#the important thing is he was happy there

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm XI

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: An old face watches a match

She wasn't as young as she once was.

Teaching hadn't originally been her first choice as a job but after finishing school and spending a few years bored senseless as a receptionist, at age twenty-five, she'd made the change to teaching children in their first year of school.

Now, twenty-five years later, she was getting older and her students seemed to be just as wild and excitable as they always had been.

This school trip hadn't exactly been planned by the school, not fully anyway but a generous donation from who knows where had her and a few other teachers taking a three classes of wiggling and excited five year olds to a home match for the Barcelona women's team.

"Let's get to our seats now," She says, trying to get everyone in her class seated and happy but it's like trying to fight a group of wet cats - a losing battle.

"Miss, he pushed me!"

"Miss, I want to sit with my friends!"

"Miss, I can't find my bracelet!"

"Miss, my Mami gave me spending money!"

"Miss!"

"Miss!"

"Miss!"

She sighs to herself, rattling off instructions in a way that only a practiced teacher could.

"Lucas, stop pushing people. We use our nice hands with people. Isabella, you can sit next to your friends if there's space. Ana, your bracelet got put into your bag. Pedro, spending money can be used at half time. Now, everyone needs to sit down or else they won't start the match!"

It takes a little while to get all the kids settled and she briefly thinks about how this would be a hell of a lot easier if the school had more people who could chaperone.

It's a fleeting thought because she knows she can't do anything about it now but still, it would be nice.

Nice like it is now to watch one of her old students walk out as one of the most well known footballers not only in Spain but the world as well.

Alexia Putellas, the captain of Barcelona, leads her team out - head held high and back straight. A far cry from the little girl that used to slump in her seat in class and cry when someone took her ball at breaktime.

There weren't many students that she remembered so well - a handful that have ended up in politics, one that somehow ended up at the UN and one whose arrest made national news.

But Alexia was one of the good ones, helpful and polite most of the time.

She can remember though, with startlingly clarity the second day of classes.

It had been her second day as a teacher ever and she'd been supervising the playground at lunch when Alexia had appeared and dragged her off.

She'd dragged her all the way to the slide where you'd been waiting.

"You have to marry us, Miss," Alexia had said, eyes wide and incredibly earnest," We want to get married."

"Er..."

"You have to, miss," You'd joined in," Because we're in love and my Papa always said that people in love get married."

She'd been speechless then but still done as you and Alexia said, a little charmed by those two little girls begging to be married under the slide.

Alexia was easy to follow now, her exploits known throughout the country on and off the pitch. You'd faded though and your old teacher wasn't quite sure where you'd ended up.

Likely something successful and important.

Even as a little girl, you'd had a good work ethic. Work before play, always, was something you'd abided by.

She could see you as something important now. Your parents were doctors, she's pretty sure, so maybe you followed in their footsteps.

It would suit you, she thinks as she watches Alexia slam the ball into the net for a third time today.

Barcelona wins.

But that's entirely to be expected.

What isn't expected though, is for the staff from the team to invite the classes down onto the pitch to meet the players.

"Carlos, don't run! Mia, don't yell over someone! Lucas, again! Stop pushing people! Everyone will get a turn!"

"Some things never change then."

She turns with a smile. "Alexia."

"Hi, Miss."

"You don't have to call me that anymore."

Alexia's brow wrinkles. "What else would I call you? You've always been my teacher."

"You're an adult now, Alexia. You don't have to call me that anymore if you don't want to."

"But I do. Is that alright?"

"That's okay. So long as you want to."

Alexia beams, the same big smile she had as a five year old when she would come to the desk with a picture she drew of herself in the Barcelona kit.

It's still strange to see that exact image in real life.

"I'd like to introduce you to one of my daughters. This is Maya."

"She's beautiful."

"Mi Amor is just changing our other daughter. They'll be out in a minute."

"It's nice to see that you're doing so well. A good job. A nice family."

"We have dogs too! And my wife's old cat! She built me a house, you know? My wife, that is. Not her cat."

It's nice to see that Alexia's word vomit from her childhood hadn't changed much either. She was so stoic and quiet most of the time but any topic that drew her interest could be (and would be) talked about for hours at a time.

"That's nice to hear, Alexia."

"And we bought a villa in Greece for our next holiday! And I bought her this nice matching bracelet and necklace set! But! You can't tell her because it's going to be a surprise!"

"A special occasion?"

Alexia looks affronted at the idea. "I don't need a special occasion to show my wife how much I love her! Just my love!" She turns, glancing over her shoulder and her whole face lights up. "Oh! Amor, you're back! Look, Miss Rivera is here!"

Miss Rivera looks over to the tunnel where you have emerged from, a babbling baby on your hip and a rock of a ring on your hand.

"Oh, hi, Miss!"

She sighs. "I told Alexia that you two don't need to call me that anymore."

You frown. "But you've always been our teacher. What else would we call you?"

"Miss, this is our new baby Elena." Alexia puffs out her chest proudly. "My wife gave birth to her. Doesn't she look good for giving birth a few months ago?"

You slap her on the shoulder before pressing a kiss to where you just slapped. "Don't listen to her, Miss. She'll take any excuse to talk about it."

Alexia nods solemnly. "It was very scary because there were complications but she's doing so well now. Both Elena and my wife. Right, Amor? She's a doctor, you know. Very successful."

Again, Alexia seems to preen like a peacock as if you being so successful and so smart brought her such pride.

"You've both been very successful," Miss Rivera says," I'm so proud. A long way from that marriage under the slide, huh?"

You grin, intertwining your fingers with Alexia's.

"But still married."

[geneviveleocardius]

some husband material headcanons with simon riley

late-night garage dances are his quiet way of loving you. when the house is quiet and you’re both waiting for your daughter to get home from a party, he’ll pull you into a slow dance. he doesn’t say much, just rests his chin on your head as the two of you sway to soft music in the dim light.

if you’re too tired to shower, he’ll gently coax you into letting him wash your hair. his hands are rough but so careful, massaging your scalp in a way that makes your shoulders relax instantly.

when you’re at the beach, you trace your name on his back with sunscreen, leaving the rest bare. later, when the tan sets in and your name is etched on his skin, he looks at it in the mirror and smirks. he loves the quiet claim you have on him, even if he pretends to roll his eyes when you point it out.

simon takes his time applying sunscreen to you at the beach, even though he could be quick about it. he’s meticulous, rubbing it in gently over your shoulders and back, making sure you don’t miss a spot. “can’t have you burning, love,” he says softly. he always uses it as an excuse to trail his fingers along your skin, a subtle moment of affection.

he’s big on touch, even if he doesn’t always initiate it. his favorite moments are when you lay your head on his chest at night and trace the scars on his arms. he doesn’t always talk about them, but he likes the way you don’t shy away from them either.

he’s the kind of dad who stays up until he hears the door click after a late night out. he’ll mutter about the time under his breath, but he softens immediately when your daughter leans in to give him a quick hug before heading to bed.

if he hears you sigh in frustration while cooking or doing something around the house, he’ll quietly walk over, take whatever you’re holding, and finish the job without a word.

he doesn’t say it often, but he loves being domestic with you. folding laundry, fixing things around the house, or even grocery shopping together is calming for him.

simon keeps a picture of the two of you tucked in his wallet—a candid photo of you laughing. when he’s away, he takes it out to remind himself what’s waiting for him back home.

he’ll let you put ridiculous face masks on him during a lazy evening, even though he grumbles about it. “this better not make me smell like a bloody fruit salad,” he mutters, but he stays still for you.

he’s terrible at hiding his smile when he hears you laugh. even in the most mundane moments, your happiness is his favorite sound.

sometimes, he’ll sneak up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and sway you gently to a song only he can hear.

if your child ever talks back to you or says something disrespectful, simon doesn’t let it slide for a second. his voice is calm but firm as he says, “that’s your mum you’re speaking to. apologize—now.” he rarely raises his voice, but the weight behind his words is enough to make them realize they’ve crossed a line. later, he’ll sit down with them, explaining why respect is non-negotiable. “she does everything for us. you don’t ever treat her like that, understood?”

when you have surgery, simon steps into full caregiver mode, even though it’s not something he’s entirely used to. he carefully helps you into the bath, always making sure you’re comfortable and secure. his touch is gentle as he washes you, murmuring, “tell me if anything hurts.”

he dries your hair after the bath, combing it slowly so it doesn’t tangle. “you’re still as gorgeous as ever,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

he insists on carrying you to bed, even if you tell him you can walk. “don’t argue with me, love. you’re meant to rest.” he tucks you in, makes sure you have everything you need, and stays close by in case you need him during the night.

simon takes every opportunity to teach your child the importance of kindness, especially toward you. he models this by being gentle with you, always showing them how love and respect are expressed.

he’s a firm dad, but never unfair. when he has to scold your child, he always makes sure they understand why their behavior was wrong, but he’s quick to reassure them that he loves them no matter what.

during your recovery from surgery, simon takes over all the household duties. he’s not a great cook, but he’ll follow recipes to the letter to make sure you’re well-fed. when something doesn’t turn out quite right, he mutters, “bloody hell,” but doesn’t stop trying.

[grimmsbride]

▗▬̸̎͞/̄͆̅ ̎ ̎̿͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞ι̚━─ ⠀ NYCTOPHILLIAC ⠀ ⠀ 𑄼ల۫ thanos / reader

getting caught up in thanos’s web was a mistake, especially when it interfered with your sleep.

𓂂 ͜ᩘ ̵̼͓̥͒̾͘𑣿 ⁣⁣⠀ TAGS unconsensual voyuerism (thanos & reader have sexual relations in her bed while everyone is asleep. even though they are asleep, i still put this warning because i know some people can get uncomfortable). ooc thanos (first time writing for him). oral sex (fem. receiving). porn no plot. mentions of past sexual relations. fingering. dirty talk. unrealistic expectations of quiet sex(?). overuse of pet names (senorita, mama, etc.) etc.

𓂂 ͜ᩘ ̵̼͓̥͒̾͘𑣿 ⁣⁣⠀ NOTES please heed the warning above as i would hate to make anyone uncomfortable while reading this fic. with that said please enjoy and i apologize for any grammar mistakes or typos.

Despite different games being assigned each day, it all felt the same — as if you had just stepped inside this odd room, surrounded by strangers that held far too many similarities with you. You couldn’t count the amount of times you flinched or teared up as you watched and heard bullets tear people apart, how their strangled cries escaped in a last ditch effort to somehow convince the ruthless guards to spare them. You nearly screamed yourself when blood hit your cheek, tainting the already sweaty area — which you gingerly cleaned up the moment you got time to.

You somehow survived, in just the nick of time too. You wondered if you had any right to be happy for your victory, or you should be remorseful for all the lives lost today. You pondered it for a complete moment before deciding doing so was useless, and not impertinent to your current situation.

Getting out with enough money was of the upmost importance, nothing more and nothing less.

Which is why you were quick to settle into bed the moment the opportunity arose, slipping out of your socks and jacket, pulling the blanket up over yourself, and shutting your eyes. The world around you seemed to cease — aside from the old man’s snoring beside you — your body melting into the mattress. Sleep was the only comfort you could afford to cling to in this situation, anything else was an unnecessary distraction.

Including the one that stood infront of you, taking form as a purple-haired devil.

You never intended to get entangled with any of the other contestants. You could smile and cheer together, but it wasn’t a secret how quickly that relationship could turn sour. Mixing any type of deeper attachments just seemed like a bad idea.

But you fucked up horribly, one thing leading to another, with you in the arms of a man named Thanos, who said just the right words at the time.

You promised yourself that one time was it, you wouldn’t slip up again. You couldn’t afford to slip up anyway.

“Thanos.. go away.” You murmured, courteous of the other contestants around you. You wondered if the two of you were the only ones awake.

Through the dimmed room you could spot Thanos tilting his head, elbow pressing against your bed as he leaned closer.

“C’mon don’t be like that.. just checking on you.”

You rolled your eyes, growing more frustrated by the minute. You desperately wanted sleep- actually, you needed it. You refused to suffer the next morning, especially since your life was literally on the line. You adjusted your pillow, basically staring daggers into the man.

“I’m fine, now, go to your own bed—“

“And.. I’m also cold.”

You blinked rapidly, nearly slapping that stupid smile right off his face. You decided to turn your back to him, ignoring that soft sound of disapproval he released.

“Wear your jacket or something.. hell— steal your friend’s blanket. Just let me sleep.”

You chose to ignore the second sound he released, which seemed to be an unusually pitiful whine, mixed with an obnoxious groan. You wanted to tell him off for his volume, but decided not to— trying to seem as stern as possible so he could finally leave you alone.

But Thanos wasn’t the type to let up, something you quickly learned the moment you met him. Seeing as his fingers began to graze your blanket, rising closer just so his lips were hovering over your ear.

“But you’re right here.. can’t we share some warmth until morning? You wouldn’t want me to freeze, right?”

Thanos’s words were tempting, as usual. Whether you liked to admit it or not, he knew just what to say. Which is why you called him a devil, a sickening demon with that silver tongue.

You bit the inside of your cheek, desperately trying to fight mind over matter. Not only was this bad for your sleep, you were also at risk for breaking some unknown rule. And if you got shot over cuddling, you would definitely haunt this place like a vengeful spirit.

But in the end you gave in, the reason fleeting at the moment. You could only focus on the fact he would hopefully shut up when he got what he wanted. So, wordlessly, you brought up the blanket behind you; hearing his small giddy voice as he climbed in with you.

At least the man was nice enough to allow most of the blanket to cover you, the rest of your exposed self covered by his larger frame. Thanos made quick work of wrapping his arm around your waist, tugging you closer to him as his face found your neck.

“You have to leave before morning.”

Whether acknowledging you or not, the man just let out a hum, lips treading across your warm skin in the process. With a shiver you attempted to focus on sleep, admitting to yourself that the extra warmth was comforting. It also allowed you to truly relax, knowing your back was covered— literally.

Your hand found the back of his, fingers spreading along it as your eyes settled shut. You felt your self slipping in slowly, body growing heavier as that relaxation began to reach its peak.

Only to tumble down the moment you felt a thumb play at the waistband of your pants.

“Thanos..”

“Hm?”

You slowly turned your head, tight-lipped and squinting at him through the darkness. “Don’t fucking hm, me— what are you doing?”

The shit-eating grin that developed was telling, his thumb now slithering under your shirt and rubbing small circles into your skin.

“Not a thing.. yet.”

“We’re supposed to be sleeping!”

The man was quick to raise his free hand, placing a taunting finger to his lips. “Don’t wake the others Señorita, that’ll be just plain rude.” The circles on your skin continued, Thanos closer as his lips brushed against your own yet didn’t fully touch.

“This will help you sleep better. Erasing alll your worries in the blink of an eye.” He breathed, eyes flicking low as if attempting to see beneath the blanket. Instead his hand did the seeing for him, fingers breaching your pants and underwear; tips stroking your soft cunt. He couldn’t help the little twitch of a smile the moment he felt you release a strangled breath, using two long fingers to spread you open to his hand.

And when your lips parted to speak, his own covered them; a gentle kiss that caused your mind to grow dizzy. You couldn’t help your legs spreading, hand wrapping around Thanos’s wrist the moment you felt him at your clit. He rolled his thumb so perfectly, applying delicious pressure to the little bud that caused you to see stars.

The moment you needed to breathe you regretted leaving his lips, seeing as you struggled to keep your voice down. He wasn’t even touching you much yet here you were, panting and releasing the softest moan. With a quick raise of your hand, you covered your mouth— teeth biting into the flesh the moment you felt a finger slowly sink into your wetness.

“Wish I could see..” The soft comment made you groan softly, hips rising the moment he began to piston his finger. Within moments a second was joining, scissoring you open and plunging deeper then your own fingers could. Your eyebrows knitted close, the pain of your bite washing away with each thrust of his digits.

“Thanos.. please..”

“Oh no.. keep your voice to yourself— I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear how pretty you sound.”

As usual his words held such a teasing tone, face moving back to your neck to kiss and bite gently. Even with his small request the man wasn’t making the situation any easier, especially when his thumb moved right back to your sensitive clit; rubbing those same dizzy inducing circles.

You felt way too good right now, your body practically shaking with how much you struggled to keep in. The thought of anyone waking up right now with you in this state — under the mercy of a certain purple-haired, tattooed rapper — was a thought you couldn’t even imagine without your heart pounding with anxiety.

The best thing to do would be to push him off before things progressed. You hadn’t a clue how far he wanted to take this, nor did you think it would end in time for the lights to cut on. And Thanos wasn’t a creep, he would listen to you the moment you expressed actual discomfort from the situation. But you weren’t, that pain you felt all day, that anguish; did truly wash away in seconds just from the flick of his fingers.

The thrusts against your velvety, soaked walls were perfect— your eyes rolling to find your skull the moment the ferocity increased. A metallic taste invaded your mouth from how bad you were biting yourself, but you didn’t care; it was a concern for morning [Name], not horny [Name] who was currently being cared for by the hottest contestant in this god forsaken place.

“Oh, all this clenching— you’re close aren’t you? Can barely get my fingers out.”

The smile in his speech was obvious, breath fanning against your skin as he urged you more and more; curling his fingers just right to hear your muffled sounds peak into a small squeal.

Your nails dragged across his tattooed hand, feeling it flex with each movement of his fingers. Your mind was growing cloudy, barely being able to register the words that were being pressed right against your ear.

“How about I get a taste, huh? Wanna come all in my mouth, mama.. it’ll be such an easy clean up.”

Before you could even think to speak Thanos was pulling his hand out from within you. You had little time to protest when you felt him grabbing your blanket, pulling it over his body as he crawled down your own. Your eyes slowly widened, realizing his words and actions; a new sheen of sweat finding your skin. Your nerves were on fine at this point, inner mind screaming to tell him to do anything else but that.

However, the moment you felt him pulling down your pants and his lips finding your pretty cunt, all hope was lost. The back of your head quickly found your pillow, hand going right back to your mouth to bite down even harsher than before. His tongue exited his mouth in a long stride, gliding across your wet center, and parting you easily.

Thanos created similar ministrations with the tip of his tongue like his thumb, circling your bud and slowly pulling it between his lips. There, he began to suck, the sound noisy but muffled by your blankets and other’s snoring.

Muffled gasps pushed against your skin, hips rising and legs closing around his head; bringing him even closer to you. The peak that was steadily approached seemed to pick up speed far too quickly, your mind turning to mush.

No more were you number so-so, victim to madmen and their sick games. No, you were simply [Name], moaning wantonly with little care for the environment around you.

Your other hand slithered under the blanket, finding his hair and tugging the soft tresses; feeling them stick between the gaps of your fingers. Shamelessly you rubbed against his face, desperate for that sweet release. Your pussy convulsed with each struggled breath you took, stars impeding your vision as you got closer and closer.

You felt it before you heard it, Thanos’s sweet urges right into your pussy. His wet words of make me a mess, pretty girl— don’t hold back on me now, causing you to tip over the line.

His mouth latched to you, drinking up your release as if you tasted better than any drug within his cross. It didn’t help he was practically praising your taste, a sloppy groan being delivered right into your pussy. Gingerly, Thanos licked you clean, assuring not a single drop was left.

Only when the man was fully satisfied did he let up, climbing up from the blanket and popping his head out to look down at you.

“See, it helped— you can barely keep your eyes open right now.”

You released a soft breath, a mix of a chuckle and a sigh as you stared up at the man. “You gonna let me sleep now?” You spoke softly, watching his wet lips curl into a gentle smile.

“Of course. Good night, [Name].”

[koeniginderskizzen]

I forgot if I ever reblogged this or not but I'm reblogging it now as an excuse to talk about how much I need this to happen in someway in Chapter 3 or 4. It's basically my biggest wish for the upcoming chapters.

I'm in the camp of "Ralsei isn't Evil, he's just weird like that/ thinks it's all for the greater good if anything".

To recab a little, Ralsei has been alone his entire life as far as we know, so he isn't that well adjusted on how to act in social situations. His go to method of comforting is distracting from the bad stuff, or not mentioning bad stuff at all, which could very likely be because he doesn't really know how to handle it and just thinks "positivity=good, so better avoid negativity because that would cause distress, which is bad"

We also know that the legend, and the supposed purpose of darkners was kinda his life guideline, so to say. Ralsei thinks that his purpose is the legend and to serve the lightners, and he doesn't want to go against it. Be it because of Roaring, some other hidden thing/ plan we don't know of yet, or because he never knew anything else. What's important is: in Chapter 2 Susie began to challenge that mindest a little.

In the SweetCap'nCakes battle, Ralsei firstly insists that Kris, or us, is the only one who is allowed to act, maybe because it gives us a unique, irreplacable role, which could make us happy, but Susie forces him to learn R-Action anyway. When alone with us, Ralsei says that he learned from Susie that being yourself can be enough to be a friend but then adds that he doesn't actually know who he is as a person.

Which is why Kris being revealed to Ralsei as the person who made the fountain would be such a huge next step!

Now Ralsei actually is confronted with a situation where one of the people he trusted, and especially someone he is supposed to serve and be kind to no matter what, goes directly against his wishes. What is he supposed to do now? He could just put his feelings under a rug, and I Imagine he might even do that at first, but the important thing is that he has to deal with that conflict of being angry at Kris, but also having to stay supportive, which could even culminate in him expressing that disappointment, and defining himself as his own person who's feelings matter, and who isn't just a servant, even more.

I really need this for him.

I Imagine the legend and the roaring is in some way linked to the player, and if Ralsei learns to become his own person throughout the game, that could even lead to him potentially choosing to abandon the legend for the sake of his friends.

Or he won't, the important thing to me is, that the choice will be his own (because I love Ralsei as a character)

chapter 3 probably

[monzabee]

run for the hills – lh44 (+18)

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where fate decides to bring you back into Lewis’ life, making him question his belief in fate.  

Pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader

Word Count: 9.3k 

Warnings: cursing, crying, drinking and mentions of alcohol, mentions of brocedes (rip), kissing, unprotected sex (you shouldn’t be surprised at this point), oral (m receiving), hand kink, praise kink, minors dni!!

Request: “hey, Merry Christmas 🫶🏽 I was hoping I could request a Lewis smut fic where the reader is Nico Rosberg's sister (with a age gap of around 6-8 years with him and Lewis) and before 2016 they were just really close friends who just kissed once but chose to pretend it didn't happen. after years, they run into each other at a club or a party and they're pretty snappy at each other but there's a lot of tension too and they end up having sex where Lewis is really cocky and also the reader has a hand kink and praise kink? I'm so sorry if I made it too long, i love your writing <33” + “oooo please could i request something w lewis?! something gut wrenchingly angsty? sorry i don’t really have a plot in mind hhhh thank you heheh”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! HAPPY NEW YEAR, i started this fic last week and i honestly didn't think I'd finish it this quickly but here we are. don't let my words fool you, i got the request last christmas but if you know me then you know that i am not quick when it comes to working on requests (i'm working on this i promise), not that this fic is even remotely christmassy, but let’s just appreciate that it is supposed to be set during the holiday period lol. this was supposed to be a shorter one but here we are, lol, i'm not even surprised at my inability to keep things short at this point. i posted this fic and realised i forgot to copy and paste a big chunk of it so oh well. as always, feedback is appreciated, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Lewis decided he doesn’t like cold a long time ago. That’s why, being the ever-decisive person he is, he chooses to spend his winter vacationing in places like the Maldives or Bali. His decisiveness is an important part of him, given what he does for a living. When he is on the track, in his car, there is no room for hesitation – he needs to be able to make split-second decisions under intense pressure, what’s not to love about that? So, once he decided he’d rather spend his time off basking in the sun rather than freezing to death somewhere else, he never looked back. He enjoys spending his time off in someplace tropical with his family, or without his family; most of the times away from the prying eyes and camera lenses of the media. 

But this time, it’s different – he's alone. 

Or rather, he thought he would be alone. The villa he rented out for the duration of the month is isolated, just how he likes it. He wakes up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore right outside his windows, and the distant chirping of tropical birds to accompany him as he lounges on the large deck, overlooking the infinite expanse of blue. There are no spectators around to gauge his reaction, try to get him to speak out about his plans for the next year when he moves to Ferrari, or what he’s going to do when he eventually retires one day. He hasn’t seen anyone from the racing world for weeks, and it’s been a much-needed break. He’d usually love to spend Christmas with his family, the only time he would ever tolerate the cold being when he is with his family, but this year he just wanted to get away on his own. 

There is no one around that expect anything from him. Just peace. 

He’s not a hermit, of course, but he enjoys spending his time by himself mostly isolated from all the other guests of the touristic area he’s staying in. The chef that works at the villa is on call for when Lewis decides that he wants to stay in for the night, the housekeeping staff come every morning to clean up around the house, then promptly leave, providing Lewis with the privacy he so desperately needs. But other than that, and a few nights spent outside in a restaurant or a club? He is all alone, and he is not complaining about it. Another thing about Lewis Hamilton is that he doesn’t believe in fate. He believes in setting and achieving goals; after all, that’s what he’s done all his life. His success isn’t some cosmic coincidence. It’s years of sacrifice by his parents, relentless effort, and unwavering determination. So, when things happen that feel serendipitous, like running into someone from his past, he doesn’t chalk it up to destiny. He chalks it up to the sheer unpredictability of life. 

And yet, as he steps out of the villa to head to a nearby beach club after dinner, he doesn’t expect to run into you, especially not after how the things ended last time, but there you are. His eyes find you at the bar with some guy next to you – he has to do a double take. Just to make sure, he tells himself. But no matter how many times his attention reverts to you, he knows it’s you. Of course, it’s you. Though he’s not a believer in fate or destiny, or whatever you might want to call it, there you are – dressed in a flowy linen dress. His first instinct is to ask the server to seat him somewhere else so that he wouldn’t have stare at you and your ‘date’ for the night. His grip on the glass in his hand tightens momentarily, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself to look away. This is not the moment, he tells himself. It’s not his business, not anymore. But still, his gaze drifts back to you. You’re laughing at something the guy says, your head tilted slightly as you sip from your drink. He can’t hear your laughter, no – but what a sound that would be to hear, he thinks for a moment. 

He knows he shouldn’t care who you’re with or what you’re doing; it’s been years since the two of you shared anything beyond... well anything, really. But something about seeing you here, in this place he thought was his private retreat from the world, feels like a twist of fate – or the kind of cosmic joke he claims not to believe in. But his eyes watch you as you throw you head back in a laugh and he can practically hear the sound in his head, his mind taking him to years ago when he used to be one of the people who got to hear it first hand; when he joined your family on karting days, or when you celebrated with him when he won a race, or even back to that one time when him and Nico were trying to drive those unicycles and you kept doubling over in laughter when they fell down – something your brother did not appreciate, but Lewis couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face as he watched you from the ground.  

Somethings never change, he thinks, as he notices the smallest of smiles that has crept its way onto his face, quickly disappearing the moment he catches himself. He knows it shouldn’t matter to him – let alone bother him. But old habits die hard, and the sight of your smile, that easy laugh, stirs something in him that feels like both longing and a pang of annoyance. You’ve always had a way of getting under his skin. Back then, it was teasing remarks that somehow felt more genuine than any praise he received elsewhere. He catches himself glancing your way again, his jaw tightening when the guy beside you leans in a little too close. It’s irrational, this surge of jealousy that claws at his chest. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from burning through him. He looks down at his drink, willing himself to focus on anything but you. But memories have a way of sneaking up on him, unbidden. The days spent at karting tracks, the shared dinners with your family, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, talking about everything and nothing at all. Back then, it was easy. Natural. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, until you didn’t. 

Just then, you glance over, your eyes scanning the room before they land on him. For a moment, everything stills. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. His breath catches in his throat, and he curses himself for the way his chest tightens under your gaze. He watches as you excuse yourself, heading towards the restrooms, and he swears he has never gotten up so fast and walked so fast in his life. He doesn’t think, he just moves until he spots you in the hallway, queued behind some people waiting for the bathroom line. What kind of a club only has one bathroom? He thinks, but that’s not the point. 

He clears his throat. 

You turn, eyes widening in that familiar, guarded way. “Lewis.” Your lips open in shock as you glance behind him and then focus on him again, “Did- did you follow me here?”  

“Were you on a date with that guy?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his voice colder than he expects. 

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?” 

He stands there, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping up his spine. His gaze flickers to the bar behind him, where the guy you were with is still talking to the bartender, oblivious to what’s going on. “I asked if you were on a date,” he repeats, a little sharper this time as he emphasises the last word. 

You raise an eyebrow, the surprise on your face melting into something more guarded, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What if I was?” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just out enjoying my night. Ever think of that?” 

He feels a rush of heat in his chest. “It’s not like I care,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he does. “Just curious.” 

You scoff, your lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “Sure, Lewis.” 

“So?” He inquires, “Are you? On a date with that guy, I mean.” 

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’re standing here, in the middle of a hallway, asking me about my love life? What is this, high school?” 

Lewis feels the heat rise in his neck, irritation mixing with a sense of frustration he doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not asking for your life story, just... just an answer. Is it that hard?” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back down. 

You scoff again, your lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You really think you can just waltz back in and start demanding answers like we’re still... You know what? Yes, Lewis, I’m on a date.” You throw a glance over your shoulder at the guy still sitting at the bar. “We met on the beach at the hotel I’m staying at, and I thought I’d let him treat me to a dinner and a couple of drinks before I’d let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.” You roll your eyes at someone on the queue gasping at your choice of words. “Not that it’s any of your business. Are you happy now?” 

Lewis’s hand grips your wrist, a little too tight, and without warning, he’s tugging you away from the bar, his jaw clenched. “Come on,” he mutters, his tone low and urgent, as he steers you towards the back exit. You’re caught off guard, stumbling to keep up with his forceful pace, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“What the hell, Lewis? Let go of me!” you snap, yanking your arm free once you're outside in the chill night air. The chill hits you like a slap, the heat of the club’s atmosphere fading behind you as the door slams shut. 

“Seriously?” he spits, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’re gonna play it like that?” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t know what game you're playing at, but I’m not interested. What the hell was that back there? Dragging me out like I’m some kind of... of property?” 

He glares at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “I ask you a simple question, and you throw that crap at me? What the hell did you think I was supposed to do? Just stand there and pretend like I didn’t care?” 

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pretend like you don’t care? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to just waltz in, after all this time, and act like you can demand answers, Lewis. Like you have any right to know what’s going on in my life.” 

“Your brother would be so disappointed in you right now.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the air between you two freezes. The breeze picks up, but the sudden silence makes the world feel too loud.  

“You don’t get to talk about my brother,” you seethe, as Lewis's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but it’s the look in his eyes that hits hardest — it’s a mixture of hurt and fury, both so raw, you almost feel sorry for what you’ve just unleashed. 

“What did you just say?” His voice is low, almost dangerously so, the words slipping through clenched teeth. 

You swallow, but it doesn’t help the sharp edge in your voice. “You heard me. You don’t get to talk about him, you don’t get to fuck up my life and you don’t get to come back here acting like you still have any claim on me or my life.” You’re breathing heavily now, the anger and hurt mixing into a bitter cocktail that you can’t quite swallow – funnily enough, Lewis can smell the cocktail you had earlier. “You left. You made your choice, Lewis. And now you don’t get to barge back in and pretend like I owe you anything.” 

Lewis stands in front of you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight as he processes your words. He doesn’t know when the two of you got closer together, he can practically feel the anger radiating off you, “You think I don’t know that?” he spits, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice cracks slightly, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. “I fucked up, alright? I fucked up more than you’ll ever understand. We all did – me, Nico, you.” 

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this, Lewis. You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucked everything up.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going, the words coming faster, more bitter. “You kissed me and called it an ‘accident’, a fluke. You fought with Nico every chance you got. I had to pick up the pieces on my own.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, but his anger doesn’t dissipate—if anything, it only sharpens. His hands remain balled into fists at his sides, but there’s something else behind his eyes now, something raw, something almost desperate. “We wouldn’t have worked out,” he mutters, it’s something that he said to himself time and time again to convince himself of it, “I am– was your brother’s friend, you–” 

“You were my friend, too!” You exclaim, your hands swatting at his arms, chest – anywhere you can reach. “You left me, as if I meant nothing to you! You stole my first kiss and shattered my life to pieces on the same day!” You manage to get in some good hits despite Lewis’ attempts to calm you down, and the lump in your throat makes it harder for you to continue talking, “Do you know how many times I wondered if you kissed me just to piss Nico off? Do you know how that feels?” 

“What?” He asks, his voice low. Each hit, each accusation, it stings. But nothing hits harder than the raw emotion in your eyes – hurt, betrayal, and the weight of everything he left behind. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “You think I kissed you to get at Nico?” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense. There’s an edge of disbelief, of hurt, as if the idea itself cuts deeper than your accusations. “Do you really think so little of me?” 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, holding yourself together in the face of his raw honesty. “I don’t know what to think, Lewis. What was I supposed to think back then? You shut me out. You made me feel like it never happened – like I never happened.” 

“You were twenty-three years old,” he points out, “our age difference–” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, pushing at his chest one last time, “you’ve fucked girls younger than that.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, as if they’ve struck a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t get to throw that in my face,” he finally says, his voice low and clipped, tinged with a kind of frustration that feels different from before. 

“Why?” You ask, head cocked to the side. “I can’t comment on you fucking other people, but you can question my actions because I want to fuck–” 

“Say ‘fuck’ one more time and I swear I’ll–” 

“—what, Lewis?” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish his threat. “You’ll what? Walk away again? Pretend this conversation never happened, just like you did last time?” 

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he tries to rein in his emotions. “Don’t push me,” he warns, his voice low and taut, but there’s no real menace in it—only desperation. 

“Oh, I’m pushing?” You laugh bitterly, throwing your hands up. “I’m the one pushing? You’re the one who showed up here, dredging up every memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Don’t you dare put this on me, Lewis.” 

“You think this is easy for me?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I did? For what I didn’t do? I’ve lived with this every single day, and you—” 

“Fuck you!” you shout, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–” 

His hands shoot up, grabbing your wrists – not harshly, but firmly enough to stop your movements. You don’t even fully register how quickly he pushes you against the wall, “You think I ran off and lived some perfect life?” he hisses, his face inches from yours as he inhales deeply. “You think I didn’t miss you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t lie awake at night, wishing I’d had the guts to ask you to stay?” 

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the rawness in his voice leaving you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something else – something that feels far too close to the hope you’ve been trying to suppress. “Well... yeah.” You inwardly cringe how your voice sounds so weak, but Lewis tilts your chin back to make you look at him.  

“Is that so?” He mumbles, thumb caressing your chin as his eyes hungrily take in how your chest moves with each deep breath your inhale and exhale.  

Your breath hitches as his thumb lingers, his gaze dropping to your lips like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance between you. “Lewis...” you start, but his name comes out softer than you intend, more of a plea than the warning you meant it to be. 

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a softness to it, an undercurrent of vulnerability that sends your heart racing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Walk away again? Because I can’t. Not this time.” 

You shake your head slightly, but his grip on your chin keeps you from fully looking away. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore.” 

His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Then let me remind you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. 

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body screaming at you to push him away – or pull him closer and he tension between you is suffocating. “Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice wavers, betraying the battle waging inside you. 

“Don’t what?” he asks, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Don’t do this?” You don’t answer, your throat too tight, your mind too clouded with memories, anger, and something else you’re not ready to name. He waits, his breath mingling with yours, his patience stretching thin. “Say the word,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will let you go back and take him back to your room and do whatever you want.” 

But you don’t say it. You can’t. Because as much as you hate him, as much as you want to scream at him, cry, and push him away... you also want this. Want him. 

And Lewis knows it. 

His hand releases your wrist, sliding down to your waist as his other hand stays on your chin, tilting your face toward him. The kiss that follows isn’t soft, isn’t sweet – it’s desperate, raw, and filled with years of unspoken words. It’s anger and longing, heartbreak, and desire, all crashing together in a way that steals your breath and sends your heart into overdrive. A softer kiss might have been what you wanted, but Lewis knows this is what you need. His body presses against yours, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders, clinging to him as if letting go would leave you falling apart. His lips are warm and insistent, the taste of him intoxicating. Every move, every touch, feels like he’s trying to make up for everything he never said, everything he left behind. 

The kiss deepens, each second unravelling more of the carefully constructed armour you’ve built around your heart. His fingers grip your waist tighter, grounding you even as everything else feels like it’s spinning. You can feel the heat radiating off him with every press of his body against yours. Your mind screams at you to stop, to think, to pull away before you lose yourself completely – but your body betrays you. The years of hurt, anger, and confusion dissolve into the fire burning between you, ignited by a kiss that’s as much a battle as it is a surrender. 

Lewis pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still hovering close, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks. “You still want to go back and fuck your little lover boy?”  

“Who?” You mumble, breathless as a result of the kiss as your eyes become heavy with something you can’t quite describe. 

Lewis smirks, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes. "Exactly," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist in slow, deliberate circles. His confidence is maddening, but the heat between you makes it impossible to summon the indignation you’d usually feel. 

You try to muster a response, something sharp and cutting to put him back in his place, but the way his gaze drops to your lips again makes the words dissolve before they even form. “Don’t do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks the conviction you intended. 

“Do what?” he asks innocently, though the rasp in his tone betrays his intent. 

“Act like this changes everything.” 

His smirk falters, replaced by a seriousness that roots you in place. “It doesn’t change everything,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But it changes something. Doesn’t it?” 

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his words sink in. You hate how easily he disarms you, how effortlessly he pulls you back into his orbit no matter how much you’ve tried to escape it. But deep down, you know he’s right. “I hate you,” you whisper, though even you can hear the weakness in your words. 

“I know,” he replies, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.” 

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the haze, making your chest tighten. But before you can think about it, you find yourself tugging on the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer to yourself as you mumble, “Kiss me again.” 

Your hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now find their way into his hair, pulling him closer, as if to anchor yourself in the storm he’s unleashed within you. Lewis doesn’t hold back. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, the wall at your back the only thing keeping you steady. The kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that borders on desperation, as though he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When the need for air becomes undeniable, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. “Tell me you didn’t feel that,” he says, his voice hoarse, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

You can’t answer right away, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest it drowns out any coherent thought. But eventually, you manage to find your voice. “I hate you,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words. They sound hollow, even to your own ears. 

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, but the edge in your voice falters. 

“I’m not,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you... still here. Still looking at me like that.” His hand trails down to your hip, his touch light but grounding. “If you hated me, you would’ve walked away by now.” 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control, but it’s impossible with him standing this close, his presence overwhelming. “This doesn’t change anything,” you say, though it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. 

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice softer now. “But it’s a start.” You don’t say anything to agree or refute his statement, and after a brief pause, he straightens, fixies your dress and tries to fix your hair as well. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll take you back.” 

“But, my bag,” you mutter, pushing out your lower lip in a pout when you realise your bag is on the floor. Lewis has to restrain himself when he sees your lips all puffed up because of him. Your voice is whiny, and he realises you’re slurring your words a little bit when you tug on his shirt, “I don’t wanna leave my bag here.” 

Lewis looks at you for a moment, his expression softening as he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin with the same tenderness he’s shown all night despite all your fighting. With a soft exhale, Lewis bends down to pick up your bag, holding it out to you with the same quiet care. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but laced with something tender. “You really wanna go back to that room, after everything that just happened?” 

You look at him, a mix of confusion and desire swirling inside you. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. The words feel raw, vulnerable, but there’s something about his presence, the way he’s here, still so close, that makes you feel safe enough to say it. 

Lewis doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his eyes soften, his thumb grazing the strap of your bag as he watches you closely, as though he’s searching for something in your expression. Finally, he steps closer again, the space between you narrowing once more. “I get it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not letting you go home alone tonight.” 

The words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, to push him away, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you now, that makes you second-guess everything you thought you wanted. You hesitate for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts heavy in the air, but the pull between you is undeniable. It’s the kind of pull that’s magnetic, that doesn’t let you escape even when you try to resist. 

Finally, you nod, the decision feeling both like a surrender and a choice you can’t take back. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Take me back, then.” 

You don’t even remember getting into his car, but you do remember the smug look he shot at your date – Carl, you think – when he helped you through the club with a firm hand on your back. The villa Lewis rented for his little getaway is entirely what you expect it to be – modern, grand, and secluded enough so no one uninvited would know he is there and bother him. The couch in the living room looks way too inviting and you make a mental note to avoid it for now. Sitting on it might make this whole situation feel too real, too comfortable, and you’re not ready for that. You glance around the space instead, taking in the clean lines of the modern furniture, the polished wood floors, and the sprawling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the moonlit ocean. You walk towards the windows, eyes taking in the view from inside the villa. The ocean stretches out endlessly before you, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. The soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore is faintly audible even through the glass, a gentle hum that seems to echo the turmoil in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to steady your nerves and partly to shield yourself from the vulnerability creeping up on you. The view is breathtaking, but it does little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You faintly hear Lewis calling out your name, but as if you are in a trance, you can’t take your eyes off the view in front of you. His voice calls out to you again, softer this time, closer. “Hey,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his presence before you even see him. Lewis’s reflection appears in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on you as he stands just behind you. 

You finally tear your gaze away from the ocean and turn to face him, your arms still wrapped protectively around yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lewis nods, his expression unreadable as he follows your gaze back to the window. “It is,” he agrees, but there’s a weight to his tone, as if he’s not just talking about the view. His eyes flicker back to you, searching your face. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, more to fill the silence than anything else. “It’s not that simple, Lewis.” 

“Nothing ever is,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s only a breath of space between you. “But I’m here. You don’t have to deal with whatever this is alone.” 

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. “I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “With... us.” 

He exhales deeply, his hand lifting as though he wants to touch you but hesitates. “You don’t have to figure that out right now,” he says, his voice steady. “I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight. That’s all that matters to me.” 

Something about his words, his presence, eases the knot in your chest, if only slightly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. 

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Just be here. With me.” 

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of pretense or ulterior motives, but all you see is the same man who’s managed to undo you with a single glance. “Show me your room.”  

“We don’t have to do that.” His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for your cheek, “That not why I brought you here.” 

“Isn’t it?” You try to joke, but his deep sigh is a sign of his disapproval. “I know that’s not why you brought me here, but it can be one of the reasons you brought me here.” 

“Can it?” He drawls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  

“For God’s sake, Lewis.” You sigh, turning your body towards the man standing next to you. “Do I need to beg you for you to fuck me?”  

Lewis’s smirk falters, his expression shifting into something deeper, darker, but undeniably tender. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with restraint as he steps closer. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t need to beg me for anything. Not now, not ever.” 

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the air between you feels electric. “Then fuck me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with equal parts frustration and desire. “If you want me, show me.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself, and when he opens them again, the resolve in his expression takes your breath away. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, his tone low but firm. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold back, to stop myself from–” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as if even admitting it is too much. He reaches for one of your hands, freeing from your hold and places it on his crotch. “See what you do to me?” 

The crude act manages to steal a gasp from you, your eyes widening at how hard he already is. “Lewis,” you mutter, he responds with an affirmative hum, “show me your bedroom.” 

He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and leads you down a sleek hallway. The sound of your heels clicking against the polished wood floor echoes softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of your heart. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, you’re momentarily distracted by how much the space reflects him. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft, ethereal light. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft light.  

You walk towards the centre of the room, the corner of your lip trapped between your teeth as you glance at Lewis over your shoulder before you run towards the bed and throw yourself onto the soft bedding. Lewis watches you with an amused smirk as you sprawl across the bed, your carefree motion starkly contrasting the simmering tension in the air. “Comfortable, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays his calm façade. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, giving him a challenging look. “Very.” Then you narrow your eyes at him, “But don’t call me baby, I am not your baby.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty, as he steps closer, loosening the top button of his shirt with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No?” he muses, stopping at the edge of the bed. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory. 

Your breath hitches when he leans over, placing a hand on either side of your body, effectively caging you in. His face is so close to yours now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “I like seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Relaxed, it suits you.” 

A flush creeps up your neck at his words, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand completely. Your fingers trail up his chest, over the defined planes of his torso, and then slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you,” you reply, your voice soft but loaded with meaning. 

His response is immediate. His lips crash against yours with a fervour that steals your breath, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. The kiss is raw and consuming, years of tension and unspoken words pouring into the connection. When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. 

You smile, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants. “Why don’t you show me?” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he lifts you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the centre of the bed. He chuckles at the sound of your giggling, as he carefully lays you back down on the soft bed. His fingers work diligently to get you out of your dress, pulling the linen garment over your head as Lewis lets his eyes hungrily take you in. When your dress finally falls away, leaving you in nothing but lace and skin, Lewis takes a slow breath, his eyes scanning over your body with a mixture of awe and hunger. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch sending shivers of desire through your body. 

You arch slightly into his touch, your breath coming faster, and you meet his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Are you going to just gawk at me, or are you going to actually do something?” 

He smirks, a flash of cockiness in his eyes. “Patience,” he teases, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his voice as he lowers himself over you. With one hand bracing himself above you, his other hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his fingers inch closer to where you need him most. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his lips just inches from yours. His fingers find the lace of your underwear, his touch deliberate as he pulls it aside and slips a finger inside you, making you gasp. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips crashing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his finger working inside you with a slow, steady rhythm. You can feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. 

“Don- don’t say ‘fuck’, Lewis,” you tease him with a small smirk as your breathing becomes deeper, “it’s unbecoming.” 

“You’ll see who will be coming in a few minutes, baby.” He chuckles at the way your expression changes at the mention of the word, his fingers moving in deeper as your let out a disapproving moan, “What? You don’t like it when I call you that?” 

With another dissenting hum and a raise of your hips to meet his hand, you let out a long exhale. “I’m not your baby Lewis, stop calling me that.” With the patience that only he can tolerate, he continues the leisurely movements of his fingers. “I want more, please.” 

Lewis tuts at your words softly, chuckling as he takes in your reactions. “I think you have a very important decision to make here,” he murmurs, his eyes suddenly painted with something more serious, “because once I fuck you, I’m not letting you go.”  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The words come out choppy as your breathing gets more erratic, his fingers stubbornly keeping to the slow rhythm he’s set.  

Lewis's gaze sharpens, the challenge in your tone sparking a flame in his dark eyes. “Oh, you’ll see it, alright,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety promise as his hand withdraws briefly, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you can protest, he moves with deliberate precision, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the expanse of his chest – sculpted, strong, and utterly captivating. “Get on your hands and knees.” 

The command leaves no room for debate, his voice firm but laden with heat. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, a mixture of defiance and curiosity flickering in your expression. “Bold of you to assume I'll listen,” you quip, though the slight tremor in your voice betrays your anticipation. 

Lewis smirks, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Oh, you'll listen,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Because you know exactly how patient I can be, but the same can’t be said for you.” 

A shiver runs through you at his words, and before you realize it, you’ve complied, shifting onto your hands and knees in the centre of the bed. You can practically feel his gaze on you, then all of a sudden, you can actually feel him behind you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he moves closer. “Good girl,” he says softly, his voice rich with approval, and the way your body reacts to the praise is almost embarrassing. “Oh, my beautiful darling.” His hands skim over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hips. The grip is firm, possessive, sending a thrill through you.  

The sounds of him taking himself out of his trousers and pumping cock in his hand is pure debauchery, yet you find yourself pushing your hips back against his thighs. Lewis's low chuckle reverberates through you, a sound full of confidence and desire. His hand tightens on your hips, steadying you as he leans in, his chest brushing against your back. The heat of his skin against yours makes you arch into him instinctively, earning another throaty laugh from him. “You're eager,” he teases, his voice dark and dripping with amusement. “I like you like this.” 

You bite your lip to suppress the needy sound threatening to escape, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you're just slow,” you retort breathlessly, glancing back at him over your shoulder, a challenging look in your eyes. 

Lewis growls low in his throat, his hands sliding across your back. “Careful,” he warns, though there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Push me too far, and I won't be nice.” Your breath catches at his words, but before you can form a response, you feel him guiding himself to your entrance, teasingly dragging against you. The deliberate slowness makes your frustration peak, and you push your hips back, a wordless plea for him to stop teasing. 

“Patience, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. But even as he says it, he shifts forward, entering you with a deliberate motion that steals the breath from your lungs. 

The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight as he holds still for a moment, letting you adjust. “Lewis,” you breathe, your voice shaky with need.  

His hands gently caress over the skin of your back and hips, soothing over the sharp feeling of Lewis easing himself into you in small movements of his hips. “You’re doing so well,” he shushes your whiny moans, his hands tracing your sides, grounding you. “You feel perfect, we’re almost there, darling.”  

“A-almost?” Your voice cuts his words off, voice shaky with need, “It’s not going to fit, Lewis, I can’t-” 

He leans over you, his lips pressing tender kisses along your spine, each one sending a ripple of warmth through you. His voice is a soothing murmur in your ear. “Relax for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Your breathing steadies under his touch, the initial sting giving way to a fullness that leaves you breathless as he pushes himself fully into you. You arch your back slightly, pressing into him as his hands continue their gentle exploration of your body. The tenderness in his actions contrasts with the raw desire in his voice, creating a heady mix that leaves you yearning for more. “That's it,” he praises, his tone soft but laced with heat. “You’re incredible. See? We made it fit.” 

“I feel so full.” You manage to let out, voice whiny as the moan is ripped from the back of your throat. “It feels so good, Lewis.” 

He begins to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds gradually, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction ignites a fire within you, and you can’t help the soft moans that escape your lips, each sound spurring him on. His grip on your hips tightens, his pace increasing as he finds the perfect rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You feel so good,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire. His hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair as he pulls you back slightly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine, you know that? Only mine.”  

The moan that comes from you is dissenting, causing Lewis to slide his hand down your throat to use the leverage to pull you up on your knees, pressed against his chest. “No,” you say, hands extending backwards to keep holding onto him in an attempt to keep up with the rhythm in which he is fucking you now. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something primal within you. “Say it,” he commands, his voice rough as his movements grow more urgent. “Say you're mine.” 

Your breaths are shallow, punctuated by soft whimpers as you cling to him, trying to keep pace with his movements. The way he pulls you against him, his hand firm on your throat, sends a jolt of heat through your core. His hand is firm around your throat, but not uncomfortable to the point that you can’t breathe. 

“I’m not yours,” you gasp defiantly, your voice trembling with every move he makes.  

Lewis growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as his hand tightens slightly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you in place. “We’ll see about that,” he says darkly. 

His hips snap against you harder now, his rhythm relentless as if determined to prove you wrong. The overwhelming sensation leaves you gasping, your fingers clutching at his forearm for balance. His free hand slides down your body, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

“Still not mine?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His tone is equal parts teasing and commanding, daring you to resist him. “Still think someone else can fuck you better than I can?” You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling from you, but the way he moves, the way he claims you, has you crumbling. “Say it,” he repeats, his voice a low growl that echoes through your very core. 

Torn between defiance and surrender, you meet his challenge with a shaky breath. “I’m-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out his name instead. 

“Hmm?” Lewis chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying your struggle. His grip on your neck softens slightly as his fingers trace the column of your throat in a soothing gesture. “Come on, baby, just say it.” 

“I’m-” The word catches in your throat as he shifts slightly, the angle of his hips hitting a spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A broken moan escapes your lips instead, and Lewis smirks against your ear, clearly revelling in your unravelling. 

“Say it,” he demands again, his voice low and demanding. His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face just enough that his lips can brush against the corner of your mouth. The gentleness of the gesture is at odds with the raw intensity of his movements, leaving you breathless. 

“I’m yours,” you finally gasp, the words tumbling out in a mix of desperation and surrender. 

Lewis freezes for a heartbeat, his chest heaving against your back as the admission settles between you. Then, with a triumphant growl, he resumes his pace, his grip on you tightening as if he intends to imprint himself into every fibber of your being. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His lips trail along your shoulder, leaving a path of heat in their wake. “Say it again.” 

“Yours,” you whisper, the word coming easier this time, though the weight of it still sends a shiver through you. 

His rhythm grows more urgent, his body moving with a single-minded purpose as he pushes you both toward the edge. “Never forget it,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, “now come for me.” You blame the singular cocktail you had three or so hours ago for your compliance to his words, as you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, obliterating any coherent thought. Your body trembles uncontrollably in his arms, your cries of release echoing in the room as he whispers sweet words of praise in your ear.  

There are a million other things Lewis expects you to say, but you surprise him with a, “I wanna taste you.”  

Lewis's movements still, his breath catching at your unexpected words. He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours, filled with surprise and a flicker of intrigue. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement and undeniable heat. 

You nod, your cheeks flushing under his intense gaze, but there’s a spark of confidence in your eyes. “I really do,” you say softly, the tremble in your voice betraying both your boldness and your eagerness. 

He studies you for a moment longer, his expression shifting to one of reverence laced with desire. "Well," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "who am I to deny you, darling?" With a gentleness that contrasts the fervour of moments ago, Lewis guides you to sit up, his hands warm and steady as they support you. He shifts to the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, giving you room and letting you take control. His gaze never leaves you, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. You settle between his thighs, your hands skimming over his skin, marvelling at the way his muscles tense under your touch. There's a sense of power in the way his body responds to you, in the way his breathing hitches when your lips brush against him. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with a small smile before leaning in. The moment your mouth closes around him, Lewis groans low in his throat, his head falling back as his control begins to slip. His hands find their way to your hair, his touch gentle but firm as he guides you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Just like that,” he praises, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re perfect, baby.” 

The sound of his voice, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing that matters, spurs you on, and you lose yourself in the moment, intent on unravelling him the way he did you. Your lips move with deliberate intent, your tongue tracing teasing paths that have him groaning your name like a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle tug that makes you glance up at him through your lashes. The sight of him – head tilted back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, sends a thrill through you. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and filled with awe. His eyes find yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself. The sound he makes is primal, his control slipping further as his hips jerk involuntarily. He tries to hold himself back, but you can tell he’s close to losing himself completely. “Baby,” Lewis rasps, his voice thick with need, “you keep that up, and I won’t last.” You hum around him in response, the vibration pulling another groan from his lips. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender contrast to the raw passion between you. “Look at me,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading. 

You meet his gaze, and the connection between you feels electric. His chest heaves as his breaths come in quick, shallow bursts, his control hanging by a thread. “I’m so close,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Do you want me to stop?” The shake of your head is all the answer he needs. With a curse under his breath, he lets go, his body shuddering as he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through him. He holds your gaze the entire time, his grip on you tightening as if anchoring himself to the moment. 

When he calms down, he collapses back against the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. You sit back after swallowing, a triumphant smile playing on your lips as you take in the sight of him, utterly undone. “That was fun,” you rasp as you take in the sight in front of you. 

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound low and breathless, as he drapes an arm over his face, trying to regain his composure. “Fun?” he repeats, his voice laced with amusement and lingering satisfaction. He peeks at you from under his arm, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of adoration and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea what you just did to me.” 

You tilt your head, feigning innocence as you crawl up the bed to lie beside him. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you tease, your voice light but with a hint of pride. 

He turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching out to trace lazy circles along your arm. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet filled with a reverence that makes your cheeks flush. “And I’m completely at your mercy.” 

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, as you nuzzle into his touch. “I think you like it that way,” you reply, your fingers grazing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. 

“More than you know,” he admits, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The tender gesture contrasts with the raw intensity you’d just shared, and it sends a warm flutter through your chest. 

For a moment, silence falls between you, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. Then Lewis shifts, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” 

The weight of his words settles over you, and you glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his gaze. “Good,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He smiles back, a look of pure contentment spreading across his face as he tightens his hold on you. “That’s all I get?” 

“We’ll see how you feel after we get home,” you mumble as you run a finger along the curve of his jaw, “you might be bored of me by then.” 

“Home,” Lewis muses quietly, breaking the silence and ignoring your words. His voice is softer now, contemplative. “I like the sound of that.” 

You glance up at him, his face so close that you can see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. It stirs something deep within you – a mix of tenderness and longing that takes you by surprise. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Me too.” 

[vaguely-concerned]

imagining that while rook is gone, about a week and a half or so in, there's one night where lucanis suddenly appears unannounced in illario's room in the way he has of doing that and which could scare anyone else to death on its own, but of all people in the world illario is the most inclined to only find it mildly annoying to look up from his bad boy Brooding and also facemask-equivalent beauty routine (can't be tragically denied even being doomed by the narrative if you ain't cute) to find his cousin -- now first talon of the crows at least in name -- suddenly staring at him intently and expressionlessly from a few meters away. and when illario (half-jokingly, half-seriously, all-yearningly because crows live bad) is like 'ah so is this finally it are you here to kill me' even with no vengeful purple glow in evidence lucanis just snorts scathingly to show all the seriousness with which he still takes that idea and illario has to wistfully be like 'no, I thought not. so to what do I owe the honour, then, first talon. I figured you'd be pretty busy out there by now'.

and lucanis doesn't say anything at all, just stands there silently for a while and then sits down in a corner of the room with his back against the wall and buries his face in his hands. you have to understand how crucial it is for my vision here that they Do Not talk about it. they never talk about it, not in that moment and not later. illario doesn't have the first idea what 'it' could even be, once he's asked 'is it -- caterina? did something happen to...' (feeling suddenly and absurdly as much like a little boy again as lucanis just had before covering his face) and gotten the slightest headshake in response, nothing else he tries to ask even gets a reaction.

everything is all fucked up and nothing is ever going to be like it used to and the fact that this is where lucanis thought to go about whatever has happened to make his eyes look like that is ludicrous on so many levels and in so many ways. but I do think illario eventually sighs and at least sits down on the floor next to him, leaving a bigger distance between them than he might have once both in self-defense and out of something like consideration. 'I'd ask if you'd like to talk about it, but of course I know you. you never do'. (even with everything else that has happened, illario still knows lucanis better than almost anyone in the world. few things could have convinced him that maybe it really is his cousin in there still quite like this prolonged and complete lack of communication lol.) in the silence they fail to keep each other company in the same way they have for years, but maybe they can at least be honest about it now.

and then when lucanis gets to his feet like this entire very strange silent last half hour never happened to brush dust from his clothes and say he has to go... what can illario really do but go 'sure. great talk, as always. happy to be of service' from the floor as he watches his cousin disappear again into the night. I imagine illario wearing some sort of opulent bath robe or something through this whole thing by the way I think that's an important detail to get in there

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Lilia Vanrouge - Room Relaxation Voice Lines

It's a waste to sleep the night away! My special day starts now!

Summon: I got a birthday performance and a party to go to... Kheeheehee, tomorrow's sure going to be busy.

Groovification: I hate mornings... But there's so much fun things to do today. I can even appreciate the sun on a day like this!

Home: It's fever time!

Swap Looks: The morning sun's unforgiving today, as always...

Home Transition 1: This hairband is my absolute favorite, because it just increases my cuteness factor tenfold.

Home Transition 2: There's so much I want to do at night: play games, practice the bass, read, watch movies, and sometimes even study... Aaah, there's never enough time to do everything!

Home Transition 3: Birthdays are all about celebrating life and all the joys you receive from it. The date it's celebrated is not what's important.

Home Transition - Login: I get more into dressing up when it's for my birthday. It's no fun for anyone else if the birthday boy isn't looking his sharpest, after all!

Home Transition - Groovy: I got into a spirited conversation about the bass with Jade when he came over to give his thoughts on my birthday performance. I think he really knows his stuff!

Home Tap 1: Hoho! It's not often I spy Leona in the Mystery Shop all by his lonesome. Let's see, maybe I can wheedle a birthday gift out of him. Kheeheehee!

Home Tap 2: When I told him it was my birthday, Deuce practically shouted his birthday greetings to me. He did that even though I told him the same thing about three months back... Cute kid.

Home Tap 3: The eyeshadow Azul gave me looks to be a limited edition version of my favorite brand. Well, isn't he a sharp one.

Home Tap 4: I snagged these slippers from one of those online app crane games. You don't really see fluffy dragon feet like these just anywhere!

Home Tap 5: The string on my hoodie? ...Oh, you're right, the left side is a little too long. These things are a pain to fix once they completely slip out, y'know～!

Home Tap - Groovy: What's up, why're you grinning like that? ...I look cute in this getup? Heheh, well, that's because I'm a cutie, of course I look cute ♪

Duo: [LILIA]: Jade, this is how cute a real adult can be! [JADE]: You're almost too dazzling, Lilia-san.

Birthday Login Message: Thanks for coming to celebrate. I'm more than pleased to have you remember my birthday. The Pop Music Club is planning on having a birthday performance tonight. You'll be joining us too, right? I hear that Kalim is preparing an extra-large cake as a surprise. Cater was worried that it wouldn't be a surprise if he told me, but... Kheeheehee, I'm still happy about it. We'll sing and party, surrounded by all those close to me... It's this kind of birthday that makes me the luckiest guy in the world.

Requested by @kingren77.

[cherrysurf]

Winning you back

-where the haikyu boys try to win back you their ex gf.

-contains; daichi, suga, hinata, kageyama, kenma, kuroo, suna, osamu

winning you pt.2!

Daichi; This man is a cop BEST FUCKING BELIEVE hes out patrolling by your usual bars definitely not on purpose to watch over you, so of course you coming out a bar hammered and ready to head home but your friends wanting you drag you to another bar you quickly look for an alibi and who was the best one the cop that was standing right behind you “uh huh no can do this officer said he’d arrest me if i went to another bar right sir” you say slurring your words a bit “that’s right ma’am” the voice sounding awfully familiar till you turn around and see daichi which made your cheeks turn painfully red not just from the alcohol now.. “w-well come on you know the way back to my house let’s go.” you say flustered but really can’t back down now “alright let’s go missy want me to carry you like i used too can you walk home?” he said, smirking very much enjoying this. “carry me.” you whispered “huh? I can't hear you, can you say it louder?” he asked cupping his ear as if to mock you “oh whatever daichi i can walk” you say pushing past him to walk ahead, when you feel strong buff arms pick you up “it’s Mr.daichi to you tonight yn.” he said laughing you roll your eyes and scoff.

sugawara; THIS MAN he is pulling out the “oh the kids wanted me to bring this to you they said they miss you dropping off my lunches and saying hi” because of course you still kept in contact after the breakup because he was mature on it and it was just because you guys were so close and you had formed a bond with his students so imagine how excited him and the kids get when you come in a week later bringing suga lunch “OOOO MISS YN IS BACKKKK” they all say, safe to say suga knew he had you back into his life after that day

hinata; this man is PERSISTENT he’d send you tickets for all his home games even if you guys aren’t talking and then one fateful night it was a big important game for hinata that you had knew about before you two had ended things so you decided to show up and wear his jersey in support, the tickets he’d always give you were up close to the court so if you ever did show up he’d know. Imagine the look on his face when he saw you, he was already feeling down and was actually starting to give up hope on any idea of you coming back together. that all changed after he saw you not just being there but wearing his jersey at that, safe to say he showed off and won and took you out to dinner as a “thank you” gift.

kageyama; I know everyone writes kageyama nonchalant but imagine YEARNING KAGEYAMA with me for a sec this man is sending you flowers every other week the first time he sent you them with a note a attached to it saying “even if we’re not together i refuse to have your flower vase empty so let me take care of that for you.” and it’s never the same flowers it’s always perfect curated ones for every week or two that somehow perfectly aligned with your mood, maybe it’s because he still follows you on instagram even if you have him on follow back because he cares about you, so it’s your birthday week and the wave of presents you get from this man ALONE was insane and then on your birthday you wake up to tons of tags and mentions but one stuck out specifically it was from kageyama's instagram on his VERY PUBLIC might i add it’s a picture of you but not your face showing with a small sentence saying “happy birthday ml i’ll never stop caring for you” safe to say that night you went out to a birthday dinner with him.

kuroo; you and him ended on good terms and also because you two had booked a trip before you two had broken up that you still decided to go on, you thinking it was a simple get together for break maybe even going off to do your own things at the place but for kuroo it was a week long of “how to get yn back” it involved romantic dates, walks on the beach, impressing you, dressing up, compliments alamode the whole nine. Which worked out successfully because by the time you guys came back he was already talking about getting engaged.

kenma; You two wouldn’t have been on speaking terms for about 3 weeks until you noticed an invite sent to you on discord to join a minecraft world, you being bored and curious click on it and find that he made an ENTIRE world dedicated to you and saying sorry, i kid you not even minutes later you get a knock at your door, as you look down you find a gift basket for all your favorite snacks, gift cards from various of your favorite stores, v-bucks and a cute apologetic note. You know kenma knows that he's probably lingering around the area in his car. That’s when you text him “doors unlock come inside let’s 1v1 i know you brought your gaming stuff.” and that he did, NOT EVEN 5 minutes later you hear a knock and kenma with a smile and arms full of his gaming stuff.

suna; he’d take a different approach to getting you back because as serious as he was he was always super funny so imagine your reaction when you hear music coming from your front yard while it was raining to find suna with a boombox over his head blasting your favorite song, you ended up recording this whole ordeal and sending it to atsumu and osamu since they needed some blackmail after countless years of blackmail suna had on them, by the second repeat of the song you had called him to come inside and gave him a warm cup a tea as you laugh about the situation and he gets spammed by texts from the miyas about how stupid it was of him to do this he didn’t care because he was wrapped up in your blanket, with your tea you made for him, and was gonna stay at your house because the rain only got worse after that.

osamu; It’s been about a week of no contact even though neither of you had mentioned it, it was killing you both. Anyways it was the first day of your period and you were craving his cooking because you fully believed it was the only thing that healed you from cramps as you were about to head out for the convenient store to find something to suppress your cravings that’s until you see him at your door which startled you a bit “gosh osamu you scared me what are you doing here?” you asked confused yet happy “uhm i still had your period tracker on my phone..NOT IN A WEIRD WAY i promise i just forgot to delete it and i know how you usually like my food on the first day since it’s your worst day so i'd figure id stop by..” he said nervously “well..you guess right i was gonna go to the store if you wanna come we can get groceries so you can cook i don’t have anything right now” you say happy inside that he came to your rescue “okay i'll drive.” he says happily to weasel his way back into his pretty ex gfs life

[bubbarnes]

i need to take a second because I've been crying so much while reading this and that ending... my god, that last line made me cry like a baby. i wish i was exaggerating but i can't even lie with things like this.

this was by far, one of the most, if not the most beautiful and perfect thing I've ever read. i think i always ramble about things i like and the last thing i would like to do is like, quote the most important things for me but this was just magnificent.

i am so glad i found this... or that it found me, i don't know. i really can't put into words how this made me feel.

it should be so lovely and pure? i don't even know if those are the right words but i feel so sad for bucky the entire time. he just wanted the love of his life back. it pains me so much because after everything he went through, the man was just looking for anything. something. even if that probably wasn't the best.

and she seems like a lovely woman. when she was completely alive, they were meant for each other. and you wrote her so well in her second chance because yes, something was dead. something definitely changed. and it's sad that she obviously knew and bucky as well but i guess his happiness was overshadowing the mess.

we just know he's never gonna be the same. he lost the love of his life two times but I think the good thing here is that he got the chance to say goodbye this time.

the thing about the star... oh god, i can't deal with it.

it's four am, i just finished this, so i am sorry for my bad english, the whole rambling thing but i felt i needed to say something. even if it was pure gibberish. if i could like this a million times more i would.

saturn

summary: you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

warnings: angst. death. being revived from death and the processes that follow. sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan.  The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower. 

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again. 

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced  certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds. 

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of. 

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no. 

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating.  Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.  

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious. 

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She��s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.  

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning. 

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door.  The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound. 

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice–  staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation. 

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep. 

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even.  But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones. 

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now. 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be. 

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor. 

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red. 

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.  

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots. 

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon. 

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones. 

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.  

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup. 

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips. 

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time. 

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two. 

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him. 

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did. 

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe. 

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute. 

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees. 

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly. 

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day.  He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.  

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time. 

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature. 

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?" 

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures. 

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck. 

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively. 

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move. 

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.   

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need. 

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now. 

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade. 

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good. 

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share. 

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply. 

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should. 

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night. 

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.  

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand. 

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent. 

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand. 

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up. 

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest. 

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.” 

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child. 

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real. 

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum. 

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this. 

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love. 

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.  

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie. 

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried. 

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance. 

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like. 

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else. 

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side. 

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons. 

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water. 

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror. 

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling. 

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his. 

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.  

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do. 

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live. 

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying. 

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be. 

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed. 

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening. 

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding. 

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less. 

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake. 

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch. 

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.  

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him. 

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask. 

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line. 

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him. 

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free. 

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

In the spirit of the new year coming upon us, I'd like to request MC sharing the tradition of a New years kiss with their crush (Idia, Sebek, Malleus, Jack, and Azul)

Remember to take it easy, btw! Happy holidays and happy new year!

(happy new year! only a week late)

Azul Ashengrotto:

You felt lucky that you even managed to pull Azul away for a private moment together. New Years had proven a busy day for a business man, and each year it seemed the specials he thought up drew in larger and larger crowds. He had employees to keep an eye on things but he hardly trusted things he couldn’t see and touch himself, meaning he had been on the floor the entire night while you tried to enjoy the party with friends. You were not going to be denied your kiss even if Azul lost a singular dollar due and your beckoning was like a siren’s call, especially knowing what midnight might bring. The following day would be even busier for him so Azul knows it’s better to indulge you, lips gliding against yours as the fireworks pop and crackle loudly outside. Perhaps he’d never admit that he did miss you even while making money to keep you both comfortable, but getting to start off this new year with you at his side was certainly priceless.

Idia Shroud:

This was an ultra-important missable achievement, if he failed now he may never get another chance. Idia thinks he’s locked in, with all his stat-raising items on him, though he wished there was one that would increase his confidence more. He sees the countdown begin and his body tenses, your body leaning against his as you admire the perfect camera angles the reporter is getting. You looked to him with a smile so angelic it could’ve made him burst into flames but before that, before you could even say ‘Happy New Year!’ as you intended, he rushed to press his lips against yours. He might’ve been a little early on the countdown but it didn’t seem to bother you, who only giggled into the kiss as your new year started off perfectly.

Jack Howl:

It just made sense to him to spend the new year together. You were his person which meant he wanted to spend every single day together with you, and starting his year by your side would be the ideal. He’s not thinking of the kiss tradition, thinking of the goals he wants to strive toward and questioning you about your own. It’s not until you see others kissing around you that the idea is sparked, sending him a sly smile as he nervously avoided looking at the other couples. You give him the perfect distraction by placing a hand on his cheek, turning him to face you and gently pressing your lips to his to truly start the new year off in the best way possible.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus thought human traditions were always a little silly, this one especially so. Wouldn’t it get tiring celebrating so many different new years? How did they always manage to find something new to promise themselves? Shouldn’t most goals be continuous? You’re more than happy to address his questions as you loved when he showed an interest, specifically in you. You teased him about your own personal goals, telling him you’d let him know as soon as the year rolled over, while Malleus smirked at your response. He had come up with his own resolution, and as the countdown began, he solidified the idea in his head to the point of no return. To start the year off right he held your face in his, stealing your full attention and having you all to himself as he kissed you.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek had been on edge since the festivities began, hardly allowing himself to be distracted from his duties. You couldn’t blame him for keeping a close eye on those who drifted close to their future king, knowing that an assassin could strike in the blink of an eye. You do manage to convince him to come with you to a lovely spot where the fireworks would burst in the sky, practically above your heads, by saying Silver had promised to stick to Malleus like glue until Sebek returned; batting your eyes at him continued to work wonders for you as well. You have his full attention as you excitedly tell him about all your experiences at the festival below, nodding his head along as his fingers laced with yours. He kissed your hand first, wishing to share a few promises for the future, but the fireworks were far too loud, so a gentle kiss on the lips would have to suffice for now.

[monstersholygrail]

In a Free Use City, your knowledge on the subject of your job isn’t always what’s most important. And in your case, it’s the least important. You were actually known as quite a ditz in the Free Use City Offices.

You worked in the tech department surrounded by a bunch of hot and nerdy guys who spoke in yours you couldn’t even begin to understand. You were just happy to be there and they were happy to ogle you and press against you whenever you asked for their help with any simple task.

They thought they had the upper hand on you, thinking they were so clever. But you had them all on a leash. An entire department at your disposal to give you pleasure whenever you wanted.

Your favorite man to bother was IT Robot. He got his work done fast and spent the rest of the day goofing off. The easy air around him made him approachable and the way all his shirts fit snugly against his bulging pecs made you drip with need.

You can’t help but spare him another glance before hesitantly returning your gaze to your own computer, the screen filled with the program you still haven’t figured out. Great, now you were confused and horny.

“Need me for something?” IT Robot’s voice suddenly purrs into your ears. His steel-like grip grabbing onto your plush hips and pulling you back into his hard chest.

His body molds to yours so perfectly it has you tingling all over. Arousal gushing and soaking through your panties. He turns you on so bad even when he barely did anything but it was like your body was out of control. As if it could be programmed just for him when he was the robot.

“Help… I hurt,” you say with a pout, your mind turning to complete mush whenever you’re around him.

IT Robot flashes you with that charming lopsided smile of his, heavily amused by the puddle you melt into whenever he talks to you.

“Where does it hurt, huh? It hurt here?”

He caresses your soft belly with an appreciation that borders on worship before one hand slips beneath your skirt, nuzzling his fingers between your soaked folds.

“Or here?” He asks while the other gives a little pat on your head.

A low whine escapes your lips as he rolls his fingers over your clit, your hips jerking into the touch. And that’s all it takes to have IT Robot plunging three of his fingers deep into your cunt, making you gasp and tremble in his arms.

“That’s what I thought… Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll fix the issue right away. It’s what I do after all.”

Your vision blurs as you dive into the pleasure head first. Choking out harsh moans as IT Robot’s fingers move inside you with precision like he has an entire map of your pretty pussy printed in his head. His fingers move in a blur as they pump themselves inside you, hitting all the right places that have you seeing stars. Each curl of his fingers sends your pussy fluttering and clenching down around him.

“Squeeze me tight, honey, ngh c’mon! Don’t think about a thing, just focus on being my pretty baby. My good girl.”

His words send the last thoughts in your head flying out the window, reducing you to nothing but his perfect little fuck toy. Your body relaxes without having to worry about a thing, allowing the ecstasy to overwhelm you.

IT Robot chuckles again as that fucked out expression fills your features. He flattens his palm so that it rubs hard against your clit with every snap of his fingers. With a few quick movements it has you falling over the edge and exploding all over his hand. Your vision flashes white as your orgasm rolls through you and you can’t find the strength to move any of your limbs after.

But that’s alright, IT Robot will take care of you, his fingers slipping out of your pulsing cunt with a pop, and giving your temple a soft kiss. He doesn’t bother cleaning up his hand dripping with your cum as he starts typing on your computer, solving the issue with the program you were using, and successfully helping you with both your aches.

“There, there. I’ve got you, pretty. Just keep feelin’ good. All because of me,” he whispers in your ear. Planning to spend the rest of the day doing all your work for you.

[lkblackham]

Had the image of a half human, half Qunari baby pop in my head and got some good therapy practicing drawing cute babies.

Being the child of a nurse-midwife, I have witnessed many births and many different kinds of new dads (on video, to be clear - my mom didn't drag me around to births in person). And so, it is my belief that Emmrich would definitely be the weepy type of new dad. I love those dads.

My personal fanfic headcanon stuff that may or may not be cringe, I make no apologies:

1) Qunari kids, much like goats, do not fully grow their horns until they hit puberty. Which is definitely for the best, because a) birth OUCH and b) can you imagine a hyperactive 2-year-old running around with what amounts to two giant spears attached to their head?

So for the first 12+ years of their life, they just have cute lil forehead nubbins that still really hurt when they headbutt you during a tantrum.

2) It's a girl. Because we all know that Emmrich has strong Girl Dad energy.

3) Atash and Emmrich had a really tough time with names - both given names and surnames. Atash isn't particularly attached to her surname (Laidir) and so was totally fine with just 'Volkarin' for their kid. Emmrich was insistent on including 'Laidir', however, as he felt very strongly about Atash's heritage and story sharing an equal part with his in naming their daughter. So she's got 2 last names - one for Nevarra and one for Rivain. She can pick whichever she prefers, or neither, or both. What matters is that both are there to begin with.

This line of thinking also, obviously, complicated the given name. It's really hard when you're pretty certain this is going to be your only kid, and you're from two very different cultures with their own ideas about names, AND you have a rather tragically long list of people you love who have passed on and deserve to have a child named after them. Not to mention, both of you have names you just personally like, saved away in your head just in case you ever did have a kid to name.

In the end, Atash and Emmrich came up with a compromise, for which they really hope their daughter won't resent them in the future: they gave her *four* names. One for a family member, one for a fallen friend, one for her Qunari heritage, and one that's just hers and no one else's.

So, all together, it came to:

Lobelia Elannora Lace Nazay Laidir Volkarin

It's. It's a lot. Atash and Emmrich both acknowledge that. But it felt wrong to not include those tributes in their daughter's name.

Besides, this just means she has a lot of options, right? Right? Right. Definitely.

(They also acknowledge that Lace Harding would think this was absolutely ridiculous and laugh at them over it, but that mental image being there is part of why they did it)

And yes, of COURSE they chose a flower name.

4) Manfred is really friggin excited to get the chance to watch someone grow up and maybe teach THEM some things himself. Emmrich is really friggin excited on both a personal and academic level to raise his daughter alongside his ward, teaching her about spirits while Manfred learns from her about mortals.

Manfred's also a really great diaper changer because he doesn't have a nose and he's not squeamish about literally anything.

(Not that Atash or Emmrich take advantage of this.)

(Often.)

BY THE WAY, VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: I do not believe that the default Happy Ending for everyone is having kids. In another universe, Emmrich and Rook are just as happy teaching Manfred how to be a person and mage (or not, if Emmrich became a lich) and going off on their own kid-free adventures. YOU MAKE THE CHOICES THAT ARE BEST FOR YOU and fuck what the tropes say.

This is just *my* fantasy cringe fluff. You do you. ♥️

[letsgobarbs]

@slimybeth69 @guiltyasdave @luvvyouforever Hahaha... Happy New Year?

Pairing: carpenter!joel miller x Reader x lumberjack!logan howlett

Warnings: It's almost 6k of just porn :) she's got a little power dynamics, dub-con, fingering, outdoor sex, oral (both male and female receiving), boobs, anal play, double penetration, a healthy amount of degradation and also a little praise, unprotected p in v sex, maybe a little dumbification if you squint... yeah, I think that pretty much covers it. Oh, it's also romantic sometimes.

A/N: I opened up a tab to search for what lumberjacks and carpenters do, and types of wood and stuff. Then I instantly closed it, because that's not important. It's not what the people want. But what I googled in a short minute gives you a nice little opening. Like the script and scene before the sexy stuff starts.

divider by @saradika-graphics

Your lips wobbled from the effort to not cry. 

“Don’t go crying on me now, bub. The order will take time, can’t just keep chopping all day because that asshole boss of yours demands it.” Logan wasn’t even paying attention to you now, both his feet were propped up on the desk while he leisurely lit a cigar. But not even the sight of his biceps bulging in that sleeveless white undershirt of his could make you feel better. It was all your fault and you could lose your job for it. Joel had asked you to place the order for, specifically, a Black Locust tree with its log sliced into 2-inch thick slices.

“I know you have the tree, Logan, please. I saw it on my way in. Can’t you please just cut it into smaller logs… I’ll do the slicing myself. Please.”

“Yeah? You know your way around a chainsaw?” You didn’t appreciate the sardonic eyebrow raise he gave you.

“I will figure it out, please, Logan. I need that wood today. Or else I’ll lose my job. It was totally my fault for forgetting to place the order—”

“It’s not the first time you’ve forgotten an order. Sometimes, I wonder why Joel even keeps you around, he’s not a very patient man.” You were too busy feeling aggrieved and anxious to notice the way he looked you up and down, lingering over the way your t-shirt snugly stretched over your boobs. 

“Don’t say that… I’m very good with numbers, I handle the accounts and taxes really well—”

“That’s all you do for him? Accounts and taxes?” There was laughter coating his voice as he blew out a cloud of smoke between you. You tried not to cough.

“I clean too…” You cleaned and closed up the workshop for Joel every day. That’s what you would have been doing right now had you not fucked up your job.

“Well, I can’t keep covering for your mistakes, bub.” He stood from his seat, walking out the back door into his working area. You followed behind still badgering him for your order. 

“Please, Logan, I’ll do anything. I can look over your account books? I know you needed someone to do that for you. Or maybe I can clean up for you today?”

“I don’t do overtime, makes me tired.” Horeseshit.

“Please, I’ll give you a massage or something. Whatever your old bones need to not be tired.” You didn’t mean to be snippy with him, after all, you were still trying to coax him to give you the order. But he was clearly just being difficult. 

He seemed to think about your offer as he sat on the tree stump that usually served as his chopping block. You put away your attitude to give him your best pleading, puppy-dog, eyes again while he blew several more puffs of smoke.

“Lift your skirt.” You thought you had imagined his words. That your brain was just playing tricks on you from how often you had daydreamed about this man. 

“What?” He looked like he had just casually commented on the weather, but his eyes were dark, almost predatory.

“What? Nobody taught a cute little thing like you how men like to end a long day at work?” He thought you were cute? And you were by no means little, but you looked at his muscled, brawny form, his large hands, sturdy thighs, and that growing bulge in his dark-washed jeans. Oh, this man could make you feel little in every sense of the word. The walls of your pussy flutter and clench around emptiness. 

“Logan—”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to… you could always just go back and tell Joel you forgot to put in the order for that rich, fussy client.” You couldn’t disappoint Joel.

You tentatively made your way to stand between his spread thighs, the smug smirk on his face unfortunately made your nipples stiffen; and you felt a warm, twisting tug between your legs at the thought of letting this man have his way with you. It’s all you have thought about since the day you met him. 

“So… we do stuff? And you’ll give me the wood?” You confirm again, hoping this wasn’t some cruel joke he’s playing on you. 

“Oh, I’ll give you the wood, alright.” A giggle slips through at his pun, the tension between the two of you slightly eased at the sound. 

You slowly lift your skirt to reveal the baby-pink cotton panties you were wearing; had you known this was the plot twist in store for you, you would have gone for one of the sexier, lacier ones you own. But Logan releases a soft groan at the sight anyway. Your thighs clench involuntarily at the sound, and you keep them together in fear that he will see how desperately turned on you are when he hasn’t even touched you. His cigar is abandoned between his lips as he brings his hand to gently part your legs and graze your slit over your underwear, finding the wet little patch you had leaked in his presence. 

“Oh, you dirty fucking slut. You’ve been walking around me, dripping this entire time.” 

He slides his fingers into your panties, caressing the damp patch of fabric between his thumb and fingertips. You shivered at the feel of his rough knuckles gliding over your folds. Your hips rock forward over the loose fist he has on your underwear begging for more friction. A whine escapes your lips at the loss of contact when Logan slides the panties down your legs, making you step out of them and then pocketing the panties in the back of his jeans. 

This time, there is no cover as he cups your sex, you’re so wet his fingers glide over your folds. His thumb is almost too rough on your clit, and it makes you stagger away with a gasp of protest to escape the touch. But Logan leverages the two middle fingers he has pressed inside your pussy—pulling you closer with the hand in your cunt— they curl inside you and catch a spot that has white heat spreading behind your eyes. He presses an apologetic kiss just under the curve of your belly. 

“Lift the t-shirt up too, let me see those gorgeous tits, babe. Been imagining what they’d look like for months…”

You lift your top, and your sensible cotton bra with it, letting your boobs fall from their perch and dangle right in front of his face in a lewd offering. He blows the hot cigar smoke right over your erect nipple while his other hand reaches up to brush a knuckle over the other one. He kneaded your breasts, squeezing and lifting them in his palms to feel their weight; your nipples insistently pucker into his palms for attention, and he relents by lifting your boobs by their nipples.

 In slow, unhurried movements, he rolls the buds between his fingers, giving them sharp tugs, unpredictable flicks, and gentle scratches from his nails— studying the sounds you make at each action. It’s like a live wire connects your nipples to your clit. The mean twist he gives to your nipple along with the rough pinch to your clit sends you over the edge as you shake and convulse, limply landing on his lap unable to hold yourself up on your own two feet. 

Logan whispered gentle words as you came down from your high, none of which you heard over the rush of blood in your ears. He soothingly rubbed along your spine, letting the last of the tremors leave your body while you rested your head on his shoulder, taking in large mouthfuls of air. He smells of smoky tobacco, coffee and sweat. 

He tenderly removed his fingers from your pussy with a loud, squelching sound, and bought his arm up to taste your juices coating his fingers. 

He licked a finger with a soft moan, “Knew you’d be so fucking sweet.” 

Then he offered you his other finger, shoving the digit into your gaping mouth, “Taste yourself, Darling.” And you suckle his finger, swirling your tongue around it thinking of an entirely different part of his body you would rather be sucking. 

He stands to position you over the stump of wood he was sitting on; his finger receding from your mouth as his hand cups your jaw and lowers you so your hands are flat against the wood. Your tits felt full and heavy from this angle after how much he’d worked them. He guided you with a hand on your hips so that your ass stuck out for him— your wet, shiny pussy lips on display. 

Logan ran a large, calloused hand from the base of your spine to your skull; his fingers tangled in your hair and pulled your head up, “Tell me you want it, Darling.”

“Yes, please, Logan. I want it.” You pleaded with him as you gazed over your shoulder to watch him unzip his jeans behind you. He roughly tugged your head to make you face forward. 

“Yeah? Look at you, nothing more than a cock hungry slut who would let me fuck her like an animal in broad daylight.” 

The bark of the tree dug into your palms. There was a cool wind against your heated, oversensitive skin that reminded you that you were outside. And right ahead of you, you noticed the gap in the tree line, anybody driving by could see you being fucked with your tits out if they turned their head. 

Logan tapped your ankle with his foot, kicking your legs wider apart for him. He lined his cock with your opening and you felt the bulbous tip of him try to enter— two fingers were not enough to have prepped you for him. The stretch burned you, and your body tensed under the intrusion; you felt the pressure right up against your throat, for a brief moment, you worried you would throw up before you had taken him all in. 

Logan’s arm banded around your waist, pulling you deeper on his cock. You hadn’t even realised you were running away. He made soft hushing sounds at you while he rocked into your cunt with shallow thrusts, not really moving inside you so much as swaying your bodies back and forth. 

“You’re doing so well, Darling. That’s it… relax. Good girl. Don’t tense up on me now, you’ll kill me.” 

His arm came under you to finger at your clit again, working the little bud in tight circles until the walls of your pussy relented and let him slide in further. He bullied his cock into your hole for what felt like forever, you were starting to believe there was no end to his dick until his balls slapped heavily against your mound. 

“What a perfect fucking cunt, so tight and wet. You were made to take a good fucking, weren’t you? Made for my cock.” 

He set a brutal pace, rough and fast. His dick retreated until only his tip was inside, before shoving back in again. The slide of his cock against your walls in deep, long strokes was dizzying. The burning stretch settled into thrilling currents as the pool of pleasure widened from your core to move up your spine and to the rest of the body. He pistoned into you, chasing his own release with his fingers curled into your clit providing additional friction. There was a tension building inside you. 

At some point, you stopped pushing back onto his cock to meet him thrust for thrust, unable to keep up with his forceful movements. Your knees buckled under you, chafing against the edge of the stump. All you could do was take it, take everything he was giving you. Your hands lost strength, causing you to drop onto your elbows— your sensitive nipples were caught against the rough wood below. The broken moans and pleas were interrupted by a shocked yelp. Oh my God, were you the one making those sounds?

All at once, you came with a scream, shuddering with the force of your orgasm. Your release coated Logan’s cock and his thighs. The walls of your pussy clenched around him and milked him for his cum— somehow you felt him sink even deeper into you. You laid there, a sheen of sweat covering your back, in warm relief while he grunted and rutted into you— his own words coming out broken by gasps and groans. 

He came with long, heavy spurts that scalded the walls of your cunt, making you feel impossibly fuller. The ash from his cigar fell on the small of your back, the heated sensation unexpectedly intense against your skin sending another wave of ripples through your awakened nerves. He kept fuckin his release deeper into you, a zing of pleasure working into your body again, until his cock slid out of you only half hard.

He stood there watching you long after he had tucked himself back into his jeans; your body slumped over, languid and spent— your palms still gripping the edge of the stump, your knees perched on the wood, folded over the block with just your ass in the air. But the most fascinating sight was his creamy, white cum leaking out of your red, swollen cunt. He hadn’t cum like that in decades. Logan used two of his fingers to scoop some of his cum that was dripping out, and smeared it over your asshole. 

“Gonna be in this fuckhole next, Darling.” His voice thick with dark promise.

He pulled you up after affectionately patting your pussy, his fingers landed against your clit— the sensation making you twitch with need again. He pulled your bra back over your tits, followed by your t-shirt, and then lowered your skirt to cover you again. He guided you back into his office with a hand on your waist, handing you a glass of iced water and a seat.

You watched him shuffle a few things around and pull out… 2-inch thick slices of Black Locust logs neatly tied with a rope. You accusingly stared at him, not regretting what happened— you would’ve easily let Logan fold you like a pretzel and fuck into you for as long as he wanted any day— but he really could’ve helped you avoid all this stress and anxiety. You could’ve fucked him after as a thank you!

“Joel reminded me at the bar a few days ago to not forget his order. Didn’t mention it to him that you never placed it.” He explained with a teasing huff. Logan loaded the car for you— not the only thing he had loaded today. 

“Umm, thanks… can I have my panties back please.” You notice your underwear hanging out of his back pocket. 

“No, I think I’ll be keeping these.” He said while he took an obscene sniff of your panties. 

You had no idea how you drove back, your legs still felt wobbly and jittery. You braced yourself for an earful from Joel as you glanced around the clean workshop. He had cleaned up without waiting for you. You would gratefully take his scolding today, there was no way you would have been able to clean the place without Logan’s cum dribbling down your thighs. 

“Where were you?” Joel scowled at you. 

“Umm… just went to pick up your order from Logan’s— Sorry. The traffic was insane… did you need anything else before I close up?” You grew scared when Joel didn’t say anything for several long minutes. 

“Did you check what he gave you? Correct wood? Even slices? I don’t want to have to sit down and shave off some wood.” 

“Yeah, seemed fine to me…” 

“How’d you hurt your knees?” He asked while nodding towards your knees. You desperately choked back a strangled gasp at his question and looked down at your knees as if they might answer for you. They were scratched up and bleeding— only after seeing them did you realise they were stinging. 

“Oh, I fell.” 

“And that bastard Logan didn’t even offer you a bandaid?” Joel frowned as he retrieved the first-aid kit from one of the cabinets. 

“It happened after I left his.” Your voice sounded unbelievably high and false to your own ears. 

Joel tapped the top of his work table in a wordless command for you to hop on while he pulled a chair for himself. You gingerly climbed onto the table, folding your skirt under you, keeping your thighs clenched so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of your bare pussy— interlocking your ankles for good measure. Your boss was another tall, dark, handsome, brooding man with a heart of gold in your life. You admired the way his jean shirt stretched over the expanse of his shoulders while he gently dabbed some antibiotic ointment over your scrapes.

“Tell me, sweetheart, you got these scrapes by kneeling for Logan and letting him fuck into your mouth?” 

“JOEL—”

“What? You think I wouldn’t be able to tell with the way you walked in here, all bow-legged and unsteady like a fresh foal?” He looked disappointed.

“I—”

“You see, sweetheart, I had a bet with that bastard. He thought you would easily spread your legs, wouldn’t even need convincin’. But here I was, thinking you were a good girl with her head full of numbers and taxes. Thought you’d hold out for at least a few more weeks. That’s my bad, I didn’t know you were just a cock-hungry slut.” His tone was scornful and mocking. Your nose burned with the urge to cry. 

“It’s not like that, Joel— Please don’t fire me, I really need this job.” You could feel the ugly sobs climbing up your throat. 

“I’m not gonna fire you, sweetheart. You gotta work off that cash I lost in the bet.” His knuckles came up to gently rub your cheek, smearing the tears you had shed into your skin. 

“How— How much is it?” 

“Don’t you worry about that. You’ve just got to start taking on some extra chores around here…” Joel put away the first-aid kit and returned with a plain, wooden box. 

He grasped your knees and spread them, exposing your large pussy lips— full and swollen— and your clit pushing out towards him as if begging for him to rub it. He groaned at the sight, the hair covering your mound was dewy, your folds still damp, the inside of your thighs still coated with your sticky juices. He guided your heels to rest on the edge of the table, further pushing your knees apart to expose the entirety of you— down to that winking rosette much lower where the cum Logan had smeared was slightly drying. 

“Joel, what—” He softly shushed you, folding your skirt so it bunched around your waist. 

“No need to worry about the job. I fully intend to keep you. See, sweetheart”—Joel brought his hand to your exposed sex, grazing a knuckle over your clit before squeezing your puffy labia between his thumb and his finger, giving it gentle tugs and shakes—“You’re going to give me whatever I want, whenever I want it.” Logan’s cum oozed out as your pussy clenched and contracted at Joel’s words.

Joel’s eyes were blown wide with lust as he opened the mysterious box beside you, “But first… Logan won the bet, didn’t he? So we should give him his prize.” Inside the box were seven beautiful wooden butt plugs, smooth and shiny with a flared base. They had different shapes and sizes, one of them was even long and straight like a dildo. Joel reached for the smallest one, and your thighs quivered with anticipation. 

Logan’s promise echoed in your ears, “Gonna be in this fuckhole next, Darling.” You gasped with the realisation that Joel was prepping your ass for Logan to fuck. Maybe he read your shivering and gasp as fear because Joel gently caressed your hips like he would soothe a spooked animal.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, we’ll see to it that you like it when we touch you… But that’s not going to be so hard for a slut like you, huh? Look at you, you’re dripping from just my words.”

Joel rolled the plug at your opening, lubing it with your own release mixed with Logan’s cum before he pressed it into your asshole. The intrusion was shocking and far too foreign, almost too overwhelming as your back landed on the table under you with a thud. But the knot of tension in your body tightened, a blazing flame of pleasure licked at the base of your spine as Joel started rotating the plug in and out of you— stretching and spreading the ring of your ass wider.

“This is the prettiest fucking sight, sweetheart. Wish you could see it— maybe I’ll spread you open in front of a camera someday… Decided to make these plugs the day you interviewed for the job, took one look at that ass of yours and knew it would look so fucking cute plugged for me… Logan personally chose the wood for it too, it’s pear wood… beautifully compliments your skin.” His words gave you butterflies in your belly, and your heart skipped a beat. This is so romantic.

Joel stooped down, his nose nudging at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis and he took a deep sniff before licking at the dried slick on the inside of your thigh. He rolled his tongue in his mouth, savouring the taste. Uncaring that he was about to eat another man’s spunk from your cunt, he turned to your aching pussy, licking a strong, stroke up the slit and to your sensitive clit where he circled it with his tongue before closing his lips over the little bud to suckle.

You gasped his name, your hands reaching to tangle in his hair and tugging him closer to your desperate cunt. He groaned into your pussy, the vibrations travelling straight up your clit. His tongue was devastatingly accurate against your folds as it tasted and licked until you were trembling under the hold he had on your hips, his other hand still working the plug in your bottom.

Your body tightened and arched, your muscles waiting for the release that was just at its precipice. And then you felt it— Joel, gently nibbling on your clit. Your orgasm set off like a firecracker, your entire body shook as all your muscles contracted and released. You shoved your pelvis deeper into Joel, rocking your hips over his face to ride out your orgasm. 

Joel’s mouth was still attached to your warm pussy even after you had come down from the high of your orgasm. His hand came around your thigh to pat and stroke through the pubic hair that covered your sex— gently playing with the hair while he cleaned you up with his tongue. He whispered sweet words into your pussy, his nose affectionately nuzzling your clit while he just enjoyed the taste of you, the smell of you on his face. 

“Such a pretty pussy. You’re perfect, sweetheart.” 

“You’re going to make me so happy…” He whispers as he stands from his seat to look at you. You feel downright sinful and wanton. Your hair wild, gaze half-lidded as you stared up at him with naked want. Your legs were spread wide open in invitation, your well-used, glistening cunt open and displayed for him. Maybe you should feel ashamed, you just had another man’s dick in you not even an hour ago. But the constant arousal and orgasms had you worn out and slumped in delicious replete. 

“This is how I always want you from now on, open and ready for me whenever my cock gets hard.” He ordered as he lowered his jeans and underwear to release his cock. Your mouth watered at the sight of him— long and thick, the head slightly red and weeping at the tip. You hadn’t seen Logan’s dick, but you could tell that Joel was just barely shorter in length; whatever he lacked in length he more than made up in girth. This time, you truly wondered how you would fit him inside you, especially now that you also had a plug up your butt.

But Joel sank deep in you with one easy stroke; Logan’s seed from earlier was still coating the inside of your walls along with your own arousal, Joel met no resistance except for the plug in your ass that rubbed against the bottom of his cock. You felt impossibly stuffed and full, and he waited for the shock and surprise to ease from your eyes even when your back had arched into the pleasure.

“That’s it… my pretty little cocksleeve. Just a minute, then I’ll make it all better.” He appeased. 

He slowly started pistoning his cock into you, and a rush of wetness seeped out to flood where the both of you were joined. Joel gave a savage little laugh as he cupped the base of your skull in a forceful and possessive hold while ripping your t-shit and bra up to reveal your tits. 

“You want this, sweetheart, don’t you? You need this. Filthy fucking slut”—he was growling into your face—“You need your old boss to fuck you even after you had another man’s cock deep up your cunt. What happened, huh? Sweetheart? Did Logan not make you cum?” 

“No, he did—” you mewled. 

“Oh. So his dick just wasn’t enough for you, was it? You just needed more cock, anybody would do—”

“No, no, no, Joel. You, just you—”

“Yeah? Didn’t realise I was paying such a greedy fucking slut. You should be glad I didn’t know about the absolute honey pot you had between your legs— would’ve broken you in a long fucking time ago.” 

Joel guided your head so you could see his dick surging in and out of your hole, a ring of foamy, white cream forming at the base of his cock. 

“See? That is one good pussy— trying to suck me dry.”—The walls of your pussy clenched around him at the sight, Joel broke off his words with a biting curse—“You’re doing so great, baby girl. Such a good whore, taking care of my cock. So fucking good for me.”

You preened under his praise, raising your pelvis to meet his thrusts. And you quickly lost the ability to speak. His balls hit against the flared base of the butt plug, jostling it inside you so both the plug and his dick rubbed at some elusive spot on the thin barrier that separated the two. 

“You’ve wanted this for a while now haven’t you? Wearin’ all those skimpy outfits to work, bending over to show me your fucking panties all day. This little pussy just needed some cock, huh?” 

His head came down directly at level with your swaying tits, and Joel took advantage of that to catch one in his mouth. He sucked, licked and nipped at your erect nipples causing a feeling so intense— like a lightning bolt— that you started fighting against the pleasure by twisting and contorting under him. Joel leaned down to throw his weight on you, stilling your struggle under him. His hand came up to hold you by the throat. 

His hand didn’t tighten or grip your throat to choke you, he just held it there letting you feel the weight, warmth and power. The touch was almost grounding and comforting as you could feel the wild beat of your pulse steadily pumping against his hands. 

“Don’t struggle. You gotta get used to this, sweetheart. This is your daily chore from now on… Making sure Logan and I get our cocks wet. It’s a good thing you’re so insatiable, won’t have any problem milking out every drop of our cum every day like a cum dumpster.” 

The very idea had you writhing, Joel could feel your pussy getting wetter, fluttering and clenching over his cock in a vice. Sticky, syrupy sounds get louder in the workshop. 

“Oh, you like that, dirty girl? Us taking turns with you? Taking you together? Sharing you like our personal fuck toy…” 

You miss the rest of his words, your mind already having slipped into a trance-like state, the noises around you receding into a dull buzz, your eyes seeing yet unseeing. You had been reduced to nothing more than a pulsating, throbbing ball of aching need and nerves. The scratch of his shirt on your nipples was overwhelming, so was his pubic hair rubbing over your clit, and the plug was still being pushed into your butt. Tears escaped your eyes. 

Joel looked concerned for a moment, his pace stuttering as he considered slowing down, you couldn’t hear the soothing questions he was asking you. But you let out a loud keening, wail— wordless but the sound was a needy, desperate plea for him to never stop, to do whatever he wanted to you so you could feel this way forever. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly deeper into your cunt— tightening your hold so he could never escape. 

Joel gave a smug, triumphant grin over you before he leaned down to kiss your lips. Contrary to his words, and how he was fucking you, his kiss was utterly sweet, tender and affectionate. He kissed you hesitantly and tentatively like a new lover who had yet to figure out how you liked to be kissed. He maintained a gentle hold of your throat, and his other hand came up to pet your head lovingly— his calloused thumb reaching to wipe the tears escaping from the side of your eyes. 

You could barely make out what he was saying, “That’s it, sweetheart. You ready to let go for me? Give me what’s mine…”

Joel reached between you to pinch your clit, but the slightest graze set you off. Your nipples tightened, clit hummed and your body buzzed as the walls of your cunt gripped onto his cock trying to milk him while your ass clenched on the plug. You leveraged the last of your strength to arch your hips pushing the plug right into that spot you had discovered earlier that could throw you off the edge and keep you suspended there. Joel’s fingers gripped the side of your throat, making it all the more difficult to breathe.  

You shattered. Hard. Your body gripping and convulsing as you sprayed out your release all over Joel’s cock— wetting his jeans, the table under you, the chair behind him, until the clear, viscous fluid was dripping from the table and forming a pool around his feet. Your own scream sounded distant to your ears, but they could probably be heard out on the street. Joel followed, slumping over you with a grunt, shooting out thick ropes of hot cum that washed your womb with his seed. 

You laid there relishing his weight on you, playing with the hair at his nape while he pressed reverent kisses into every patch of exposed skin he could reach. He pushed himself on his elbows, gingerly pulling out of you and made his way to the bathroom with unsteady, wobbling legs. You wanted to throw his comment back about walking like a newborn foal, but you didn’t want to bother with words just yet when you were still regretting the loss of his body on yours. 

He returned with a bottle of lube and a wet washcloth, softly dabbing away your tear streaks and drool then moving down to clean your thighs and pussy. His ministrations were thorough and gentle, careful not to rub your already raw skin. You moaned a protest against pulling the plug out until he questioningly showed you the next size. 

“You think you can take more, princess?”

You spread your legs wider for him as he eased out the small plug, wiping your gaping hole with the washcloth. He coated the bigger one with lube before pressing it into your ass, playing with the flared handle to rotate and tweak it until it was firmly lodged inside.

He leaned over you again, carefully slipping a hand under your boneless body, and another under your head before picking you up like a child, your legs wrapped around his waist again as he took a seat in the chair. 

Your nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck breathing in his scent of sawdust and wood veneer. He held you like that, cuddled into him while his rough, warm hands stroked along your spine and he peppered kisses into your neck and shoulders. You slipped your own hands under his shirt, feeling the broad expanse of his skin and playing with the wispy hair that lead into his cock… Now you knew that his trail had the same silvery greys as his curls and patchy beard.

You didn’t know how many hours had gone by with you between Joel’s legs, your fingers draped over his thighs and his cock stuffed down your throat. He sunk further in his seat to man spread, giving you a flash of the hole you had licked for him earlier. Joel was nursing a chilled beer while he toggled with the remote of the small vibrator he had taped to your clit turning it up so the gentle buzzing filled the air. 

You sucked your cheeks in, pulling his hard length further into your mouth and he put gentle pressure on your scalp to guide you until the short springy hair tickled your nose. You squirmed under his hold partly because it was too tight for you to escape and partly for some desperately needed friction between your legs.

Joel rewarded you by setting his beer aside to bring his cold hand to palm at your tits— the cold sensation against your heated skin finally sending you into another twitching, whimpering orgasm. You stopped counting them after they all started to roll into one constant state of tingling currents.

“Jesus Christ, bub. Look at the state of her. You can’t work her so hard just because you’re jealous I got to her first.” Logan!

“‘S not so bad. You’re just in time, we were waiting for you. I think our greedy slut has a few more orgasms left in her for the night. Don’t you, princess?” 

You were far too gone to formulate a response. Joel rapidly tapped a few strong pats across your cheek to break you out of your haze of pleasure. 

“Hey.” He smiled down at you with his dimple on display. He affectionately wiped your chin with his thumb. And your heart warmed at the tender but fruitless gesture. You had made a complete mess of yourself as you drooled out the mix of his spit and cum, slobbering all over yourself until the sticky, creamy, juices hung from your chin and your nipples before stringing down to meet your own release pooling between your legs. You mustered a silly smile for him despite the cock in your mouth. 

“Logan’s here baby, you want to take both of us at the same time?” He still had a commanding hold over your neck and you couldn’t pull away to answer him. So you gave him an enthusiastic nod, bobbing his cock along with your head. 

“Good girl…” You perked up at the praise. 

His foot nudged the side of your ass, “Why don’t you show him how hard you’ve worked, sweetheart?” 

You obediently raised your hips, arching your waist and sticking your ass out to lewdly shake and wiggle it in the air behind you to show Logan the biggest-sized plug nestled between your ass cheeks— stretching your fuckhole out for him. 

carpenter!joel miller x lumberjack!logan howlett

[jetsamsoul]

Open wide ~.ᐟ

A/N: guess who's baccckk...I was gone forever because I had to go to the depths of the ocean and drag Floyd back up for you all..true story not clickbait at all. (on a real note, I'm hoping to get back on that grind. Honestly.)

tags: Floyd Leech x gn!reader // very lightly proofread, messy bday blowjob, cheek tapping, deepthroat/gagging, swallowing, shrimpy nickname a couple times, basically Floyd is an idiot.

wc: 1.7k // ao3

It was well into the evening when you got a chance to catch Floyd one-on-one. No other students quivering through a birthday wish. Not a soul taking their chances to give him the presents he openly wished for. Or demanded, really. He had spent a large portion of his birthday exploring old, ‘inaccessible’ ruins aside Malleus, which had been his birthday gift to the mer. Even a small glimpse at the pair was a sight. An interesting and mildly frightening one. Now though, you would find him alone. Turned in for the night having skipped his shift at the lounge. Why work on such an important day?

You entered Floyd and Jade’s shared dorm room with three boxes carefully stacked in your arms. Two were meant for Floyd, the other for his twin. Floyd's head perked up from the book in his hands by the time you shut the door and walked to the end of his bed. The mer sat the book down, sitting up from his reading position. “aah-Shrimpy! Finally came to wish me a happy birthday?” he grinned, pulling you into a squeeze hug as usual after you set the boxes on his bed. “Sea Slug beat ya faaar to it ya know..”

“Yeah, I heard.” You rolled your eyes with a smile and a huff. You sat in front of Floyd on his bed, crossing your legs for comfort. It didn’t bother you that he was busy all day, but you certainly felt a hint of guilt. You wanted to have been with him in place of Malleus Draconia. It was definitely a gift suitable for Floyd...The prince had taken it very seriously to get Floyd the “coolest” gift ever.

“He took me out to these ruins.” He started, leaning back on his bed frame. ”Wish I could’ve brought Jade with me though, ya know? Feel like it's the type of thing he’d really enjoy.”

As Floyd continued to describe his day to you, his voice gradually faded out as you grew lost in thought observing the mer. You liked to watch the way his hands moved around when he talked, waving them around as if he hadn’t already had every ounce of your attention. That he allowed his hair to be less tame when compared to his twins. His choice of clothing like the sweats with colorful splatters on him now. The large hoodie he relaxed in looking so cozy, making you want to join him inside of it. His heterochromatic eyes that contrasted brightly against his fair skin, drawing your attention tenfold. Everything about him eased you in like a fishhook bearing the most appetizing bait. While his story went on, your hand massaged his leg and back. 

You wanted to do more for him. More than the gifts you had already brought for him. A gift that no one else would be able to bear for him. Something special. Intimate. To your luck, you already knew the privacy you had now would offer you enough time. Floyd’s voice was once again audible as you slipped back into the present moment, a minor grin sneaking across your cheeks. 

 Floyd raised a brow at your unknowing malicious expression, tilting his head centimeters to the side a piqued interest. “What?” his position adjusted upwards.  He bore a toothy grin, closing into your space as if he caught onto your plans before you could put a single thought into action. “What’s the face for?” You assumed he already knew. You hadn’t tried to mask your stares or cover up that you had been thinking about something. Placing a hand on his shoulder you leaned up, pulling him into a kiss. He smiled in the return, hands wrapping around you to force you closer. To further the closeness you brought your body up, spreading your legs to sit on top of his lap.  Between a break for air, you licked his jawline, kissing down till your lips met the outline of his collarbone. The mers hips pushed up into you, earning a gasp that put your eyes back on his. 

“So ‘s this why you came here to see me, Shrimpy?’ he eyed you up and down, presenting an eager look that you felt satisfied to receive. “you wanted to suck me off?”  His eyes widened with idea and without giving you a moment to reply he went on.  “Is it cause ‘ts my birthday?” his hand rubbed ` on your back as he waited, his other resting on your lower back.

You nodded to him, pressing your hands on his chest as a sign for him to lay back. Floyd caught on, leaning his back on the purple headboard behind him. You wanted to make him feel good. This would be one of the best ways to do just that. Your body followed his motion, laying your body close to his chest as you rolled your hips to create friction with his lap. Floyd's eyes were burned into your skin, you knew he was watching every move you made closely like a predator. Inching down, Floyd aided you by tugging down at his multi-color splotched sweats till his briefs were revealed alongside a distinctly growing bulge. The sight tugged a smile at your lips while you leaned down for your face to meet the tight fabric. Your tongue darted out to drag a stripe onto Floyd’s clothed cock, a repressed breath slipping past his lips. You rubbed his hard-on through the fabric, the mer watching you closely from above. Your thumb slipped under his waistband teasing the sensitive skin around his dick as your other hand rested on his hipline.

“C’mon..’js take it out already..” Floyd huffed, rubbing his hands along any bare bit of your body he could reach. “You’re gonna make it hurt..’ts not real nice to do on someone's birthday..” 

You glanced up at the mer for a short moment before focusing back on his lower half. Inching down the article, his dick sprang out as the briefs passed his thighs. You wrapped your hand around the base, immediately feeling a twitch on your palm. Floyd was always much more sensitive than you assumed him to be. All that fact did was rile you up more. You wet the rose-flushed tip of his cock, taking it into your mouth moments after. It was thick. Your jaw ached at the thought of keeping it in. Your hand pumped what didn’t fit in your mouth, extra saliva pooling at the end of your tongue. You started leisurely, listening to Floyd’s hushed groans of satisfaction. Your cheek bulged as you moved your head to the side, pushing him out of your mouth to catch a breath. You kept your hand busy with languid strokes to his length

“Ahh?” Floyd’s head perked up, his lazy eyes widening with amusement. “Can’t fit it all in?” He teased. In rebuttal you pushed him back into your mouth, holding back any reflex as your mouth inched down to meet the base of his cock. The mer above you hissed through his teeth, his leg moving up as he flexed his core to fuck his shaft further into your mouth. The movement forced a gag from you, your head instinctually retreating for air. You took in the precious breath, savoring it for the short moment it was before Floyd ran his hand through your scalp, gripping onto a chunk at the back of your head to control your movement. He led you back down, salty precum spreading on your tongue while Floyd held you in place to thrust into you at his leisure. In short time his pace quickened, his lengthy cock slamming continuously down your throat while you struggled not to choke on it.

Floyd moaned erratically from above, your throat convulsing around him as he pushed his limit. You pressed your hand on top of his lower stomach, pushing your mouth off him with a ‘pop’ and erotic gasp for air following. The mers eyes shifted to you as you kept your other hand tight around him.

“I’m gettin’ real close..” Floyd spoke with a whine, sitting up on his knees and taking hold of his throbbing appendage. “Do me a favor and get on the floor so I can have ya on your knees properly, kay?” he demanded, watching you obey his wish with ease. A grin smeared across his face as he sat himself on the edge of his bed above you, squeezing your face in his hand while the other lovingly tapped his erection on your cheek. “Alright, Shrimpy..Open wide~” Floyd snickered, swiftly slipping his cock into your mouth that fell widely agape the moment he asked you to. His hand that previously held your cheek shifted into your hair, fingers tightening around the base of your scalp to guide your mouth. You’re gagging immediately, the familiar feeling of being unable to properly breathe returning as his cock slammed against the back of your throat.

 You could feel your body reacting to Floyd, legs squeezing together as you tried to stay focused on him and not stick a hand down your pants. The vibrations of your explicit hums triggered Floyd’s hips to twitch desperately. His moans grew less controlled, breath held in his chest while you worked at his lower half. The mer gasped, hands squeezing the blankets surrounding him. “Fhh-ah-” His breath grew staggered, unable to finish any sentence he had started. He didn’t think twice about pulling himself out of your throat, his eyes shut tightly as he came what felt like straight down your throat. You took it all in, swallowing what bits had stayed in your mouth. After stilling for a short moment you pulled your mouth off him slowly,  licking at the leftover fluids on Floyd. He whined, sitting up properly as he stared down at you.

“Ah-? You swallowed allat?” he grinned, proud that he didn’t seem to taste bad.

You smiled, standing yourself up to lean in and give the mer a quick kiss. “Happy Birthday, Floyd.”

© 2024 JetsamSoul - All plagiarizing, translating transporting, modifying, etc. is prohibited.

[mama-qwerty]

Let's talk about this little scene.

They're looking for Shadow, and Knuckles notices that the GUN truck is falling toward them. He shoves his brothers out of the way, and catches the truck, neat as you please.

He could have grabbed them and pulled them away, making sure they were safe when the truck landed. He could have punched the falling vehicle, shattering it to bits and causing all sorts of rubble and debris.

But he didn't. He pushed his brothers behind him, and caught the truck.

He showed off his strength, following it up with hefting it on one hand, and boasting once again about being "one million percent muscle".

Knuckles may have settled into family life, may have found a new tribe, but he's still a warrior, and is proud of his strength. He's proud of the abilities he has, and I think sometimes feels like they're not appreciated enough, as they're for fighting and after the last movie, he and the other boys have seemingly settled into a nice, quiet, non-violent family life.

Tails likely has been instrumental in fixing or improving various things about the house or town, and Sonic is the first child so he's already found his comfy spot in the family and community.

But what about Knuckles? His strength likely isn't as big a benefit in daily life. May be a bit of a hinderance, if he doesn't pay attention and control it properly. So he may have been hearing "Watch your strength, Knux," or "Not all conflicts require violence to solve, Knux," which is so different from what he's used to.

While he doesn't always immediately jump to violence to solve all his problems, that's his strength, no pun intended. In his journeys through the galaxy, he had to fight to survive. Fight to keep himself safe. And even in circumstances where he didn't want to fight, he was usually forced into it. So this is his norm.

So I feel like he caught that falling truck not only to save his brothers, but to remind them what he's capable of. It was kind of a "Look, I am your brother, I am happy in my new tribe, but I am still someone to be respected because of my abilities."

It could have also been a lowkey show of how he would protect them. Anyone could pull someone to safety, but only he could catch a falling multi-ton vehicle as though it were nothing more than a tossed baseball.

But now it's discouraged. Maybe he feels he's getting weak. Getting soft because he's not being forced to fight on a regular basis. Which is I think why he so willingly rushed to fight Shadow when it seemed like talking wasn't working.

In the novelization of the movie, after Shadow kicks his butt, when the others ask if he's okay he tells them that he "might be a bit rusty". His pride is what took the real beating, and may have added to this feeling of his strength being dismissed. Of him losing what made him special.

This is further enforced by being essentially benched during the raid on the GUN HQ. His greatest asset is his strength, but it's not being utilized except "in case of emergency". Which, based on how the others behaved, they didn't think it would be necessary. So they essentially told him he was the failsafe, the backup, even though they--and likely HE--did not expect to need him.

His constant boasts about how easily he could break the glass may have been as much for his own morale as convincing the others he would be there if necessary. He is a formidable warrior, he has bested many a foe in his years. He is still a force to be reckoned with, even if he hadn't been challenged much in the months since the last battle with Robotnik.

He needs to feel useful. To feel important to the rest of his tribe. And maybe he's felt that the others kind of forgot just how impressive he is in his own right.

His adventures during the series showed him how it was okay to let his guard down and not be so serious all the time. And we see that in the film. We see him content with simply being a member of the family, we see him goofing off with his brothers. Even while they went over the plan, he sat with his little hat and munched on some bread.

(The grumpy face is undone by the beanie, sweetheart.)

Knuckles does best when facing threats head on. He prefers to run in and deal with the problem up front, and get on with his life. Stealth and plans and even working with other people is new to him. But he trusts his brother, he trusts his tribe, and he will stay off to the side until he's needed. (Maybe even moreso now that he saw that rushing in to fight Shadow didn't get him anywhere.)

But when he's needed, he will show them that his strength is just as much an asset as Tails' brains and Sonic's speed. Even if it had unexpected consequences.

Knuckles has a much bigger adjustment to Earth and family life than either of the other two boys. Because his life up to that point was fighting, keeping on the move and ahead of bounty hunters, and searching for the one thing that meant more to his people than any other. He had a huge weight on his shoulders, one that neither Sonic nor Tails could understand. Even the humans in his life couldn't possibly comprehend just how important it was for him to find the Master Emerald and allow his entire species to rest in peace once more.

But now that his quest was done, and he doesn't have to look over his shoulder as much as he used to, he likely struggles with how he fits in with the world. For the longest time he was The Most Dangerous Warrior in the Galaxy, and the Last of the Echidna. Now he's simply Knuckles. And he may be having a hard time finding what that actually means, to him and to those he loves.

~~~

Check out my other Sonic 3 analysis posts

[bts-trans]

250105 Weverse Translation

J-Hope's Post ❇️

25년입니다. 여러분들의 24년은 어떠셨나요? 저에게 24년은 정말 여러가지로 만감이 교차하고 많은 감정들이 갈마드는 해 가 아니었나 싶습니다. 전역의 해가 밝아서 좋았다가, 어떻게 10월까지 또 견뎌야 할지 막막하다가, 막상 시기가 찾아오니 좋았다가, 전역 후의 계획들에 대한 걱정이 들며 불안 했다가, 또 막상 전역하니 주체가 안 될 정도의 기쁨이 오갔고, 여러 일들을 하며 25년에 대한 긴장과 설렘으로 고독하게 마무리를 했지 않았나 싶습니다. 각자마다 다른 '희���애락'이 있었겠지만 잠시나마의 따뜻한 마음을 가지며 24년을 위로해보고, 인사를 해봅니다 25년은 모두가 활짝 만개하여 아름다웠으면 좋겠구요! 저에게도 굉장히 중요한 해가 될 거라는 것이 25년이 주는 자연 속에서 고스란히 느껴집니다. 많은 것들을 보여드릴 거구요! 좀 더 성숙하고 저에게 어울리는, 모두의 만족을 위한 플랜으로 접근을 하려고 합니다. 저도 그렇지만, 많은 순간들을 함께하시려면 가장 먼저 건강이 우선이겠죠? 25년! 복 많이 받으시면서 건강 챙기시고, 누구보다 진심을 다해 여러분들의 새해 첫 발걸음을 응원해 봅니다. 힘내세요 아미💜🫶💜사랑해요 아미 (https://weverse.io/bts/artist/3-189122556)

It's 2025. How was 2024 for you all? For me, I think 2024 was, in a lot of different ways, a year filled with a million feelings and of going back and forth between so many different emotions.

I was glad that the year of my discharge from the military was here, and then felt lost and confused about how to keep going until October, but then when the time actually came, I was happy, only to then get anxious as I worried about my plans after being discharged,

but then when I was actually discharged, I was overwhelmed with joy, and then I did a lot of different things, and ended the year alone, both nervous and excited for 2025.

Everyone probably had their own ups and downs* this year, but I'd like to take a moment to warmly look back at 2024, sending it comfort, and wishing it farewell.

I hope that in 2025, everyone blooms fully and beautifully! It is going to be a really important year for me too- I feel it so clearly from the environment that 2025 brings.

I will be showing you lots of different things! I intend to come to you with plans that show more growth, are more suited to me, and that can make everyone happy.

This is true for me as well but, if you're going to be by my side in a lot of these moments, health must come first, right?

2025! I wish you a good year and good health. With the absolute most sincerity, I send you my support as you take your first steps into the new year.

Keep going ARMY💜🫶💜I love you ARMY

(T/N: *The phrase he used was '희로애락', an expression composed of four Chinese characters: joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure. It is used to symbolise the wide range of emotions and experiences, both positive and negative, that humans have. It is similar to English expressions like 'highs and lows' or 'ups and downs'.)

Trans cr; Aditi @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS