#that I wanted the different pieces to be different people so I could make the need to think about my issues go away

[sprenthecreator]

D.A | C.R.E.A.M

Male reader x Danielle Marsh

16.3k words

tags: if you hate italy don’t read it (probably a galli mf), bathtub/shower sex, kinda public sex, some feet stuff, some massage oil stuff

🔙 Previous update | 📄 C.R.E.A.M

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Florence was beautiful at night, yes—like all of Italy, basically. But after a 15-hour flight, you didn't have the energy to go out for a drink alone that night when you arrived.

You were so tired that you didn't even go to the hotel you were going to stay at for the rest of those days. Instead, you ended up in a modest hotel run by a kind and hospitable older woman, who even helped you carry your luggage even though you'd insisted she didn't need to. As a thank you, the next morning upon departure, you not only paid for the room, but also left her a sizable tip to look after your luggage while you did all your chores.

So, feeling full and prepared, you hit the streets of Florence to make all the preparations for Dani's arrival the next day. The first thing, of course, was breakfast, and your choice was the Pasticceria Nencioni, a small dessert shop in the Sant'Ambrogio neighborhood, near the city center. The normal thing would have been to walk, since that's what you always did, but you were so far away that you ended up calling a taxi.

You were hoping for a peaceful day, but as you got out of the taxi and walked into the pedestrian street, a couple of guys stopped you to ask for photos. It didn't bother you; you were always very friendly and receptive to people who knew you and loved your job. But you didn't expect someone to recognize you on that remote street. It was to be expected in places like Rome or Milan, full of tourists and people of all cultures, but Florence was slightly more niche. A mere coincidence? Maybe.

What was certain was that you had to start getting used to the fact that your popularity wasn't the same as it had been two years ago, when you were barely known by chronically online folks. Now things were quite different. And you didn’t know how to feel about it.

After the minor setback, you walked down the street until you reached the small pastry shop, whose facade consisted solely of its awning with the name on it and the glass doors wide open, giving it a modest and welcoming appearance. The place was already bustling with activity at that hour, so you waited patiently in line to order, your mouth already watering with the smell of baked sugar, hot butter and hazelnut. 

Your breakfast ended up being a couple of pieces of torta al semolino—a traditional pastry filled with semolina cream and covered in chocolate—a cream-filled croissant, a cappuccino, and a small glass of water that Italians always served with their coffee.

Many customers just placed their orders and left after paying, so inside the pastry shop there were a couple of free tables next to the tall wooden display case to the left of the main counter, filled with antique bottles, books, small statues, and collectibles. Although you usually sat near the front, this time you went to a table at the back so you could do what you wanted to do in peace.

It must have been around midnight in L.A, which meant Wony was already at her hotel. Your girlfriend answered the video call as quickly as ever.

"Hi honey!" Wony greeted, walking across her room to lie down on her bed. She was wearing the same pink sweater she'd been wearing in the photos she sent you while you were asleep.

"Hey, darling," you smiled at your phone screen, adding sugar to your cappuccino. "Caught you busy?"

"Oh nah, I just got back to the hotel," Wony replied, and looked away for a moment to grab something before looking at you again. Judging by the shape of what she put in her mouth, you guessed it was her multivitamins. "How was your flight?"

"Terrible," you sighed, and took a sip of the cappuccino, careful not to burn your tongue. "I didn't get to sleep, for some reason. I just read and watched movies the whole trip."

"Oh my," Wony pouted and raised her eyebrows in concern as you scooped up a piece of cake with your spoon and brought it to your mouth. "My poor boy... At least you slept when you landed?"

"Not where I had planned, but yeah," you replied, your gaze momentarily on your breakfast. The cream-filled croissant was your next victim.

"Not where you had planned?"

"Seeing as I couldn't handle myself, I told the taxi driver to take me to the first decent hotel he found," you spoke with your mouth full, so you covered it with the back of your hand to avoid being unpleasant. You quickly swallowed. "And so I ended up in a quaint little place run by a kind old granny named Giuseppina."

Wony laughed, making you smile.

"Giuseppina?" she repeated. Her Italian pronunciation was improving every day.

"Oh yeah," you nodded. "A real sweetheart. And how are you? How's Tommy Jeans treating you?"

"Wonderful!" Wony responded, her face lighting up. "They were so nice to me. And they gave me a ton of snacks and clothes."

"Clothes you'd model for me, right?"

"I always model my new clothes for you, babe. By the way, where are you?"

"Oh right," you picked up your phone, which was leaning against the vase in the middle of the table, and put the back camera on to show her the bakery, just for a few seconds so as not to upset anyone. "A bakery near the center. It's amazing. I have to take you here sometime."

"Oh gosh, it's so pretty!" Wony said as you put the front camera back on. "You're having breakfast, aren't you? Let me see."

As if you were at a mukbang, you picked up both plates with the cakes and the croissant and showed them to the camera.

"Damn, that's yummy," Wony sighed. "Now I'm hungry."

"You have snacks to spare, right?"

"Yeah, but none of them are that cake."

"Well, I know the recipe. I can make it for you when we're home."

Wony remained silent, just looking at you with her head tilted. They were eyes full of love. Whenever she looked at you like that, you kissed her out of pure instinct. You wished you could have done it at that moment.

"My sweet boy, have I ever told you how much I love you?" Wony said, making you blush like an idiot in the middle of the pastry shop.

"All the time," you smiled.

"Great, because I don't want you to ever forget it."

"I'll never forget it because you love me as much as I love you, darling."

Wony brought her camera to her lips and covered it with kisses before returning to the usual shot.

"You're not prepared for how clingy I'll be in Paris," she said. "Poor you."

"Oh come on, you say that like I don't love it."

"I'm just warning you, sweetie."

The next few minutes were spent talking about your respective flights and things that happened along the way. You'd already finished your cake and croissant, and there was only a little cappuccino left when you saw the time.

"Honey, I should go," you said, stacking the empty plates. "I still have a lot of things to do."

"Okay, baby," Wony replied. "I'll take a bath and go to sleep. Will you be awake when I wake up?"

"Most likely. Will you wake up early?"

"8 in the morning, I think," Wony nodded.

"About 5 in the afternoon here, great."

"I'll text you when I get up then," Wony waved goodbye and blew you a kiss. "Bye baby, I love youuu! Don't forget to send me pictures. Of you, if possible."

"You have my word, honey," you blew the kiss back. "Love you too. Ciao."

After hanging up the video call, you sat for a moment checking your messages and email. Sohyun had sent you pictures of your cats and asked if everything had gone well on the flight. Sully had also texted you with the same intention. Dani, for her part, had told you her flight from Seoul was leaving at midnight—around 5 p.m. there in Florence—and that she would arrive tomorrow morning. 

But the one you didn't expect a message from, considering how busy she must be with all the preparations for her trip to Milan, was Rina.

Just as you were leaving and opened her chat, she was online, and she'd sent you a photo that you feared was... God. Your heart nearly leaped out of your mouth.

You had to take a moment to make sure no one was watching your screen and to process the content of the photo. A nude, of course. Sexy as hell, as only she knew how to make them.

With the Rina issue settled for now and your stomach full, you paid for your breakfast and finally left the bakery to take a taxi to the Maserati dealership, because clearly you couldn't take a taxi everywhere while you were in Florence.

Now, last year, your visit to Milan had made you discover a guilty pleasure, and it was expensive things. Very expensive things.

This was demonstrated when you unnecessarily rented the Purosangue, only to buy it months later at a higher price than usual due to import costs to Korea. Also a couple of months ago, when in a fit of love for your beloved girlfriend you had splurged $150,000 on just one necklace—she always wore it, so it wasn’t a regret for you and, to be honest, now you saw that figure as a small change.

And now, at the Maserati dealership, you exclusively consider the high-priced options. Although it's not as if there were any cheap options. It was either expensive or... less expensive.

The salesman who advised you, realizing that you knew more about cars than he might have expected, thankfully didn't try to take you for a fool and was quite helpful. One of the options was a convertible, but the point of those cars was to drive without the top up, and considering the mess that would arise if Dani was caught co-piloting a foreign guy—the two of them alone, in an Italian city—you decided to rule it out.

The final decision was a silver GranTurismo Trofeo, a gorgeous coupe with a 550-horsepower V6 engine. It was one of the few units left that was still brand new, as Maserati would soon become a 100% electric brand in a few years. The salesman clarified that the unit they had at the dealership wasn't available for rent, and that he would contact the third-party company they partnered with to bring yours in as soon as possible.

When the car arrived, you signed all the necessary paperwork and the contract, checked the condition of the vehicle, and proceeded to pay for the days you would use it. Your little treat cost you around $4,500. Minutes later, you were driving the coupe through the beautiful streets of Florence to Grandma Giuseppina's hotel.

After picking up your luggage and leaving the elderly woman another tip, you packed everything in the trunk of the car and drove to the Four Seasons, the hotel you had originally planned to stay at with Dani for those few days.

The imposing palatial building, worthy of a Raffaello Sanzio painting, rose along the narrow one-way street. At that hour, sunlight bathed the smooth ochre facade, casting shadows from the trees in the park on the opposite side of the road, where you had parked to get out and take a quick look at the small windows on each floor before crossing the street.

On the other side of the road, you passed between the two ornate columns and went through the stately dark wooden door that led you inside the hotel.

The palatial appearance of the hotel was also preserved inside. The first thing to attract attention was the majestic marble statue in the center of the interior patio, which was surrounded by four corridors with high arches and open columns crowned with murals and ornamentation carved from the same stone. The air was fresh, sweetened by the scent of freshly picked flowers from the patio. A group of visibly wealthy people chatted with courteous ease, sitting on the chairs and the green velvet sofa in front of the statue.

The corridor you were standing in had display cases behind each column on your left, featuring Rolex watches, handbags from various Italian brands, and jeweled accessories. But as you walked toward the reception desk, your attention was drawn to the arched ceiling, coffered with hexagonal panels that covered the entire surface, each decorated with ornamentation around the edges and a carved flower in the center.

As you walked through the corridor, you passed through the open door at the far end and entered the reception. Behind the counter on your right was the receptionist, a woman with her hair tied back in a bun and wearing the hotel uniform. You went with her to inquire about the available suites, giving you a range of options, from which, once again, you chose the most expensive option.

With your reservation for the suite—if you could call it that—made, you went to the car to get your luggage and returned inside to be helped and directed by a bellboy. To get there, you went out to the hotel's back garden, which was part of the Giardino della Gherardesca: a big shared garden that took up the entire block and served as a common space between hotels and institutes.

Outside, you circled the pool and left the hotel area enclosed by the hedges behind. The garden was larger than it looked, with paths winding through groves and small points of interest like fountains and parks where people gathered for various activities.

The suite was tucked away in the opposite corner of the garden, so you had to walk a couple more minutes until you spotted it in the distance. It was a cabin preceded by a wide semi-roundabout with a fountain in the center. As you passed through it, a perfectly manicured hedge and flowerbeds caught your attention: in the center, an archway covered in vines and flowering bushes led you inside.

The bellboy spoke to you as you passed under the arch, explaining the services available, the hours of service, and also giving you some historical context about the suite.

As soon as you crossed the archway, you were greeted by the wide circle formed by the perfectly manicured garden, with the small pool—more like a good-sized jacuzzi—on the left side, next to two lounge chairs and an umbrella. On the right side, there wasn't much else, just grass, flower beds near the side of the cabin, and a tree.

The cabin consisted, of course, of a single floor, accessed through two double glass doors, flanked by windows and framed at the top by a wrought iron structure with patterns of symmetrical circles and curves. Both were wide open, one revealing the living room and the other the only bedroom.

"D'ora in poi starò bene, fratello. Grazie mille," you told the bellboy with a smile, asking for your other suitcase.

"Ci faccia sapere se ha bisogno di qualcosa, signor Leone," the bellboy replied, handing you the suitcase handle as you took a few steps back. "Buon soggiorno."

"Grazie," you nodded, shook his hand in gratitude, and followed the stone path to the bedroom.

The first thing you did upon entering was leave your backpack and briefcase on the queen-size bed to the right. The two suitcases went into the corner between the mattress and the back wall. Then, you took off your shoes and sat on the lower edge of the bed with your feet up on the upholstered bench, taking out your phone and taking some pictures to send to Wony and Sohyun. Some shots were more elaborate than others, but you made sure to show as much as possible: the chandelier above your head, the television resting on the hand-painted bombé dresser, and even the visible part of the garden.

After taking the photos, you climbed into bed and began unpacking things from both your backpack and your briefcase. Since you weren't planning on going out again, you also went to one of your suitcases and took out some sweatpants and a wool sweater to change into.

Now more comfortable and without much to do, you set out for a mini tour of the cabin. First, you went to the right. There, the small hallway, with a circular mirror on the wall, opened in two directions.

The room to the left was a sort of dressing room, with an electronic safe and spaces for hanging and storing clothes. Nothing special.

But on the other side was the bathroom, which in itself looked like the lobby of a palace thanks to the marble walls and the gilded details of the double sinks and the large mirror on the left. On the opposite side, a dressing table with a stool and an ornate mirror placed above it, which you took to take another couple of photos. And within the same room, through a door to the left of the sink, were the toilets.

The other path led to an intersection, with the glass shower door on your left. You went to the right, and smiled at the sight of the bathtub embedded in the floor in the last room. You also took a photo, but you sent it to Dani, hoping she'd understand the possible uses you could give to it.

With that part explored, you returned to the bedroom and took the path to the other end of the cabin, past the central window visible from outside and another small bathroom.

The living room wasn't exactly modern, at least not by today's minimalist standards. It was more of a perfect blend of various vintage and eclectic styles, such as the white upholstered furniture, the classic-looking rug with brown prints on khaki, the nineties chairs, and the chandelier. And the entire right-hand wall consisted of gleaming glass panels, with a recessed space for a dresser, adjacent to a shelf with another gold-framed mirror above it.

All in all, it was one of the best $24,000 you'd ever spent. There was no way you'd regret it. On top of that, Dani's company was only going to make it better.

The cold breeze was starting to pick up, and the sun was already setting. In theory, it was still winter in Italy, which meant the delicious chill would slowly begin to penetrate the cabin. There wouldn't be any need to lock the doors just yet, so you sat on the couch, put your bare feet up on the coffee table, and relaxed with your phone. You even did an hour-long IG live to update your followers.

Wony also texted you, having woken up on her side of the world. You didn't speak for too long, as she had to grab a quick breakfast and rush to her schedule. But you made sure to give her the boost of motivation and affection she needed from her boyfriend to face her day.

Hours later, you ordered dinner from the hotel staff, and after eating, you showered and finally closed the cabin doors to go into your bedroom. Then you took out your laptop and started handling business matters in your email. The most important thing was to confirm your attendance at Fashion Week in a few days. Upon doing so, your internal point of contact at Prada almost immediately sent you a dossier-like document containing information about the event, such as schedules, exact locations, content guidelines for social media, and appointments with the styling, marketing, and logistics teams before the event.

By the time you'd tied up as many loose ends as possible it was almost midnight, which meant it was time to go to sleep since Dani would arrive first thing in the morning.

So you closed your laptop, went to close the curtains, and set an alarm for 6 a.m. before snuggling under the blanket and going to sleep.

The morning in Florence was beautiful as you drove to the Amerigo Vespucci Airport. Caraphernelia by Pierce the Veil played through the car speakers at a moderate volume. There were just under ten minutes until Dani landed, so you were on time.

Traffic was light at that time of day, so you were able to cut some corners and arrive a couple of minutes early.

Once parked, you put on the sunglasses Prada had given you as part of a welcome gift a couple of days earlier and got out of the car to head into the airport, hands in the pockets of your brown aviator jacket.

When you stopped to wait near the airport shopping center it was already 7:04. But it wasn't long before Dani Marsh appeared in the distance, looking like something out of a fashion magazine, wearing a black hat, sunglasses, a pink Hysteric Glamour oversized aviator jacket, a long black skirt, and brown boots. A large suitcase in her hand and her phone in the other.

Just as she'd told you, she was coming alone. She'd mentioned something about the possibility of her sister joining her, but it seemed her plans didn't work out. It was a shame, because her sister was just as lovely as she was, and you were happy to be able to show them both Florence.

But being alone would definitely have its advantages.

Dani smiled from ear to ear when you took a few steps forward and made her notice you. Her gait quickened, dodging the traffic. You closed the distance until you met halfway and hugged.

"Hi dearrr!!" Dani squealed, her arms clinging to your neck.

"What's up, darling?" You smiled, wrapping your arms around her body and holding her tight. "How was the flight?"

"Uhm, pretty chill! I slept through most of it," she replied as she pulled away and took off her sunglasses. You did the same. "Then I woke up two hours before landing. And you? How are you doing? Sorry for making you wake up so early."

"Nah it's okay," you shook your head. "I slept enough. Although I can't say the same about my damn flight here. You were lucky, at least."

Dani giggled.

"The pills helped, believe me. I can recommend the ones I use."

"Please tell me it's Klonopin, those are my favorite."

"What the hell are you talking about, Leone?!" Dani laughed, tapping you in the chest with the palm of her hand. "Don't say that again!"

"Sorry, you made it too easy for me," you smiled, and opened an arm toward the exit. "Shall we go?"

"Alright!" Dani nodded, putting her sunglasses back on.

"Let me help you with that," you said, taking her suitcase and starting to walk outside. "I hope you're hungry. I know the perfect place for us to have breakfast together."

"Thought of everything, huh?" Dani giggled, holding onto your arm. "I am, yeah."

"Your first time in Florence can't be a mediocre experience, Marsh. Of course I thought of everything."

"Something more like my first time in Rome, then?"

Suddenly, memories of that spontaneous trip quickly flooded your mind. A jacuzzi, on a terrace overlooking the Colosseum, Hanni, Dani, and Minji, all three of them on your cock...

"Yeah, something like that," you sighed, forcing yourself to push the memory out of your head.

Dani just laughed again. Perhaps noticing the blush on your cheeks.

After a couple of minutes of walking, you walked out of the airport and headed to where you were parked, which wasn't too far from the main entrance.

"Oh wow, you didn't spare any expense either, I see," Dani said as you crossed a road, watching you press the car remote to unlock the doors.

"And wait until you see where we're staying. Hop in, honey."

You opened the passenger door for Dani and went to put her suitcase in the trunk. Then you got into your seat, took off your sunglasses, and left them folded on the dashboard. Dani followed suit, taking off her hat as well.

"Do you really know how...?" Dani pointed to the touchscreen embedded in the dashboard. "You know, how to use that thing."

"It's not that complicated," you replied, and pressed the button to the left of the steering wheel to start the engine. "Put your seatbelt on, thanks."

Dani and you put your seatbelts on, and after adjusting the car's internal GPS through the touchscreen navigation panel, you hit the accelerator and drove to Via Alessandro Guidoni, heading for the Caffè Gilli. It was about a 20-minute drive, so you told Dani to get comfortable and put on some music.

"Did you come here often?" Dani asked halfway there, her eyes on the Hilton Garden Hotel park as you rolled past. "I mean, I know you're from Milan, but you seem to know this city well."

"I've visited every city in Lombardy and Tuscany at least twice," you replied, taking a small right turn. "I used to come to Florence in particular all the time," you took another left. "I mean, I don't know every shortcut and every detail, but I'm pretty familiar."

"Oh, okay..." Dani nodded, still entranced by the park to your right. "What about the south?"

"Southern Italy? Well, I've been there a few times, yeah," you nodded. "I was recently in Naples on vacation. There's some of that on my IG feed."

"Yeah, I remember seeing some stories. But did you go alone?"

Sohee had asked you to be a walking grave about that vacation of yours last September. In her words, no one, absolutely no one, could find out about that. Months had passed since you last spoke, and you had agreed to distance yourself due to the dangerous nature of whatever it was you had going on between you, but like the gentleman you were, you were going to respect her request. The secrecy was so profound that not even your closest friends knew.

Although, of course, the sharpest among them could have made connections, since Sohee had also posted photos in the same places as you... with photos you had taken. Like, no one had ever accused you of anything, thankfully. But chances are someone would be suspicious.

"Nope, I went with a friend and his brother," you replied. "The pizza there is incredible. The scenery too. Especially on the Amalfi Coast when you take a boat ride."

"Then I have to go sometime. I love boat rides."

"You're Aussie, no surprise there."

Dani chuckled.

"Look, I could be offended but you're right. In fact, since I'm such an Aussie, I've got a spider here for you."

Dani then reached out and tickled your ribs and thigh. She knew you hated that shit.

"Hey, no!" You squirmed, between pain and laughter. But Dani wouldn't stop. "Stop!! You're going to fucking kill us!"

With your free hand, you tried to stop her, and between struggles, her hand ended up on your crotch. She could have immediately removed it and kept bothering you, but fortunately for your hatred of tickling, she didn't.

"Oh, woopsies," Dani giggled, giving your bulge a squeeze that made you gasp. Then she removed her hand. "Are you going to feed it to me one of these days?"

"Not if you keep fucking tickling me," you snapped, a little angrily.

"Okay," Dani clasped her hands in her lap and looked out the window. "I'll be a good girl... daddy."

You took a deep breath and forced yourself to focus on the road so as not to wind her up. After about 10 minutes, you were driving into the historic center of Florence, through the narrow Via del Corso, lined with buildings with shops on their ground floors. The Caffè Gilli was located in the Piazza della Repubblica, a large square famous for its cafes and restaurants, so you had to get out of the car a corner earlier to continue on foot.

Dani stopped at a few places to take pictures and have you take them for her. She seemed enchanted by the place, even though the day wasn't as beautiful as in warmer times of the year and the sky was slightly clouded. If only she knew what you had in store for her.

After filling Dani's gallery with the first photos of the trip, you finally walked toward the café.

The place had two areas: the usual facade, on the ground floor of the building, with columns between each entrance and an awning that stretched from side to side; and a large covered dining area right in front, which you entered.

It was the time of day when people usually went out for breakfast, so the tables filled up more quickly. You hurried to take one toward the back of the left wing, not too far from the rear glass wall. Dani took more photos there, until a waiter came to welcome you and take your orders.

"Are all the cafes in Italy this cute?" Dani asked a couple of minutes later, glancing around. "I remember saying the exact same thing in Rome."

"Our breakfasts are sacred," you replied, arms crossed on the table. "Most Italians' day begins right here. So all our cafes are made with love. Pure tradition."

The waiter arrived with the first part of your order: a cappuccino with oat milk for you and a doppio espresso for Dani, along with a bowl of fresh fruit with figs, grapes, melon, and berries.

"Speaking of love..." Dani's smile slowly faded. She looked down as she opened a sugar packet for her espresso. "What happened between you and Hanni? She never wanted to talk to me about it."

You sighed and looked down at the bowl of fruit to pick up a grape and eat it. That topic was already a thing of the past, or so it was supposed to be. Talking about it and rubbing salt in the wound was a bitch. Especially with how everything had happened.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, really," Dani said.

"No, it's okay," you shook your head. "I just don't like remembering," you looked up. "Fuck, where do I start? Well... it was the day of her testimony in court. You know, when she was on TV and everything. That day she came to my apartment to, you know, sleep over and whatever. All cute and normal as ever.

"But the next morning she was... weird. She woke up before me. And she never wakes up before me. She didn't kiss me good morning, nor was she as smiling as usual. Of course I immediately asked her what was wrong and... fuck, it was like a fucking ice bath. It was horrible.

"But what did she say to you?" Dani asked, distressed. "You're adding too much suspense. Spill it."

"She said she couldn't do it anymore. I'm not going to go on and on about everything we talked about. But basically, she said that given her current life state, she wasn't sure she could give me the best of herself. And that there were a lot of things she needed to focus on before focusing on a relationship."

There was a momentary silence. Dani stared at you as your expression turned gloomy.

"Ouch..." Dani said.

"Yeah... I mean, now that I think about it, I understand that reason. But come on Dani, I was always there for her through thick and thin. Always. I don't think there was a single thing I couldn't help her through. Like... ugh," you groaned in frustration. "Whatever."

Just then, the waiter arrived with the food. You had ordered cornetto al pistachio, and Dani ordered a mini platter of mixed pastries: a small cannolino, a sfogliatella, and a croissant filled with lemon cream.

"Grazie," you forced yourself to say so as not to be rude, as the plates were placed in front of you.

"Thank you," Dani smiled at the waiter, but the smile faded when she looked at you again. "Jeez... I'm sorry, baby. For you know… reopening the wound."

"It sucks, but whatever," you shrugged. "I'm lucky to have found someone who helped me get over it."

"That's cute," Dani smiled. "And I'm very happy. But you should know that Hanni has been deadass jealous at least three times since then. I mean she denies it. But I can read her face."

"That's her problem. She should have known better than to leave me like a dog in the cold."

Dani chuckled.

"Look, in her defense, I must say that everyone's life is really turned upside down right now. It hasn't been easy."

"I know it hasn't been, but that doesn't stop anyone from having some emotional intelligence. Anyway, enjoy your meal, dear."

Everything was as delicious as you'd hoped, and Dani was so enamored with the sfogliatella that she ordered another one to go. You could have stayed and chatted for a while longer, but you had other places to take her. And what better way to go than to a museum?

Dani loved art; she was almost as devoted to it as you were. If there was anyone who would appreciate the Uffizi Gallery, it would be her, without a doubt. So that was your next destination.

"Hey, it's not that I'm not excited about going to the museum, but can we go shopping later?" Dani asked as you drove to the gallery. "I want you to know that my suitcase is purposely half empty."

You chuckled.

"Are you serious?" you said, your eyes on the road. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to update my closet. I'm in."

"Great! Because I don't know anyone better to be a fashion judge than you."

"Well, yeah, that's obvious. And...?"

"That you'll have to approve every item I want to buy," Dani leaned over the center console between the seats and leaned close to your ear. "Even the underwear," she whispered.

"Danielle Marsh, should I find an alley and fuck you on the hood of the car? I swear to God you're getting on my nerves."

"We don't have time for that, dummy," Dani replied, returning to her seat. "We have a museum to go to, remember? And then some shopping to do."

The sugary, innocent tone of her voice, along with her cute Aussie accent, made you let out a heavy breath. There was no possible objection you could make; after all, you were the one responsible for your itinerary. But at this rate, with two days still ahead of you, there was no doubt that things were going to happen more than once.

You sincerely hoped so, because that tight body was a marvel.

A short 10-minute drive later, you arrived at the Uffizi Gallery, a massive building that housed entire collections of Renaissance paintings on the banks of the Arno River. The tour lasted almost three hours, as you spent a good amount of time talking about each of the most interesting paintings, such as The Birth of Venus or Spring by Sandro Botticelli, or Caravaggio's Medusa, among the dozens of others in the museum.

By the time you finished your visit it was around 2 p.m. Dani loved every second of the tour, which was especially satisfying for you since it was the first place you'd thought of showing her when she'd asked you to be her tour guide a few days earlier. Nothing was better than having someone reaffirm your excellent tastes and actually enjoy them.

"The Birth of Venus is a beauty in person, wow," Dani said, scrolling through her gallery to see all the photos she'd taken. She was no longer wearing her jacket: now it was wrapped around her waist, leaving her in a fitted black polo shirt. "Wait, wasn't that the one attacked by environmental activists last year?"

"That's one, yeah," you nodded. You were taking a break in front of the gallery entrance, leaning against the stone railing that overlooked the river. The sun was already peeking out from under the blanket of clouds in the sky, reflecting on the still-calm water. "Idiots who think that'll change anything. They only gained six months in jail."

"Well, at least they tried to make a change. It's something."

"You wanna know how I think a change can be made? It's not pretty, and it has to do with multibillionaires."

"Nope, I don't wanna know," Dani said, looking up to pat you on the chest. "You know what I do want to know? How many new clothes can I bring home."

"Don't you want lunch first? I know the perfect place."

"I don't think I'm hungry yet. Let's go shopping, come on!" Dani said with a little jump, grinning from ear to ear to try to convince you.

"Consumerism consumes you, girl."

"And it makes me happy too!" Dani took your hand and pulled you along as if she knew the way—she didn't. "Walk!"

Well, anyway, you had no choice.

After a couple of minutes of walking, you reached the place where you had parked the car. You got in and headed toward Via de' Tornabuoni, a long, straight street lined with luxury brand stores on every side and at every corner.

A little over five minutes later, you were there. You parked a corner early, near the Column of Justice, an iconic monument in Piazza Santa Trinita. When you got out, you just had to walk straight until you entered the aforementioned street.

The first store was Burberry. Dani let you search first, knowing that she would be the one who would take the longest. There weren't many things that caught your eye there; you only ended up picking up a black wool sweater, an oversized cotton T-shirt, some sneakers, and a gold ring.

Dani, on the other hand, was a Burberry ambassador, and therefore felt a greater affinity for the brand than you did. Her choices were more varied, and while you didn't end up approving of all of them, the number of items she bought almost doubled yours.

And of course, she also struck the first blow.

Without you realizing it, she'd sneaked a swimsuit into the clothes she was going to try on, and she sent you a photo from the fitting room wearing the tight garment, which perfectly hugged her slim, curvy figure. There were two photos: one from the front and one from the side. Both blatantly suggestive. The design was very pretty, it was worth noting: white stripes and black checks on a beige base. Approved.

The next stop was right in front, across the street. Pucci's extravagant and colorful prints weren't exactly your favorite, so you didn't check out too many things: just an iridescent hoodie, some swim shorts, a lighter case—yes, they had those—and a three-pack of trunks. It's not like you had much to do with it, either; Pucci was a brand more focused on women, and the men's section was tiny compared to the rest of the store.

Dani took her time again. Her tastes matched her personality, and unlike you, she loved colorful clothes with abstract designs. So she swept every corner of the store, grabbing item after item to try on. She also included a three-pack of briefs, which she thought you hadn't realized she'd snatched.

So it didn't take you by surprise when, from the fitting room, she sent you photos of herself trying on the panties. One photo for each style: the multicolored one, with an abstract pattern of curved shapes in black, white, pink, purple, and beige; the white ones, and the black ones. Now you received back shots of her pretty ass, and also close-up shots of her crotch at stupidly hot angles. Approved. And now you were horny.

"You know I'm throbbing for you right now, right?" you asked quietly in her ear as she paid for her clothes. You'd already paid for yours. Between Burberry and this one, you'd already spent around $5,000.

Dani held back a smile and turned around after a few seconds to lean closer to your ear.

"Good for you," she replied. "But we still have a lot of stores to see. Hang in there."

Reluctantly, you followed her back to the opposite side of the street, this time to enter Tiffany & Co.—where the necklace you bought for Wony was from. Being a jewelry, watches, and accessories brand, there was no attack towards you this time. But it was by far the place that took you the longest.

Dani could afford to buy everything she'd been buying up until now, yes. But there were things in that store whose prices were exorbitant, so she only ended up buying two pairs of earrings for 3.100 euros each. What she didn't know was that you were feeling pretty generous that day, and you let her choose anything else regardless of the price.

Her choice was a diamond ring, specifically the Tiffany Titan designed by Pharrell Williams. 12,000 euros. Convincing her that it was fine and that you wanted to buy it because you wanted to was a difficult task, but in the end, you managed to get her to leave the store wearing the ring and with a smile on her face.

The next store was Celine. There, the number of items you bought broke that day's record, but it was Dani who was most hesitant about her choice. There were only a few things she actually tried on that you approved of. That was because her focus had changed: more damn swimwear.

Celine had been one of the stores with the most swimwear so far, and you were sure Dani had sent you photos of herself in almost all of them, including the bikinis. Some were prettier than others, you even told her to buy a pair. But they all shared the same common factor, and that was her tight body looking delicious in every single photo.

It was already getting too difficult to hide how needy you were for her. Dani knew it, and she enjoyed every second of it, knowing that, despite you being the guide and the reason she was there in the first place, she was in control. Everything indicated that she wouldn't be satisfied until you set foot in every single store on the damned street.

Sadly, that’s how it was.

Alexander McQueen, Balenciaga—one of your favorite brands—, Fendi, Jil Sander, Prada—where, to your surprise, the attendants already recognized you as a new brand ambassador, and let you choose whatever you wanted to take with you at no cost—, Gucci, Giorgio Armani, Bvlgari, and finally Versace. In absolutely every store you bought at least one or two items, and you didn't even keep track of how much you'd spent anymore.

The problem was that the number of bags you were carrying was bordering on the bizarre. You didn't know the exact number; you only knew that you were also holding two with your teeth and that you'd have to make two trips.

Thank goodness the car was close, because you were starting to feel empathy for the poor pack animals. The bags you were already carrying filled the back seats and the footwell, while the rest went into the trunk next to Dani's suitcase.

"Jesus, it seems like we raided the entire street," you sighed, getting into the car. You closed your eyes with your hands on your knees, your head resting on the seat.

"It was quite a productive afternoon, don't complain," Dani replied.

"I have plenty of reasons to complain."

Dani didn't respond. You heard her shift in her seat, but you thought she was just searching for something in her bag or something else. When you opened your eyes and looked at her, your eyes nearly popped out of your head.

She had taken off the heavy skirt she was wearing, along with her shoes. Now she was wearing only her black polo shirt, stockings, and a pair of black panties. Your sense of alarm went off, making you look around in every direction in case anyone was watching. The car windows weren't completely black, just tinted, so if anyone had taken a look, they would have seen Dani half-naked in the passenger seat.

"Dani, what the fuck are you doing?!" you asked, rushing to start the car.

"I'm making up for the inconvenience," Dani retorted, and as you hurried to get out of there, she reached out to squeeze your cock through your pants. "Or are you not throbbing for me anymore?"

"You didn't have to fucking strip in the middle of the square," you scolded her, driving without knowing where to go. An alley was what you were looking for, but being so central in the city, it would be a difficult task. "Someone could have seen you."

"So what? No one knows me here," Dani said, unbuttoning your pants to unzip them and slip her hand into your boxers. Her fingers wrapped around your cock, rubbing it until it was hard. "To them I would’ve just been some exhibitionist Asian whore."

"At least one of those three things is true."

You gasped as Dani pulled your pants down to your mid-thighs and held your cock upright, slowly moving her hand over it.

"Yeah, I may be a whore," Dani acknowledged as she gave you a lazy handjob. "But you've been craving this whore's pussy all afternoon. You haven't even bothered to hide it."

Well, that was a point well earned.

Dani sped up her hand movements, not caring how focused you had to be to drive through certain stretches and certain curves. Then she climbed onto her knees in her seat and spat into her hand before returning it to your shaft. Her wrist was now moving at a fast, steady pace. Not abrupt or frantic. Careful and measured.

As you stopped at a light, Dani stopped her hand and moved from sitting on her heels to back on the seat, only now, carefully, she leaned her back against the car door and stretched her long legs into your lap, lifting her feet and removing her stockings right next to your face. With her now bare feet, she lowered them to your cock and took it between them.

"Dani, for God's sake," you gasped, taking one hand off the wheel and moving it to her lower abdomen, rubbing her pussy over her panties with your thumb. "How do you expect me to drive like this?"

"Find a way. That's not my problem," Dani replied, now masturbating you with her pretty feet.

You were forced to return your hand to the wheel when the light turned green, and also to speed up as you searched for an alley. All the while Dani's feet moved up and down on your cock. At certain points, you could afford to touch her, rubbing her slit again and again until her panties were wet. It got to the point where her panties were already pushed aside, and whenever you could afford to finger her, you did.

It took you 15 minutes to find a damn decent spot. Along the way, you'd probably angered more than one driver with your erratic driving, but it wasn't your damn fault.

The alley was narrow enough, with a residential building on the left and the wall of a small garage on the right. A few meters ahead, where the alley opened up, there was a guardhouse, but the lights were off and no one seemed to be inside. It wasn't the right place to take her outside and commit an obscene act, but at least it gave you discretion inside the car.

As soon as you parked and turned off the car, Dani swung her legs from your lap and hurriedly climbed over the console to straddle you. Her arms flung around your neck and her lips crashed down on yours. And you hurried to use the buttons on the side of the seat to move it away from the steering wheel and then tilt it all the way back.

Dani cradled your face in her hands, kissing you between small moans and heavy breaths. Her legs settled between the sides of your body and the car seat as you wrapped your arms around her slender body, sliding your hands under her shirt to feel her back, then lowering them to her small waist and then her ass.

You lifted your hips and pulled the rest of your pants down to your heels, then pushed Dani's panties aside to grasp your cock and rub it against her folds, already slick with wetness. Dani also lifted her hips and slowly impaled herself on your cock until she took it all inside her tight pussy.

"Mmmgh fuck," Dani moaned against your lips, moving her hands down to your chest. Her firm little ass rested against your pelvis. "I can't believe it's been six months since I last had this cock inside me."

"Time flies, huh?" You gasped, holding her waist as she began to move her hips, fucking herself with every inch of you. "And who knew the first time I was inside you was also on Italian soil?"

"Oh I wouldn't mind being fucked every time I set foot in this country if it was you."

Dani went slowly at first, letting you feel her grippy folds hugging your cock every time she lowered her hips. Her lips moved from yours to your jaw and chin, planting small kisses on them, something she, being such a romantic, loved to do. Meanwhile, you groped her ass with gentle squeezes, returning the kisses she gave you but on her neck.

The car began to shake a bit as Dani accelerated, now moving her hips as fast as she could without jumping. That changed when she managed to prop her feet up on the seat and start bouncing on your cock, her hands braced under your pecs and her eyes on yours. Her face, gorgeous as usual, twisted with moans until her mouth fell open and her head fell back.

"Are you gonna cum, hmm?" you asked, holding her under her buttocks as she bounced on your cock. The sight of her abdomen bulging with your shaft increased your revs a thousandfold.

Dani just nodded, stifling a moan against her bitten lip. The sound of her ass slamming against you drowned out the music playing from the car speakers far below.

Her orgasm simmered inside her until she exploded with a squeal that muffled against your lips as she fell forward.

You wrapped your arms around her as she came on your cock, her body shaking until she moved her hips up and down again. Then, with your hands on her tiny waist and kissing her, you took control and began to fuck her hard and fast. Dani sank her teeth into your lower lip and pulled it before looking up at you.

"Are you gonna cum as well daddy?" Dani asked, gently cradling your face in her hands. "Would you do it in my mouth? I don't want to get dirty yet."

"Dirtier than riding me in the middle of a remote alley?" you gasped.

"I don't have anything on hand to clean up the big load you're gonna shoot inside me," Dani's words rushed out of her mouth. "So I'd rather swallow it."

So be it, then. Honestly, you didn't feel like getting cum on the seat of a Maserati either. Sacrilege.

Your hands moved down to Dani's ass and squeezed it as you started going faster than usual. Seconds later, as your cock began to tingle, you patted her back in warning. Dani quickly got off you and stumbled to her seat, kneeling up, bending over you, and taking the tip of your cock between her lips as you jerked off.

Dani's small sucks and licks on your tip sped up your climax considerably, and just a couple of seconds later, you exploded inside her mouth.

Dani took charge and slid her lips down your cock to suck it and take your load in her mouth. Her moans as she swallowed drop after drop made you moan too, holding the back of her head as she slurped on your shaft with slow, deep strokes.

When you emptied your balls down her throat, Dani pulled you out of her mouth and licked her lips. She straightened her back and looked at you with a sly smile, still holding your cock.

"Shall we go to the hotel, daddy?" she asked in that tone of voice that always drove you crazy, and let go of your cock to look around. Once she made sure no one was watching, she laid her eyes on you again and tilted her head. "The appetizer was delicious, but I'm starting to need that lunch."

"Yeah, but please get dressed before a busybody comes along," you said, and sat up to pull up your pants and boxers. "Those are abundant in Italy."

Dani hurried to obey your order, readjusting her underwear and putting on her skirt as you returned your seat to its normal position. When she settled into her seat, you started the car and reversed out of the alley, turned around, and headed back to the hotel.

It was around 7:30 p.m. when you finally arrived at the Four Seasons. Getting out of the car, you immediately went inside to ask some bellboys to help you with the bags you and Dani couldn't carry and with her suitcase. One of the guys—the same one who had guided you to your suite yesterday—took the lead with Dani's suitcase. The other one escorted you from behind.

Dani frowned as you stepped out into the hotel garden, confused by the path you were taking.

"Are we camping or what?" Dani asked, looking at the trees around you as you left the hotel behind. Not bothered by it, but curious. As if the possibility excited her.

"Close, but better than that," you replied. "You'll see."

A couple of minutes later, Dani's face lit up as she saw the cabin in the distance.

"No way..." she said softly, the light from the lampposts near the roundabout reflecting in her pretty eyes. "Is that...?"

"Aha," you nodded.

Dani was as amazed as you were yesterday as you passed under the arch, unable to close her mouth. She gasped in surprise as she stepped through and looked around the immense garden you had, paying special attention to the pool. The bellboys continued walking and went to leave the things they were carrying in the living room, not in the bedroom since you had left those doors closed with the curtains drawn.

"Oh gosh, this is gorgeous!" Dani sighed, a small smile on her face. The bellboys returned and offered to carry what you were carrying inside as well. "Yes, please. Thank you."

"I knew you'd like it," you smiled, handing the bags you were carrying to one of the bellboys. "Fratello, sai parlare inglese?"

"Of course, sir," one of the bellboys nodded with a thick accent.

"When you get those things inside, can you put that table here in the garden?" you asked, pointing to the table on the right side of the cabin under a small porch. "It's for lunch."

The bellboy nodded and, along with his colleague, carried the rest of the things inside.

"Man, I could live here forever," Dani said, taking a few steps onto the grass.

Dani walked a little further, passed under the umbrella, and stood on some wooden planks placed end to end to dry off after getting out of the pool. She stood on her tiptoes to peer in.

"Good thing you bought swimsuits, huh?" you asked with a chuckle, watching out of the corner of your eye as the bellboys carried the table to where you'd indicated.

"See? And then you say the afternoon wasn't productive," Dani giggled.

When the bellboys had put everything back in place, they returned to you. You thanked them both, and as you passed under the arch, you went to Dani's.

"Hey, let's go inside and call for lunch."

"Lunch? It's almost 8 at night."

"Dinnerlunch. Whatever the fuck you want to call it dude."

"Fair, let's go," Dani nodded and followed you inside. "We'll use that pool, right?"

"Of course we will," you replied. "But I think we'll have more fun in the indoor bathtub."

Dani just laughed before entering the cabin with you.

While you called the front desk, Dani took her suitcase and some of her bags to the bedroom to organize her clothes. She came back a short time later to decide what you were going to eat together.

The order you placed was large enough that you wouldn't have to order anything else for the rest of the night. You waited for it sitting at the table outside, still in your clothes since you wanted to eat before showering.

The wait staff arrived—quite understandingly considering how far the hotel was from the suite—about 15 minutes later, bringing your appetizers and drinks first. A classic bellini for Dani and a bergamot-infused negroni for you. Another 20 minutes later, the main courses arrived. Dani had ordered branzino al forno, with caramelized fennel and cauliflower puree, while you had fresh pasta with butter and white truffle. You both also had oven-roasted vegetables and arugula salad on the side.

"Hey, thanks for this, Ezio," Dani said a while later, when you'd finished your main courses. You were sipping white wine from your glass, a Vernaccia di San Gimignano. "This is just beautiful."

"Don't thank me, I like seeing people happy," you replied, setting your glass aside. "And I was looking forward to coming back here to Florence. So it's a win-win."

"You have to go to Milan after this, right?" Dani asked, then sipped her wine.

"Yup," you nodded, picking up a slice of veal left over from the appetizer and bringing it to your mouth.

"How are you holding up with that? Prada Global Ambassador, who would have thought."

"I try not to think about it," you replied, still chewing but covering your mouth with the back of your hand. "If I think about it too much I'll end up having a panic attack."

"But isn't it one of the things you've always wanted?"

"It is. But it's a whole new level of pressure for me. More exposure. More fame. You're never prepared for that stuff."

"I don't think you're taking the fame badly," Dani tilted her head. "You've been doing well so far. Although I understand what you're saying, now you have to be twice as perfect with all those cameras pointed at you."

"Yeah, and I've never dealt with anything like that. Not in the art world, at least."

"It's a new step, dear."

"A huge one," you sighed. "Anyway. Are you going to shower first, or am I?"

"Me," Dani carefully rose from her seat and took a quick sip of her wine. "And then I'll get back to organizing what I bought."

"Okay, hurry up."

Dani went inside, and you stood there alone, gazing at the slightly cloudy night sky while smoking a cigarette. After finishing it, you left two 500-euro bills under a salt shaker as a tip and went inside to call reception to come and collect the dishes. The only thing you brought inside was the bottle of wine, which you'd pay for separately.

While Dani showered, you started closing the remaining door and curtains, and, just as she'd planned, organizing all the clothes you'd bought. When she came out after about 20 minutes, you'd already replaced most of the clothes in your suitcase with new ones. But that left you with the small problem of not knowing what to do with the old ones.

"And now what am I supposed to do with all this?" you asked yourself, pointing at the clothes you'd left on the floor.

"I don't know," Dani replied behind you, getting dressed. "Buy a new suitcase?

"How the hell am I going to take three suitcases to Milan?"

"If you're taking two, you can take three."

"I don't think that's how it works," you turned your head to look at her out of the corner of your eye. "Can I turn around now?"

"No!" Dani said quickly. You could smell the oatmeal in the body lotion she was applying.

"I've seen you naked before, what's the difference?"

"Vulnerability!"

You sighed.

"Well, I'll go take a shower," you stood up. "By the way, I brought my Switch. Wanna...?"

"Yeah!"

"Nice. You can go take it out of my backpack and set it up." I'll be right back."

You walked straight to the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over your body for about five minutes before actually washing yourself. When you were finished and walked out to the bedroom with the towel around your waist, you found Dani kneeling in front of the TV, plugging in cables.

"That's it, stay like that while I get dressed," you said, going to get your clothes.

Dani chuckled.

"Vindictive bastard."

You hurriedly put on your sleepwear and went to help her. With the Switch already installed on the TV, you both climbed into bed and started playing a new game of It Takes Two—the main one was untouchable, since it was your game with Wony. The hours flew by, and you ended up leaving it when Dani felt sleepy around 1 a.m.

The next day was going to be long with all the destinations you were taking Dani to, so you couldn't afford to go to bed much later. You stood up and went to put the JoyCons back in their holders, then closed the doors and went back to bed with Dani. Soon you were asleep.

Dani woke up before you the next morning. She was the one who opened the bedroom curtains, allowing sunlight to filter through the glass door and shine directly into your eyes.

That morning you had breakfast in the suite, and immediately afterward you got dressed to head to your first stop: the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.

Before entering, you spent about half an hour seeing it from as many angles as possible, admiring the beautiful white marble façade full of small details. Then you went inside the Duomo, and finally, you paid for the access to Filippo Brunelleschi's dome.

The 463 steps you climbed to reach the top of the dome were worth every second of physical effort, as you ascended, you saw the Judgment Day frescoes by Vasari and Zuccari up close. Once you reached the top, you were greeted by a beautiful panoramic view of all of Florence that made you forget you couldn't feel your legs anymore.

About ten minutes later, after taking as many photos as possible and having the private guide you had hired fill you in on the historical context, you descended from the dome and left the cathedral to walk right next to it, to Giotto's Campanile, one of the four monuments in Piazza del Duomo.

The visit was brief there. Your legs were sore from climbing the dome a moment ago, so you settled for seeing it from the outside, delighted with admiring the bas-reliefs and niches at the base of the tower.

The tour of Piazza Duomo ended with the Baptistery of San Giovanni, one of Florence's most famous religious buildings and the oldest in the square. This was by far Dani's favorite monument, simply because of the great amount of natural light it received and the impressive Byzantine mosaics inside the dome.

The next stop was the Mercato Nuovo and then the Mercato Centrale, both local markets with vendors everywhere. There, you bought souvenirs and tried street food, and when it was time for lunch, you headed to the Enoteca Pinchiorri, a magnificent 3-Michelin-star restaurant.

After that, you still felt good enough to continue. First, to Piazza della Signoria, probably the most famous square in all of Florence and the most visited, packed with historic buildings and points of interest. You let the rest of the night go by before heading out to dinner, and exhausted from that meal, you returned to the hotel around 11 p.m.

"Fuck, I'm exhausted," Dani sighed, dropping her bag on the coffee table in the living room before throwing herself onto the couch.

"And me," you said, closing the glass doors behind you. "Those 463 steps left me feeling dead."

You walked around the table and went to sit on the other couch, sinking into the seat with your head resting on a pillow. Dani rolled over to look at you.

"Are you sleepy already?" Dani asked.

"Nah, why?" You raised your hands to hug the pillow behind your head.

"I don't know, I thought we could... you know, do something."

"Something like what?"

"Didn't you tell me we could have fun in the tub?" Dani raised an eyebrow.

You smiled.

"I was waiting for you to say that." You let go of the pillow and leaned forward. "Because actually, I prepared for it."

"Oh, did you?"

You stood up and stood beside the couch where she was lying, hands clasped behind her back.

"Will you wait here, please?"

"Go ahead, take your time," Dani giggled.

All the things you were going to use to prepare the tub were inside one of the dresser drawers in the bathroom. It was the morning Dani arrived—before you left the hotel—that you had all of that stuff brought in, and of course you had spared no expense.

The first thing you did was partially close the blinds on the window on the wall next to the tub and close the curtains on the window facing the entrance, allowing only a minimum of light from outside to filter into the room. Then you started arranging scented candles: one in each corner of the tub, and three more arranged in a triangle above the dresser. After turning them all on, you turned off the room lights and made way for the dim candlelight.

The next step was to find your portable speaker and put on a playlist of R&B and jazz of your own making, so you could concentrate on preparing the bath. While you filled it with hot water, you added mineral bath salts, a few drops of rose essential oil, and a splash of oat and almond oil to make the water silky smooth. The foam was generous, enough to cover your skin but not making it look like shaving foam.

With the bath ready, you slipped out as quietly as possible to the living room to grab the bottle of white wine you had bought and a bowl of raspberries, grapes, and pieces of milk chocolate from the mini-freezer. You placed everything on a silver tray on the floor to one side of the bath: the glasses with chilled white wine on the sides, and the bowl in the center. Finally, on the edge of the tub, you placed massage oil, a natural sponge, and homemade soap.

"Dani! Come here!" you called her.

Dani hurried to answer your call and bumped into you outside the tub room. She tried to sneak a look behind you, but you shifted your body so she couldn't see much.

"Wait a minute," you said, standing under the frame. "Close your eyes."

Dani obeyed, and you were quick to stand behind her and cover her eyes with both hands.

"Come on, walk forward," you whispered in her ear.

You and Dani walked into the tub room. Then you uncovered her eyes.

"Oh my god..." Dani gasped, looking around with a small smile. "You did all this by yourself?"

"Well, yeah, what do you think? All the doors are locked."

"Wow... you really went all out in here," Dani giggled, taking a few steps forward before squatting down on the side of the tub. She moved her fingers on the water. "Oh, it's warm."

"You like it like that?" you said behind her.

Dani looked at you over her shoulder.

"I love it. You know that."

"Should we go in?"

"Yeah..." Dani stood up to face you. "But close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Just do it, Ezio."

You closed your eyes, and instantly heard Dani stir. Clothes falling to the floor, and then the water stirring after a slight splash.

"You can look now."

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was the pile of Dani's clothes in front of your feet, bra and panties included. Then you looked up and found her in the tub, sitting on the right side, the foam in the water covering her breasts.

"You did that so I wouldn't see you naked?" you chuckled.

"A little playfulness never hurts, right?" Dani said with a raised eyebrow. She'd also pulled her hair back into that signature double bun that looked so pretty on her, with a few strands falling down the sides of her forehead.

"Don't look at me either."

Dani giggled.

"Okay, okay. I won't."

Dani covered her eyes, and you quickly stripped down to get into the tub with her. The space wasn't too big, so you ended up touching the sides of her buttocks with the insides of your feet when you stretched out your legs. Dani then stretched out her legs too, resting her feet on your lap, right at the top of your thighs.

"Gosh, the water is delicious," Dani sighed, closing her eyes for a moment to lean back against the tub wall. When she opened them again, she looked at the floor beside you. "And what about that massage oil?"

"I don't know, just in case," you left both arms out of the water so you could pick up your wine glass. "Do you want some?"

Dani also picked up her glass, along with a couple of grapes, which she brought to her mouth to wash down with the wine.

"Mmm, che buono," Dani said, and couldn't help but laugh at your face.

"You've picked up Italian expressions so quickly?" you chuckled, as she picked up another couple of grapes.

"It's not that difficult, you say them without realizing it," Dani brought a grape to your mouth.

You plucked the grape from between Dani's fingers with your mouth.

"It's the consequence of spending days back here, sorry," you said, chewing the grape. "When I return to Korea it will be horrible to have to speak Korean again."

"God, don't even mention it," Dani sighed, and thinking you wouldn't notice, she placed a foot on your thigh, moving it very slowly. "I've been speaking English for a whole month now."

Like her, you discreetly placed your left hand on her knee to caress her skin with your fingertips.

"You can move here to Italy," you tilted your head, staring into her eyes. She looked gorgeous in the candlelight. "Naples would suit you perfectly; you're a sunshine girl."

Dani giggled, holding your gaze. Her foot moved closer to your crotch, very close to your pubic bone.

"In the future, who knows?" Dani took another sip of her wine and popped two pieces of chocolate into her mouth. "I haven't closed the door on crazier things."

"Even if it means moving to a completely different country than Australia or Korea?"

That night you were feeling peckish, eager to warm up, so you picked up your wine glass and emptied it completely down your throat.

"I'd need help, of course," Dani did the same as you, without a single scrunch, and set the glass aside. "You know, maybe a local advisor... sexy and handsome, preferably."

"As a northerner I don't think I'm exactly an expert on Naples. But I meet the last two requirements, I think."

"You meet them with flying colors, that's for sure," Dani inched her foot from your lap to your lower abdomen, caressing it with her toes. "And you're excellent at making your guests comfortable."

"Have you felt comfortable here in Florence with me?" Not wanting to be left behind, you moved your hand up as far as you could go without reaching so you could stroke her thigh with each finger.

"Oh, very comfortable," Dani nodded. "You've done a fantastic job as a guide. But you know what? I feel like you could..." Dani let the sentence hang in the air for a moment, and you felt her foot rise up your chest until it emerged from the water right in front of your face, covered in foam. "Do it better."

And with that alone, Dani got your blood pumping to your groin at the sight of part of her wet leg sticking out of the foamy water.

"Fuck, are you calling me incompetent?" you asked.

Dani laughed and rested her foot on your chest.

"What are you talking about, dummy? No, not at all." Dani moved her other leg underwater and pressed the sole of her other foot against your cock, accelerating your erection. "I'm just saying you can do even better."

"And how exactly could I do that?" you asked, taking her foot to lift it out of the water and skim off the foam. Her other foot was beginning to move along your cock.

"Just try," Dani replied. "I don't think it'll go badly for you."

Without further ado or wanting to delay the inevitable, you took Dani's foot by the heel and brought her big toe to your mouth. At first, the taste wasn't too pleasant, given all the bath products in the water, but that became irrelevant when you started salivating on her soft toes.

Dani muffled a moan against her puckered lips, rubbing you from tip to balls with her right foot. She picked up the wine bottle from the floor, and after uncorking it, she drank directly from it, a good gulp that went down her throat and spilled from the corners of her lips to her sexy neck.

"Do you want some, daddy?" Dani asked softly, while you swirled your tongue around her big toe and rubbed the underside of her thigh with your hands.

You nodded, took her foot out of your mouth, and lifted your head. Dani knelt up, finally letting you see her pretty little tits. She moved through the water until she was positioned on your lap, her knees on either side of your hips. She grabbed your head and tilted it back, and you opened your mouth for her to pour wine into it.

"It's delicious, isn't it?" Dani said, kissing you for a moment after you swallowed the wine. "What do you think of this?"

Dani took another long gulp of wine, then floated her face over yours and let the wine fall from her mouth to yours. That turned you on so much that your cock throbbed underwater and brushed against her pussy for a second.

"Fuck," you gasped, wrapping your arms around her slender frame to press her against you and taste her lips. "Give me your tits."

Dani lifted her chest and held her perky, wet breasts right in front of your eyes. You placed your hands on her back and brought one to your mouth. Dani immediately poured wine over her collarbone, letting it run down her skin and allowing you to suck it into your mouth from her breasts. As you did, she continued to drink straight from the bottle. Until, between gulps and spills, the bottle was empty.

"Turn around, darling," you said, giving one last suck to one of her nipples. "I know another way to make you comfortable."

Dani placed the empty bottle on the floor next to the tray and turned around to sit between your legs, resting her back on your chest and her head on your left shoulder. She turned her face so that it was inches from yours, and you gently took her chin and brought your lips together.

As your kiss heated up and you were exploring each other's mouths with your tongues, you slowly lowered one hand down her chest and toned abdomen until you reached her pussy, which you began to rub slowly with your ring and middle fingers.

Dani moaned against your lips and opened her legs, lifting them over yours. Your other hand slid from her waist to her breasts, cupping one to squeeze and pinch her nipple. Meanwhile, you gradually accelerated the movement of your right wrist until the rapid circles caused your lips to part and her to lean back against your shoulder and relax.

"Is this what you had in mind?" you asked in her ear, gently sucking on her earlobe. Dani twisted her hips slightly, causing your cock to rub against her lower back. "I hope I'm doing a good job."

"You're doing great, daddy," Dani gasped with her eyes closed, holding your left wrist with her left hand and your neck with her right. "But could you maybe...?"

No more words were necessary. You stopped your fingers, and between kisses on her cheek, you lowered them down her folds to carefully insert them inside her pussy. Deni tensed and tightened her grip on your neck as you reached deep inside her tight pussy, only leaving your knuckles outside.

"Open your mouth," you whispered as she let out a moan.

Dani obeyed, and you stretched out your left arm to grab a piece of chocolate and place it in her mouth. As she chewed, you made her moan by pumping your fingers in and out of her pussy.

"Oh fuck daddy," Dani moaned, her chest rising and falling with her labored breathing. She put her left hand underwater, slid it between your bodies, and with a grip that was somewhat uncomfortable for her, stroked it up and down. "I want to suck your cock so bad."

"Cum first and it'll be all yours, baby," you murmured against her neck, planting kisses.

"God, I'd be happy to."

Dani turned her face and met your lips again, arching her back and moaning against them as you pumped your fingers faster and faster. The water began to slosh and churn as you began to use all the strength in your arm to make Dani squeal with pleasure.

"Yes, yes... keep going, daddy, keep going, yes! Mmmmgh!!"

Part of Dani's breasts bulged out of the water as her orgasm crashed through her. You wrapped your left arm around her and held her close. Dani writhed underwater, causing some to spill over the side of the tub and nearly extinguishing one of the candles.

"That's a good girl," you gasped, your fingers deep inside her, only moving the tips to stimulate her upper wall. "Remind me what you wanted?"

"Suck your cock, daddy," Dani sighed, still trembling. "So bad."

"Let me up then."

Dani moved forward and gave you room to carefully stand up. When she turned around and got onto her knees, your erect, throbbing cock was between her eyes. Her hand quickly went to it to remove the lather and soap, and then she didn't hesitate to take it directly into her mouth.

You moaned as Dani's lips slid in a single motion halfway down your shaft, sucking on those first few inches without paying any attention to your eyes. Her hands stayed on the sides of your thighs as she pushed her limits further and further, finally stopping when her gag reflex kicked in just a few feet from your base. She pulled you out of her mouth with a gasp.

"Mmmm, so tasty," Dani moaned. She looked up at you while biting her lower lip. Her hand stroked your cock for a moment before placing wet kisses on the underside. "Are you going to give me the best fuck of my life with this cock, daddy?"

Dani took you back into her mouth and didn't let you respond immediately.

"God," you gasped, as Dani sucked your cock with slow, deep pumps. "I promise you won't walk well tomorrow."

"Good thing we're not planning on going out tomorrow, then," Dani replied one last time before focusing fully on giving you a wet and sensual blowjob.

Dani's loud slurps harmonized with the soothing jazz playing in the background. The scene was wonderful, and it felt even better. But Dani's slender body, wet and illuminated by the warm candlelight, was already starting to look irresistible to you.

A minute passed when you stopped her and helped her stand. Dani quickly grabbed your face and kissed you. You wrapped your arms around her in a tight hug, reciprocating the kiss while your hands moved to her back and ass. After a moment, you grabbed her by the waist and turned her around. Dani's first instinct was to bend forward, brace her hands against the wall, and arch her back to give you her ass. Then, you placed your hand on her lower back, took your cock and guided it between her buttocks, and slowly began to fill her tight pussy with throbbing flesh.

"Mmm fuck," Dani moaned softly. "Put it all in daddy, all of it. Please."

Dani let out a louder moan as the entire length of your shaft disappeared inside her tiny pussy. Her head fell between her shoulders, and she lifted it again to look at you over her shoulder. Your eyes locked on each other's as you began to pump your hips. Dani's tight walls forced you to go slowly at first, but as you stretched her inside, you finally allowed yourself to pick up speed.

"Fuck me hard daddy," Dani begged with a pretty moan. "My tight body can handle it..."

Despite her pleas, you took a moment to enjoy how good her pussy felt inside at a slow, deliberate pace, watching her outer walls clench so tightly around your shaft. There was no rush, and Dani didn't complain about it. But the look in her eyes told you that what she desperately needed was for you to pound her like an animal.

So be it.

With one hand gripping her tiny waist and the other on the back of her neck, you began pounding her pussy so hard that drops of water splashed out of her buttocks with each collision of your pelvis. Dani squealed, her tight body being shaken by every inch of your cock.

"Yes daddy, just like that!" Dani moaned, struggling to hold onto the wall without slipping. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!!"

Aware of the danger of her wet hands and the fact that she was holding onto a marble wall, you grabbed Dani by the wrists and pulled her arms back. She instinctively raised her body slightly, but kept her back arched so you could continue fucking her, while you held her behind her elbows.

Between strong, fast thrusts, Dani came a second time without warning, her knees shaking like the rest of her body. It was easy to fall there, so in an effort to avoid a tragedy, you quickly pulled her towards you and pressed her back against your chest, holding her upright with your left hand on her neck and the other on her waist.

"Give me more, daddy," Dani said in a small voice, her hand on yours at her neck. She squeezed as a signal for you to do the same, and you did, tightening your fingers around her long neck. "Just like that, fuck."

A new round of hard pounding on her pussy began, causing Dani to erupt in a wave of screams that rattled your eardrums from very close range.

The fear of falling was still there; you felt it in the unreliable grip your feet had on the bathtub floor, so you wanted to get out of there quickly. The quickest solution was to slide your right hand from her waist to her pussy, and with the use of two of your fingers, rub her clit in quick circles while you fucked her until Dani came again.

"Oh my god!!" Dani screamed, thrusting her hips back. Her spasms shook every muscle in her body. "So goood!!"

"Let's go outside, baby," you whispered in her ear after a minute, when Dani relaxed her muscles. "I wouldn't want to fall here and break my neck."

Dani nodded, and you pulled her out to hand her a towel. You both got out of the tub and dried off quickly.

"Want to try that massage oil?" you asked, somewhat desperate to get back inside her pussy but careful not to let it out.

"Whatever you want, daddy," Dani replied, leaving her towel spread out on the bathroom floor. She lay on top of it, her legs intertwined and her hands crossed on her abdomen as she looked at you.

You squatted down and grabbed the massage oil, a small purple bottle of about 300 milliliters that said it smelled of almonds and lavender. With it in your hand, you went to Dani and spread her legs to enter her pussy again. Dani arched her back and moaned, at which point you began pouring the oil in long lines all over her body.

"Mmm, it's warm," Dani said. Her eyes followed your hands as they spread the oil over her body, leaving her skin slick and shiny in their wake. "Do I look sexy?"

"You have no idea," you replied, now concentrating on her legs and moving your hips. You also covered her feet with massage oil.

Dani bit her lower lip and played with her own tits, circling her nipples with her fingers. Your slow thrusts against her pussy made her let out small moans.

"I want to do the same with you..."

"Absolutely."

You pulled out of her, and Dani stood up so you could lie down in her previous spot. She then straddled your lap, impaled herself on your cock, and, as she moved up and down, grabbed the bottle of oil and repeated the same process with your body. Your upper body was ready in a matter of seconds, and Dani then rode you in reverse to work on your lower body.

As Dani bounced on you with moans that became loud again, you noticed that her body from behind, both her back and her ass, were completely dry. So you took the bottle from her hand and let her continue enjoying your cock while you left that visible part of her skin glistening.

"Oh yeah, now we're talking," you gasped, and set the bottle aside to grab her slick ass as she bounced on your cock.

A few seconds later, you grabbed Dani by the shoulders and made her lie back against your chest. You wrapped your left arm around the back of her knees and pulled them up toward her torso. With another grip on her waist, you could now pump your hips up and down to fuck her.

"Mmmh fuck fuck fuck!" Dani moaned. Her back slid against your chest, making it difficult for her to stay still while she was pounded. Fortunately for her, neither of your grips weakened. Although you had to dig your fingers hard into her waist to keep her from slipping. "Harder daddy. Yes! Yes!"

Dani came a moment later. You both moaned. Her pussy smothered and throbbed around your cock. She gripped the sides of your body, spasming intensely, nearly causing her to fall to your left. You held her chin with your right hand and made her kiss you as she rode out her orgasm.

"Darling, I need a break," Dani said against your lips before looking into your eyes. "Are you close?"

"Enough," you nodded with a gasp.

"Use my feet," she planted a small kiss on your lips. "I know you love them."

It was somewhat embarrassing how quickly you lowered her onto the towel beside you and knelt in front of her legs. Dani gave you a teasing smile. She raised her feet, her soles facing each other. You placed your cock in the middle, and Dani brought her feet together to make a sandwich filled with your shaft.

"Oh lord..." you gasped, closing your eyes to enjoy how good her slick feet felt as you fucked them.

"Come on, daddy," Dani purred, looking into your eyes. "Give me that load... give it all."

You began pumping your hips rapidly, holding her feet by the heels to keep them in place. The sensation was overwhelmingly delicious, making you moan loudly as your climax approached.

"Fuck, Dani, I'm going...! Mmmgh!!"

A powerful jet of cum shot out of your cock as you thrust forward and exploded. It landed directly in Dani's mouth and between her breasts. As you continued pumping, the remaining jets landed on her abdomen and stained her feet as well. By the time you were done, Dani was a perfect canvas covered in thick white. So pretty, with such innocent eyes and a delicate face, it almost blew your mind.

"You came a lot daddy..." Dani said with a small smile, licking the cum that had fallen on her lips.

"Wanna go shower?" you asked, panting, still mentally dazed from that melting orgasm. "That way we can clean ourselves up."

"You still have something for me, don't you?" Dani raised an eyebrow.

"Of course I do," you nodded, struggling to your feet. "But just like you, I need a little break."

Dani extended her hand for you to help her up, and then you laced your fingers with hers as you walked slowly out of the tub, through the room with the sinks, and into the shower, a glass cubicle set between the marble walls.

It was a small space. Not claustrophobic, but small enough that with every movement your bodies brushed somehow. Dani slipped an arm under yours and turned on the faucet. The water fell cold on your body, but it turned lukewarm when Dani turned the hot knob.

Dani undid her buns and left her hair down as you washed the oil off your body. She then took your place under the shower, and with a sponge and soap, you helped her wash until her body was clean.

"Better?" you asked in her ear, your hands on her waist.

"Much better," Dani replied, pushing all her wet hair back. She turned her head to look at you as you kissed her shoulder. "And you? Have you taken your break yet?"

"Not yet," you replied, shifting kisses to her shoulder blade and then to her back. "There's something I still want to do."

You switched positions with her, leaving her facing the marble wall. Dani rested her hands there as you crouched behind her, trailing kisses down her back to her ass, where you distributed a short series of kisses and bites before parting her buttocks and planting your mouth on her pussy.

"Oh my..." Dani sighed as you ate her pussy from behind with slow licks and kisses. "I was starting to wonder when you were going to eat me out."

The warm water fell over your lower back as you devoured her, hands on her thighs. Dani's moans began to flow, indicating which spots to hit faster or which to kiss. She placed a hand on the back of your neck, tangled her fingers in strands of your hair, and as she pushed her hips back, she pulled you into her buttocks to smother you with them.

"Fuck, daddy, I missed your tongue so much," Dani moaned, tugging at your hair. Her pussy was soft and delicious. Addictive like few others. "Please make me explode in your mouth."

More than a request, that sounded like a challenge which you took very seriously. You slid your hands from her thighs to her buttocks and squeezed both, moving your tongue faster and using your head to move it in different ways. When you found the right one, you held onto it and used it until you made Dani cum.

"Mmmgh, that feels so good!" Dani squealed, grinding her ass against your face. You collected her juices and drank them, with the thirst of a castaway who had been on a random Indonesian island for days. "Put your cock inside me, daddy, please. You still have to fill me."

"Fuck, Marsh," you gasped, pulling away from her ass. "What's with this sudden thirst for cock?"

Dani didn't respond as you stood up and smashed your lips together again. She used the same hand she'd had in your hair to grab your cock and stroke it until it was hard. Then, in the middle of a hot, sloppy kiss, she guided your cock between her ass cheeks and back into her pussy.

"Mmm, are you going to fill my pussy with cum daddy?" Dani asked between kisses. You were already starting to move, both hands clamped around her waist. "Please fill me deep."

"Fuck, woman, that's what I intend to do," you managed between gasps. For some reason, you were exhausted, and you weren't sure how much you could match her energy level. But you were going to make the effort. "Just be a good girl for daddy and keep cumming."

Dani nodded between moans and bit your lower lip before kissing you again.

A sudden, autopilot trance took over you, erasing consciousness and the notion of time. All you knew was that within seconds you were fucking her like an animal against the bathroom wall, biting and kissing her neck until she came.

But without even giving her a chance to calmly ride out her orgasm, you lifted her right leg behind her knee and made her stand sideways, her thigh resting against your left arm. Similar to the way you fucked Rina that time in the elevator. Only Dani's body was considerably thinner, and the spots your cock hit in that position were more sensitive to her.

Dani squealed with pleasure, unafraid of being too loud for someone to hear. She came a second time. And then you, without thinking, lowered her leg and picked her up in your arms. Her back was pressed against the wall, her arms wrapped around your neck. Your hands spread her thighs wide, pinning her knees against the wall as you pounded her into an intense frenzy.

"Oh my fucking god!!" Dani screamed, clawing at your back with her nails. "Yes, yes, yes!!" Her screams were getting louder, and you were sure she was crying with pleasure now.

It was incredible considering the temperature in Florence at that moment, but fucking that woman had you sweating like a motherfucker. She enjoyed it three times as much, which was all that mattered to you. But for God's sake, you weren't going to need any cardio for at least two weeks.

"Cum inside me, daddy!" Dani moaned in your ear, no longer knowing what to hold on to. "I can't feel my fucking legs anymore, damn it!"

Panting like a raging bull in the middle of a run, you entered the final stretch of your climax. All your blood rushed down like adrenaline shots, until with a heavy snort, you dug your fingers into the flesh of her thighs and exploded inside her.

"YESSS!!" Dani screamed, cumming at the same time as you. The thick, abundant load you shot inside her only made her moan louder. "Oh my god, I'm going to pass out!"

"Calm your slut ass down," was the first thing you said after all that time. "I don't want to carry a dead weight out of the shower."

Dani held onto you as you emptied your balls inside her and her muscles spasmed. Completely spent, you pulled out of her pussy and let all your cum seep through her folds and spill onto the shower floor like a waterfall.

"Satisfied, darling?" You asked, looking into her eyes closely. Your arms were starting to hurt from carrying her.

"Can't you continue?" Dani asked.

You chuckled, incredulous.

"Unfortunately not," you shook your head. "At least not right now. Forgive me."

"No, silly," Dani stroked the back of your neck. "Nothing to apologize for. It's fine. You did a lot, actually."

"Not enough to quench your slutty thirst, I see."

"I never said I wasn't satisfied, I just asked if you could continue."

"And I already said no, so let's go to fucking bed, please."

"Should we clean the tub?"

You thought about it for a moment. Having to empty the bathtub, clean the floor, pick up the tray, put away what you hadn't eaten, the glasses...

Fuck, what a drag.

"No, save it for tomorrow morning."

"Fair. We'll be here all day, right?"

"That's what I had in mind, yeah."

And that's exactly what happened.

After going to bed that night, you slept a peaceful 10 hours and woke up around 11 a.m. You spent the whole day in the cabin, enjoying the outdoor pool, getting wasted on martinis and negronis, and playing games on your laptop.

By the next morning, you were both ready to catch your respective flights. Dani would be returning to Australia to meet her sister. And your next stop was the terrifying, intimidating, and also exciting Milan Fashion Week. The biggest black sheep moment of your life, potentially.

But you were so fucking ready.

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[noxx-notions]

One Year of Bobbin Lace

One year ago today I made my first piece of lace! I had started seeing videos of lacemaking on tiktok and was amazed because I had never seen it before, and didn't understand how it worked. I decided to just watch one video so I could understand what was happening. But after watching the video, it just clicked in my head and I was like I could do that. I went to a thrift shop and bought a box of pins and a huge spool of mystery thread (i think it is a cotton or linen something, still haven't been able to identify it for sure), and got to work.

My first attempt at a setup was using a foam yoga mat as a bolster pillow

but that did not work for me 😂 I couldn't control the bobbins and it was just too big to be manageable. so instead i switched to the laptop case and thus my first two pieces of lace were made

I then started making my way through the beginner torchon patterns from Jo Edkin's Online Lace School.

In November, I moved from Switzerland where I had been attending grad school back home to the US and updated my lace pillow from a laptop case to a folded piece of felt and got my hands on a few different lace books (the three my library had lol) to start trying out some new things (1, 2,3)

For Christmas, I received a lace pillow and some bobbins and was surprised at how much I improved just with the right equipment

In April I did a bunch of research and got to work making myself a Honiton lace pillow. I loved the process of making it and definitely want to make more in the future.

I joined my local lace group and have attended some events and gotten to meet a lot of great people already and hope that I can start attending more events soon! I'm also hoping to maybe start demonstrating at events later this year and share my love for lace with more people.

What a difference a year makes

(first vs wip)

[buckysouvenir]

guided by her You can’t form words anymore. Just his name — “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky” part 2 of breaking the ice warning: 18+ content a.n.: guys this is 3k words holy shit lmao i got too into it.

The end credits roll, and the only sounds left are the low hum of the TV and the half-finished bowl of popcorn sitting between you.

Bucky’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes.

Not the brooding, lost-in-his-head quiet. This is the awkward kind. The I-have-a-question-and-I-hate-that-I-have-it kind. He keeps fidgeting — thumb tapping his beer bottle, leg bouncing, eyes darting to you, then away.

Of course, you notice.

“Alright,” you say, tossing a piece of popcorn at his chest. “Spill it.”

He catches it without even thinking. “Spill what?”

You give him a pointed look. “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been vibrating since the second act of that movie.”

He hesitates. Looks down at the bottle in his hands like it might save him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he mutters.

“Uh-oh.”

He shoots you a half-hearted glare. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. What’s going on?”

He takes a breath. Then — carefully, like it physically pains him — says, “I don’t know if I know how to do it right.”

You blink. “Do… what?”

He gestures vaguely. “You know. It.”

You stare at him for a beat. Then: “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Buck. There’s a lot of its out there. And we’ve done it. I know you can do that.”

He clears his throat. “With my mouth. On a woman.”

Oh.

You pause. “You’ve never done it?”

“I have,” he says quickly. “Back in the ’40s. Once or twice. But it was… different back then. It wasn’t something people really talked about. I didn’t get feedback, y’know?”

That makes you snort. “Feedback?”

He shrugs, looking a little helpless. “Wasn’t exactly something a girl could shout about in the 1940s. It was more of a… whispered thank-you and don’t-tell-the-neighbors kind of thing.”

You laugh. “I mean, some things evolve, sure. But that? Pretty timeless.”

He gives you a skeptical look.

Your expression softens. “You want to learn how to do it… now? Properly?”

He nods. “I want to be good at it. I want to know what feels good. How to do it right. Not guess.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then nod too. “Alright.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You set your drink down and shift to face him on the couch. “You trust me?”

“Completely.”

“Then let me teach you.”

Your bedroom is warm, softly lit. The bed’s a little messy — naps, laundry, life. It feels real. Lived-in. Comfortable.

Bucky stands by the door like he’s waiting on instructions.

“Come here,” you say, gently.

He crosses the room, and when you sit back against the pillows and pull your dress up, you catch the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

You see it.

“Start with your fingers,” you tell him, sliding your underwear down in one slow movement. “You’ve got control. Use it.”

He settles between your knees on the mattress, one hand braced near your hip, the other hovering.

“Show me where,” he murmurs.

You reach down, wrap your hand around his wrist, and guide him. You press his fingers against your pussy slowly, showing him the right pressure, the right pace.

“Here,” you breathe. “Start soft. Just feel me first.”

His fingers move — slow, tentative. Exploring.

“Like that?”

You nod. “Yeah. Good. Now try… here. A little higher.”

He follows your guidance, adjusting. He watches you closely, expression focused — not just aroused, but focused. Like he’s studying every reaction. Then one finger becomes two. When he slides them down and pushes in, you sigh and your hips lift slightly.

“That’s it, right?” he asks, voice low.

“Mm-hmm. Try curling them. Just a little.”

He does. Your back arches, a moan slipping from your lips.

His eyes widen. “Okay. That’s definitely something.”

“Keep that rhythm,” you pant. “Not too fast.”

He obeys — confidence building with each movement. And when your breath catches, he pauses.

“You okay?”

“Better than okay.”

He grins. “So now the next part?”

You nod, pulling your dress over your head. “Yeah. Mouth.”

He hesitates for just a second, distracted by your breasts. “Talk me through it?”

You lean back, spreading your knees wider. “Start the same way. Slow. Use your tongue like your fingers. Don’t rush.”

He lowers himself, one hand steadying your thigh. He kisses the inside of your thighs like he’s memorizing you. He doesn’t rush. His hands are firm but patient, guiding you open, keeping you steady. When his mouth reaches you, the first touch of his tongue is light — testing. Then firmer, dragging slowly through your folds, matching the rhythm you showed him.

His right hand travels up your body, exploring every inch until it finds your breast. He circles your nipple with his thumb before giving it a gentle squeeze.

You moan, quiet but deep.

“That okay?”

You wrap your hand around the back of his head. “More than.”

He adds his fingers again, moving in sync — tongue circling, fingers curling. He watches your reactions, learning where to press, where to linger. When he finds the spot that makes your hips buck, you let out a breathless “yes, yes, there—” and a low groan of his name.

His eyes flutter closed. He can feel it now — the way your body reacts to each deliberate movement. When he adds just a hint of suction, you gasp and clutch the sheets.

“Good?” he asks, muffled.

“So good,” you choke out. “Keep doing that.”

He does. Keeps going until your thighs are trembling, breath coming in short, erratic gasps, your whole body tensing. The orgasm hits hard — your moans caught in your throat as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until you sag back, chest rising and falling.

When he finally looks up, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes heavy-lidded, he sucks his fingers clean.

“Well?” he asks.

You smile, dazed. “I’d say you’ve definitely caught up with the times.”

You’re still stroking your fingers through his hair when you feel the tension in his shoulders — the uneven rhythm of his breath. He shifts slightly, and it becomes obvious. Very obvious.

Your gaze dips, then returns to his with a smirk. “You’re… uh, clearly enjoying this learning curve.”

He laughs quietly, resting his forehead against your thigh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle, huh?”

“Not even a little,” you say, giving his hair a playful tug. “C’mere.”

He rises, hands gliding up your legs, your waist, until you’re eye to eye. You pull him into a kiss — deep, warm, tasting yourself on his lips. And while you kiss, your fingers slip down to the waistband of his jeans.

He breaks the kiss just enough to whisper, “You don’t have to…”

“I know,” you murmur, already tugging at the zipper. “But I want to.”

His breath stutters as you free him. He’s already hard, throbbing in your hand.

His hands settle on your hips, tentative at first. You guide him to your entrance, tilting your hips to meet him just enough for his tip to find your entrance.

He kisses you again — slower this time, deeper, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck, slipping your fingers beneath his shirt to feel his skin.

He shivers — barely a sound — and it makes you smile.

There’s no rush. He moves inside you carefully, adjusting, tuned to every subtle reaction. When you feel every inch of him inside of you, you part your lips and whisper his name, something in him gives way.

The pace is slow but sure. His forehead presses to yours, breath shaky. You cup his face in both hands.

“You’re doing good,” you whisper.

He smiles, a little shy. Then he starts to move faster. He knows what to do. You’ve done this before.

He’s harder now, closer to losing control.

Your nails rake gently down his back, and your heels hook behind him, pulling him deeper.

His thrusts grow smaller but harder — limited by your grip, but precise. His skin slaps against your clit, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. You can’t form words anymore. Just his name — “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky” — over and over, and it’s more than enough for him to know he’s doing everything right.

As your back arches, he seizes the moment — sucks your nipple into his mouth. You moan louder now. His tongue swirls, his teeth graze, then he closes his mouth around it and sucks hard.

He lets go only to lick between your breasts, up your throat, kissing as he goes. When you tilt your head to give him more space, he kisses your neck. Then bites it. Lightly, then deeper.

You feel it — that tension coiling tight inside you. And he hears it — your racing heart. Super soldier hearing.

He touches his forehead to yours, eyes locking. And when you try to speak — “Bucky, I’m gonna-” — he moves.

He braces on his knees, grabs your legs, and starts thrusting harder than ever.

The sound you make is something you didn’t even know you had in you.

And then it hits. You come. Loud. Wet. Shaking.

But you hold on — because he hasn’t come yet.

“C’mon, Bucky. Please. Cum. Cum for me. Cum inside me. Let it go.”

And he does. Just like you asked.

With a growl. With a flood of heat. With everything he’s got. And you swear you could feel him fill you up.

He stays there on his knees, catching his breath, eyes locked on you as you try to steady yours.

Once you finally calm down, he knows it’s the right moment to slide his hard cock back inside you. Slowly.

You moan at the sensation of him filling you again, your body already craving him. “You know, it really shouldn’t shock me how fast you can get it up again.”

He lets out a hiss as your walls clench around him. “To be honest, I don’t think it softens unless I want it to.”

You laugh breathlessly, “God, Barnes, you’re every girl’s dream.”

He thinks the exact same thing about you—but he won’t dare say it aloud. So he just chuckles softly.

Then he crawls up the bed until he’s eye to eye with you again. His fingers gently brush your hair out of your face, his touch softer now. “You okay?”

You close your eyes and smile, peaceful and full. “Yeah.”

[fennecfoxfavouritefox]

I've been pondering this problem and I think I have a good solution now!

And I get to talk about Zipf's law, which is something that I have been wanting to talk about for a long time now.

Now Zipf's law is an observation that in systems where items in a distribution are more likely to be selected the more that they have already been selected, they tend to follow an inverse distribution, which can be expressed as

Where x_j is the number of instances of the jth most item in the distribution.

Originally, Zipf's law was observed in books for word distribution. In that if you arrange the words from most used all the way down to least used, they follow a Zipf's law, where for b = 1, the second most used word will appear 1/2 as often as the first, and the third most used word will appear 1/3 as often, then 1/4 and so on. Oftentimes a distribution that appears like this is known as Zipfian.

This model very accurately predicts the amount of times the nth word appears.

In other words, if you plot the nth word with it's frequency on a graph, where both axises are logged, the resulting plot should roughly follow a straight line. The most common explanation is that words that are used more are more likely to continue to get used more, and as such, a distribution like this will occur.

Here is a graph courtesy of Wikipedia

Now the cool thing about Zipf's law is that the same idea also applies to Youtube videos. Where the more views a Youtube video gets, the more views it will likely continue to get. So we can take the most viewed Youtube videos, run a linear regression on a log-log graph, and get a pretty good estimate at how many views the nth most viewed video has.

As for the most viewed videos, I found some rando on youtube that painstakingly archived the most viewed videos into a playlist, which I grabbed the viewcounts from then entered them into Desmos.

Here are the 200 most viewed videos on Youtube plotted on a log-log graph.

From the green line, we have a linear regression of the data, the orange line is a quadratic line of best fit, that excludes the first 20 data points because they vary very wildly. The blue line is assuming that b = 1 for an "idealized" Zipfian distribution, although for our data it is very off.

The white line is y = x, where the nth Youtube video has n views. So where these lines intersect the white line is the largest value where there are more than n Youtube videos with n views. From our intersection points, for the orange and green lines, we have estimates that the number that we are looking for is 4 million and 19 million respectively.

Alternatively, we could use the total number of videos and total number of views on Youtube to make a better estimate, since the area under the curve* is the total number of views, and the point in which the curve goes down to 0 is the total number of videos, and using these two pieces of information we can get a much more accurate model. However, these statistics have not been public for a long time now. *This is a discrete distribution, so I technically cannot do this

This is the best answer that I have at the moment, with empirical modelling, instead of thinking about it in my head considering the different types of videos that there are on Youtube, and making an educated guess.

The number for which it becomes false that there are n Youtube videos with more than n views is in the range of 4 to 19 million.

--☐☐☐☐--

Another reason why Zipf's law is fascinating to me is that it also serves as a good model for wealth distribution, as for money, the same criterion applies like in views and words. The more money that someone has, the more likely they are to get more money. So if we arrange the population of say, America, by net worth, and sort them from most to least, and plot each person's wealth on the log-log scale, we should also see a linear line of best fit on this log-log graph.

So if we approximate the US population to 340 million people, and if we assume that our exponent b is 1, that means that our model predicts the top 1% should have around 77% of the country's money. It is difficult to get actual estimates of this value, (maybe sort the most wealthy people in the US into Desmos, and do a regression and see?), The federal reserve bank claims that it is at around 30% which suggests the exponent b is around 0.74. These are just some back of the envelope calculations based on the first data that I was able to find.

I'm not an economist, but this exponent could be used as an indicator of wealth inequality across different countries. Or be used as a leftist rallying cry as this value will tend towards 1 as markets approach complete deregulation. But this is a story for someone else to tell. I'm just shooting my thoughts.

[chunkitakii]

Fluffy headcannon when female reader is in a Jessica Rabbit like red dress and in Lux’s cartoon logic, falls head over heels in love with her and asks her to dance to Frank Sinatra music.

Head over heels in love with this idea!

WARNINGS: There are no warnings except that the reader is fem and uses the women restroom. ALSO, i did go wild on this one so expect it to be longggg. (I was waiting to do something like this request, sorry if this is a lil too long)

I DIDNT PROOF READ THIS SO HAVE FUN YALL

FLUFF UNDER CUT

Im just going to make this as a “first meet with Lux” scenario because i find it best fitting. (sorry if thats not what you are looking for!

ALSO, im basing this off of Jessica Rabbit’s song, Why don’t you do right. But if you want to replace it with a different song, feel free too! I find it weird for me to write the whole singing part out anyways.

You were an all-time singer, running around from clubs, bars, and now theaters. You had sung at many of the bars and clubs; it was a real cash grab. But you had started to get sick of it when drunk or naive men and women started to flirt with you. Telling you how good-looking you were while trying to grab at you like you were a piece of candy.

But there were times when they didn’t flirt with you. Instead, they told you how you could have done better or that you could do better if you started doing full-time shows.

You were flattered, really. But you knew that you couldn’t get that far up the podium. You knew you were good, but you also knew you weren’t that good.

But that all changed when you got a letter from a man you knew well stating that there was going to be a show based on different singers in the area. It wasn’t a contest, just a little show to raise money.

But you had also read in the letter that you would be paid handsomely just for singing. So, you had written a short letter stating that you wouldn’t miss the chance. This was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and like hell you would miss a wad of cash. You could always use a bit of money anyway.

Of course you had to ring up your band; you wouldn’t want to be stingy and do this on your own. After hanging up, you had packed your favorite sparkly dress and matching heels and headed out the door.

You weren’t expecting it to be filled to the brim. You were guessing a lot of folk and singers got invited to this ‘Palazzo’ theater. Cars and people filled the streets around it. You could already see a line forming from the front of it too.

You were just hoping the dressing rooms weren’t as packed.

After hopping out of a pal’s car, you had begun to head inside. You waited only a little for the front to let you in before everyone else, but it was so biggie. They then had given you a number that had the number of when you were performing.

And out of the 25 singers, you stood in the middle of the bunch.

Currently, only the singers and their bands were in the theater to get ready for their performance. You had seen singers of many kinds. You were left in amazement by how many you had seen. There were singers from jazz, a couple of country, a lot of blues, a rock and roll group, and a lot of R&B. You had fit into the blues category; consider what song you were singing.

Your band had to practically drag you away to stop ogling at everyone and get you dressed. They had brought you to the restroom, telling you they were going to warm up before they played alongside you, and parted ways.

You nodded and headed into the restroom. There, there were many beautiful singers. You had felt almost shy when walking in there. But you had come here to get ready, not to stare at many gorgeous women before you.

You put on your dress, storing your other clothes along with someone else’s before touching up your makeup next.

While you did that, many ladies had complimented you, and you had done the same as well. Soon, it was a room full of people complimenting each other. You had almost forgotten to do your makeup.

After finishing up, you headed out towards the stage area where others had waited also. Then, there came more when the clock almost hit performance time.

A lot of them were rushed to get into your groups , trying to get prepared and lined up in order of the performance.

All of you hushed up when the voice of the speaker had announced and had begun their little speech before introducing their first group of singers to the stage.

Many singers along with their bands had passed, and you and your band were the next in line. You would feel anxious, but you had done this many times before. So you had just swayed in the music of the band before you.

Many of the others had begun to quietly dance backstage with each other, while some hushly commented on their performances. However, your band had started to pick up another kind of conversation.

“Did ya’ hear about this place? I heard it was haunted.” “No, it’s not, ya’ big dummy. I heard it was just a little rumor. “ Both of you are wrong. there was a bunch of folk going missin’ in this exact theater—“

“What are you guys on about now?” You questioned them. You took your attention off of the music and onto their silly little conversation.

“You guys didn’t hear? A couple of days ago, 15 people had gone missing here. Police don’t know how they went missin’, and neither does the owner, apparently.” One of them states, trying to keep their voice down.

They then leaned in forward, beckoning you and the others to do the same. All of you had now moved forward, waiting for what he was about to say next.

“But, just like knucklehead over here said, there were sayings that a figure was spotted around the windows of the theater.” They finally stated it before backing up.

You couldn’t help but feel just a bit scared; ghosts weren’t your thing. One of your friends then jabbed up. “Now you’ve got me the heebie-jeebies. You even got our singer scared too, idiot.”

You looked back up to see them now chuckling quietly at him and your reaction to the news. “Oh hush, you. It is all fake news!” you scolded them in a hushed tone. “We are about to be next on the stage; now quit fooling around with your nonsense.” You continued jokingly, a smile cracking on your face while you and your band got ready as the song had begun to end.

After a few quiet moments, you and your band were introduced before closing the curtains. That had given you enough time to get on the stage and mentally prepare yourselves.

And as the red silk curtains began to open, it was now your turn in the spotlight.

(It gives me hardcore flashbacks of cringy Wattpad stories if i write out the whole scene, so let your mind run wild.)

At first, he didn’t know if he would like the little show that played in front of him as he sat in the projector booth. He had been told by Mr. Reginald Pye that today was a showcase for the best singers. At first, he thought that maybe he could immortalize everyone in film. With all of the people coming in, it would be his new high score. But dagnabbit, if the old guy hadn't pleaded for him not to do that, he would have just made you all a bunch of film strip décor by now.

So now, he had to sit in the booth with him and watch the singers and band perform. But besides being all prissy about the whole 'immortalized' bit, he actually quite liked the music. He sort of felt excited to see who was on next.

The curtains closed, and the announcer walked back on stage to tell some jokes. But this wasn't a comedy show, and he was getting impatient. But as quick as the announcer was on stage, the quicker he was to say the name of the new singer and run off.

That name he spoke, it had rolled off the tongue and had a nice ring to it. He couldn't help but repeat the name of it; it had felt nicer than hearing that man say it.

And soon enough, before the curtains began to open. The sound of a sweet, melodic voice was heard. It was angelic, and boy did it make the audience sit up in their chairs, waiting for the curtains to open. He couldn't help but do so too.

And to everyone's wishes, the red soft curtains had begun to open. That had seemed to give the singer the cue to continue. Now giving the audience a full glimpse of you.

Your voice was like silk, smooth and soft. Somber yet loud. Your soft movements as you sang were entrancing. Flowing through the theater air like a delicate feather.

The music that played behind had complimented you and your singing. Making the music seem more enhanced than it originally was. Many of the folk in the audience thought so too.

When you had made your entrance, many men from the audience wooped and wooed, including him. He gave out many whistles; they were similar to wolf whistles that had brought the men around him to do the same.

He didn't know what came over him. He didn't feel any different when the woman screamed and fainted over that one hot-shot, Elvis or something.

It was like he was possed or something, entranced with you. He would be embarrassed if he didn't realize that Reginald Pye was watching him the whole time.

His eyes were hearts, so was his intenea. He leaned forward towards the edge of the window. At first, Pye was worried that he was going to get caught by the people below. But seeing how many people kept of paying attention to the singer before them, it eased his nerves.

Lux couldn't help but see all of the audiences look down, wanting to see if he was the only fool acting like he was. And how he was wrong.

But he didn’t know if it amused him or angered him. Watching all of those men practically drool at you and the women ogle at you and your mesmerizing dress, sparkling against the lights above. And how your eyes sparkled like jewels under the moonlight.

And how he dreamed of catching you alone.

And he will get you; he is the god of light. And you are a shining star; of course he will.

After the whole performance, you had received many compliments about you and your voice. You had even gotten more offers to sing at other clubs around the area. And like what the letter said, you got paid handsomely, and so did many other singers and bands.

Everyone had begun to pack up and leave with their wad of cash stuffed in their pockets. The audience had left first so the bands could leave without a packed theater. Soon, the parking lot was only halfway full.

Your band was going to drive you back to your place; they didn't want to leave you walking home at night, so they offered. Plus, you still had your dress on. Chances are someone would rob you.

Getting your clothes in the restroom, you had begun to walk back to the parking lot along with everyone else. You gave a light stretch and put your clothes in the car as the others began to get it. Until one of them realized something.

"Hey, wait. Didn't you have your pocketook with ya' when you came in? Where is it?" "Oh, don't tell me someone already got their hands on it and robbed ya'..." Two of your band members spoke up. Reminding you that you had a purse beforehand. You could have sworn you put it up. Maybe it got knocked over and you had forgotten.

"No, I didn't get robbed." Hopefully. "I probably just misplaced it somewhere. Wait here a sec. I'm going back in to find it. You spoke as you began to head back in the theater.

"I'll come with; I don't want your pretty self getting snatched." One of the others piped in but got a slight shake of your head. "No, it is fine. Nobody but the cleaners and the projectionist are in there. I'll be fine!" You shouted as you went into the theater doors.

It was quiet in the place; you sort of missed the loud music that once played in here. You now could only hear your heels and the shuffling of your dress.

You had spotted a man, who you assumed was the projectionist, that stood right next to the door of the main theater. "Excuse me! Sorry to interrupt you, but did you see a purse lying around here somewhere?" You asked them, stopping him from doing whatever he was doing. You saw him look up to see who was talking to them; it sort of made you sad when you noticed that you gave him a bit of a fright. As he looked at you, you saw them give you a full head-to-toe look. It didn't seem judgmental, so you didn't pay any attention to it.

However, you did notice the man looking sort of worried. He looked at you inside the theater and then back to you. He was unsure what to say but conjured up a response before it became too awkward.

"Oh um, yes, yes I did see a purse. I had noticed it on the stage right over there.” He spoke, moving to the side to show you where it was. And lo and behold, there it was. But something felt off. You didn’t leave your purse on the stage; you originally thought you had left it stashed in the restroom somewhere. Not all the way out here. Now you were getting paranoid. Was someone playing a prank on you? Or are you going to get attacked in this theater right now?

“Thank you, kind sir.” You said to the man before walking into the theater. You were hoping for the man to follow you. But when you turned around, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Now you were getting scared.

You stepped down the steps, one after another. The stage in which your purse had gotten closer. And your anxiety had spiked. You were just having a good time; you weren't ready for this shit.

Your purse was within arm's length; you could feel the blood rushing through you. You were sort of waiting for a man to reach out and grab you behind the curtains.

But nothing came. Instead, the sounds of shoes tapping filled the room.

It had scared you; you let out a sharp gasp. You didn't even get to retrieve your bag before the sounds continued. They filled each part of the theater. Your head had quickly shot up to each end the sound came from, but you didn't see a thing in sight.

Maybe this was a prank by some people who are either jealous of your performance, or just want your money. You shouldn’t be surprised by the number of times this did happen to you. You did perform in bad parts of this area.

But something came to mind: what your pal had said before the performance, about the 15 people missing in this very theater. The very theater you are now standing in. Maybe your foolish friends were right; maybe this place is haunted. And you didn't have time to see a dead man walking around; you had people waiting outside for you. To hell with this place.

You took a deep breath and turned back around to grab your purse without a time to spare. But before you set your eyes upon your bag, something in front of you catches your gaze first. In fact, this blue thing was so close, it was the only thing you could see. "Oh me, oh my! Aren't ya’ just the prettiest thing I've ever set my eyes on!"

You heard the thing in front of you call out. You let out a shriek at it; it had caught you off guard at one of the worst times ever, of course you would. You stumbled back, trying to put some space between you and it. And now that you backed up, you finally got a good look at this thing.

It had seemed familiar, like you had seen this thing before. It was blue with antennas and a pig's nose. It had a yellow hat and a colorful suit. And the thing that spooked you even more was that it was 2D. The more you had looked at it, the more you had mentally put the pieces together. This was that famous cartoon, one of the first cartoons to even have color!

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you! I just couldn’t help but take a good look at you up close!” The toon spoke as it put a hand on its heart in an apologetic manner. But he couldn’t help but laugh at your shocked little face. Once so full of fear, now in a state of shock. Not a word came from you as you continued to stare; this was getting awkward for him.

Trying to keep his composure, he bent down and grabbed your purse from the stage. The toon then walked closer to the edge of the stage, bending over to hand you the bag. “It seems as if you had forgotten something. It would be a shame to lose such a beautiful bag for such a beautiful lady such as you.” He teased as he stretched his hand more outwards to you.

The toon’s response brought you out of your shocked daze. You quickly shut your gaping mouth and composed yourself as you muttered out a soft ‘thank you’ to it. You couldn’t help but feel your face warm up at his compliment. Which was weird because you had gotten them all the time from men. And never once did you feel this shy, maybe because you were talking to a literal toon.

Slowly, you had taken a step forward towards the toon, scared that he was going to pull something. However, he had just looked down at you with curious eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a scaredy-cat. I don’t bite, unless you want me too, that is…” The toon flirted. You would slap it, but you still felt weary about the whole thing.

And before you knew it, your hand grazed your purse, wrapping your hand fully around it. Along with it, you touched the tip of the toon's hand. It felt warm, warm like pure sunlight. It sort of made you fuzzy inside.

You instantly pulled your purse back and away from its hand. You had also felt the coon try and lean into your touch, a simple strategy men used to try and feel the ladies' hands before they pulled away. It was a flirtatious manner, something to make their ladies all flustered. You would be a liar if that toon's action didn't work.

This was one sly toon…

You had cleared your throat, trying to ease yourself. You had sort of wanted to get to know this ‘gentleman’ before you. Or, well, this toon before you.

“Uhm, thank you for your kind gesture… May I have your name?” You softly spoke out to the living toon. You had seen the toon smile even brighter than before, like it was glad you asked. To him, he found it adorable how you were once so confident on stage. But with him, you couldn’t even keep eye contact, and your voice was quiet and soft, unlike how it was beforehand.

But now, he had to introduce himself now that you asked for his ‘name.’ And before you knew it, the toon had sprung out and started singing by the lines of ‘I’m Mr. Ring-a-Ding!’ It was goofy, the way the toon sang and how he danced. You couldn’t help but let out a giggle.

Soon, he finished the song and looked down back at you. He felt a sort of pride when you had let out a giggle and applauded him. Hopefully by the end of this, he will have you wrapped around his 2D finger like how you did with him.

Standing upright again, he adjusted his coat and leaned down towards you once more. “And who might you be, sunshine?” He questioned, taking off his hat to give you his full attention. It was weird how you felt shy under his gaze, but you tried not to pay too much attention to it. He didn’t really need your name; he already knew it when the performer announced it. He just wanted to hear it from your pretty little mouth.

You had then given ‘Mr. Ring-a-Ding’ your name as you bowed your head down to him. You could hear him repeat your name; it rolled off his lips like a prayer. It was soft and airy; it made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

The toon hopped off of the stage and strutted towards you. You could feel his three-fingered hand grab onto yours. He leaned forward, bringing it up to his face. “Well, it sure is a pleasure to meet a beautiful soul like you…” He rasped out before planting a soft kiss on your knuckles.

Both his lips and hand were warm; it made you all hot and flustered. His confident attitude made you feel like a teenage girl. You really shouldn’t feel this way considering you get this most of the time at clubs. And the fact that he is a pig/bug cartoon doesn’t help your case.

Mr. Ring then had to pry himself off of you but still held your hand. Not wanting to let you go, afraid you were going to evaporate into thin air. You tried to maintain eye contact, but that had failed miserably. “I-I have to get back. I have my pal’s waiting for me.” You stuttered; you needed to get back, but you were afraid of not seeing him again.

You saw Mr. Ring’s face falter; a now sad look appeared. “So soon? But we’ve just met!” He pried, trying to get you to try and change your mind. But he felt a sort of tug as you tried to pull your hand back, but he still had a grip on you. It wasn’t a possessive type of grip, but it was like a yearning type of grip. He had still wanted to talk to you, get to know you.

“I apologize, Mr. Ring-a-Ding. But I had informed my friends that I wouldn’t be gone for much longer.” “Ahh, to heck with your friends! It’s not like you get to see a living cartoon every day!” He nagged, now trying to figure out a way to get you to stay a little longer. He could trap you in film, but why would a gentleman like himself would do that? He had to come up with something.

And before he knew it, a light bulb had appeared over his head, which had momentarily shocked you seeing that. Mr. Ring’s hand softened around yours as he raised his other hand. A loud ‘Snap!’ was heard from him, it sort of made you curious what he was trying to do. You couldn’t think much of it when you heard soft, melodic music play from behind you. It was a classic, it was the famous Frank Sinaltra playing.

This toon had taste.

“Before you go, I would like this moment to last a lil’ while longer. Can’t a toon like me get at least one dance from a beautiful lady, such as yourself?” The toon asked. Moving his body to the side, his other arm folded behind him as the other raised your hand up. He was wanting to dance, and you weren’t sure if you could dance with a 2-3 foot toon.

But hey, it’s a first for everything. And you would be rude if you said no.

“Sure, I’ll give you a dance, Mr. Ring-a-Ding.”

Boy, how he mentally fan-girled when he say you walking up to his bait.

By bait, he means stealing the purse from where you had originally put it and lured you back into the theater. But he didn’t mean no harm by it!

Plus, Lux loves a good Frank Sinatra song to dance with!

[pascalisnopunk]

The Things He Doesn’t Say - Joel Miller x reader

Hi everyone. I got a really bad cold, that inspired me to write this little piece on Joel today. I hope you enjoy reading it!

Also! I would be open to taking requests! So if you have an idea in mind, if I feel like it's something I could write I would love to make it come to life. So feel free to ask!

The Things He Doesn’t Say

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, illness, slow burn, mutual pining, age gap, Joel being emotionally constipated but deeply caring Word Count: ~2,100 Summary: You’re sick. Miserably so. And while no one else seems to notice, Joel Miller does. Not with words. Not with grand gestures. Just small things.

The Things He Doesn't Say

You’re not dying, technically. But it sure as hell feels close.

Your head is pounding, your sinuses are cement, and your nose is somewhere between faucet and faucet that’s been punched repeatedly in the face. You’ve been sneezing so much you’ve gone hoarse, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t felt your fingertips in hours. Still, you show up to your shift at the mess hall because Jackson doesn’t run on sympathy.

“Hey,” a voice calls low behind you, just as you’re lifting a pot of stew onto the warmer. “You look like hell.”

You blink slowly, turning.

Joel Miller.

You feel even worse all of a sudden.

Of course it’s him. Of all people to see you like this, hair frizzed under a beanie, red-nosed, puffy-eyed, wrapped in three layers and still shivering, it has to be the one man in town you wish would see you as something other than an acquaintance.

You sniff hard. “Charming as always, Miller.”

He just stares at you. Flat expression, arms crossed.

“You sick?”

You consider lying. Then cough. Wet and awful and completely unhideable.

“Maybe a little,” you rasp.

He eyes you. “Shouldn’t be workin’.”

You shrug. “Tell that to the mashed potatoes.”

Joel doesn’t reply. Just makes a small noise in his throat and walks away. You sigh. That’s the end of it, you figure.

It’s not.

Fifteen minutes later, you see him again. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks up beside you and sets something on the counter before stepping back.

It’s a thermos. Old, scratched metal. Still steaming.

You stare. “What’s this?”

“Tea.”

You blink. “You made me tea?”

Joel shrugs, eyes fixed on something a thousand yards behind your head. “Didn’t make it. Maria had some dried stuff. Said it’s good for fevers.”

You unscrew the cap. The scent hits you immediately, mint, maybe something floral. It burns your nose a little. You sip, and it’s scalding and sharp, but it’s the first thing you’ve been able to taste all day.

You look at him.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs again. “Just, don’t collapse on the stew. No one wants sick soup.”

You smile, faint. “I’ll try to aim for the rolls.”

Joel huffs. Not quite a laugh. But close.

Then he disappears again.

That night, you don’t eat in the mess hall. You barely make it back to your cabin without wheezing. You climb into bed fully clothed, burrito yourself in three quilts, and lie there trembling. Your fever is worse now. Your bones ache. Your teeth chatter. You’re in the kind of half sleep that doesn’t count, somewhere between consciousness and fever dream, when you hear it.

A knock.

You think maybe it’s in your head until it happens again. You groan, shove the covers off your face, and stumble to the door.

It’s Joel. Of course it’s Joel.

He’s holding a plastic container. Steam fogs the inside.

“I brought you soup,” he says.

You blink at him.

“Leftover. Not from the hall,” he adds, like you might turn him away over a ladle of reused stew. “It’s different.”

You don’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “You walked across town in the snow to bring me soup?”

Joel shifts. “Don’t make it a thing.”

Your voice is soft. “Too late.”

He watches you. The wind cuts between you both, cold enough to burn. And you see something in his face shift, like he’s weighing whether to leave you standing there.

Then: “Can I come in?”

You step aside.

You don’t sit across from him. You sit next to him. On the edge of your bed, curled up in a quilt, blowing on each spoonful as he watches you too closely. It’s good soup. Thicker than the stuff at the hall. Potatoes, bits of carrot. Maybe some kind of meat.

“You made this?” you ask between sips.

He nods once. “Taught Sarah how when she was little.”

Your throat aches, but not from the cold this time.

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

Joel shrugs, eyes on the mug in his hands. “Don’t anymore.”

You look at him. Quiet for a long time.

“I always thought you didn’t like me,” you admit.

Joel glances at you. “What?”

You laugh, weakly. “I don’t know. You barely talk. You act like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t talk to anyone.”

“Exactly.”

He shifts. Looks down at the mug again.

“Wasn’t about not likin’ you,” he says after a beat. “It’s about, not knowin’ how.”

You look at him, your voice soft. “How to like someone?”

“No,” Joel says. “How to show it.”

Something twists in your chest. You set the soup down carefully and pull your knees up, watching him over the blanket.

“You’re showing it now,” you say.

Joel doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away.

You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. His eyes flick down to the touch, then back up.

“Thank you,” you say again, quieter this time. “For the tea. The soup. For not letting me freeze alone in here.”

He lets out a long breath. “Didn’t feel right. You bein’ alone.”

You nod. “It didn’t feel right either.”

He looks at you, really looks at you. And for a second you think he might touch your hand. Might brush his fingers over yours. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stands. Gathers the dishes. Clears his throat.

“I should let you sleep.”

You nod, trying not to look disappointed. “Right.”

He walks to the door. Opens it. Then hesitates.

“You need anything tomorrow,” he says, not facing you, “just knock.”

“I will.”

He pauses again. “Even if it’s not about the cold."

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

Joel glances back at you once before leaving.

He doesn’t say goodnight. But you sleep easier anyway.

I realized that I have a tendency to make Joel a bit... hard and emotionally constipated in my fics. I'm not sure why, this is how I truly feel this man would act in these situations. I think he has long forgotten how it is to have a romantic partner, I mean he couldn't even do it with Tess. Soooo..... let me know how you feel about that

[rebornexplorer]

full honesty i think this criticism is insanely ....off??

I think people forget that this is a game made by an American - so there's going to be a lot of cultural differences that are..fairly normal in a lot of parts in America?

Granted, I don't know if the person posting the tags is American or not - but maybe its like, more of a southern us thing to invite a guest to church .

It's not "really creepy" to invite a guest to church, it, again, entirely a cultural thing. Toriel is going to church, she doesnt want to just up and leave susie alone, so she invites her to come. She's not trying to force Susie into it - she asks her - giving her an out.

As for the clothes, it's not really that Tori is saying that Susies clothes are bad..? In general, it's just another cultural thing - you dress nice when you go to church - but from a character standpoint, Toriel wants to give Susie a slightly nicer outfit than what she was wearing in the first place. (Er, it really wasn't a big improvement, but at least the jeans didn't have tears in them. ) - It was really more to emphasize that Toriel is very motherly in nature.

I really think that Toriel is just trying to care for this very clearly neglected child, and in that, could be unconsciously "replacing" asriel with susie.. so she really may just be missing having someone to take care of. But it really isn't entirely unusual for parents to make their away-at-college childs room into a guest room/let guests use their bed (worded weirdly, I hope the point went across) - This has happened to my sisters partner - their parents also made their room into a guest room - so it does happen.

It could also just be..that susie is kris's friend? If a spare bed is available, you're going to want to let a guest use it if you can. It's not like asriel is dead, or anything.

Okay and for the last thing im going kind of insane over - When Kris and Susie wanted to go home, Tori was at the grocery store. (you get this piece of dialogue from talking to her after she rolls over on the floor) That's how she ran into sans. So no, she was not at home with sans. she was at the grocery store!!!!

(also for the falling over drunk thing, to be fair - tori is older. when you get older your alcohol tolerance gets worse, and she also probably has not had a good amount of wine in awhile? So she may not have known her limits. and also she could just be like that, lol. I know it's more likely to be drunkeness, but..eh.. honestly i roll over on the floor laughing like, all the time - completely sober. I'd imagine if I was even a little drunk I'd be tipping over all the time.)

I think its fine if any of these things make y'all uncomfortable, but I personally find these analyses to be kind of overly biased for what they actually mean for the characters and what they're supposed to be written like.

The Deltarune version of the Undertale characters are extremely frustrating and I find that interesting.

Asgore is such a tone deaf loser it's hard to feel bad for him sometimes. Sans is extremely mean to Kris at the end of Ch4 for no reason (he has to know how inappropriate he's being when the Teenager With Divorced Parents Is Trying To Sleep In The Next Room), Papyrus is absent so he can't be annoying, Undyne is ACAB, and my defenses for Alphys run out in Deltarune bc she's so annoying in it. Only MTT is interesting and he too does not show his face

I think partly it and other new characters just show this "the adults suck and don't care" side of the story that helps with the themes of feeling neglected and running to fantasy and having to solve problems themselves. It's not just the Undertale-mirrors that suck, it's most of the adults.

There's this pervasive anxiety that "No one cares and you will be forgotten". Kris feels neglected. Noelle feels neglected. Susie feels neglected. Ralsei feels neglected. All the secret bosses are neglected.

it's just trying to be realistic/forward the themes but I just have to say that the scene at the end of Ch4 at Kris' felt more wrong than the stuff with the Titans and Gerson's statue/corpse. And with everything we were doing to save Toriel too!

The ugly reality is more unpleasant than Dreamworld horror. No wonder these kids want to run away so bad.

Poor kid

[yup-thats-me]

— Cry • S. Mingi

𐙚pairing; ❝idol!fwb!mingi x fem!reader❞ 𐙚summary; ❝He's destined to make you cry and maybe you're to be blamed❞ 𐙚warning; ❝ANGST, fwb, no aftercare (don't do this irl), cheating, asshole mingi, ❞𐙚a/n; ❝madly recommend you listen to Cry the other person's pov by Sally Kim.❞

₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Mingi is punctual. Punctual about his mannerisms and of his schedule. It does not matter if just minutes prior you two had made love, the one where both of you see the pearly gates of heaven, he has to leave. He will leave.

❝Its making you cry❞

After spending endless hours of tangled beneath the sheets, Mingi will always be the one to get up first. He'd hand you a glass of water, lazily putting on his shirt.

"You have to leave?"

Mingi looks at you as if you're possessed. "Of course I have to," he answers with a scoff.

"No strings attached, remember?"

No strings attached, three words that perfectly round up your relationship with the singer.

Catching Song Mingi's eye is something many people fantasize about, and you were no different. Falling for him was the best thing that could've happened to you, you swear.

Years of fanning over the man, giggling like a teenager when he posts those insane pics on social media, his deep voice stirring up something primal inside you. It was all fate.

It has to be.

So when one fateful morning the singer drops by the cafe you worked at for a temporary solution for his headache, you swear it has to be fate. Trying your utmost to be composed, you had taken his order, shaky hand writing his name on the paper cup.

And when you had handed him the drink. his hand had lingered for a second longer. Just a second longer for your mind to wander places. Had he noticed you? Does he think you're pretty?

All those wishful thinking stops when Mingi replies with short "thanks" before he's out the glass door again.

You tell yourself that of course, he didn't notice you. How, moreover why would he. He can have anyone he wants, he's just that great. Although your heart ached at the dream of something more, you console yourself that at least you got to see him.

And yet, your heart skipped a beat when he enters the cafe again in the afternoon. This time he gives you a small nod with a smile; and you would've died a happy woman.

If not for the fact that when he left this time, he slipped a small piece of paper to you across the counter. He had winked, smirking as he left.

And that was days ago. 152 days to exact.

"Friends with benefits, you know," Mingi had shrugged when you two first slept together in that god-forsaken hotel room.

You could almost hear your heart breaking into a million pieces. Fuck buddies. That was what you two were, essentially.

Throat drying up, it was nearly impossible to nod when Mingi looked at you for a reply. "Y-yeah," you croaked out.

Mingi got up, handing you a random drink that came with the room amenities. Whatever it was, it felt bitter on your tongue. The taste of heartbreak and tears.

"So," Mingi started again, "I'll call you. Be in touch."

He kissed you before he left the room coming back again. And like an idiot, you thought he'd come back to say he was kidding. Say that he indeed saw you as something precious, not disposable.

"The room's paid for. Don't worry."

Of course.

At present, you lean against the headboard, the duvet wrapped tightly around your body, eyes following the man as he got dressed.

"Who was she?"

Mingi stops for a minute. "Oh," he remembers now who you're referring to.

"My girlfriend."

❝You're taking all my light.❞

He says with such nonchalance that it almost hurts. Almost.

"Oh," You nod as if your heart is not breaking, as if the tears are not begging to be let out. As if what he said did not completely and utterly break you. "How long have you been together?"

Mingi counts up the months in his palm. "Three."

And you've been sleeping around for five months now. You were about to voice your thought but the man beats you to it.

"Funny story actually," he chuckles. "I met her in your cafe. She was sitting alone and looked so pretty. Had to shoot my shot."

❝Can you just stay?❞

Gathering up whatever pieces you could, you try. "Can you stay?" You swallow to pit forming in the back of your throat. "Just for this night?"

Mingi looks worried as he strides over to your side of the bed. "You sick?" He asks taking your temperature with the back of his palm.

You shake your head, sitting up straight. "No, not sick. Just...a bit down."

"Then I can't," the singer shakes his head with a sigh.

"You can't stay? Just for the night?"

"I can't!" His voice getting a bit louder. "I have a girlfriend, Y/n."

"...Right."

Mingi sighs. "Look, you stay in the hotel for the night. If anything happens, text me. Don't call."

You nod, struggling to keep the tears at bay. "All right." And he leaves the room.

❝I'll wait.❞

It had been a week after his last visit. Although he kept in touch with short texts, it felt more suffocating. Watching all the couples walk past the cafe, holding hands and giggling, your heart ached more.

Was it really fate? Has it always been so cruel? Or was it just you, nobody could tell.

And as if on cue, Mingi walks past, his hand slung over his girlfriend. You didn't know how long you would've kept staring if not your phone going off with a buzz. Mingi.

"Tonight. xxx-hotel"

It was not even about the sex anymore. He chose the hotel, chose the day and you complied. Always did.

Mingi used you like a toy, coming day after day just to empty himself out. And you hated yourself for letting him. But when his hands treads your hair gently for a fraction of a minute when he finished, you crave it more and more; letting it kill you.

❝You'll only make me cry.❞

do not copy, translate or steal my work on any other sites. All rights belongs to yup-thats-me™ on tumblr

⋆.˚reqs are open⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

[gothicfied]

I SLIT MY OWN THROAT JUST TO SEE IF YOU'D MOURN ME

Pairing: Héctor Fort x fem!reader, toxic situationship

Summary: While Héctor keeps you on your toes about your relationship, telling you that he loves you, amongst other things, he can't quite seem to commit to you. To him, it's all no-strings-attached, but you want more and you end up hurting your own feelings in the process.

Word Count: ~4.3k (oops, not again)

Reading Time: ~17 Minutes

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, mentions of sex and hooking up, mentions of alcohol and drinking, heavy swearing, Héctor turns into a real asshole at the end, he makes reader cry, reader knows something has to change but doesn't try to change anything, complicated mess of feelings on both sides, no hopeful ending, not proof read (english isn't my first language)

A/N: BOAHHHHH we lowkey gotta execute all of portugal rn. GERMANY WTF????? Wie kann man so eine BESCHISSENE PISS ZWEITE HALBZEIT SPIELEN🫩 I already kinda knew we were losing when I saw 3-4-3 and Waldemar Anton with Robin Koch in the defense. WE LET A GRANDPA SHOOT A GOAL WHAT IS WRONG WITH US (yes, Ronaldo is not my goat)???? This was finished in rage, so excuse any angry spelling mistakes, but we just lost in the most embarrassing way. Word Cup, here we come (we'll still win, of course)! On a diffrent note tho: It was really fun writing for Héctor. He's probably one of the prettiest men I've ever seen in my life. Also, I'm 100% sure he's a very sweet guy who wouldn't do something like in this fic lmao lmk if y'all want a part 2 with a happier ending! Inspiration for this was this song👇

Those beautiful eyes. Big, tantalizing, brown eyes that you seemed to get lost in every time you saw them. And, it didn't matter that you were just looking at a picture of him. You could stare at him for hours and not get bored of it. If he would let you.

You and Héctor met just a couple months ago in the streets of Barcelona. To be honest, you didn't know who he was — And he didn't expect you to. The minute he layed his eyes on you he knew you were perfect: Mostly because your biggest interest wasn't football. You were a fresh breeze in his life, finally someone who wasn't connected to his career. To you, though, it was probably the coolest thing to have a professional football player like you. Héctor is tall, talented, easy to talk to... You like the fact that he works out and surrounds himself with good people. His first impression was perfect, it was natural to fall in love with him.

If things could've stayed that way, you wouldn't be here right now. You'd be beside him, in his bed, looking at the real thing. As the situationship progressed, you realized that Héctor was different deep down. He wasn't this charming young man social media makes him out to be (because, of course, the first thing you did was stalk him on the internet to see what people had to say about him).

Soon enough, you took notice that he treats hou more like a side piece than a girl he's interested in. You're good enough to take out, mostly to parties, and for sex, but that was kind of it. Then, when you were back home, you'd watch tiktoks of fan interactions Héctor had and wondered why he didn't treat you with the same amount of respect.

There's phases of love bombing, meaning he'll send you flowers to your doorstep, invite you over to his house to cook together or buys you expensive things you wouldn't ask for, but those are followed by weeks of silence. Like right now. All you can do is stare at the screen, pictures of you two together and text messages from two days ago:

"You're so beautiful, mi amor."

"I want to take you to training with me."

"I love you."

He loves you. You hold onto those three little words for a long time.

...

"Oh my god, seriously, you need to get a grip girl." Your best friends voice rung out of your phone. "What do you mean?"

You were currently sitting at your vanity, getting ready for... something. You didn't know what it was yet, but something was telling you that Héctor would text you.

"What I mean? Are you crazy?" Calling Mia for advice on this situation always gave you a reality check. She'd never lie to you or coddle you and that's exactly what you needed. You wanted to not care about his attention so much, but it was like your body yearned for it. "That boy has you wrapped around his finger and he didn't even need to do anything." Carefully, you curled your eyelashes while listening to Mia go on and on about your situationship. "And still, he won't respect you."

"How is he not respecting me?"

"Girl..."

"What?"

"All this hanging out and hooking up and he still hasn't asked you to be his girlfriend? You know he meets up with other girls too, right?"

Of course you knew. Hearing that out of somebody else's mouth hit a bit too hard, though. You sighed and stared at yourself in the mirror, a weird feeling suddenly settling in your stomach. That was, until you heard a ping from your phone. With a gasp, you quickly grabbed it and heard Mia groan in annoyance on the other end of the line.

"I'll pick you up in 15, be ready."

"See, I told you he'd text!" You continued to do your makeup gingerly and all giggly. Even if your best friend didn't like what Héctor was doing with you and thought that you were a bit too naïve, she let it slide. This time. At no point you thought Mia was jealous of you, though. Other friends always made it sound like she was trying to get in between of your relationship with Héctor, mostly because he's a footballer bla bla bla, but, the truth is, you know. You know that the dynamic between you and the boy isn't ideal, you know that he's probably just toying with your feelings and you know that you should call this thing off. But you can't. And you won't.

Héctor, even if his feelings were bipolar towards you, never made you feel used. Whenever he's take you out to one of his friend's functions he'd introduce you properly and keep his arm around your waist. He made it all seem very normal and that was perhaps what made you so attached.

There's been nights where you cried yourself to sleep over rumors in your friendgroup about a new girl he's seeing or over the fact that he wouldn't text you. You'd never dare to double text, so if he left you on delivered, you were of course being petty. You ask yourself: Am I not good enough? What do other girls have that I don't? Why would he go for her and not me? What you didn't see was, that you were never the problem in the first place.

Teenage love is hard to swallow. Especially when considering that you both were almost 20. Mia thought this was highschool drama, but to you it was very real. Héctor would never deny your feelings whenever you opened up to him (which has happened like two times only), but he'd also never change. He gave you the feeling of being loved unconditionally. And it was addicting admittedly.

...

Like many times before in the last ten minutes, you were checking yourself out in your mirror. Mia had hung up just a few minutes before and your room felt cold and alone. Why were you sulking now? Did her words really hit home that close? You should be happy Héctor's coming over!

You were lying to yourself and you knew that. If only you could—

The sound of your doorbell ripped you out of your thoughts. The heavy feeling on your chest was lifted immediately when you grabbed your bag and ran down the stairs. Luckily, your parents were away for the weekend, which means if anything else would happen at your place...

Carefully, you opened the front door as to not seem so excited at Héctor's presence. Your eyes immediately fell to his hands which held a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He looked rather nonchalant about it, but the second his eyes found your face, they lit up like firework.

"Hey, princesa." He grinned as he called you the nickname, immediately pulling you in for a hug. His arms rested on your waist when he did so. It took you a moment to reciprocate the gesture, your hands resting on his chest. When pulling away, Héctor pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, which left you absolutely breathless... even though nothing had happened yet.

"These.. are your favorites, right?" Holding out the bouquet, you took it from his hands and grinned. "Yes.. yes they are. They're beautiful, thank you!" This wasn't anything new. After a long period of not meeting up, he's always have some sort of gift with him. Either your favorite snack, jewelry you mentioned liking before or, well, flowers. Héctor payed attention to detail, which made it harder for you to believe he didn't love you. There had to be something behind all of this, right?

On the way to your favorite stargazing spot, the footballer couldn't help but compliment you every minute.

"You look really pretty tonight."

"You've said that like five times by now."

"What? I can't compliment my girl no more?"

While you guys laughed about the situation, your brain couldn't help but replay Héctor's words in your mind. His girl. He called you his girl. If this wasn't a clear sign, then what is?

"I'm really sorry I couldn't make more time for you, by the way." Héctor sighed, absentmindedly skipping some songs on the playlist he put on. "Yeah, don't worry about it, I know you're busy." Obviously, you couldn't expect him to make time for you during the busiest time of the season. The last few games were on the horizon and you knew how important the sport was to him. "I shouldn't be too busy for you, tho! Like... ugh." You giggled at his frustration.

For the remainder of time, a comfortable silence settled between the two of you. You just watched him drive, which was really attractive in your mind. Héctor has called you his passenger princess before. Oh, seriously, how could this guy not be in love with you. It was almost impossible, especially with the way you put so much work into your appearance, or the way you behave around him (you know, not to seem so obsessed) and stuff. Unfortunately, you'd do anything for quiet moments like these as long as they're with him.

And a night out stargazing spot with Héctor always meant making out on the hood of his car.

...

Quietness. Warmth. Comfort. Those were all things you felt while laying next to him right now. Nothing happened tonight — Meaning no sex, that is. Héctor said, this wasn't the type of meet up for that. He wanted to savor the time he had with you tonight, that's all. He wanted to talk about everything, god and the world and maybe also why he's mad at the world right now.

It was natural to let him sleep over, especially when that meant he's hold you close while you slept. Héctor's arms around you always made you feel safe, like you didn't need anything else in the universe.

On one hand, it did make you extremely happy that this seemed to be more meaningful to him, on the other hand you didn't know why. You were suspicious... suspicious if he was feeling guilty about something and felt like he needed to make it up to you. Cheating, maybe. But, would it really be cheating if you weren't officially a thing? No, you had no right to call it that.

Héctors breath on your neck grounded you in reality again. Your hand was interlaced with his and all of this felt so domestic. The thing you were looking at on your phone cancelled all of that out in a minute. A mutual friend of yours and Héctor had sent you a screenshot of a snapchat story just 20 minutes ago.

Just as you had suspected, it was from a girl you didn't like anyway. She posted a picture with her on what seemed to be Héctor's lap. Oh, how much you wanted to beat the shit out of him right now. Perfect opportunity even: He's right beside you.

And then it hits you again.

You're not his girlfriend. What are you doing? Why are you so mad? He didn't cheat. He didn't do anything. It was in his right to pursue othrr girls but... wow, the things you'd do to be the only one. You bit down on your cheek to hold yourself back from crying as you just slid your phone under your pillow.

Héctor slightly shifted against you, making his presence apparent again. Your thoughts were half empty as you tried to make sense of the conversation you had earlier this night:

"Are you free on Saturday next week?" You turned your head to him and nodded, curious as to what Héctor had in mind this time. "Great, I want you as my plus one." Satisfied, he propped himself up with one arm and leaned down to press a chaste kiss on your lips. "What do you mean? Plus one to what?" He proceeded to explain how one of his guy friends was throwing this huge house party, but obviously it was still exclusive. Somehow boys in Barcelona seemed to be plugged in everywhere, because you did in fact also recognize the name of that friend. "Uhhh... okay, fine, I'll come." Instead of saying thank you, Héctor pressed another kiss on your lips, leaving you no time to kiss him back. "We'll have a good time, you'll see."

Aha, why didn't he ask one of his other girls then if he loves them so mu—

"Mhm.. princesa, are you okay?" The sudden rumbling of his voice startled you. Confused you turned your head around, to find Héctor, half awake, already staring at you. "Yes? Why? Are you okay?" You whispered back. The boy yawned in response and nodded, looking like he was about to fall asleep again. "Yeah.. you just... squeezed my hand so hard, I thought you wanted me to wake up." Aaaaand he was knocked out again.

With an irritated look on your face, you turned your head back. Did you actually get this frustrated? You must've.

Great, it's like you're digging your own grave here. You thought tonight would be a good night out, but now it seems to settle in your mind that this was in no way healthy. You should talk to him.. no, you needed to talk. It was long overdue and you knew it.

...

The next morning, you didn't really want to be mad at him anymore. Especially not when he woke you up by kissing you down your neck.

On monday, you also didn't have the mental capacity to call Héctor or text him that you needed to talk with him or that you didn't want to go to that party on Saturday.

Same thing on Tuesday, just then he had facetimed you, which seemed to make all your worries go away.

On Wednesday, you just said fuck it, and you went with. Maybe, if you didn't go, you'd ruin an opportunity for him to ask you to be his girlfriend. It definitely felt like an appropriate timing, like afterwards when leaving the party. And, if it didn't happen, you could make new friends, get yourself drunk and pick out a new guy to like. And that wouldn't be cheating, just like how him letting another girl onto his lap isn't cheating either.

After another, for you depressing, phone call with Mia and a few other things to do with studying and worrying about other things for once, Saturday rolls around. Héctor comes by fairly early just to see you get ready. He says it's one of his favorite things, especially because he gets to have a say in what you'll wear. Sometimes he wants it matching, too.

In a slightly uncomfortable way, most likely because of his presence which had never happened before, you pull at the dress you decided to put on — Short, not at all classy and defining all in one. Quickly, you stole a glance at the guy on your bed, watching him tap away at his phone through the mirror. You squinted, trying to make out who he was texting through his mimics. Eventually, Héctor just sighed and put his phone away, his eyes coming to rest on you.

"It's like you're doing it on purpose." Héctor said with a grin and slowly stood up from your bed. You basically felt the way he dragged his eyes over your body, a slight feeling of embarrassment creeping up your cheeks. You moved your gaze to your feet as you started feeling shy or some weird emotion you couldn't really register at all. It has never been like this before, so why are you sweating now?

"What am I doing on purpose?"

"Oh come on now."

You felt his hands come to rest on your hips, slowly dragging themselves over your ass and thighs. He was just eagerly watching your reaction in the mirror without a care in the world. "Hm? Ready to go?"

The minute you stepped into that place, you werr reminded why you didn't want to come in the first place. It's loud, filled with people you don't know and frankly don't want to know, and the smell of strong liquor, sweat and maybe other bodily fluids was in the air. Héctor haphazardly held your hand while dragging you through a crowd of people, trying to get to his friend. You felt watched, exposed and most definitely judged, even though most people were probably just doing their own thing. Or were staring at him and not at you.

"Hey, there you are!" You turned your head back to your date and the guy he was apparently invited in. Without so much as a "Hello" or "How are you?", he went in for a full hug to greet you. And when you tried shooting Héctor a look, he was already gone, off to somewhere else. Great. Now you were stuck with the host who doesn't know how to respect other's boundaries and his friends who are looking at you like they've never seen a woman before.

Twenty-or-so minutes later, you had randomly joined a mixed group of guys and girls who had dragged you in with the question "Oh my god, didn't you arrive with Héctor?" The drink in your hand was a badly mixed blend of what seemed to be cheap Vodka and Lemonade. Whoever made this must've been drunk out of their mind, but you started to get used to it the more you sipped to forget all that around you. You had gone completely non-verbal, another guy next to you was trying to flirt with you and one particular girl out of the bunch didn't seem to like this at all.

"And, you know, you're like the prettiest girl here, sooooo..." Matteo, the guy next to you, said waiting on a response from you. Apparently the appreciative nod you gave him was not enough, because he repeated himself again, trying to get just something out of you by placing his hand on your thigh. Quickly, you slapped it away with a serious expression this time: "Hey! None of that. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Matteo, a guy who had probably never gotten rejected in his life, was appalled. You couldn't care less, which he gathered by the way you rolled your eyes at him and continued to scan the area for Hèctor. "The fuck is your problem?" He sounded entitled when asking. "I'm just complimenting you. Don't you wanna have a good time? Jesus, women.."

You tried tuning him out by concentrating on the music rather his stupid voice, but it was hard ignoring this idiot who wouldn't stop speculating why you weren't interested. And then he blames it on women? You should've left the minute Héctor left you alone in this mess.

He was probably off somewhere with another girl, having the time of his life while you're stuck here with people who won't even talk to you. Except for Matteo, of course. Why be his stupid plus one of he was going to leave you anyway? What was the point of brining you here? In the end, you were stupid enough to even agree to this.

"Wait.. Are you his girlfriend?"

"Who's girlfriend?"

"Héctors! That's why you don't want me.. Man, sorry, I didn't know you guys were a thing now."

What and absolute idiot. But, the situation resolved itself. You just nodded and agreed, apologzing even for "not being available" or some bullshit. This, of course, made the others in the group listen up, too. Immediately, the girl next to you grabbed you by your shoulder and slightly shook you. "Holy shit! You're his girlfriend!"

Eventually, while you were getting knotted up in all the lies you tried to come up with to back this thing now, Matteo removed himself from the situation, making his rounds for a new drink and possibly a new girl to harass. This got interrupted, though, when he spotted your alleged boyfriend in the kitchen.

"Héctor."

"Matteo."

The latter got himself some water from the sink and drank it faster than he needed to.

"Dude, so sorry, I just tried hitting on your girlfriend. I wasn't trying to start anything so if she mentions that to you, just know I didn't mean it."

Héctor looked at him like he just said the stupidest thing in the world. He sniffled slightly and squinted his eyes, like that was going to help him understand this situation. "What do you mean my girlfriend?" Matteo seemed oblivious or simply too drunk to notice. "Huh? Yeah, the girl you left there."

"And.. she said she's my girlfriend? Only to you, or?" Héctor evidently got more and more irritated by this interaction and the information he had just attained. "No? She openly said you're her boyfriend. Aren't you? Like, bro, I really didn't mean to hit on her." No. You couldn't. Right? Why on earth would you? He thought you knew this was casual— What is your problem?

After a minute of angry silence, Héctor abandoned his drink by the other empty cups on the counter and made a beeline to you. "Awww, how cute! Can't believe you guys have been going steady now! I didn't even kno—" This... very challenging conversation with the girls in the group werr suddenly interrupted by Héctor grabbing your arm. Not in a forceful way, but definitely in a determined one. Yeah, determined to get you out of here. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you," Héctor mumbled out, "but I need her for a moment."

The young footballer took the liberty to drag you all the way outside to his car, the cold wind of the night hitting you in the face pretty ungracefully. "Would you just tell me what's going on? Héctor?" And he wouldn't respond. He had wrapped his hand tightly around your wrist, shaking his head no everytime you asked him something. Eventually, when he reached for his car keys, you ripped your arm away from him: "What's wrong? What the fuck? That hurt, dude!"

"Get in." Héctor looked at you like you had just killed someone. "What?" You weren't going to lie, you were kind of scared of this now. "Get. In. I'm driving you home. This was a bad idea."

...

The whole car ride was quiet and cold. Not only would Héctor not talk to you, but he wouldn't even do anything to make this more bearable. Slowly, you realized that you had probably fucked it all up with this lie you came up with. To your defense: You needed it to get rid of Matteo and all the other guys trying to hit on you. But, Héctor didn't know that and you weren't ready to start this conversation just yet.

Without you realizing, he had pulled into your drive way and put the car in park. "Why are you telling others that you're my girlfriend?" Oh yeah. This was it, wasn't it? "Look, I had to okay? These guys wouldn't leave me alone and I just—"

"No. No! You.. you can't just go around and say stuff like that! Are you actually mental?" Héctor gradually raised his voice at you, which madr you shudder. Slowly, you turned your head in his direction, finding him already staring you down. His eyes were filled with an emotion you had never seen him with before. Especially not directed against you. "You have to be one crazy fucking woman to do that. I am not your boyfriend, okay? You should've just come to me.. god." You bit down on your cheek while he was clearly struggling to find words for this.

"Do you know what others will believe now? Huh? Do you know how fast this shit can spread? Huh? No! No you don't." Yes you did. You kept quiet as Héctor continued to yell at you about how this will effect rumors again, how this will make fan girls bring hell onto you and so on. You didn't care. The only thing you cared about was how he yelled at you. You heard you heart shatter into a million tiny pieces.

After a few minutes, you couldn't hold it in anymore: "Oh my god! Stop! Genuinely stop!" Héctor did stop, looking at you in an offended way. "Why can't you just be my boyfriend? Do you know how long you've been basically playing with me?" You yelling back at him with this sentiment only made him laugh. In frustration, sure, but he could already feel his blood boil at the choice of your words. "Nah, you can't be serious. Playing with you? I thought you knew what kind of thing this was!"

"Not until you said you loved me! Who does that to a person?" Your voice cracked when asking him that question. For months you've been dying to ask Héctor exactly this and now you know he wouldn't take you seriously. "You should've known this was casual! You know I go out with other girls, why can't you just leave things as they are! Now what will they think of me? As some kind of cheater?"

Tears started prickling down your face, quiet sobbing filling the dreaded silence. Héctor looked at you with a more remorseful expression, but still didn't do anything to comfort you. His head was reeling, as was yours.

You just unbuckled your seatbelt and bolted out of his car, slamming the door shut. You didn't look back, you didn't want to and you didn't need to. And Héctor just watched you go inside, back home again without stopping you, even though you really wanted him to.

You wanted him to realize what he did and come running to your front door to stop you, to hug you, to comfort you.

But those are all things you cannot expect from an immature teenager who doesn't even know when to correctly use the words "I love you".

[cosplaytutorial]

Hello hello! Out of curiousity, what do you think is a good way to go about making a cosplay of Loop from In Stars and Time (specifically the head since I imagine their body could done with a painted bodysuit)? I’ve been trying to work that out since I feel like cardboard/foam would keep the head shape but probably not work as well in a 3D space (unless you get really detailed with angles and such), and I can’t quite think of other directions to go for. (The light aspect is also complicated but could maybe work with LED strips or sequins maybe?) Thanks in advance, and happy to see that this blog is back!

Hello there!

Several ideas:

One is what you mentioned with translating it to 3D, that is, making it with angles that jut out into space all around your head. that doesn't sound like the direction you want to go in, though.

Another is to make it soft. Use a material like tulle or a chiffon tricot to create a fireball type look. This would also help a lot with the lighting, since it would diffuse any lights you put inside it. (Battery powered fairy lights would be great for that) Look at how people make flames or flame wigs and adapt to a different shape. Cotton or poly batting might also work for this.

Another option that seems a bit wild but I thought of it so now I have to say it is to use foil. Crumpled foil. It wouldn't be very durable and wouldn't diffuse lights well, but it would be reflective, so any light shone on it would be reflected back and it might look fun in photos, but probably more fun in photos and controlled lighting situations than irl.

I don't think fiber optic fabric is a good contender here but I have to mention it anyway. You might be able to have some fun with fiber optics, though, like those light up fiber optic toys. Bunches of fiber optic fiber that you frost the sides of (to diffuse the light and have it come out the sides a bit) basically styled into the spikes like a wig might just work.

Just put a really bright miner's light on your forehead to dazzle everyone

Even wilder method: remember those silicone lightbulbs from the late 90s?

It would be hard to build up enough silicone to create spikes that big, but this over some sort of base would work well, if heavy.

I wonder if you could do the 3D method with angled pieces but make it out of a translucent white or frosted plastic? Like the stuff used for corrugated signs or Sintra. It would diffuse the lights inside and create a fun look. Honestly, this is the method I would do.

For the lights, LED strips, fairy lights, or any other bright battery operated light. It would depend on the type of helmet you make for it, though, depending on what you can fit inside it. Typically, a bunch of smaller lights will end up with a more even look than one super bright light over a larger area, since the light needs to travel too far around your head to light the whole thing up, but that does create hot spots of light that you need to diffuse.

and yes, that can easily be a painted bodysuit.

I hope this helps! Good luck :]

—Fabrickind / Q&A Staff / Ko-Fi

[narilily]

"As long as you don't mind eating whole chunks of something," she said with a laugh, shrugging both shoulders. Sometimes, you didn't want to eat the whole cherry tomato in one bite, just a piece of it. But Nari did enjoy cooking, so maybe that made a little bit of difference. "I'm not big on making my own dressings, either," she shook her head, "it's a lot of work and you have to use it so soon, or else it goes bad, and sometimes I don't need that. But there might be someone here who sells homemade salad dressings. I feel like you never know," given that the farmer's market was full of people who could make anything and everything, it wasn't impossible to think that someone would make a few bottles that they could buy. "I just wish that the healthy food tasted as good as the stuff that's… well, not healthy, you know?" she wrinkled her nose, drawn to a display of whoopie pies, in all flavors. "Those look good."

"Exactly. Or just put them in without cutting them. There's not that much difference in taste whether they're cut or not before eating it," he shrugged. The less dishes to clean, the better. The sink would look less cluttered that it wouldn't bother him that much if he left them until morning. "Although, now that I say that out loud, I'm starting to think that maybe I'll just drop by the store on my way back and get a ready-made dressings," Sam let out a chuckle, a bit amused at himself for thinking about less dishes to wash way too seriously. "Oh, definitely. I need to show a good example for the kids too," he said in a serious tone even though he was grinning. Not that there were that many kids at the market right now for him to need to make an example for. "Healthy food is, well, healthy," he laughed.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

krakoa cherik comm !!!!!

[sysig]

You’re looking a bit different than usual! (Patreon)

[wackywatchdotcom]

something i genuinely adore about tadc is how painfully flawed everyone in the circus is. and not in a small way

everyone does SOMETHING that negatively impacts the others. but it makes the fact that you are supposed to sympathize with and really connect with them all the more potent. because its easy to want to put a bunch of characters in a bad situation together and to just have them all be nice to each other and everyone and never make mistakes because theres no reason to hurt each other, and most of them dont TRY to, but the way they cope is so, so realistic for each of their personalities, and it doesnt always mesh with the others, and sometimes it exceeds self destructive and Just Hurts Others, Too

they still generally care about each other and the mistakes they make and the ways they end up hurting each other dont lose their weight but like. it doesnt take away from their humanity and the fact that they are all trying so hard to manage in an awful situation

and the characters seem to have sooome sort of understanding of this too. not fully, because the characters dont tend to be 100% communicative, but when they hurt each other, it often makes EVERYONE uncomfortable. because these are the only people they have. these are their friends. and theyre all coping. but it doesnt change how much it affects them (best illustrated by ragathas lines at the start of ep 2 or gangles 'i love her, but after a while it gets kinda hard to tell how genuine shes actually being'). its not all like this, theres a good amnt of variety, but characters knowing this but not really knowing what to do about it is very painful in an effective way

(i think a subtle example of this is how zooble handles gangles situation in ep 4- they were so genuinely trying to help her because they care. but could tell as the day went on that oh, this is not working at all and its making things worse, and they leave gangle alone- something that very genuinely couldve been the moment she abstracted, because of the mask zooble gave her- and we dont get to have a super blatant explanation of zoobles thoughts on it, but they reach a fairly healthy conclusion about it that helps both of them, and i like that a lot, because on paper zooble could be placed at fault but the narrative doesnt dwell on it excessively, because thats not the point. i dont know if that tangent makes sense but i think about it sometimes. i think zooble wasnt 'to blame' but it was still a mistake, which is a hard balance to strike, and having them help at the end feels extremely effective at rounding it off!!!)

but like. in general its complicated balancing making characters in a bad situation act flawed because it can run the risk of seeming like the story is scolding them or blaming them for the situation theyre in, or like youre expected to not sympathize with them despite it (though the inverse also has complications- if characters in a bad situation never mess up, it feels unrealistic and hard to relate to, and can imply that their innocence is why whats happening to them is bad at all), but the show handles it so well

even the characters who are genuinely trying all try in different ways- some of them have similar outlooks or attitudes towards these thing but theres vital differences for ALL of them- sometimes it works and sometimes it doesnt. in fact some of the more painful mistakes characters have made in the show have come from them so genuinely trying (like the thing i mentioned w zooble, or basically Everything Ragatha Does, or pomnis first attempt at helping gangle, etc), which hits harder than if every mistake characters made had wholly selfish and cruel goals.

i mean, there is a selfishness to many of the characters' actions but imo not in a way thats not warranted. because all of them are in a horrible setting. its uncomfortable to watch characters be selfish. but it is a natural instinct to survive. its not the foundation of most of their actions, but when it is, its uncomfortable but hard to completely disparage them for in a way that makes you feel kinda conflicted

and like. it hurts to be doing your best and for that to make things worse, but its what happens often in the show. because no one in a bad situation is gonna handle it well. by the very nature of trying to survive something is gonna give, but it makes the themes of the show so much more powerful. that making sure the people around you dont feel unloved, cherishing them and finding meaning with others is no less important just because everyone is fucking up. it complicates things, for sure, but it doesnt make those characters exempt fromt this. theres a reason pomni tells gummigoo that she doesnt want "anyone" to feel like theyre nothing, and that kinger doesnt add ANY quallifiers to making sure people feel wanted and loved (not that i think either of them were thinking SUPER super hard, but it conveys smth from the perspective of the narrative

it gets complicated when you add in jax for sure, since i think on the surface he IS the exception to this concept- none of the characters like him, including pomni or kinger. but i think this is something thats gonna be examined further down the line, bc hes the main complicating factor in this reading of the show, but i feel like thats on purpose. hes universally disliked (and so is caine, in a different way) and his actions arent mistakes. they are him coping. the show has made it clear that he can be a complex person AND also a piece of shit. his actions dont detract from the fact that hes a person and the show reminds us of this. so it makes things so messy, but im genuinely super excited to see how the show examines that. where his character goes is, imo, going to be a massive piece of how this show fleshes out this concept

[krakenartificer]

I didn't notice motivated lighting until you pointed it out, but I didn't pick that option because it doesn't answer the question.

To me, insisting on motivated lighting feels like requiring a rapper to adhere to operatic standards, or requiring a background set painter to make museum-quality still life. Yeah, it's awesome when it happens... it's fantastic when you can make it work that way. But movies don't need to have beautifully artistic shots that capture the play of light and shadow because movies are not photography. They are different art forms. And when you let the period-accuracy of the costumes interfere with the actors' ability to perform the script, then you have not, in fact, made a better piece of art. In film, serving the audience's experience of the story has to come before anything else, including realism.

Maximum-visibility lighting is also accessible lighting. I cannot turn the brightness on my screen up any more than it is -- even a few seconds of a light-mode app at 75% brightness will give me a migraine.

I believe you when you say that the train-light photos are legible to you. But with my screen at ~50% brightness in a medium-dim room, that second one, with the bright-white light, is already painful to look at. And since my pupils have constricted to protect me, I can't see almost anything else going on there. I think there are people walking towards us? Could be away. I think I see two people's shoulders framing the light, and can kind of make out the rest of their bodies. Might be another person off to the right? And behind and between those two, I think I see an arm, which implies another person. Off to the left might be another person? Or a trash can reflecting the train light?? Or a haunted birdhouse???

So I guess it's a matter of what you would like the audience to take away from the scene. As long as facial expressions aren't important -- if you want me focused on the body language -- then the M*A*S*H style lighting is fine. If you want me to be confused and squinting and trying to figure out what's coming out of the dark at me, then the train lighting is fine. But I cannot see a face in any of the day-for-night photos, and I can't even see the bodies in the train-lights or the GoT photos. I literally have no idea what is on the screen in the Long Night battle, except for two light sources. Are those candles? Are they bonfires? Is this inside a room? Are we looking at the wall of a castle during a siege?

And if that's what you're going for, by all means. If having the audience have no clue what's on the screen is the best way to tell the story, then make it as dark as you need. But be aware that for some portions of your audience, your moving pictures are neither moving nor pictures -- and ask yourself if that's really what you're trying to accomplish here.

And -- as has been stated before -- the audience is accustomed to non-diagetic elements to enhance a story. 90% of all music in movies/TV shows is entirely unmotivated; in fact, it's a bit of a surprise and a reveal when it turns out that the music is coming from inside the scene. But we have accepted the ability to set the mood and understand the characters is worth a little suspension of disbelief. I see no reason we can't do that with lighting.

In this scene, they are in the middle of the woods under a canopy of trees. They show the sky and there is no moon.

The light has absolutely no motivation.

Motivated lighting is a philosophy where all of the light sources on screen have a logical source. The light from a smartphone on someone's face. A lamp next to the couch. Sterile overhead office lights.

Often filmmakers will still use their own custom light sources, but they will simulate these things to give the impression the light has motivation.

Compare this to when all they really had were bright spotlights and insensitive film. An indoor scene just couldn't have this warm and cozy feel. And the light was just blasted in from everywhere.

Black and white helped a lot. You could still get dramatic effect despite things needing to be overlit. Or you could play with contrast ratios and shadow.

All the stuff you need to see was very bright and exposed well onto film and all the stuff you didn't was very dark.

But there was no graduation in between. It was hard to be subtle.

And when television and movies went color, this black and white contrast advantage was lost.

You can see EVERYTHING. And look at those sharp shadows. Everyone is just being blasted in the face with lights.

This sitcom lighting persisted long past when it was necessary. It became part of the sitcom language.

I think M*A*S*H was one of the first shows to subvert the overlit sitcom aesthetic. They began to play with lighting that had more motivation.

But aesthetic standards are hard to kill. And despite the heavy influence of M*A*S*H, sitcoms persisted all the way into the Friends era.

Her lamp isn't even on. Everything is just lit by God.

I don't think you will see a living room or kitchen scene lit like this very much from here on out.

People are getting used to lighting making more logical sense.

With the advent of LED lighting that can be any size, shape, and brightness, as well as cameras that can interpret very dark images, modern shows can now use bright and dark as narrative tools.

I think Severance does this well, and still keeps everything properly motivated.

But this newfound flexibility has created new problems. If you can film dark things, how dark is too dark? And how do you make sure the audience can see all of the important visual information?

The two worst examples of unmotivated lighting are always space helmets and cars.

It's a conceit. You gotta see the faces so these things are usually forgiven.

But the biggest debate in the realm of unmotivated lighting is night scenes. People have lots of opinions on how best to use light in the dark.

This is because following a motivated lighting philosophy can be especially tricky. Particularly if your setting is a secluded area without any artificial light sources.

Many cinematographers will try to give some sense of moonlight. But moonlight is very hard to replicate, so the effect usually ends up looking pretty fake.

This scene during a blackout in Die Hard 4 looks like they took the brightest light they had, mounted it as high as possible and said, "Fuck it, that's moon-ish."

If the DP is hardcore into motivated lighting, they just make the screen really really dark, like the Long Night battle in Game of Thrones.

The really really dark option bugs a lot of people.

Froggie Tangent about Dark Scenes:

I originally thought people needed to adjust their display settings. But then I realized not everyone watches content in a darkened room like a vampire. But if you find a show or movie is too dark, turning off any room lights will help a lot. Watching it in HDR will also help. And watching it on an OLED will help even more.

Scenes this dark are mostly a fad. DPs are experimenting with the possibilities of new technology. But sometimes they forget not everyone has that technology yet. And they forget some people watch stuff on their phones in a room full of sunlight.

Eventually the fad will fade, we will all adopt better screens, and the darkness will land somehwere between "I can't see shit" and "it would never be that bright in real life."

[End of tangent]

In the olden days, since film wasn't sensitive enough to do scenes in the dark, almost everything needed to have unmotivated lighting just to make sure their film wasn't a grainy mess. And as a culture, we sort of got used to that style. They'd mess with the contrast ratios to give the feeling of night, but if you think about where the light is coming from too hard, it won't make any sense. They took a Broadway theater approach to lighting and so a lot of movies felt like they were on a soundstage.

The 1961 West Side Story is a good example.

They've got a spot light hitting them, but not the building behind them. I guess that could be an overhead street light. But street lights are meant to flood the area like an ever expanding donut of light. A spotlight is like a directly projected cone of light. It is perfectly pointed at the side of their face and not coming from above.

She has some magical purple light coming from... somewhere.

And then they are in an area under a bridge, far away from any lights, but they've got soft fill light with a bright rim coming from the right.

Speilberg's version has much more motivated light.

This one is a bit of a cheat, some very bright source off in the distance. But it feels more plausible to the brain and gives a better sense of darkness. It feels like some kind of industrial lighting. Or a security light at a junkyard.

Here he straight up shows you where the light is coming from. And his preference for anamorphic lenses.

And here he uses bright train lights to create silhouettes. This is clever because it allows everything to be very dark but everyone is still legible in the scene.

I'm torn. Because I study light. And so I am very aware of how shows and movies are lighting things. And unmotivated lighting sticks out in my brain. Like when I watch someone miming playing the guitar. Or using a camera improperly. When you know too much about something, inaccurate onscreen depictions just drive you nuts.

There are some techniques being experimented with to make night scenes more legible while maintaining lighting realism. I think the most promising is the infrared day-for-night process used in Nope.

But maybe it doesn't need to be solved. Maybe DPs should just light the night even if it doesn't always make sense. Maybe general audiences just do not care and I am a big nerd who should be ignored.