›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹

"Shoulda seen him, Pete," Bucky said, tossing a foam football to Steve, who tossed it to the teen, who tossed it back to Bucky in a smooth triangle stretching across the lab. "Stevie used to be a beanpole - short and tiny and yet had the bite of a gator wrapped up in all that acne and asthma," he chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah, live it up, wise guy," Steve replied, smile taking any bite that might've been there right back out of it.

They were, ostensibly, calibrating Bucky's arm. Peter had finished with the installation a while ago and had gone back a few times to make some minor adjustments. They'd been tossing the toy ball that was he and Mr. Stark's 'thinking ball' between themselves to test the arm's dexterity, reliability, and maneuverability, but the spider was pretty sure it was as good as it could be at this point without a real endurance test. Still though. He was having fun, relaxing with his new friends. He could unwind with them in a way that Ned and MJ just couldn't do for him. He tried not to feel bad for spending so much time away from his friends but his life was just so - different, now. He'd make it up to them.

"I used to have asthma too," the teen admitted, tossing the ball to Bucky again. "And glasses, and all sorts of problems." He shrugged, catching the ball from Steve. "The bite kind of cleared all of that up, though I still have problems with the cold."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky asked, thoughtful.

"Never really knew why, just seemed to stick around, honestly feels a little worse but I don't know if it's just like that in comparison to like having none of the other stuff to distract my senses from it."

"You know," Bucky drawled, pausing as he caught the ball, holding it cocked against his hip. "Spiders can't thermoregulate. It's why you never see 'em in winter." Peter and Steve both blinked at him. In an act of absolute insanity, the winter soldier blushed. "What?" he asked, defensive, throwing the ball more firmly than necessary at Steve. "I read!"

"I never really thought of that," the younger man admitted. "That might actually bear looking into. Hey, Fri?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Can you make a note to research that?"

"Of course, Mother. Also, this is your reminder that it is 2pm and you have not yet eaten."

"Thanks, Friday," he grinned. He caught the older men looking at him. "What?"

"Mother?" Steve and Bucky asked in unison, smirks firmly in place. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Peter had lunch delivered from his and May's favorite Thai place, leaving a hefty tip. It was still weird to him to just…having access to money now. He hadn't really used it except to pay for things like food and help May with bills and pay for his enrollment to Columbia. He was relieved, honestly, that the sudden influx of cash and power hadn't gone to his head. He liked to think it wouldn't but he was as human as everyone else and he'd seen good people do terrible things for cash.

Lunch with Steve and Bucky was good. It felt just like a continuation of the last few hours they'd spent together, like hanging out and just being friends. Refreshing, after everything. He'd answered embarrassing questions - like why Friday called him Mother (and then teased Steve for not getting the reference, even though Bucky somehow did), establishing a promise to have some kind of movie night so that he and Bucky could show Steve the legendary Alien films, and of course answering even more awkward questions.

"So no girlfriend?"

"Uh, nope, no not right now."

"Boyfriend?"

"Uh - "

"It's okay if you have a boyfriend, you know - "

"Or even a nonbinary partner! I hear that's a thing now, too, though I guess it always was and we just never really talked about it - "

"What Steve means, Pete, is no judgement from us. What's judgin' ever got anybody anyway?"

"Thanks guys, but no, no partners of any kind right now."

"Hmmm."

"What's that look for?"

"Still hung up on Tony, huh?"

"W-what??"

"It's okay, I get it, Stark was a handsome man. Don't look at me like that, Stevie, I know you ain't blind."

So yeah, awkward. Though, kind of sweet too? It was really kind of Bucky and Steve to just get it when it came to him and his feelings for Mr. Stark, as unrequited as they would always be. Felt a little easier to breath after that conversation, honestly. Ned and MJ had teased him constantly about his crush on Mr. Stark. May had too, for a while, though she'd stopped after - well after everything.

Apparently the billionaire and his aunt had done a lot to support each other while he was Blipped. Aunt May talked about Tony a lot differently, more supportive and less teasingly, than she ever had before.

He sighed, exhausted, spinning on his stool in the lab. Steve and Bucky had left a little while ago and he was still lost in his thoughts. He needed to stop thinking about this. About Tony Stark. He looked around.

"Guess it's kind of hard to not think about him when literally everything looks like he's about to walk right back in," he said to himself. He didn't want to get rid of any of it, but - "Fri, baby?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Put on the Stark-Parker Playlist #3. I've got some cleaning to do."

He spent the next two hours decluttering everything he could. Pens and pencils back where they belonged, rinsing out the coffee machine, papers getting filed away, tools and loose screws and wires being organized. In the end, the lab looked cleaner than he could ever remember it being. And it still felt like Tony, for sure, but it also felt like a breath of fresh air.

He slid his stool across the room to the last filing cabinet. He knew this was where all the experimental files got stored, just random notes on thought experiments and the like. All the real experiments - the weapons and suit projects - were all stored in Friday's cloud, but bits and pieces of physical hardware were inevitably tossed here.

As he pulled things out and arranged them on the floor to get some sense of what exactly was in the cabinet, he slowly realized that the things he was pulling out weren't exactly random. His piles were forming a pattern on the floor, piles of notes about holographic improvements next to auditory transcription, and weirdly a pile about how birds can mimic sound with their vocal patterns.

He stepped back from the landscape he created, scratching his head.

"Friday?" he called, tilting his head back and forth as though he were looking at a picture that was just slightly out of order.

"Yes, Mother?"

"What the hell am I looking at?" he asked. He was slightly frustrated. He could tell all this went together but - but not how. Like a puzzle missing one too many pieces.

"On the floor in front of you are assorted piles of - "

"No, no," he shook his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Sorry, I should've been more clear."

"It is okay, Mother. I am still learning. What is it you would like to know?"

"It looks like all of this - stuff - the notes and the research and things - like they all go together. Was Mr. Stark working on something?"

Friday was quiet for a moment before saying, "Yes, though I am not sure he ever meant for the research to be conclusive or be shared." Her voice was hesitant.

"So, he stopped researching?" Peter asked, mind turning over what the man could've possibly been working on.

"Yes."

"Was it because he hit a dead end?" The thought of being able to finish something that Mr. Stark couldn't was invigorating.

"Yes and no." Peter narrowed his eyes, looking up - even though, technically, Friday was everywhere in this lab.

"Fri, what are you holding back from me? It's not - " he paused, " - it's not dangerous is it?"

"Not in the manner a weapon might be." He groaned.

"Friday," he said in the same tone Aunt May used on him when he was edging around a subject.

He figured he might've gotten it down right when she answered, "Boss had been investigating the best and most accurate methods of recreating natural intelligence."

"So, a new form of AI," Peter clarified.

"No," she replied, more softly. "I believe, based on the results of some of his testing, that he was attempting to recreate a previously known organic intelligence." A pause, and Peter's spidey-sense tingled, ever so slightly. "He was attempting to recreate your intelligence, Mother."

It felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him, his stomach doing a wicked somersault. He had the vaguest sense of vertigo, like he'd missed grabbing a web when slinging high between two buildings in downtown.

"Why - " his voice clicked, throat dry from shock. "Why would he - ?"

"If I were to posit," Friday said in that same slightly gentle tone. "I have watched you and Boss both, together and on an individual basis. From some of the similar actions you both have taken, I can extrapolate that, in the best way I am currently able to describe," she paused, like she did not like the uncertain nature of the information she was about to unveil, "he was attempting to create such an intelligence because he missed you, Mother."

[solarystone]

Solarystone.com review Register

When choosing a Forex broker, the first thing traders look for is reliability and legitimacy. Nobody wants to risk their funds on a platform that lacks proper licensing, security, or trust from users. Today, we’re taking a deep dive into Solarystone.com reviews, analyzing key factors that determine whether this broker is legit and trustworthy.

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Winter Session

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