#they could be imitating Void

[no-light-left-on]

considering the historical influences in the fashion of Dishonored (and the extent of nsfw fanfiction this fandom has) I’ve been thinking about the layers that would be, realistically, part of the daily dress

which means: dishonored seems to honour the importance of a vest in a properly dressed gentleman’s or lady’s wardrobe

vests were, and I cannot stress this enough, a mandatory part of an outfit, to the point of men wearing only vests if they could not afford a fully tailored suit (trousers + vest + jacket) and a new shirt and opting to only wear a fake collar under the vest for the illusion of a full outfit

shirts were underwear, so to speak. there were no occasions in ‘polite society‘ where one could only wear a shirt without a vest on top.

this is something we see mirrored in both dishonored games, though the style of the vests and clothing have somewhat changed, they still follow the same rules of vests worn with every outfit, as far as we can tell. (we could argue that Jessamine is not wearing one, or that some higher class women aren’t wearing vests under their buttoned up jackets, but since we don’t really see underneath we can’t judge.)

we see the vests be worn even by the Whalers in the first game (which in itself brings up many questions. are whalers, the actual whalers that capture and kill whales, held in high enough regard by the society that they made a vest part of their uniform? or is it merely something that is worn by all? something that every citizen of sound mind would don, were they to leave their house?)

there are a few exceptions to this, of course, but this whole thing came to be by asking a simple question

does the Outsider wear a vest under his leather jacket?

now, in the first game, his jacket is unbuttoned just enough for us to get a good enough peek at what lies beneath. which is to say: there is no hint of a vest underneath. judging by the vests in the first game, the fashion was that the vest would go up high, often covering collarbones or even having a standing collar. what we see on the Outsider is just... an unbuttoned shirt

it’s much the same in the second game, even if we examine his final concept art, his outfit consists of a shirt (more or less underwear) with most of the top buttons unbuttoned, and a jacket on top. no hint of a vest underneath

what I’m trying to say is that the Outsider is a slut

[fireya-x]

I’m obsessed with the idea of divorced Price who gets you to fall in love with him again. Like, I have forty chapters planned out in my head. Is this just me?? Am I crazy?

Cali!! bestie!! ❤️ Omg. Not sure this is like the forty chapters you have in mind, but I hope you'll like this!

chamomile

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and John rediscover a love that never truly faded. ✦ 8.4k words ✦ tags/cw: angst, divorce, feelings, hurt/comfort, reunion, eventual smut, reunion sex, piv sex, oral sex

The silence in your flat was a heavy, suffocating presence. Some days, it pressed in you from all sides, amplifying the absence, the emptiness, where he used to be. It wasn’t merely the absence of another person, but the absence of him in particular. 

John.

His rumbling laughter, often accompanied by the clinking of ice in his whiskey glass. The quiet humming when he lost himself in a well-worn novel by the fire. The concentrated sighs that escaped his lips when he was hunched over his office desk, wrestling with mission reports, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. The comforting rhythm of his breathing next to yours in the night, now replaced by the oppressive weight of solitude and the cold emptiness of the other side of the bed.

Some days, the silence turned into a constant, dull ache in your chest, a wound that refused to heal. It was a constant reminder of what once was.

You often caught yourself staring at the shelf on the wall, the one you’d desperately tried to fill with an assortment of meaningless decorations, a futile attempt to fill the empty spaces where his belongings had once resided. Each object, carefully chosen and meticulously placed, felt like a small betrayal, a silent admission of defeat. Vases with dried flowers, their faded colors a pale imitation of the vibrant blooms he used to bring you; cheap trinkets that held no emotional value, their manufactured perfection a stark contrast to the unique, imperfect treasures he'd collected on his travels; some mass-produced artworks in frames that replaced the vibrant, personal photographs. Pictures of your sun-drenched vacations on the beach that now felt like a distant dream, a photograph of your faces on your wedding day, smeared with cake, eyes sparkling with laughter. A small porcelain figurine, a handmade and heartfelt gift from his grandmother, a woman who had welcomed you into her family with open arms – it was all tucked away in a box somewhere, hidden from view, wrapped in tissue paper, memories cherished but not yet ready to be confronted, like shards of glass that could cut you if you handled them too carelessly.

But nothing, none of the forced replacements, could truly ever fill the space, this gaping void that he left behind when your lives went separate ways.

This had been your shared flat once, a sanctuary nestled in the heart of Manchester, a carefully chosen haven, not far from either of your workplaces – a two-bedroom flat with large windows that overlooked a bustling street below, the sounds of the city a constant hum; a small balcony where you would share a bottle of wine on warm summer evenings and a cozy fireplace where you would curl up together on cold winter nights.

The location had seemed perfect then, a place where you had envisioned building a life together, a life filled with the comfort of shared routines, stolen kisses, the warmth of shared laughter that echoed through the rooms, filling every corner with the vibrancy of your love.

He had insisted you keep the flat after the divorce; “It’s yours,” he’d said, his gaze avoiding yours, his words clipped, his tone betraying nothing of the turmoil that raged within him. “I won't be here much anyway.” 

The words, meant to be a gesture of generosity, a final act of kindness, a parting gift offered with a heavy heart, had instead become a constant, agonizing reminder of his absence, leaving behind the bitter taste of regret and the faint, lingering taste of what might have been.

You missed him. 

Not the shadow he had become in the final years of your marriage, the distant, preoccupied figure who appeared infrequently, a ghost in his own home, his mind miles away. You missed the man he had been, the man you had fallen in love with – the man whose laughter could fill a room, whose touch could chase away the darkest shadows, whose love had once been your sanctuary, your safe haven in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain. You missed the easy, effortless shared laughter over inside jokes that no one else understood, the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. The way he could make you feel safe, cherished, loved, with a single glance.

It wasn’t a sudden break, a dramatic fight, an explosion of anger and resentment, but a gradual erosion; a slow and agonizing fading, like a rot that set in, consuming your love, choking the joy, and suffocating the life you had once believed would last forever.

It started with small things, seemingly insignificant, but it was those small cracks in the foundation that triggered the fall. Cracks turning into widening fissures with each passing day. Unanswered texts, missed calls, forgotten birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, the growing distance between you in the same bed, the warmth of his touch replaced by the cold emptiness of the sheets, the silence stretching between you like a vast, empty expanse.

You had known, from the very beginning, from that first stolen glance across a crowded pub where you’d met, that his life would never be ordinary, that the long, dark shadows of his profession would always be a part of your shared existence, an uninvited guest at the table. And you had embraced that, welcomed it, believing, with some naivety that now made you wince, that your love and the connection you shared was strong enough to withstand the sacrifices his job asked of him, the toll it would inevitably take on your shared life. Sometimes, you wondered if there was even a place left for you at his side in this demanding, all-consuming world he inhabited. A world of coded conversations, hushed phone calls in the middle of the night, and the ever-present fear that gnawed at your insides, the fear that one day, he wouldn't come home.

You had always admired his devotion and his commitment to his work. You had seen him transform from a raw recruit into a seasoned soldier, a respected leader, a man who carried the weight of responsibility on his broad shoulders with a grace that both awed and inspired you. The way he could lose himself in the intricacies of strategy and tactics, the intensity with which he approached every challenge, every mission. You had been proud of his dedication and his commitment to a cause greater than himself.

He came home one evening, his eyes shining with pride and exhaustion, bringing with him the news of his promotion to Captain. You celebrated, of course. You opened a bottle of champagne, hugged and kissed, and told him how proud you were. You toasted his success, your words genuine, heartfelt, your joy for him masking the growing sense of dread that gnawed at the edges of your happiness. You knew how much this meant to him, this hard-won victory in the ongoing battle of his career, how many sleepless nights, how many missed birthdays, how many silent goodbyes whispered in the early mornings, had led to this moment, this achievement. 

You wanted, more than anything, to be happy for him, to share the joy of his accomplishment. 

And for a brief, fleeting moment, you did.

But later that night, the realization of what this promotion truly meant hit you, like a punch to the gut.

More responsibility.

More missions.

More deployments to the other end of the globe.

More sleepless nights spent waiting for his return.

More secrets whispered on the phone.

More clipped words you didn’t understand. 

More distance between you.

More fuel for the slow, insidious rot that had already begun to consume your shared life. 

Your joy at his success curdled into bitter disappointment, a mixture of pride and profound loneliness, a premonition of the long, empty nights and goodbyes that would soon become your reality. You lay beside him, yet you felt more alone, than you ever had before.

The Christmas you had planned so meticulously, the one where he had promised, sworn on his life, that he would be home – the Christmas tree shimmering with twinkling lights, the table set for a feast he never attended, the silence of his absence deafening amid the cheery Christmas carols on the radio. He hadn't even called, hadn't offered an explanation, hadn't bothered to invent an excuse — just a hasty, impersonal message left from a number you didn’t recognize, a clipped, emotionless voice relaying his apologies, the only sign of life you’d receive.

The pattern continued. The weight of his absences, the suffocating silence of his secrets, became an unbearable burden, a constant, oppressive presence that threatened to crush you beneath its weight.

The secrets grew deeper, the missions more frequent, more dangerous, his disappearances announced with nothing more than a hastily scribbled note left on the kitchen counter. 

“Gone. Back soon.” “Don't wait up. Got called in.” “Love you.” 

His words, once so full of affection, now felt hollow, crushed by the ever-present shadow of his profession, the weight of unspoken anxieties, the gnawing fear that each goodbye might be the last.

The rot spread and spread, its tendrils reaching into every corner of your life, tainting the once vibrant colors of your memories with a dull, grayish hue until only the empty shell remained, a hollow, brittle husk of a love lost and its future uncertain.

You tried to talk to him, to express your fears, your anxieties, your growing resentment. You remembered the way your voice trembled as you spoke, the words catching in your throat, threatening to choke you. And he listened. He truly listened, his eyes holding yours, his gaze filled with a mixture of weariness and regret. You saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of unspoken burdens. He understood. He understood the pain he was causing, the toll his profession was taking on your relationship, the slow, agonizing erosion of the love you had once shared. 

He asked you to understand, to accept the life he had chosen, a life that demanded his complete and utter devotion, a life that left little room for the ordinary joys of love and companionship. He spoke of the importance of his work, the lives that depended on him, the sacrifices he was willing to make for the greater good. He spoke of the secrets he couldn't share, the dangers he couldn’t reveal, the constant threat that hung over him, you, and your shared life. 

There was a raw honesty in his words, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen in a long time, a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man who was now trapped in the shadowy world he inhabited, a world where emotions were a liability, where vulnerability was a weakness, where love was a luxury he could no longer afford.

And so, when you finally uttered the words, “I can’t do this anymore, John,” the words a painful admission of defeat, a surrender to the inevitable – he didn’t argue, didn’t protest, didn't try to change your mind. He simply nodded, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, a silent acknowledgement of the truth you had both been avoiding for so long, the truth that your marriage was dying a slow, agonizing death.

“If I can’t have my husband back, I at least need my life back,” you had said, your voice trembling. “Not this… this constant waiting, this constant fear.” 

“I can’t live like this anymore, John. I can’t keep waiting for you to come home, wondering if this time will be the last. I can’t keep wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with, what secrets you’re keeping from me.” Your voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill over, but you blinked them back, determined to maintain your composure.

You watched as his face crumpled, his carefully constructed mask of control momentarily shattering, revealing the raw pain, the regret, the love he still held for you, a love that was now slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand. 

He reached for you, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against yours, a fleeting touch, a desperate attempt to hold onto you, to grasp for something, anything, to prevent the inevitable. But his grip wasn’t strong enough against the cold, hard reality of your decision and your words’ finality. 

You pulled away, your heart aching, knowing that this was the only way, the only path towards healing, towards reclaiming your life, your own narrative, your own future, a future that no longer included him. The pain of this separation, though sharp, like a knife twisting in your gut, was a clean break, a necessary amputation, infinitely preferable to the slow, agonizing decay of a love unfulfilled.

You threw yourself into your career, seeking solace in the familiar world of analysis, a world of logic and order, a world far removed from the unpredictable chaos and ever-present danger of John's life. You found a new rhythm, a new sense of purpose, building an existence outside of the shadows, a future you had once envisioned intertwined with his, now carefully, meticulously, constructed on your own. You excelled in your field, your passion and dedication earning you accolades and recognition.

Then one day, there was a call. From a woman called Kate Laswell, a name you’d heard several times in passing conversations with John. You’d met her once, briefly, during a social function at the base, a fleeting exchange of hellos, a polite, impersonal conversation amidst the clinking glasses and forced smiles. But you remembered her – a strong, intelligent woman, her eyes sharp, her gaze assessing, a woman who carved her way out in that male-dominated world of work that still felt so alien and impenetrable to you. 

She had witnessed the change in John, the gradual withdrawal, the growing distance, the slow change of the man he had once been. She had seen him throw himself into his work, mission after mission, his dedication bordering on obsession, a desperate attempt to fill the void you had left behind. She had seen the emptiness in his eyes, the silent suffering that had settled over him.

And now, years later, she had reached out, her voice warm and professional on the other end of the line, offering you a position at her side, a chance to use your skills and expertise in a new capacity, a chance to step back into the world you had once abandoned, a world you had once vowed to never return to. “I’ve been following your work,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of admiration, “and I’m impressed. I think you have a lot to offer our team. I’d like to offer you a position as a forensic analyst. It's a unique opportunity, and I think you'd be a valuable asset.” 

You were overwhelmed, flattered by the offer, intrigued by the opportunity. It was a chance to take your career to the next level, to work alongside one of the most respected figures in the field, a chance to challenge yourself. You accepted, of course, your heart pounding with excitement, blind to the fact that this wasn’t just a lucky encounter but a carefully orchestrated reunion, a second chance engineered by the woman who had witnessed the slow, agonizing demise of your love. A woman who believed, perhaps more than you did yourself, that it wasn't too late to rebuild the bridge that had been broken.

She took you under her wing, showed you the ropes, and introduced you to the team. She shared her knowledge, expertise, and insights, empowering you to navigate the complexities of your new role with confidence. You quickly found a liking to her, her strength and intelligence inspiring you, her confidence reassuring you. And it didn’t take long before she offered to take you along to your first real job, your first opportunity to put your newly acquired skills to the test in the field.

This wasn’t the first time you had been on a base. You had accompanied John several times during your marriage, social functions and official events, but never more than a few fleeting glimpses. But this was different. You weren't here as a spouse, a plus-one, a silent observer. You were here to work and to contribute.

The operations room buzzed with energy, murmured conversations, papers crinkling, keyboards clicking, screens buzzing. You were nervous. You’d done this work in a lab, in the sterile, controlled environment of a crime scene, but never within a military setting, never in the heart of the operation, never with the weight of lives hanging in the balance.

You clutched the folders you held tightly, your knuckles white, your heart pounding. Kate, her expression casually neutral, as if this was just another day at the office, cleared her throat. “Follow me,” she said, her voice low, just loud enough for you to hear above the noise. You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and stepped behind her, your heels clicking against the polished floor, the sound sharp against the background noise.

“This is Captain John Price,” Kate said, stopping at the front of the room, her voice cutting through the noise, commanding attention. She gestured towards a figure standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the flickering screens, his posture radiating strength and authority. “He’ll be leading the operation. I expect full cooperation from everyone.”

John.  

Even before he turned, the name, spoken aloud in this sterile, impersonal environment, sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a name that held a thousand memories, a lifetime of whispered secrets and stolen kisses, of shared laughter and unspoken fears, of a love that had once burned so brightly, so fiercely, that it had illuminated every corner of your existence. As he turned, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the assembled team with a practiced eye, assessing, calculating, your breath hitched in your throat, a sudden intake of air that caught somewhere between your lungs and your heart. Time seemed to stop, the noise of the operations room fading into a dull roar, the faces around you blurring, dissolving into an indistinct mass, replaced by the single, overwhelming image of him . You hadn't seen him in over two years. Had it been that long?

You held your breath, taking in his features; he was older, harder around the edges, the lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, the telltale marks of time and experience, of a life lived on the edge, in the shadows. His beard was longer, scruffier, his hair slightly unkempt, as if he hadn't bothered to style it, a small detail that spoke volumes about the changes in his life, the shift in priorities. But his eyes, those stormy sea-blue eyes that had once drawn you in with their intensity, warmth, and unspoken promises, were still the same, unchanged by time, the color as vivid and captivating as the first time you had met. 

His gaze met yours and locked, and for a heart-stopping moment, the world seemed to fall away, the room, the people, the very mission itself, dissolving into nothingness, leaving just the two of you suspended in a bubble of shared history, of unspoken regrets, of what-ifs and might-have-beens. He didn’t smile. His expression softened for a fraction of a second before it returned to be carefully neutral, a mask of professional detachment. But neither did he look away. 

“We’ve met,” you said, injecting just the right amount of professional distance in your voice, your pulse hammering in your veins as if wanting to breach your throat. “Captain.” You added, the word, a formal acknowledgment of his rank, his authority, feeling strange, foreign, on your tongue – as it was the uncomfortable, almost painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you.

But a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice, the fleeting catch in your breath, betrayed the carefully constructed facade of indifference, a subtle, unconscious signal of the powerful emotional undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface.

The slight shift in the atmosphere wasn't lost on Kate. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, acknowledging the unspoken tension, the rekindled connection she had anticipated. Her gaze flickered between you and John, a silent assessment of the situation, a calculation of the potential risks and rewards of this unexpected reunion, before she smoothly turned back to the task at hand, addressing the rest of the team, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, her words bringing the focus back to the mission.

The days that followed were a blur of intense preparation, long hours spent poring over intelligence reports, analyzing data, strategizing, and coordinating with various teams across the globe. The familiar rhythm of the work, the adrenaline-fueled pressure of the impending mission, both soothed and unsettled you. It was a reminder of the life you had once shared with John, the life you had walked away from, the life that was now, in a strange twist of fate, within your reach once more.

You found yourself working alongside John, your professional collaboration a carefully choreographed dance around the unspoken emotions that simmered beneath the surface. You were both meticulous in maintaining a professional demeanor, your interactions crisp, efficient, devoid of any hint of the shared past. The lingering connection still pulsed between you like a live wire, a current that threatened to short-circuit the carefully constructed walls of your composure. You avoided his gaze, focusing intently on the task at hand, your mind racing with calculations, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your every action a carefully constructed shield against the emotional onslaught of his presence.

He watched you, silently, intently, observing the way you spoke, your voice clear and confident, your insights incisive and insightful, the way you dissected complex data with an almost surgical precision, the way you held your own with the hardened soldiers and seasoned intelligence officers –  a world you had once shunned, now embraced with a newfound sense of purpose. 

He saw the woman you had become, the strong, independent woman who had emerged from the shadows of their failed marriage, a woman he both admired and desired, a woman he had almost lost to the relentless demands of his profession, a woman he was now determined to win back, piece by carefully chosen piece.

He hadn’t tried to speak to you about your shared past, not once. And though it broke your heart, a dull, persistent ache in the hollow spaces where his love had once resided, it was precisely this respect, this professionalism, this acknowledgment of your independence, that made you see him in a new light. He didn't cross any lines, didn't attempt to rekindle the intimacy you had once shared, didn't presume upon your shared history. The mission, the success of the operation, was his primary focus, and in his unwavering dedication to his duty, you saw a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man of integrity and unwavering principle. 

It was as if the rot that had consumed your shared life had, in its destructive path, cleared the way for new growth, a new beginning, a second chance you hadn't dared to hope for.

And yet, amidst the professional work, he began, slowly, subtly, to chip away at the walls you had built around your heart. 

The steaming cup of tea on your desk in the morning.

Chamomile.

No coffee, no black tea, just plain simple chamomile tea. He’d teased you about it once, only sick people drink that , he’d said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he'd remembered. He'd remembered a small, insignificant detail, a personal preference you hadn't indulged in since your separation. Did they even have chamomile tea on base? Had he gone out of his way to procure it, just for you?

You hadn't touched chamomile tea since the divorce. The taste, once so comforting, so intimately associated with shared mornings and whispered love confessions, had turned sour, a bitter reminder of broken promises and a love gone cold. You had banished it from your cupboards, your life, a symbolic purging of the past, a desperate attempt to erase the memories.

You stared at the mug, the steam swirling before your eyes, a hazy veil that separated you from the present, transporting you back to a time when the world had felt brighter, simpler, when the scent of chamomile had been a comforting constant in your life. You remembered lazy mornings, waking to the sound of him humming in the kitchen, the aroma of chamomile tea mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a shared breakfast, a stolen kiss, a whispered “I love you” before he disappeared into the shadows of his work.

You lifted the mug to your lips, the ceramic warm against your skin, the steam caressing your face, the scent of chamomile filling your senses, a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion catching you off guard. You took a sip, the warm liquid flowing down your throat, and the familiar taste shocked your system. 

It wasn’t the bitter, tainted taste you had remembered, but the sweet, slightly floral flavor you had once loved, a taste that evoked memories of shared laughter and the quiet comfort of a love that had once felt invincible.

And at that moment, as the warmth of the tea spread through you, chasing away the lingering chill of loneliness and regret, you knew that you hadn't forgotten either. It was as if the years of separation had all dissolved in that single sip, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, raw. The feelings, the memories, and the love you had once shared were still there, buried beneath the surface, waiting to be reawakened.

He left a carefully chosen book on your desk, a first edition of your favorite author, he accidentally brushed your hand during a briefing, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. Your gun permit, which had been inexplicably delayed for weeks, suddenly appeared on your desk the next morning, stamped and approved. He offered you a ride home one evening, the silence in the car filled with unspoken words, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. He began to share small details about his life, his work, and his team, offering you glimpses into the world he had once kept so carefully hidden, a silent invitation to bridge the chasm that had separated you for so long. One afternoon, you found your schedule cleared and a scribbled note on your desk: “Take a break. You deserve it.”

You began to question your initial assumptions about John's priorities, the narrative you had constructed to explain the demise of your marriage. You had blamed his work, absences, secrets, and dedication to a world you couldn't comprehend, a world that demanded his complete and utter devotion, leaving no room for you, for the life you had envisioned together. 

But now, as you observed him in the operations room, his authority commanding the respect of everyone in the room, his strategic mind dissecting complex problems with ease, his commitment to his team evident in every carefully chosen word, every decisive action – you realized that his work wasn’t just a job, a career, a means to an end, but a part of who he was, a calling that demanded his complete and utter devotion. 

Perhaps he hadn't made a conscious decision to prioritize his career over your love, but had felt incapable, unworthy, of juggling the demands of both, of being the husband he wanted to be, the husband he believed you deserved. 

Perhaps he hadn't chosen his work over you, as you had once so bitterly believed. 

Perhaps he was his work, just as he was the man who left chamomile tea and thoughtful notes on your desk, the man whose love, despite the years of separation, had somehow managed to endure, a stubborn ember glowing beneath the ashes of your shared past, waiting for the breath of forgiveness to fan it back into a flame.  

And in that realization, something within you shifted. The resentment, the bitterness, began to dissolve, replaced by a newfound understanding and respect, and a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't too late.

The evening before the mission, as he handed you another steaming mug of chamomile tea, a small routine that had formed, he confessed his regret, his voice low, husky, his words a carefully measured confession. “Listen,” he said, his gaze holding yours, “when we leave for this mission tomorrow, I at least wanted to have said this... I was an idiot letting you go.” The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken regret, the weight of years gone by.

You simply nodded, your voice failing you, the sudden rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “Thank you, John,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the hum of the computers. You turned away, retreating to the safety of your work, your heart pounding, your mind racing.

You couldn't rest. His confession, his admission of regret, acted as a catalyst, a spark that ignited the embers of your own emotions. A sudden, unexpected revelation that shook you to your core. You realized that your feelings for him were still there, stronger, perhaps, than ever before, buried beneath the surface, waiting, patiently, persistently, for this moment.

The next morning, he was gone. The days that followed were a blur of anxiety and anticipation. You found yourself constantly checking for updates, scanning the news feeds for any hint of what was happening on the ground, your heart pounding with each notification, each report. Then, finally, the news arrived. The mission was a success. Kate informed you that John’s team had returned, that he was back, safe and sound. 

You had to see him. You needed to see him.

You drove to his flat, your heart pounding, a chaotic mix of hope and fear, anticipation and dread, warring within you. As you stood before his door, your hand hovering over the buzzer, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter, for the potential rejection. You pressed the buzzer, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, each second stretching into an eternity as you waited for his response. He opened the door, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, his hair tousled, his clothes rumpled. “What’s wrong? Did some – ”

He didn't get to finish his question. You threw yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, your arms wrapping around him, holding him tight, as if you could physically merge with him and erase the years of separation. He stiffened momentarily, surprised by the suddenness of your embrace. Then his arms closed around you, his touch tentative at first, then tightening.

He held you tight, his hands stroking your hair, his touch gentle, reassuring, a silent apology for the pain caused, the distance created, the years he had been absent from your life. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t question the sudden outpouring of emotions. 

You stood there for a long moment, locked in a silent embrace, the world outside fading away, replaced by the comforting warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heart against yours, the familiar, comforting scent of his skin. It was a sensory symphony that evoked a flood of memories, both sweet and bittersweet.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his. “I…” you began, your voice trembling slightly, the words catching in your throat.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Tell me,” he said, his voice soft and gentle, an invitation to share what was on your mind.

You took a deep breath. “When you said… when you said you were an idiot for letting me go…” you began, your voice trembling, your gaze locking with his, searching for any flicker of judgment, of rejection, “It… it made me realize something. Something I should have realized a long time ago.”

He waited patiently for you to continue, his silence a comforting presence, an unspoken promise that he would listen.

“It made me realize that… that maybe I was the idiot, too,” you confessed. “For… for giving up on us. For asking you to choose when I knew, deep down, that this life, this work… it’s a part of you. It’s who you are.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him, your hand gently covering his, a silent plea for him to let you finish. “Seeing you back there, in the operations room, commanding, leading… I realized how much of this life is a part of you, how much you thrive in this world. Asking you to leave it… it would have been like asking you to give up a part of yourself. And that’s not what love is, John. Love isn’t about changing someone, it’s about accepting them, flaws and all.” Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you blinked them back, determined to meet his gaze.

He didn’t answer, just pulled you closer, closing the door behind you, shutting out the world. He led you inside, took your jacket, carefully hung it up, and then offered you a drink. “Whiskey?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. You nodded.

The familiar sound of ice clinking against glass filled the quiet of his flat, a comforting counterpoint to the frantic beating of your heart. Your throat suddenly felt dry, the anticipation coating your tongue like the first sip of cheap booze. As he poured the drinks, your gaze traced the familiar lines of his body, the subtle play of muscle beneath the worn fabric of his t-shirt, the scars that mapped the hidden landscape of his past. He handed you your glass, his fingers brushing yours, the contact sparking a flicker of warmth that spread quickly through your veins. You took a sip, the heat of the whiskey a welcome counterpoint to the nervous chill in your stomach. He raised his glass in a silent toast, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity of his gaze a palpable force that stole your breath away.

He set his glass down, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. He reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin beneath your eye. The rough texture of his calloused fingers against your skin was a stark reminder of the life he led and the dangers he faced, but you found it strangely reassuring at that moment of rekindled intimacy.

“I missed you,” he murmured, holding your gaze.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, the words a release, a surrender to the yearning that had been a constant ache in your chest for far too long. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, hot against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you had needed to hear those words, how much you had needed to say them, until they hung in the air between you, fragile and precious.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch that sent tremors through your body, awakening nerve endings that had lain dormant for far too long. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation. Then, his lips pressed against yours with increased force, the kiss deepening, growing more urgent, more demanding.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. The sensation of his familiar touch, the way he held you, sent a wave of heat through you, mingled with a deep sense of belonging, of coming home. 

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the bedroom. The world outside faded away, replaced by the feel of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of his breath on your skin. He laid you gently on the bed, the soft sheets cool against your heated skin. His body hovered over yours, his gaze holding yours, his eyes, once clouded with guilt and regret, now filled with a love so deep, so intense, that it stole your breath away. He kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own.

He undressed you slowly, deliberately, reverently, his hands mapping the familiar landscape of your body with a newfound appreciation, a rediscovered sense of wonder, as though he were tracing the contours of a cherished map, each curve and hollow a familiar landmark on a journey he had almost forgotten. 

He reached for the clasp of your bra, his fingers fumbling slightly with the fastening, the momentary clumsiness a endearing reminder of his nervousness. The cool air against your newly exposed skin sent a shiver down your spine, a frisson of anticipation that mingled with the warmth of his gaze. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his gaze lingering on the swell of your breasts, the rosy peaks of your nipples hardening under his scrutiny. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against your skin, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path from the base of your throat to the valley between your breasts, sending shivers of pleasure radiating outwards, a symphony of sensation that had you arching towards him, your body humming with anticipation. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, drawing a soft moan from deep within your throat. His hand cupped your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, mimicking the motion of his mouth, the dual stimulation sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp, eliciting a low groan of pleasure from deep within his chest. You wanted him closer, needed him closer, the years of separation, the ache of loneliness, melting away in the heat of his touch, the warmth of his body against yours.

He moved lower, his lips trailing a path of fire down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, sending a shiver of anticipation through you. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh, his touch igniting a fire in your core. He reached for the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric, his gaze meeting yours, seeking permission. You nodded, your breath catching in your throat, the anticipation almost unbearable.

He pulled your panties down, his touch slow, deliberate, his gaze lingering on the delicate folds of your flesh, now exposed to his hungry gaze. He moved lower still, his tongue parting your folds and brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you, your body arching involuntarily towards his touch. He kissed you there, gently at first, then with growing intensity, his tongue flicking across your swollen nub, drawing out a sharp gasp of pleasure from deep within your throat. You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair again, anchoring you to the present moment, the exquisite reality of his touch, his warmth, the intoxicating scent of his skin mingling with yours. 

“John,” you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He continued to lavish attention on your clit, his tongue circling, teasing, stroking, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were writhing beneath him, your body arching towards his, your moans growing louder, more insistent. He hummed against you, the vibration a low, guttural sound that resonated deep within your core, amplifying the pleasure that coursed through you. He inserted a finger into you, slowly, deliberately, stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the intimacy you had once shared, an intimacy you had almost forgotten, an intimacy you now craved with a desperate hunger. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need. He added another finger, then another, scissoring them inside you, mimicking the rhythm of his tongue on your clit, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were on the verge of shattering, your body humming with anticipation, your senses overwhelmed by the exquisite torture of his touch.

“Please,” you begged, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for release. “John, please…” 

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with a raw hunger that mirrored your own, a flame that had been rekindled, now burning brighter, hotter, than ever before. He withdrew his fingers, his touch lingering on your swollen clit, sending a final jolt of pleasure through you that had you gasping. He rose then and began to shed his clothes. You watched him, mesmerized, as he shrugged off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, the familiar scattering of dark hair across his chest and stomach. The familiar crisscross pattern of scars, some new, some old, resembling a map of his battles fought. Your gaze lingered on the planes of his stomach, the defined line of his V, the way his muscles flexed with each movement. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room, then unzipped his trousers, pushing them down his legs, revealing his cock, hard and throbbing, already glistening. He stepped out of his pants, then reached down to pull off his boxers, revealing him fully to you. You admired him, the raw power and vulnerability he embodied in that moment, the man you had loved, lost, and now found again.

He positioned himself between your legs, the heat of his cock pressing against your entrance, a familiar pressure that sent a wave of longing through you. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around his shaft, stroking him gently, feeling the familiar texture of his skin against yours, the heat radiating from him. He groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against your touch. You arched your back, pressing yourself against him, wanting him closer, needing him inside you.

He pushed forward slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the past and a promise of the future. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the reality of his touch, his warmth, the solid weight of him inside you. A wave of heat flooded through you, centered low in your belly, spreading outward in ripples of pure sensation. It was more than just physical; it was a feeling of rightness, of completion. It was as if his cock was made to be inside you; the way it filled you so completely, so perfectly, the way it stretched you, possessed you. Each thrust reawakened a memory, a sensation, a feeling you thought you'd lost forever. You clung to him, your body molding against his, desperate to erase the distance, to bridge the gap, to become one with him again. 

He paused, holding himself still inside you, allowing you to adjust to his size, his fullness. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice thick with need.

“Fuck me, John,” you moaned, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for the friction, the release, the complete and utter surrender to the moment, to him.

He obliged, moving within you, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of reconnection. He knew exactly how to touch you, where to press, how to angle his thrusts to elicit the most intense pleasure, as if he had the very skin between your thighs memorized, as if your body was a map he had charted again and again in his mind during the long years of your separation. His rhythm was slow, deliberate, each thrust a measured exploration, a rediscovery of the intimate language your bodies once spoke so fluently. Your hands found his back, your fingers digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the exquisite reality of him inside you. Your faces were inches apart, your gazes locked, his eyes reflecting the same raw hunger and desperate longing that burned within you. 

Lost souls, wandering in the wilderness, finally brought home to each other.

The slow burn intensified with each thrust, building a pressure that coiled tight in your belly. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin, resonating deep within your core. 

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. He shifted his angle slightly, his cock brushing against a particularly sensitive spot within you, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through your body. You arched against him, your hips meeting his thrusts, your moans growing louder, more insistent. 

He withdrew almost completely, then plunged back inside you, the friction building with each thrust, the pleasure intensifying until it became an exquisite torment. You tangled your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer, wanting to merge with him completely, to erase the years of being apart, the ache of loneliness, the bitter taste of regret. Your nails dug into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.

“John,” you cried out, his name a desperate plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure pleasure. "John, yes ..."

The world narrowed, focused down to the single, overwhelming sensation of him inside you, filling you, possessing you, completing you – the pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter, until it became unbearable. 

Then, with a final, powerful thrust, it broke, a wave of pure bliss washing over you, consuming you, shattering you into a million pieces. It was as if the very essence of your being dissolved, merging with his in a blinding flash of white-hot ecstasy. Your body convulsed around him, your muscles contracting, your breath coming in short, gasping sobs. You cried out his name, a wordless expression of the joy, the release, the complete and utter surrender to him. 

He followed close behind, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his cock throbbing inside you, spilling his seed deep within you, a tangible expression of his love, his possession, his complete and utter surrender to the overwhelming power you held over him. 

It was a shared climax, a melting point where the years of separation dissolved, and the barriers between you crumbled, leaving only the raw, visceral connection of two souls intertwined, two bodies forged together in pure euphoria. 

At that moment, there was nothing but you and him, your bodies intertwined, skin on skin, two halves of a whole, finally reunited.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting, his breath warm against your skin. He rolled onto his side, pulling you close, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his hand resting on your hip, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bone. You snuggled against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting sound that lulled you into a state of blissful contentment. The silence stretched between you, now filled with a comfortable intimacy. The years before suddenly seemed like a distant nightmare.

“Come home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the steady rhythm of his breathing, the words escaping your lips before you could fully process their meaning, a sudden, unexpected outpouring of a need you hadn’t realized was so profound, so deeply rooted in the very core of your being. You wanted him with you, in your life. You wanted to wake up next to him in the morning, the scent of his skin mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, to share a cup of chamomile tea. You wanted him home, not as a fleeting visitor, a ghost from the past, but as a constant presence.

He shifted slightly, his gaze searching yours, a question forming in his eyes. You’d spoken without thinking, your words driven by the raw intensity of the moment, the overwhelming sense of connection and belonging that had washed over you. As the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, you realized how forward you’d been, how presumptuous, how soon . You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, a sudden fear gripping you, the fear of rejection, of having overstepped, of having shattered the fragile, nascent hope of a future you had only just begun to envision. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant, his words gentle and probing.

“My life is so empty without you, John,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the words a simple, heartfelt truth, an admission of the loneliness that had been your constant companion for so long, the gnawing emptiness that had threatened to consume you, to erode the very core of your being. “I… I miss you. I miss us .” 

You looked at him then, your eyes pleading, your gaze searching his, seeking reassurance, understanding. You reached out to touch his face, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. “You should have never left in the first place.” 

He smiled then, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, chasing away the lingering shadows of doubt and regret, illuminating his face with a warmth that melted your heart. “I know.”

You took a deep breath. “I… I was so inconsiderate,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “To dismiss the intensity of your job. To ask you to choose. I should have understood, should have realized…”

He reached out, his hand gently covering your mouth, silencing your self-recriminations, his touch a comforting reassurance, a silent promise of forgiveness. “We both had our reasons. We both made mistakes. We both… we both went through a difficult time. I wish things could have been different. I hated being gone so much, hated knowing I was causing you pain” He paused, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

“But, for better or for worse, right?” you whispered, echoing the vows you had exchanged so many years ago, vows that had been broken but not forgotten, vows that now held a newfound significance. “I… I broke that promise, John. I walked away.”

He leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “And I let you,” he whispered, “but not again. Never again.” 

He kissed you then, a deep, lingering kiss that sealed the unspoken promise between you, a promise of forgiveness, of understanding, of a love reborn from the ashes of your shared past. You lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, content in the intimacy of a love that had, against all odds, refused to die.

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Champagne Problems | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Oh, hi! Truly, sometimes you just don't know the answer till someone's on their knees and asks you, you know? Also I hope my taglist works this time but who the fuck knows.

Word Count: 9.1k

Warnings: engagement / wedding talk, mentions of alcohol

Nat flipped through your list of invitees, crossing off a few names as she scanned the page. She took it upon herself to help you stuff, address, and mail the invitations for your engagement party, because in her words, you were “dragging your feet”. There were only five or so weeks left until the event, and you just hadn’t found the time to sit down and sort out the invitations. At least, that’s the excuse you told Nat- and yourself. 

“Okay, we’re finally making some progress, we’re about halfway done,” Nat called from the dining table. “Shit. Without me, no one would even show up to this fucking party.” She didn’t mean for you to hear that second part- but her voice echoed through your nearly empty apartment. 

Almost everything you owned was gone; either sold, or stored, or moved into the house you were to share with your fiancé, Cole. All that remained was your clothes, your bed, and a few odds and ends. It would’ve been far easier, far more convenient, to stay in your new house instead of living out of cardboard boxes. And far more aesthetically pleasing. The house was a nice- nicer than you’d ever be able to afford yourself. And it was beautiful. There was a lush garden in the backyard. A swing on the front porch. Even a white picket fence. You described it to everyone as “picturesque.”

But the lease on your apartment wasn’t up quite yet. You still had a few weeks until your move-out date, and you wanted to soak in as much time at the old place as you could. You loved it here. Loved the worn wooden floors and the doors that didn’t hang straight. The dent in the wall where Bucky bonked his metal elbow when you popped out of the hall closet and scared him. The corner in your bedroom where you and Bucky made a blanket fort during last winter’s blizzard. Memories papered the walls and covered the floors of this place- and most of them involved Bucky.

This was home. And while the new house was great- and fully paid for by your fiancé’s wealthy parents- it didn’t feel like you belonged there. It didn’t welcome you in or fill you with warmth. Cole’s mom said it just needed the right décor. Your friends told you it needed time. But deep down, you knew that no amount of beautiful area rugs, no amount of time, could turn your house with Cole into a home. There would always be one thing missing, one glaring and flagrant void. 

Bucky.

“You’re inviting Bucky?” Nat looked up from the list and found you coming around the corner with a bowl of popcorn in hand. Her incredulous expression nearly stopped you in your tracks.

You gave her a strange look, “Yeah, of course. He’s my best friend. Why wouldn’t he be invited?”

“Okay, first of all,” Nat scoffed, “He’s your best friend- present company excluded. And second, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

You threw a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth as you settled into your chair. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Nat rolled her eyes, “Because I don’t think it’s smart to invite the guy you’re actually in love with to a party celebrating your engagement to another man.” She threw you a shrug, “but hey, that’s just me.”

“Woah-” you almost choked on your popcorn. “I’m not in love with Bucky.”

It was the most absurd thing Nat had ever heard. “I’m not in love with Bucky!” she jeered, imitating your voice. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, okay, jesus,” you raised your hands, miming a surrender. “I did- at one point- have romantic feelings for him,” you conceded, “but that was a while ago.”

“Oh, at one point?” Nat crossed her arms over her chest. “You say that like you had a small crush on him for a week, when we both know your ‘romantic feelings’ have been a constant ever since you became friends with the guy.”

Her accusations weren’t necessarily wrong. But they were loud. And pointed. And rubbed salt in your many wounds. “It was …” you gave a small shake of your head. “We never got the timing right, you know? It just didn’t work in our favor.” The heartache with which you’d grown familiar reared its ugly head. “But it’s fine,” you told her. “I’m engaged, now. So.”

Ever since you boyfriend, Cole, became your fiancé, you’d done your best to kill and bury your longing for Bucky. But your feelings for him weren’t so easily vanquished. They were strong and boisterous and loud. At least a few times a day, they launched themselves at you out of nowhere. At work. At the grocery store. At dinner with Cole and his parents. Nowhere was safe. Everywhere you went, things reminded you of Bucky. Of your favorite person. Of the person to whom you were not engaged. 

The desperate pining for him tore your still-healing wounds wide open. Every time your gaze landed on your engagement ring, every time a friend mentioned your impending wedding, a sharp pain sliced through your chest. And each time, you were forced to acknowledge the fact that you were not, in fact, getting married to Bucky.

 “Um, anyway…” you cleared your throat, “Of course, I’m inviting Bucky. And the subject isn’t open for debate, by the way. It’s my party and I’ll invite who I want to.” 

You grabbed an invitation and a blank envelope from the stacks in front of Nat and positioned them in front of you. If Nat didn’t want you inviting Bucky, there was a more than significant chance that she’d conveniently “forget” to address an invite for him. And so, you scrawled his name and address onto an envelope and affixed a stamp in the corner. Come hell or high water, he was going to get his invitation. Even if he didn’t want to come. 

The night of the party arrived sooner than you expected. Sooner than you’d hoped. 

The house was abuzz with people running in and out, carrying food and linens and liquor; you knew you’d be requiring the latter in order to survive the night. Florists arrived to cover the house in perfect, beautiful blooms. A team of caterers brought with them enough fine food to feed an army. And a flawless, two-tiered cake with delicate lacy piping sat on the dining room table, complete with yours and Cole’s initials. All of it was perfect. Picturesque, really. It was exactly what you wanted- but Cole wasn’t who you wanted it with.

Every few minutes, you checked your phone in search of a text from Bucky. The deadline to RSVP had come and gone almost two weeks ago, and he never gave you an answer one way or another. He ignored your “hey, are you coming to my party?” texts, and your “just wanted to know if you plan on coming to the party” voicemails. He ignored almost all of your correspondence, actually. 

Lately, he’d only been answering about a third of your texts and a quarter of your calls. It was unlike him. It was unheard of, really. On multiple occasions in the past, he answered your calls while taking heavy fire; you could actually hear the bullets whizzing by on his end of the line. But now, things were quiet. And you forced yourself to accept that fact that he was not coming to your party.

The festivities kicked off around seven-thirty, and you found your house full to the brim with party goers. All of Cole’s friends showed up. His childhood friends, his college buddies, his old soccer team- they all arrived with bells on. And your friends were well represented, too. High school pals, your book club, a close coworker or two. They were all so excited to see you, so happy that you found someone. 

Even Bucky’s teammates made an appearance. They were his friends first, of course, but growing close with him meant growing close to them. And you’d build unbreakable bonds with Sam, Nat, Wanda, and Maria. They were thrilled for you and more than happy to attend your party- even if Bucky wouldn’t be there. 

With your house so full, so jam-packed with friends, you thought you wouldn’t notice the pain of Bucky’s absence. But you did. Of course, you did. And you found yourself feeling painfully alone in a sea of people. 

Without Bucky there, the night seemed to fall flat. The flowers lost their vibrance. The food was bland. And the music sounded disjointed and off-tempo. Things just weren’t the same. 

People swarmed you every few seconds, hollering their congratulations and asking to see the ring again. They asked you about venues and dresses, bridesmaids and center pieces. Everyone meant well- you knew they did. But as the throngs of people refused to relent with their questions about table linens, your chest began to tighten. A hard, concrete cast wrapped itself around your lungs, preventing them from expanding. A suffocating lack of oxygen rendered your dizzy. It was all too much. The people and the music and the impending nuptials. Even the sensation Cole’s hand on your waist was too much, too tight, too smothering. 

With a whispered “be right back”, you moved swiftly through the crowd and escaped out the front door. If you could just get some space, some quiet, some oxygen, you’d be fine.

The door provided you with much needed support as you tilted and teetered on unsteady feet. The panic, the alcohol, the high heels- it all combined to form a dizzying, possibly lethal combination. But at least you were outside. As least you were free. The cool night air prickled at your skin, and finally, your lungs filled to capacity. A few deep inhales cleared the fog from your mind. With closed eyes, you tipped your head back against the door and let yourself enjoy the quiet. Sure, the music from your playlist leaked into the night air, but this was the closest thing to silence you’d experienced all night. And you were not going to complain. 

As your heartbeat slowed, you told yourself it would be okay. That everything was going to be fine. That you’d figure out how to handle the situation. And, if only for a moment, you actually believed your fabrications. A sense of peace wrapped around you like a blanket, and a welcome calm settled into your bones.

But the creak of a porch step yanked your eyes open. 

And there you found Bucky, frozen on the second to last stair, with giftbox in hand. He eyed you as though he were a prey animal, wondering if you’d seen him, waiting for his chance to escape. But it was too late; he’d been caught.

“Buck?”

He forced a smile, “Hey.”

“Hi!” you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck with an intensity that would’ve injured a mere mortal. He reeled back a few paces as your momentum knocked into him. “I’m so glad you’re here! didn’t think you were coming!”

His arms draped loosely- weakly- behind your back. It wasn’t much- but it was better than no Bucky at all. And after he failed to respond to your messages, didn’t answer your calls, and made himself scarce over the last few months, you’d take whatever you could get. 

“Right. Yeah. Well, technically, I’m not-” He untangled himself from your arms and pointed at the perfectly wrapped giftbox. “I just wanted to drop off your present.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s-” Dismay dripped from your words, “Wait, you’re not staying?” 

Bucky gave a shake of his head. He avoided your eyeline and chose, instead, to look at anything other than you.  The grass. The porch light. His own shoes. “I can’t, sorry.”

It crushed you. Having him stop by for only a moment was far worse than him not showing up at all. Because now, you had to deal with the loss. The pain of his departure. For him to grant you the warmth of his presence, only to snatch it away moments later was almost cruel. How could he leave when you were finally seeing the world in color? How could he go when the music finally made sense with him by your side?

You didn’t want to beg. Didn’t want to make him feel bad. Didn’t want to seem pathetic. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. “You can’t stay for even a little while?”

The disappointment in your voice broke his heart. And he had half a mind to forget his plan and allow you to escort him inside. But he stood firm. “I would,” he shoved his hands into his pockets. “But I have to go pick up a friend from the airport.”

The words hit you in a strange place. A pin-prick pain nipped at your chest- you’d caught him in a lie. “Buck, no offense, but all your friends are inside.” You gestured toward the house with a nod of your head. It was true- all of Bucky’s closest friends were dancing the night away in your living room. And he was caught red handed.

 “Right…” His teeth dug into the smooth flesh of his cheek; his eyes roamed the yard. He should’ve known better than to use such a lame excuse- he did know better. He couldn’t casually lie around you; you knew him too well. But the pressure got to him, and forced cracks into his cool, marble surface. He hadn’t even expected to see you tonight, let alone talk to you. The painful awkwardness of the moment ate through him like acid.

“So… you can stay?” Your words came out too desperate, too expectant. But you couldn’t help it. You’d do anything to get him to hang around- even if he didn’t seem excited about it. Hell, you’d beg him on your knees if that’s what it took. Anything to get him to stay. 

“Uh, yeah,” he shrugged. “I guess I can.”

Finally, he let his eyes land on you. After choosing to avert his gaze for so long, he wasn’t strong enough to do so any longer. He had to look at you, to take in every detail of your face. But as he drank you in slowly, inch by inch, in the light of the full moon, a strange solemnity sunk its teeth into him. Perfectly imperfect curls framed your face. A flawless diamond sat at the hollow of your throat. You were even wearing his favorite lipstick of yours- the one he said made you look like a vintage Hollywood star. He eyed your delicate, lacy white dress. Your white strappy heels with bows on the ties. Your white nails. And the perfect, glistening diamond adorning the ring finger of your left hand. 

Everything about you was so beautiful. So bridal. It made his chest tight.

“You look really nice,” he said, almost bashful. “Beautiful.”

“I, um- thanks. Thank you.” 

This stupid white dress. With its stupid lace and its stupid pearls and its stupid bridal flare. You hated it. Resented it. Wanted to take scissors to its seams. But if you were to play the role of Cole’s blushing bride, you had to dress the part, didn’t you? You had to don your fiancée costume and take part in the production. 

But, regardless of your feelings about the outfit, your heart still flared at Bucky’s compliment. One simple word of praise from him had such a startling, intense effect on you. And suddenly, you were in high school again. He filled you with a sense of giddy adoration that you hadn’t experienced since the tenth grade. This was the stuff of love notes stuffed into lockers. Of first kisses under the bleachers. But your feelings for him could never be as fleeting or as shallow as those of your youth. No, this was the stuff of forever. 

“Hello?” Bucky gave you a wave. “You okay?”

An awkward laugh escaped your chest, “Yeah. Sorry, I kinda spaced out there for a second. Did you say something?”

“I said, what are you doing outside?” He eyed the packed house. Twinkling lights shone through the windows. Crowds of people danced and drank champagne. Music wafted through the air. “Shouldn’t you be in there? At the party? Cause, you know, it’s for you.”

Just the thought of going back to the party made your stomach turn. Part of you wondered if you might be able to hide outside all night; just stay in the yard until the festivities came to a close. Hell, maybe you could even run away. You could get pretty far if you started walking and didn’t look back. By the time the party ended, you could be deep in the heart of Brooklyn- you could be at Bucky’s.

“Yeah, no, I probably-  I should be inside. But, I’m just…” you took in a sharp breath. It hitched in your windpipe and got stuck for a moment. “I got a little overwhelmed, you know? With the noise, and the people and the… everything. So, I came out here to-” To hide. To escape. To flee. “To get some air.”

Bucky could’ve sworn he sensed something lurking beneath your calm surface. It was the slightest change in your voice, the smallest twitch of your brow. He clocked the way your hands never stilled. The way your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Something was off. 

He sat in the long silence, waiting for you to open the vault and show him your secrets. But the lock remained secure. You didn’t say anything else, didn’t hint at the source of your discontent. He eyed your manufactured smile, but couldn’t seem to crack it. 

Things never used to be this way. He didn’t keep secrets from you, and you wouldn’t dream of hiding anything from him- there was no reason to. Neither of you had to fear judgement or ridicule from the other. Your most embarrassing stories, Bucky’s darkest thoughts- they were all safe with the other. 

But an unfamiliar disconnect had pulled the two of you apart. And Bucky could no longer read your soul like a book.

“Everything’s okay, though. Right?” He eyed you with suspicion. With concern. 

You nodded- maybe too fervently. “Yeah. For sure,” a fake smile stretched across your face, “Just stressed, I guess.”

“And he treats you right?” It was one of the things Bucky worried about most. Sure, the house was nice. And the ring was huge. But did Cole speak to you with kindness? Did he show you empathy and understanding? Did he make you feel safe?

“Yes.” 

Bucky breathed a small sigh of relief. Knowing that Cole handled you with care brought a sliver of ease to his worried mind. “So, you’re happy then?” 

It was all Bucky ever wanted for you. A safe life, a happy life. But the answer wasn’t yes or no. This  was the farthest thing from a black and white situation. On more than one occasion, you told yourself to just be happy. You thought that if you willed it, if you said it with conviction- then it would be true. And the happiness you were supposed to feel around your fiancé would magically spring up around you. But it didn’t. Every day, you waited. Every day, you told yourself to just be fucking happy. Cole gave you everything. He was nice and agreeable and provided you with the resources to do anything you’d ever wanted. But the happiness never came. At one point, you decided you’d settle for contentment. But that too evaded you.

“Um, do you wanna sit?” It was the best subject change you could come up with on such short notice. “The porch is free. Come on.”

Before Bucky could respond, he found your fingers linked with his. Chills traveled up his arm, over his shoulder, and across his scalp. Even the most innocent of your touches sent his dopamine levels through the roof. He’d never experienced ecstasy like this ever before- and knew he never would again. Especially not after your wedding.

He knew it was selfish to feel anything less than happy for you. You were engaged, you were getting married- this was what you wanted. You wanted marriage. A lifelong partner. A “till death do us part” kind of relationship. And now, you finally had it. So, who was Bucky to ruin it for you? Who was he to hope that you’d leave Cole at the altar? He forbade himself from ever being that selfish. If he was truly your closest friend, he had to be happy for you- even if it meant that he could never be anything more than your friend. 

With his hand in yours, you led Bucky to the porch. And regardless of the brand-new patio furniture Cole’s parents gifted you, you and Bucky opted to sit on the steps. Crickets chirped every now and again. A cool breeze wafted through the trees, rattling the leaves. Voices and music and the clatter of dishes seeped through the windows. You didn’t notice any of it.

Because, finally, you had what you wanted- if only for a moment.

It was the simplest, most innocent desire you’d ever had. To sit on the front steps with Bucky. To share a home with him. To drink coffee next to him on the porch each morning. To watch the rain from safety of your porch swing with Bucky’s head in your lap. 

If you ignored the white dress and the engagement ring and the pop of champagne bottles, you could almost believe that this was Bucky’s house, too. That the two of you could go inside and retire to bed. That you could wake up in the morning, wrapped in his arms. You could almost believe it. Almost.

The two of you sat in silence, planning your words carefully. Conversation felt like a mine field, and one misstep could send either of you to your death. But the warmth radiating off Bucky’s his body wrapped you in a familiar comfort. The narrow steps didn’t provide much in the way of sitting room, forcing Bucky to sit almost shoulder to shoulder with you- not that he’d ever complain. 

With every gust of wind, he caught a whiff of your perfume- the perfume he loved so much. The scent that often clung to his hair and weaved itself into the fabric of his clothes. It mixed with the smell of early spring- crisp air and new blooms. And he felt himself losing his resolve. He did his best to put distance between the two of you, to protect his heart and yours. But as you leaned your body against his and rested your head on his shoulder. He wondered why the fuck he’d ever leave your side.

You, too, lost all strength. And suddenly, you didn’t care about misspeaking. 

“I miss you, Buck…” Present tense. Because, even with him next to you, you missed him. Missed the way things used to be. “I feel like I never see you anymore.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy with work, and trying to prove myself…” He let out a heavy sigh. Of course, regardless of his intentional distance from you, work really was killing him. “Everyone at SWORD is paranoid- they’re convinced that there’s a secret faction of Hydra growing within their organization.”

“Hmm, that’s so weird. I wonder why they’d be worried about that.” You gave bucky a nudge, and pulled a laugh- your favorite laugh- from his chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he shot you an eye roll. “But you’re probably really busy, too. With all the wedding planning.”

His mention of the wedding shattered your perfect, maladaptive daydreams. All the noise from the party once again filled your consciousness. And the weight of Cole’s engagement ring felt like an anchor, dragging you down to the deepest, loneliest sea. Bucky wished he hadn’t brought it up as you removed your head from his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, no. It’s been-” you felt yourself closing off a bit, and did your best to fight it. “I haven’t actually planned a single thing. At all. So.”

Bucky gave you a strange look. It wasn’t like you to put things off, to procrastinate. He knew you to be an organized, ahead of the curve type of person. You were always the one who had a plan, always the one who over-prepared. He figured that in the few months since your engagement, you’d have planned at least a few things- if not the entire wedding and honeymoon.

“Do you have a date at least?” He pulled out his phone, “I want to put it in my calendar.”

Bucky would be there to support you no matter what, even if watching you marry another man killed him.

“Um, no, there’s no date yet,” you said. “Cole’s parents belong to a really fancy country club and said we could get married there- it’s beautiful. All I have to do is contact the club’s event coordinator and figure out which days are available. I just-” you dropped your eyes to the ground, “I haven’t yet.”

Bucky didn’t like your downcast gaze or your uncertain voice. There was something eating at you- he’d bet his life on it. Maybe you were just overwhelmed. Maybe you felt like you were behind on all the decisions that needed to be made. Either way, he wanted to help.

He threw you a shrug. “Well, there’s no rush, is there?” 

He took your left hand in both of his and gave it squeeze, but regretted the gesture when your engagement ring dug into his palm. You were getting married to someone else; he had to stop touching you like this. Had to stop treating you like you were still on the market. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or disrespect your relationship. And so, he dug his hands into his pockets. 

“I mean some people don’t start planning right away, right?” He said, “They wanna take their time and enjoy the engagement for a while, and-

“I’m not.”

“You’re not what?”

“Enjoying my engagement.” You had half a mind to take off the ring and launch it into the street. You’d dreamed about doing so every day, actually. Dreamed of throwing it on the subway tracks. Or dropping it through a grate on the street. 

Alarm ran through Bucky’s system like wildfire. “Is everything okay? Is it-”

Finally, you lifted your eyes and met Bucky’s stare.  

“I don’t want to marry him.”

Bucky felt his brain short circuit. He forgot how to breathe, how to speak. His thoughts tangled themselves together in tight, writhing knots. Words bounced off the walls of his skull without meaning. This wasn’t what he’d expected you to say. 

“Um, why-” he cleared his throat, “why not?”

He cringed at his own question. Maybe it wasn’t his business. Maybe you didn’t want to get into the details. But you were upset. And if there was any chance at all that you’d want to vent or use Bucky as a sounding board, he was going to listen. 

But there was nothing for him to listen to. For a long time, you didn’t answer. Because to you, the answer was stupid. To you, it sounded like bullshit. Like you’d wasted Cole’s time and love and money. Like you were some noncommittal, unsure child. You rolled your eyes at yourself- as you had every day since Cole’s proposal.

“I just don’t- I don’t love him,” you finally said. “I’m not in love with him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s great. He’s a really nice person…” And he was. He was kind. He was understanding. He was thoughtful. But he wasn’t the one- he wasn’t Bucky. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. And he’s given me- he’s given me everything. But, I just don’t love him like I-”

You stopped yourself. The words that danced on the tip of your tongue were too risky, too dangerous. You wrangled them before they had the chance to escape- before they had the chance to push Bucky away- and locked them behind bars. 

But they screamed inside your mind. ‘I don’t love him like I love you’ echoed again and again, reverberating every few seconds. Part of you feared Bucky might hear it.

“Um, I don’t love him like-” you rerouted, “Like I always imagined. You know? I don’t feel the way I thought I would.”

Bucky considered your words for a long time. Unlike you, he didn’t think it was bullshit. Or stupid. Or childish. He set his feelings for you aside, not allowing them to cloud his judgement, and thought about your predicament. 

“Well, you don’t have to, you know,” he finally said. “Marry him, I mean.”

You gave him a subtle nod. Maybe he was right. But a larger problem- a more important problem- loomed. And while you’d spent the past few months hemming and hawing about marrying Cole, there was another issue at hand that ate you alive every single day. 

“Why have you been avoiding me, Buck?” It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusatory. You just needed to know.

For the third time that night, Bucky found himself caught red-handed. “What?”

“Ever since I got engaged, you’ve been avoiding me.” 

The hurt in your voice was unmistakable. And though Bucky knew it was truth, his first instinct was to refute. To deny. To deflect.

“No, I haven’t. I’m not avoiding you,” he said, putting on an air of offense. “I’ve been busy with work and-”

“Don’t give me that.” Your heartbreak dissolved into cold, hard facts. Facts that Bucky couldn’t refute. “I used to see you almost every day. No matter how busy either of us got, we still saw each other all the time. We made time for each other. But ever since Cole proposed, you don’t answer my texts anymore. You don’t respond to my voicemails. I mean, I’ve only seen you-” The realization was startling. You knew Bucky had been distant, but as you quickly flipped through your memories of the past few months, you confirmed just how detached he’d been. “I’ve seen you twice. Including tonight.”

Bucky’s silence bit through your flesh. 

Part of you didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know. But the question left your lips before you could stop it. “Buck, are you mad at me?” 

He shook his head. “No, why would I be?”

“Because Cole proposed, and I said yes.”

A look of bewilderment yanked Bucky’s features upward. Emotions flashed across his face at lightning speed. A scoff barked out of his throat.

“No. No, I’m not-” He was caught off guard. Struggling to cover his tracks. “I’m not mad. It’s not like that. I’m just-”

“What’s it like, then?” You stared at him, expectant. 

“Oh, come on…” It was all too much. He couldn’t be in such close proximity to you anymore. Couldn’t have you almost pressed against his side. 

He fled from his seat on the stairs and opted to stand in the grass. He paced for a beat or two, wearing down the fresh blades of greenery. And when he finally came to a stopping point, he couldn’t face you. Couldn’t look you in the eye. He just needed a moment. Needed some space. Needed to breathe air that didn’t wear your perfume. And when he cleared his mind- and his lungs- he turned to you.

“You know…” he let out a huff. “You know that things haven’t always been exactly platonic between us. You know that I’ve had- that I’m-” His metal fingers ran through his hair, “Anyway, I’m just… I’m trying to deal with this whole thing. I guess I’m not doing a good job.”

It wasn’t news to you. But it still struck you like lightning. 

Things between you and Bucky always teetered on the edge of romance. Always walked a tightrope between friendship and love. And while you adored a good “will they, won’t they” type of relationship on tv, it didn’t have the same charm in real life. The Nick and Jess, Sam and Diane, Janine and Gregory dynamic brought you only pain. Confusion. Heartache. Unfortunately for you, there wasn’t a room full of talented writers scripting your every interaction with Bucky. The two of you didn’t have a well thought out, perfectly planned arc that placed you in a relationship by the end of your third season as friends. No, the two of you were left to your own devices, navigating the difficult terrain without help. 

Part of you always believed that you and Bucky would end up together. Maybe it was the Ben and Leslie of it all. Or maybe it was your hopeless romantic side. But you truly thought things would work out for the two of you. The ring on your finger, however, said otherwise.

A wave of remorse washed over you. You rested your elbows on your knees and dropped your chin into your hands. “We just never got the timing right…”

Bucky furrowed his brow, “What do you mean?”

“Our feelings for each other were always out of sync,” you lamented. “They ebbed and flowed over the years- just with opposite timing. When you had feelings for me, I was dating someone. When I had feelings for you, you were in love with another woman. It was just…” you cursed fate and destiny and everything in between. “It was bad fucking timing. 

A sharp edge rose in Bucky’s voice, “You think that’s what happened?”

You nodded, “Um… yeah. Yes.”

“You’re wrong.” He was steadfast. Resolute. He wanted to argue with you, wanted to prove you wrong. 

“What do you mean?”

“My feelings never ebbed- whether I was dating someone or not, those feelings never went away,” he said. There was a desperation in his voice. A longing you hadn’t heard before. “And they still haven’t. They’ve never gone away or even faded a little bit. I know you had fleeting feelings for me at one time or another, but mine weren’t temporary.”

It was bullshit- it had to be. Right? His “feelings” for you never seemed so concrete, so permanent. They weren’t even feelings; if anything they were more like passing flirtations. Momentary affections that dissolved every time a beautiful woman walked by.  

You let out a scoff, “Tell that to all of your girlfriends-”

“I only dated other people because I was losing my fucking mind.” His voice rose an octave or so  and he cut his eyes toward the house, watching for a sign that someone had heard him. “Every time you started seeing someone new, it was like I couldn’t breathe. So, I needed something- someone- to be a distraction. And I know that’s a dick move. But-”

You weren’t proud of it, but you were familiar with Bucky’s coping mechanism. With his tactics for surviving every new boyfriend of yours. “I did the same thing.”

“What?” He didn’t believe you- not even for a second. Your engagement ring wouldn’t allow him to. 

“Buck, I’ve had feelings for you since we became friends. It was pretty much immediate after meeting you. And they weren’t ‘fleeting’- or whatever you said.” The word actually offended you. “They’ve never ebbed.” 

You caught a glimpse of your engagement ring in your periphery and instantly dropped your hand into your lap, hiding the ring from your view- and Bucky’s. “I only dated other people because I didn’t think anything could actually happenbetween us.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. He instantly mourned the lost time, the years he could’ve spent with your lips on his. Of course, the friendship you shared was never a waste. And he’d never trade the years you spent as confidantes. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how different things could’ve been. How much mutual pain could’ve been avoided.

He took a step away from you, too confused and upset to be in your orbit.  “And you never told me any of this?”

Your brow furrowed; your lips stretched into a thin, frustrated line. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What?”

With fury smoldering in your chest, you rose from your seat on the porch steps. Anger glistened behind your eyes and hurt coated your words. “I told you! I bared my fucking soul to you!”

The puzzle pieces came together for Bucky. He let his head tip back a bit and covered his face with his hands. He let out a deep groan that only added to your rage. He didn’t have to ask- he already knew what you were referencing. But the part of him that wanted a fight egged you on. “Oh my god, are you talking about that night at the bar?”

“Of course I am!” you spat. “I told you everything- I confessed everything! I told you I loved you and that I wanted to be with you. I told you I was in love with you. And you just brushed it off!”

Bucky grimaced, “I know...” 

He wandered a bit farther, putting a few more paces between your body and his. He knew he was wrong. Knew he fucked up. Every time he thought about what you said at the bar, and the way he reacted, he grew nauseous.

“But I didn’t think it was real.” Another wave of desperation sent his voice booming through the yard, “I didn’t know you actually meant it! And I didn’t think I should hold you to something you said after six margaritas.”

He had a point. He had good reason not to believe a drunken confession. But you gave a fervent shake of your head; it wasn’t his actions that night that hurt you, it was everything that followed.

“But you didn’t even acknowledge it!” The words echoed down your street. You wondered if your neighbors had gathered around their windows, watching yours and Bucky’s drama unfold like a soap opera. “You could’ve asked me about it the next day or-”

The pain in your voice cut Bucky deep. His tone was softer now, his voice a little quieter. He knew he should’ve handled things differently. Knew you deserved better. “Well, you never brought it up either…”

“I tried to!” A rogue tear dripped down your cheek. You wiped it away in a hurry, hoping Bucky hadn’t seen it- though you knew he had. “But you told me ‘not to worry about it’ and then you walked away. And that was it.”

Bucky watched as a few more tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. He wanted to wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt. To offer you a hug. But he couldn’t- he was certain you’d swat him away. Regret sat in his stomach, weighing him down like lead.

“Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? I told you how I felt, and you pretended like it never even happened,” your voice wavered ever so slightly. “And when I tried to talk to you about it, you waved me off. I was so humiliated- I didn’t want to say anything else.”

The weeks that followed your drunken- but true- confession were some of the most miserable times of your life. Bucky simply carried on like normal, inviting you over for movies and pizza and wine. And you didn’t have it in you to pull away. To put some distance between the two of you. To take the time you needed to lick your wounds. And if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t want to stray from his side. Didn’t want to retreat. Because being around him was better than being without him, even if the rejection left you broken and bruised.

 “After that,” you shrugged, “I thought you didn’t want anything more than friendship with me.”

“But I-” Bucky shook his head; you were wrong- you were so wrong. He’d always wanted more, always wanted you. “I’ve always loved you…” 

“How was I supposed to know that? I mean, your string of girlfriends says otherwise.” You thought back on the litany- on the catalogue- of beautiful women Bucky paraded around. “And I know I dated other people, too. But you had so many. And you were so- you gushed about those women. You flaunted them. You talked about them nonstop.”

Bucky knew it was true. He brought his girlfriends to every event, every team dinner, every casual hang. The one time, the one place he deemed too sacred for the presence of his rotating cast of lovers, however,  was the one-on-one time you shared. He never dreamed of allowing them to tag along when it was just supposed to be the two of you- that was one line he’d never cross. He did spend a significant amount of time talking about them, though. He went on and on about his many, many forays into the dating world. And truth be told, you had trouble keeping track of all the names. 

Because, while you’d had a few boyfriends here and there, Bucky dated enough women to field a soccer team. Or two.

But you weren’t mad at him for it. You didn’t hate him for seeking companionship. You just couldn’t believe that he had real, legitimate feelings for you while simultaneously telling you that he planned to propose to Isabella. Or Nadia. Or Violet. 

“Honestly, you made it seem like you wanted to marry every one of them,” you told him. “The way you talked about them- it was like you were so in love. So, I didn’t think…” The whole situation was too messy. Too confusing. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to have real feelings for me. I thought you were a flirt. And a ladies’ man. And I thought you only showed me affection when you were bored between lovers.”

Bucky thought back on all the girlfriends. All the hook ups. All the times he left a one-night stand and ended up at your apartment after. He hated it- but you were right. He may have flirted with you; he may have showed you fleeting affection. And maybe he made a joke or two about growing old with you- but he never made a declarative statement. He never confessed his true and undying love for you. Never made the effort to take your friendship to the next level.

Only you’d been brave enough to do that. And he’d paid you dust.

“And I mean, you made it very clear that you didn’t want to talk about my feelings for you,” you said. A flood of familiar embarrassment rose around your ankles. You found yourself struggling to wade through it, just as you had after Bucky brushed you off. “So, I just… I found Cole. And I stayed with him- I stayed long enough that he asked me to marry him. And I knew you didn’t want me, so… I said yes.”

Bucky couldn’t imagine a reality in which he didn’t want you. “I’m so-” he slid a hand over his mouth. He let his head drop a bit. 

The weight of your words- of the truth- almost forced him to his knees. He’d only ever known longing, wanting, yearning- for you. And he always told himself you didn’t see him that way. But knowing now that you’d felt the same, that your confession was real and true, didn’t assuage the hurt. He couldn’t believe that he brushed you off. That he didn’t take the time and summon the courage to ask you about what you said at the bar. 

But he’d been too scared. Too scared he’d ruin your friendship. Too scared he’d make you uncomfortable. Too scared that your drunk words were just that- drunk words with no meaning.

As your point of view stood next to his, the puzzle pieces aligned. And the two of you finally got a look at the full picture. It was a picture of mutual love, mutual longing, mutual heartache. A picture of two best friends who couldn’t find it in them to have a serious- sober- conversation about their feelings for fear of ruining a good thing.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said. “I didn’t know you were serious at the bar. I didn’t mean to hurt you- I never want to hurt you.” He swiped his sleeve across his face, mopping up a stray tear that threatened to run down his cheek. “And I really didn’t mean to push you into the arms of another man. I just... I didn’t know you meant it.”

A tired sigh deflated your chest, “I meant it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say. Or how to handle the situation. He hated that things got so muddled. Hated that you felt so hurt. Hated that he hadn’t just been honest. The two of you were so close, so comfortable together, he never thought things could get this messed up. This disastrous. But he supposed it was par for the course. After the way his life had played out, why would he think that something as important as falling in love would be easy?

“So, it seems like we’re…” Bucky frowned, “terrible at this.”

“Yeah,” a dark laugh escaped your chest. “I guess we’re both stupid.”

Bucky nodded. If there’d been one- just one- honest conversation between the two of you, none of this would’ve happened. There’d be no Cole. No hurt feelings. No argument in the yard. All this time, you could’ve been sleeping next to Bucky each night. You could’ve shared a home with him. Kissed him good morning each time the sun rose. And the engagement ring- albeit a smaller one- resting on your finger would’ve been from Bucky. 

But it was too late now, wasn’t it? There was too much pain, too much hurt. And you were very much so engaged. Hell, you and Bucky were standing in the front yard of the house you shared with your soon-to-be husband. But Bucky had to ask, didn’t he? He had to dig deeper, to find the truth. 

And after he’d failed to acknowledge your truth last time, he wasn’t going to do it again. 

Knots twisted around in his stomach. His lungs failed to expand all the way. But he needed to know. “Do you still-

“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t leave even a sliver of room for doubt. “I still love you.”

Bucky said nothing. He simply drank in the words. Replayed them in his mind. Relished in the sound of your voice- sober and steady- saying that you loved him. It was all he’d ever wanted.

But his silence pushed you to the precipice.

“So, um,” your hands shook. “What about you? Are you-”

Bucky almost laughed. “Oh, come on. Of course, I do- of course, I love you. What kind of question is that?” He shot you a wink.

There it was- his truth laid out before you. And to think, you’d dreaded this night for weeks. Dreaded celebrating your engagement to Cole. Dreaded answering questions about your impending wedding. And now, the love you’d hoped for, the love you’d always wanted, laid perfectly spelled out for you in the grass. Somehow, the party celebrating your engagement to another man provided the perfect venue for Bucky to bare his soul.

And while the two of you relished in the others’ words of love, uncertainty still filled the air. Bucky stood firm on his side of the lawn, and you yours. This wasn’t a perfectly scripted episode of sitcom, there weren’t people telling you what to say. What to do next. Your shared predicament was messy and awkward. And though you didn’t have a director telling you how to act, you knew your neighbors were entertained.

“So, what do we…” Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. “What do we do now? You’re supposed to marry someone else. Your house is full of people celebrating your engagement. And-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. 

You pursued him across the lawn, stalking toward him until your lips crushed his. Instantly, his hands found your waist and pulled you tighter. Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, and buried themselves in his hair. The chill in the air fell away. The noise of the party evaporated. Nothing existed outside of this moment, this kiss. Bucky snaked his arms around your back, encircling you completely. He wasn’t going to let you slip away. Not again.

But an errant sound from inside the house made a grab for his attention. And suddenly, the stark reality of the situation hit him like a train. 

He pulled away ever so slightly, only allowing a few millimeters between his lips and yours. His gaze landed on the packed house, “Someone might see us-”

“I don’t care.” You gave his hair a gentle tug and closed the gap between you. Now that you’d finally tasted his lips, you didn’t want to spend a moment without them. Ever.

And while Bucky wanted only this- only you- for the rest of his life, his anxiety needled at him as it always did. He did his best to swat his worries away and devote his focus to you and only you, but he couldn’t fight it. He had to tell you, had to clarify.

Again, he pulled away. 

“But you know I can’t- I can’t give you the things he can give you. You know that right?” He searched your face for any hint of realization. Any flicker of regret. “I mean, the big diamond ring, and the fancy wedding, and the house. I don’t want you to be disappointed, I don’t want you to-”

And again, you cut him off. Your mouth melted against his, hell bent on consuming him right then and there.

“Buck, I don’t want any of that,” you finally said when you came up for air. “I want you. That’s it.”

And there it was- Bucky’s confirmation that you wanted him for him. That you didn’t care about his small, shabby apartment. Or his lack of funds. That you loved him for who he was, not what he could gift you. 

“And honestly, all the fancy stuff isn’t really my vibe,” you shrugged. “I mean, I’m not really the type to play tennis at the country club. And I don’t use ‘summer’ as a verb.”

Bucky’s laughed boomed through the yard. It cut through the noise and chatter of the party and made you feel more at home than you ever did in this godforsaken house.

“So, do you want to make a run for it?” Bucky asked between long, deep kisses. “If we go now, I don’t think they’ll catch us.”

It was enticing. The thought of absconding with Bucky set you alight from the inside out. All you could think about was spending the night in his bed, wearing his clothes as pajamas, and then ditching them entirely for a night of passionate debauchery.

But there would be plenty of time for the two of you to make your escape- after you carried out the plan forming on the outskirts of your mind.

“I say, we run- but not quite yet,” you told him. “I think you give me a few minutes inside so I can snag a couple bottles of champagne and some of that fancy whiskey Cole’s dad brought by. And then we jump in the getaway car and run like hell. How does that sound?”

How could Bucky possibly say no to that? He watched with bated breath as you snuck back into the house and hoped to god that no one noticed your return.

And his prayers were answered. Everyone was so drunk, so distracted by the music and the lights, that they didn’t even glance in your direction. 

A quick trip to your room allowed you the opportunity to rid yourself of Cole’s ring. Sure, it was beautiful. And sure, Cole was a nice guy. But you didn’t want it, didn’t want to be shackled to him for the rest of your life. You slid the ring from your finger and instantly felt the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. It was the most instantaneous relief you’d ever felt- aside from kissing Bucky for the first time. You tucked the ring safely into the drawer of your nightstand and told yourself you’d return it to Cole tomorrow. 

Tonight, you had more pressing matters to attend to. You snaked down the hall to the kitchen, undetected by the raucous partygoers. And without drawing any attention to yourself, you snaked two bottles of champagne out of their ice bath and tucked a nice vintage whiskey under your arm. If you and Bucky were going to celebrate, you were going to do it in style.

With the alcohol safely cradled in your arms, you made a mad dash for the front door. But just as you turned the handle, the sensation of someone watching you gave you pause. Slowly, you turned around, fearing that you’d find Cole’s confused, heartbroken gaze staring back at you. Instead, it was Nat who’d caught you in the act. 

She gave you a wicked smile and mouthed “I told you so” from across the room. And with a sweeping gesture, she urged you to “go, go, go!” She didn’t have to tell you twice. Quick as a flash, you escaped out the door and sprinted down the porch steps. 

Bucky paced up and down the front walk, waiting for your return. Part of him feared that you might not return from your trip inside. Maybe you’d change your mind about the whole thing. Maybe you’d decide to stay with Cole. But the way you tore down the front steps and launched yourself into his arms quieted his anxieties. 

He took your face in his hands and captured your lips with his. “You got the goods?”

Your laugh vibrated against Bucky’s lips, “I don’t know about you, but I think stolen champagne tastes better.”

"That's my girl."

Bucky snaked an arm around your back and ushered you across the yard, out the front gate, and across the street to his car. He stole the booze from your grasp and placed the bottles gently in the back seat. And once he ensured that the alcohol you worked so hard to pilfer would make it home safe, he turned his attention to you. 

His hands slid over your hips and traced up your spine, sending goosebumps over your skin. His mouth met yours in a kiss full of love and desperation. Longing and need. This was what you’d always wanted. What you’d begged the universe for. What you’d cried and agonized over. And now it was yours- Bucky was yours.

He pulled away only a fraction of an inch, “You ready to go, baby?”

“Get me outta here, Buck.”

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

@beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @evangeliameryll @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @barnesselo @juvellian @samanthacookieone @frombkjar @blackbirdsinatrenchcoat @anything-more-than-human

[sycamorality]

there's something so telling about how the rain world fandom at large sees the ancients as cruel (and sometimes, a suicide cult), when all we get in the canon material is how much they loved the world and savoured the mundane.

as a sidenote — i'll be talking about vanilla. downpour won't matter in this context.

the white pearls are a great example of this — a line of a verse from a poet. the vague imprint of a family portrair (imitating a specific style popular during the era it was made in). a list of someone's 71 lucky numbers. an image of a hand drawn document with beautiful calligraphy of a (in moon's opinion) dull classical poem. what could be someone's alchemical treatise. someone playing recursion games with an image of a pearl in a pearl of a pearl in a pearl and so on. a very faded image of a tall structure with banners unfurled. what might be a recipice or a shopping list of some kind. a repetitive hymn. the mention of big festicals with sky-sails. an image of five bottles standing on a surface possibly made of plants.

not to mention the pearl found in shaded citadel, where one of the memories mentioned is "watching dust suspended in a ray of sun". it's such a small mundanity and yet its mentioned all the same as eating a tasty meal and winning a debate contest and being applauded by team members.

not to mention the various other colored pearls. one with a mantra repeat 5061 times, ending with a termination verse, and the fact that many of these were usually worn together. a small text of spiritual guidance. verses written in old and intricate language. a writing in which the author wishing the recipient's crops and yields be blessed.

and yet we see them as cruel? for what? the fact they wished nothing be stuck in the cycle of life and death? that they wish even the smallest speck of microbe and the tiniest bug be able to leave their struggles behind and ascend?

ascension in itself can easily be read as a grief allegory, whether intentional or not, but much more clearly i think is just meant as acceptance. acceptance that everything is okay and you're okay and you've done everything you've wanted, so you're ready to cut your ties and ascend, because you've finished everything. i think enlightenment is being able to say "living was so fun, i've done everything i've wanted, and i'm ready to move on". all the echoes we meet are there because they're lingering on some part of their life. something they can't leave behind. something that they miss still in the inbetween. they're unable to find true enlightenment even after ascending because they can't accept moving on fully, not yet.

though, one thing of note, is this quote from moon, regarding the bright red pearl found in farm arrays;

There were some horror stories though… That if your ego was big enough, not even the Void Fluid could entirely cross you out, and a faint echo of your pompousness would grandiosely haunt the premises forever.

this implies a lot in one, obviously. but we have to remember: moon is a biased narrator, and these were only horror stories. they could have evolved from parents telling their kids to not have their heads up their own asses because otherwise they won't be able to ascend (because obviously ascension was held in extremely high regard in their religion - much like going to heaven is in christianity! how interesting! we'll circle back to this later), or many other things. if anything, from what we see, this... isn't entirely accurate, the echoes we speak to don't sound like they have a big ego. they're reminiscing on life, and parts of it that they missed and still cling onto.

of course, i can see the argument against 'wanting to ascend everything' — but in the context of rain world's lore? i don't think it's cruel. i think it's offering a helping hand. i think they just didn't want everything to struggle endlessly in the cycle of life, death, and reincarnation. and i think that makes perfect sense.

so..... why does parts of the fandom call them a "suicide cult" or say "ascension = suicide"?

i think it has a lot to do with how a lot of people aren't reading the religion and religious practices as they're meant to be viewed, and are instead viewing them in an overly christianised lens (whether consciously or subconsciously, intentionally or not), where anything that isnt "wanting to go to heaven" is a sin, and therefore bad. historically, many other religious practices have been demonised, and i'm sure this also includes their versions of "going to paradise" (when applicable) being smeared and implied to be something akin to going to hell.

(downpour really didn't help this either. i fear it only made the "ascension is and and also suicide" interpretation more prevelant in some way, but i won't get into that now.)

i get it — rain world's lore does require an ability to leave your religious bias by the door, as well as critical thinking and analysis and a hell of a lot of extrapolation from what we have.... but it feels really offputing how it's become extremely normalised to joke about how they're committing suicide by ascending, and that they're a suicide cult. both suicide and cults are an extremely sensitive and serious topic, both of which have lead to extremely bad situations.... but i digress.

the fact that many people are instantly casting shade and doubt to the ancients and calling them cruel and heartless when under it all they're just people, like us, with unique religious practices, formed by the unique world which they live in. they love the world and they want to help other living beings. they are not trying to kill everything — they simply want it all to move on, to what they may very well view as some sort of equivalent of 'paradise' (although we will never really have full context of their practices and culture, but we can make a lot of guesses).... which, really, isn't that what you'd want, too, if you thought you had a choice in the matter?

[burdigel]

So one of the most lore-indepth wildcards of Wild Life would be the superpowers that relates past seasons of the Life Series and acknowledges other series (eg. Hermitcraft and Evo) and their personal lore to attribute to each participant's power.

Starting alphabetically,

Bdubs power is essentially all related to time and his ability to manipulate the day cycle expentially. With the clock being his main motif across all Life Series, the ability to slow and speed time according to his will is easily solvable but with the inclusion of the Hermitcraft and Empires crossover event, his ability to speed time according to his sleep schedule becomes another layer deep. Besides the clock being a main symbol for Bdubs, the concept of sleep is another that has essentially been from the beginning of Hermitcraft. Always carrying a bed and sleeping whenever. The Empires crossover Bdubs was framed as a god of sorts of the Sun. Always bright and always there when the Sun remained as its brightest.

Bigb can summon creaking. He creaking. He is like a king or dimplomant to the players who invade their home and they view him as their kin so he has the responsibility and power to summon them.

Ethoslab based of Kakashi from Naruto is by definition a ninja. An escapee or fugitive at best. So with his ability to jump higher boosted by wind charges can be explained by his connection to the shonen series and the inclusion of the mace could be chalked up to typically stories of protagonists gaining resources or inventory to defeat the "Big Bad" or achieve some sort of goal that is to win the Life Series.

GeminiTay or GeminiSlay named by others intimidated by her, has slayed each participant brutally in the Life Series and on Hermitcraft rewarding her the reputation from her immense PvP skills. So with her power of astral projection, it acts retribution for the slayed to talk and apologise or instigate to those dead for her or others benefit.

GoodTimeWithScar is nortorious for being not PG friendly so the inclusion of one of his powers been the ability to ride people, it's self explanatory. Yet as Scar is commonly associated with and as a vex, his other powers of extreme knockback and thorns can be explained by the hostile and aggressivness of the mob.

Grian as essentially the grandmaster or orchestrator of the Life Series would have access to all the powers and mimic but not fully copy the others' powers. Yet because of his power chained by an omnipresent force, he's unable to fully copy the powers but imitate them for only short periods of time.

ImpulseSV and his teleportation powers could derive from his cyber-theme aesthetic for his Hermitcraft Season X base. With most series of fictions based around cyberpunk civilisations, technologies like teleporation and other advanced transportational devices are commonly utilsed. Resulting in Impulse's power of teleportation and the ability to swap the position of another with himself.

Martyn power is boosted hearing cause he's a Listener.

So Lizzie or LDShadowLady's inflicts blindless or a shadow upon the surrounding people in her radius and resulting her in temporary invisibility and blindess to others around her. But from her endless descent into the void in Secret Life, arises Lizzie with trails of the void clinging to grasp the light of the overworld. Causing the void remnants to spread to others and infect them with blindness in all for the hope to spread towards the light from the cold world of the End.

With the ability to fly, PearlescentMoon carries aesthetics relating to Greek mythology in both her powers and external design choices. As one of the Postmasters of Hermitcraft, Pearl is essentially the builder and additional redstone help of the trio for the postoffice and other aesthetic designs. Hermes the herald or messenger of the Olympus gods delievers messages to other celestial dieties and mortals similar to Pearl's jobs as a Postmaster. Other than the similar professions, both Pearl and Hermes wear a petasos which is essentially a wide-brimmed hat that is commoly adorned for shade and for Hermes, additional wings to the sides of the hat. Symbolising their shared ability to fly quickly and efficiently for a purpose.

As RentheDog is commonly interpreted as a dog-hybrid of sorts by the Hermitcraft and Life Series community, his ability to splice and copy the DNA of others to match their appearance could be an aftermath or positive side-effect from his hybrid mutation.

Similar to Ren, Scott has the capability to transform into any mob in sight and similar to Limited Life where he was depicted as a siren as part of the Mean Gills. His ability to shape-shift into any mob regardless if it's passive or aggressive could be similar to his mutliple origins from New Life SMP and Origin SMP and the reflect the changing nature of his powers.

So Joel with essentially triple jump could be hinting his slimely origins of his Shrek skin in the swamp. Where the swamp generally spawns slimes at a higher rate than other slime chunks and slime blocks harvested from the slimes can be used as jump boosts. Resulting in the triple jump.

After just breaking the Canary Curse two seasons ago, SolidarityGaming or Jimmy has the power to turn fully invisible until someone or something damages him. Ever since his debut to the Watchers back in Evo, Jimmy has been under constant surveillance by the Watchers as an object of their amusement. Always failing to reach even the finale and fumbling to keep alive. Yet when he broke the curse and relayed it too another, he was discarded. Seen invisible to the Watchers as he had become an object of boredom by reaching his resolution. So that's where his invisibility comes from.

Tango with his cowardly approach to things, has constantly ran away from situations but with this power, it supercharges his speed allowing him to become part of the fight and conflict instead of running away. And with his ability to frost-walk on ice, it could recall his Season 9's skin back when he was the Dungeon Master in Decked Out II and became an icy persona.

ZombieCleo and resurect dead people as she's a reanimated zombie.

----

part 32

im tired

[aspenmissing]

ꜱʜɪᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴋɪʟʟꜱ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 5815 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅʀᴜɢꜱ/ꜱʜɪᴍᴍᴇʀ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ | ᴍᴇʟ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JINX

It was a cold, oppressive night in the heart of Zaun, the air thick with the scent of oil and smog. The world felt too heavy for Jinx, her mind teetering on the edge of something darker, something that always felt just a little too close. But tonight, there was something even worse lurking in the shadows.

Y/N had always been there for her—like a sister, a steady presence in Jinx's chaotic life. The older woman, warm and patient, had been the first person to ever show her kindness, to let her see the world as something other than an endless series of explosions and pain. Y/N understood Jinx in a way that no one else did. And she never judged.

But tonight was different.

Jinx had seen them—shimmer addicts, the same ones who’d been hunting down anyone they could get their hands on. They had appeared out of nowhere, their eyes glowing with the unnatural light of the mutagen, their bodies twitching and full of fury. Jinx hadn’t been fast enough to dodge them, her head swirling with thoughts of her old friends and of the things she had lost. Her hand had reached for a weapon, but before she could strike, the shimmer-addicts lunged at her, their eyes flashing red.

Then, out of nowhere, Y/N had appeared, her expression fierce as she shoved Jinx aside. The shimmer addict, a man whose body contorted unnaturally from the drug, swung his weapon with a brutal force. Y/N caught it in midair, her strength surprising even Jinx.

"Go!" Y/N shouted, her voice strained. "Get out of here, Jinx! Now!"

But Jinx stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t want to leave her friend, her protector, to face this alone.

Without warning, Y/N had grabbed the shimmer user by the waist, pulling him close, her arms wrapping around him as tightly as she could. The addict flailed wildly, his arms caught in her grip. Y/N’s strength was incredible, but even she couldn’t hold on much longer.

The ground beneath them began to crack, and Jinx watched, helpless, as they both tumbled back. Y/N’s arms tightened around the man just as the pit below them yawned open, swallowing them both into the abyss.

"No!" Jinx screamed, her heart breaking as she tried to reach for Y/N, but it was too late. The darkness of the pit swallowed her voice, and the world went eerily still.

Jinx couldn't remember how long she had stood there, frozen in place, staring at the black void that had taken Y/N away. But the pain in her chest was so deep, it felt like her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces. She hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.

=

The days that followed were nothing but chaos. Chaos flooded her mind—more than it ever had before. Jinx could feel herself spiralling, but there was something else, too.

It was Y/N.

She had started seeing her—hearing her voice in the back of her mind.

"Jinx," Y/N’s voice echoed, soft and reassuring, "It’s okay, I'm still here."

It wasn’t possible. Y/N had fallen. She had to have fallen. Yet, Jinx couldn't shake the feeling that she was still there—watching over her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her: Y/N’s warm smile, her comforting presence, her laugh that made everything feel like it was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t.

But something was wrong. Y/N’s image was fading—blurred, distant, like a faint memory she was struggling to hold onto. And then, the voice. The voice that had once been a source of safety, of solace—now felt hollow, accusing.

"Jinx…"

It was soft, yes, but there was something sharp in it, something Jinx had never heard before. The warmth was gone, replaced with a cold edge. Y/N’s face, when it appeared, was a twisted mockery of the woman Jinx had known. The smile, once bright and full of warmth, had now become a sad imitation, her eyes hollow, like she had been staring at Jinx from a place far beyond her reach.

"Jinx..." The voice spoke again, low and quiet. "You shouldn’t have let me go..."

Jinx flinched, the words cutting through her chest like a blade. She tried to shake it off, to push the hallucination away, but it lingered, relentless, like a shadow that refused to leave her alone. Was Y/N blaming her? Was it her fault Y/N had fallen?

"No... no..." Jinx whispered, tears threatening to spill as she clutched her head, trying to make the voice stop. "I didn’t want you to go. I tried... I tried so hard, Y/N!"

But Y/N’s image only faded and returned, morphing into something darker. The voice was no longer comforting, no longer a source of strength. It twisted in the air, accusing, and Jinx felt herself suffocating beneath the weight of it.

"You weren’t fast enough, Jinx," the voice came again, colder now. "You didn’t save me. You never save anyone..."

Jinx’s breath hitched. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her hands trembled as the image of Y/N flickered before her, an ethereal, fading presence, pulling further and further away from her grasp.

"I... I was too slow..." Jinx whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn’t mean to... I tried to protect you, I did, but... but I couldn’t... I wasn’t enough..."

The hallucination shifted, Y/N’s form becoming almost unrecognisable now—her face twisted in silent judgment, her eyes now accusing, like she could see every failure, every mistake Jinx had ever made.

"You never could do enough, could you?" Y/N’s voice whispered, now almost bitter. "You let me fall."

Jinx’s heart twisted with guilt and sorrow. It felt like the weight of the world was crushing her chest. The shimmer had taken over her mind, warping her memories and emotions into something unrecognisable. But the guilt—the crushing guilt—was all too real. The things Y/N was saying, the things she had never even thought about before—was it all her fault?

"No, Y/N," Jinx whispered, her hands gripping her head tighter. "Please, don’t leave me like this… I didn’t mean to... I couldn’t stop it."

But the hallucination didn’t respond. It only stood there, the accusing image of Y/N still lingering in the air, forever out of reach.

Jinx’s mind screamed for it to end, but all she was left with was the sound of Y/N’s voice, forever haunting her, always reminding her of what she could never undo.

She had failed. She had failed Y/N. And she would never forgive herself for it.

SEVIKA

Sevika sat at the bar in The Last Drop, nursing a glass of something strong. Her eyes were tired, haunted. She hadn’t been able to sleep properly since that night. The weight of it clung to her—Y/N's face, the last words they'd shared, the warmth of her hand slipping away in the cold.

The glass in her hand felt heavier than usual, as if the very weight of her grief had sunk into the amber liquid. She had no one to blame but herself. No one could have stopped the shimmer addict, the madman who'd killed Y/N. But Sevika couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have been there, that somehow, she should have seen it coming.

Her thoughts drifted back to that night, the echo of the explosion still ringing in her ears. The sudden chaos, the flash of fire, the sound of glass shattering. The alley had been a war zone—a battlefield in the heart of Zaun, where death was all too common. But this time, it felt different. The second that explosion hit, everything seemed to shift, like the very world had spun off its axis.

Y/N... That voice—the soft whisper of her name—still haunted her. Sevika had been only a few steps behind. She'd seen Y/N's familiar silhouette, heard her gentle voice calling out as the explosion rang in their ears.

“Sevika… stay close, I’ll be alright.”

But Y/N hadn't been alright. The shimmer addict had been too quick, too crazed. Sevika had turned just in time to see the man’s wild eyes, the crazed grin, as he lunged toward Y/N with a blade in his hand. The shimmer in his system made him unpredictable, dangerous. Y/N hadn’t stood a chance. The flash of steel, the sickening sound of a blade cutting through flesh. Sevika’s blood ran cold. She reached for her gun, but it was too late. By the time she pulled Y/N into her arms, the damage was done. The woman who had always carried herself with such grace, the person who had offered comfort and guidance to the kids of Zaun, was now nothing but a crumpled, lifeless weight in her lap. No, no, no... Her breath came in short, frantic gasps as she tried to stop the bleeding, tried to do something—anything. But there was nothing to be done. Y/N’s blood mixed with the dirt of the alley, staining the streets she had once walked with such kindness. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, weak and unfocused. She blinked as if seeing the world for the first time. Her lips parted, trying to say something, but no words came. “Y/N… please, don’t…” Sevika whispered, her voice a broken thing, rough with panic. “Please stay with me.” But Y/N’s hand moved—slowly, so slowly—reaching up to touch her cheek. The touch was soft, gentle, like it had always been, but this time, it felt different. There was an emptiness behind it, a finality Sevika couldn’t ignore. “Don’t…” Y/N whispered, barely audible. “Don’t let the darkness consume you… You’re better than that…” The words hit Sevika like a punch to the gut. Y/N had always believed in her. Always believed she could be more than the monster she’d let herself become. Now, Y/N was gone, and all Sevika had was the weight of her dying words.

“Y/N, no... no…” Her voice cracked, and with it, all the years of pain, regret, and fear poured out. Her chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of the loss. Sevika held onto her, unwilling to let go. I couldn’t save you... I couldn’t... But Y/N’s hand fell limp in hers. Her body grew cold in Sevika’s arms, and the world around her seemed to still. The sound of the distant chaos, the crackle of burning buildings, faded into a hollow silence. Y/N was gone. Sevika couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She just held her, cradling the woman who had meant everything to her. But the minutes, the hours—how long had she been sitting there?—dragged on. The rain began to fall softly, mixing with the blood, washing everything clean, leaving only the memory.

Her thoughts now drifted back to the present. The bar around her felt distant, as if she were no longer a part of this world. The clinking of glasses, the low hum of murmurs from the other patrons—nothing mattered. Nothing could fill the emptiness inside her.

Jinx's voice cut through the fog of her grief. “Sevika…” The younger woman’s voice was soft but insistent. Sevika looked up to see Jinx standing beside her, her wide eyes flicking nervously between Sevika and the empty bottle in her hand. “You’ve been here for days.”

Sevika only gave her a cold stare, but inside, it was like a fist around her heart. Jinx had been there too. She’d lost someone she cared about, and yet, here she was, trying to keep things together. Trying to keep the chaos at bay.

“She’s gone, Jinx,” Sevika muttered, her voice rough with emotion. “Y/N… she’s gone, and I couldn’t save her.”

Jinx didn't say anything at first. She simply reached out, placing a hand on Sevika’s. It was warm against the cold bitterness that had settled inside her. “You didn’t do this, Sevika. You didn’t kill her.”

But Sevika couldn’t hear it. The shimmer addict who’d pulled the trigger was still out there, somewhere. He was the one to blame. He had taken Y/N from her. But the truth didn’t change the fact that Sevika hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been there in time. She’d failed.

The last thing Y/N had said to her echoed in her mind: “Don’t let the darkness consume you, Sevika. You’re better than that.”

Sevika closed her eyes, the tears threatening to break free. Y/N had always believed in her, always believed there was a way out of the darkness. But now, there was nothing left but the abyss.

“I’ll make them pay,” Sevika whispered, her voice cold and resolute. “I’ll make them all pay.”

Jinx nodded, the grim look in her eyes matching the one Sevika knew too well. “We will. But you need to pull yourself together first.”

Sevika’s expression hardened as she looked at Jinx. She nodded, her jaw clenched. “I’ll make it happen, Jinx. Just... leave me to it.”

With that, Sevika stood up, leaving her drink untouched. Her heart burned with the need for vengeance, the need to make the world feel her pain. The shimmer addict, the man who had torn everything apart... he would pay. And anyone who thought they could harm those she cared about would learn just how far Sevika was willing to go.

She walked out of The Last Drop, the sounds of the bar fading behind her, as she set her eyes on the streets of Zaun. There was work to be done, and Sevika would see it through, no matter the cost. She would avenge Y/N. The darkness would consume her enemies, not her.

EKKO

The dimly lit streets of Zaun had never felt colder, not even with the biting wind that usually swept through the alleyways. Ekko’s usual sharp, confident steps now faltered, each one dragging him closer to a pain he didn’t know how to deal with. His heart, once filled with hope, now felt heavy—like a weight that threatened to crush him entirely.

The news had hit him like a freight train. Y/N, the one person who had always been there, the one who had made everything feel brighter, was gone. And it wasn’t just any death. She’d been taken from them by someone who had dared to abuse the power of shimmer. A power that was meant to change the world for the better but had corrupted those who wielded it into monsters, willing to take anything, including lives.

Ekko had been there, fighting alongside her, feeling invincible as they always had. But this time, when the battle raged, it was different. He hadn’t been fast enough to save her. His hands trembled as he adjusted the goggles on his face, still not sure if he was seeing things clearly. He had come too late, just in time to see Y/N fall, her eyes filled with an expression he had never wanted to see: pain, fear, and worst of all, the realisation that she wasn’t going to make it.

Her last words were burned into his memory, though he hadn’t wanted to hear them. "Take care of them… Ekko... please..." It was a plea she had made countless times for the people of Zaun, and now it was for him. She had always put others first, always willing to sacrifice for the greater good. And now, she was gone.

But Ekko wasn’t here to make a statement or to seek vengeance. His path was one of healing, of remembering her for what she had been. He could have torn down the shimmer users who had done this, could have thrown his fury into every fight, but that wasn’t what Y/N would have wanted. No, she had always fought for something better, something more than just a cycle of revenge.

=

He stood in front of the mural that now adorned the wall in the heart of Zaun. It wasn’t just a memorial—it was a testament to who she had been, to what she had fought for. The mural depicted her as she had always been: kind, strong, and full of light. Her vibrant energy captured in the strokes of the paint, a smile on her face, her hands reaching out to the children, her heart always giving. And at the centre of the mural was the soft glow of her eyes, filled with the warmth and compassion that had touched every life she had encountered.

The children of Zaun, the ones who had loved her so dearly, were the ones who had painted the mural. It was their way of saying goodbye, their way of giving her something back after all the kindness she had shown them. Their small hands had brushed the vibrant colours onto the wall, their laughter ringing through the streets as they worked—just like she had always encouraged them to do. They had taken something painful and turned it into something beautiful, just like she had.

Ekko’s hand rested gently on the wall, his fingers brushing the image of her smiling face, his breath catching in his throat. She was still with him, in this space, in the memories, in the legacy she had left behind. The city had lost so much, but what Y/N had given would not be forgotten. The wall seemed to echo her spirit, reminding him of all she had fought for—her hopes, her dreams, her belief that they could make this city a better place, even in the face of darkness.

He closed his eyes, letting the memories flood over him. Her laugh, soft and comforting, had always been his safe place. Her endless dedication to the kids of Zaun, always working to mend the torn clothes of the orphaned, always helping without hesitation. The way her eyes would light up when she talked about her work, when she talked about making things better, when she talked about them. She believed in the future, in the people of Zaun, in the children, in hope. And now that hope had been shattered, leaving nothing but the aching void of her absence.

=

Ekko had tried to stop the pain, tried to hide it, but it was impossible. There was no hiding the loss, no denying it. But she wouldn’t want him to give in to the anger, to the darkness that shimmer had brought into their lives. She had always believed in doing better, in lifting each other up.

"I’m sorry," Ekko whispered, his voice breaking for the first time. "I should have been there… I should have—"

His words were interrupted by a soft voice from behind him, breaking the stillness. It was a child, one of the faces that had been painted in the mural.

"You couldn’t have stopped it, Ekko," the small voice said, filled with a wisdom beyond their years. "But we’ll carry on what she started. We won’t let it end."

Ekko turned, surprised to see the group of children standing behind him, their eyes filled with the same mixture of grief and resolve. Among them was a boy who had once been a tearaway, but now stood taller, stronger, his shoulders squared with a new purpose.

"We know," Ekko said softly, offering a sad but grateful smile. "She always taught you well."

The boy nodded, his expression serious. "We’ll change this place, Ekko. You don’t have to do it alone."

Ekko’s chest tightened as he looked at them, at the kids who had given so much of themselves to this city, who had lived through pain and loss, but were now standing tall in defiance. His eyes flickered back to the mural.

"Zaun will change," Ekko murmured to himself, his voice steady now, the storm inside him quieting. "Because she believed in it. And I believe in it too."

The tears that had threatened to fall now felt unnecessary. Instead, he stood tall, resolute. Y/N would never truly be gone, not while there were people here who remembered her, who would carry her legacy into the future. He would continue to fight, not for vengeance, but for the world she had always dreamed of. For the city that she had believed in. He would make sure that her hope wasn’t lost, that her vision for a better Zaun would live on.

"No more shimmer. No more corruption," Ekko said, a fire reigniting in his chest. "Only the work of those like her—who had made the world brighter by simply being in it."

With a final glance at the mural, Ekko turned away, the weight on his heart now transformed into something else. A quiet determination. A promise.

=

He knew that this city, broken as it was, could still heal. He would make sure of it. For Y/N. For all the children whose future she had worked so hard to build. For a world that would always need people like her. And as long as he had breath in his lungs, he would carry her spirit, her strength, her kindness with him.

Zaun would change. And it would change because of her.

Ekko turned to the children once more, his gaze steady.

"We’ll do it together," he said, his voice firm. "One step at a time."

The children nodded in unison, their faces alight with the same determination he now felt burning through his veins. They would rebuild. They would honour her. And Zaun would rise from the ashes, stronger than before.

SILCO

The streets of Zaun were never quiet, but tonight, something felt different. Silco, his face stoic and cold, walked through the alleys with purpose. The clink of his boots echoed in the damp air as he made his way to a familiar, darkened corner of the city. He had been searching for her all night, driven by a gnawing feeling in his chest. Y/N had been gone longer than he cared to admit, but something in his gut told him she was near.

When he reached the spot, the air was thick with the acrid stench of violence and the distinct metallic tang of blood. His eyes flicked to the ground, where he saw her. Y/N’s lifeless body lay in the gutter, blood staining her clothes, the warm glow of her skin already fading. A shimmer user, hunched over her, still thrusting the sharp steel inside her.

Without hesitation, Silco reached for his gun, his anger rising like a tide. His voice was a low growl as he spoke, just loud enough for the attacker to hear, “You. You dare lay your hands on her?”

The shimmer user didn’t even look up. Lost in their frenzy, they didn’t care who was watching. But it was too late for them to make a move. Silco pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot echoing down the street, loud and final. The shimmer user collapsed, their body falling to the cold stone with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Silco stood frozen. His heart raced in his chest, but there was no time for grief. His eyes shifted to Y/N. Her body was still warm, but the life had gone from her, leaving only the shell of the woman who had once been his everything.

He knelt beside her, his fingers gently brushing her hair from her face, wiping away the blood that marred her features. His hand trembled, but he steadied himself, his gaze hardening with a mixture of fury and sorrow.

With a deep, steadying breath, Silco lifted her into his arms. He held her close, the weight of her body in his arms almost unbearable. Her head rested against his shoulder, her once vibrant presence now an absence he couldn’t begin to accept. Every step he took toward The Last Drop felt heavier than the last, each movement pulling him further from the present moment and closer to the aching reality that she was gone.

=

The door to The Last Drop creaked open, the sound almost unnatural in the otherwise hushed atmosphere. Silco’s eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the dimly lit room. The few patrons still inside froze at the sight of him, their eyes darting nervously toward the body he cradled in his arms. Y/N. The weight of her lifeless form was enough to silence the room.

Without a word, Silco moved through the bar, his steps heavy and deliberate. He wasn’t looking at anyone, didn’t acknowledge the whispers that were starting to ripple through the crowd. His gaze was fixed forward, focused on the narrow staircase leading up to their shared room. The only thing that mattered was getting her there.

The creak of the stairs under his boots was the only sound that followed him. The usual warmth of their room now felt distant, foreign. It hadn’t been long since Y/N had filled it with her presence — laughter, light, a sense of comfort that Silco had never truly known until she had entered his life. But that warmth was gone, replaced by the thick, suffocating cold of her absence.

As he gently laid her down on the bed, Silco’s hand trembled ever so slightly. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on the skin of her cold cheek. His eyes, usually so steady and sharp, faltered for a moment, staring at her as though he could will her to wake up. To return to him.

But it was too late. She was gone.

"Y/N..." His voice cracked, the name falling from his lips in a low, broken whisper. "You can’t be gone. Not like this."

He stood there for a long moment, just staring at her. The silence in the room was deafening, pressing in on him from every angle. His chest ached in a way that no amount of rage could burn away. She was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

A dark chuckle, bitter and hollow, escaped his throat. "You always did think you were invincible, didn’t you? But you’re not. And now… now they’ll pay for this." The words came out in a growl, the promise of violence thick in the air.

He turned his back to her for a brief moment, walking toward the window. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The city of Zaun was out there, sprawled beneath him — a broken, chaotic mess, just like the world that had stolen Y/N from him.

He turned back to her, his gaze fixed on her now-still form. The overwhelming desire to break something, to make the world feel the same pain he was enduring, pulsed through his veins like wildfire. But in the back of his mind, beneath the fury, there was the raw, jagged ache of loss.

"I should have protected you," Silco muttered, his voice shaking. "But now… now it’s just me. And that’s not enough."

He took a step toward her again, crouching beside the bed. He placed a hand gently on her arm, as though touching her one last time might change something, anything.

"Rest now," he said softly, though the words were harder to say than he had anticipated. "Rest. And when I’m done with them… when I’m done with all of them… I’ll make sure no one forgets who you were. No one will forget us."

With that, he stood again, straightening his back. His posture returned to the cold, unyielding figure he had always been. Silco’s eyes hardened once more, but beneath that, there was a quiet sorrow that would never leave him.

He had one last promise to keep, and this time, it wouldn’t be broken.

BONUS: VANDER

The dim glow of the Undercity was never comforting, yet it had become familiar to Vander. The moans of machinery and distant shouts from the slums had been his life for as long as he could remember. But tonight, something was different. The air felt heavier, the silence thick with an unspoken weight pressing on his chest. The kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, Claggor—were still in their rooms, but Vander couldn’t rest. His gaze drifted to the door, as though waiting for someone who would never come through it again.

Y/N. She had been everything to him—an anchor, a light amidst the madness that surrounded them. But now, she was gone, torn from him by the cruelty of a shimmer-fuelled rage.

=

It had been a quiet evening, the Last Drop bathed in the soft light of flickering candles, the steady hum of conversation swirling around the bar. Y/N had been there, laughing at something silly one of the kids had said, her bright voice a balm against the chaos of their lives. Vander could still see her, standing near the counter, her dark eyes glinting with the warmth that she always brought into the room.

And then the door had crashed open. A shimmer addict, his eyes wide and unhinged, stumbling into the bar. He was high—frantic. The madness of the drug turning him into something far worse than just a person in pain. The scuffle had been sudden, too fast for anyone to react. Someone had shouted, and then everything descended into chaos.

It had happened so quickly, too quickly. Vander hadn’t even realised that Y/N was caught in the middle of it until it was too late. The shimmer user, desperate and panicked, had lashed out. The air was filled with the sounds of broken glass, muffled shouts, and the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh. When Vander had forced his way through the crowd, he found her crumpled on the floor, blood seeping from a wound too deep. Her breathing had been laboured, slow, her once-bright eyes now dimming. She had reached out to him, a final plea in the grasp of her fingers. "I... I’m sorry, Vander," she whispered, the words barely audible. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” “No, no, don’t,” he had begged, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding, but the life was already slipping from her, the glow in her eyes fading with each passing moment. “Y/N, please, stay with me...” But she didn’t.

The weight of it crushed him, and it was in this darkness that the door creaked open again, pulling him from his reverie. He turned to see the kids—Vi, her face drawn with a mixture of worry and confusion; Powder, her wide eyes too bright, teetering on the edge of something too big for her to fully understand; Mylo and Claggor, standing silent, their usual banter missing, the bravado that always accompanied their steps nowhere to be found.

Vander’s chest tightened at the sight of them. The reality of what had happened settled heavily over him. They needed to know, but the words felt too sharp, too final. He swallowed hard, fighting to push down the bile that threatened to rise.

Powder was the first to break the silence, her voice small, fragile. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Vander’s heart lurched. The question echoed in his mind, louder than any scream or battle cry. His throat constricted, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The truth felt too much, too raw. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep the emotions buried beneath the weight of his grief.

“No,” he whispered, the word barely making it past his lips. “She’s not.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The room seemed to close in on them, the truth hanging heavily in the air. None of the kids were old enough to fully grasp the depth of the loss, but they felt it, just the same.

Vi stepped forward, her usual strength faltering as her hand reached out to Vander. Her face was pale, the mask of composure slipping as the tears threatened to fall. “I’m sorry, Vander,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll keep fighting. For her. For you.”

Vander didn’t respond immediately. He wanted to say something—something that would make it better, make them believe that everything would be alright. But the words weren’t there. Instead, he just nodded silently, his eyes dark, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond them.

His throat tightened, the lump growing, but he had to keep it together. He had to focus on them. On the kids. They needed him to be strong, to help them through this. He couldn’t let himself fall apart, not now. Not when they were looking to him.

His voice cracked as he spoke, but he kept it steady. “You’re right, Vi. We’ll fight. For Y/N. For all of us.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, but before anyone could speak again, Powder shuffled forward. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Vander’s waist, pressing herself into him with all the desperation she didn’t know how to express. Her small form trembled against him, as though the weight of the world had descended on her fragile shoulders.

“We’ll make sure you don’t have to be alone,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. The words were simple, but they carried the promise of something more—a quiet declaration that they were still here, still together, despite everything.

Vander closed his eyes, fighting the tears that were now burning behind his eyelids. He had to hold it together. For them. His arms found Powder’s tiny frame, pulling her close, holding her as though he could somehow shield her from the pain. His hand brushed over her hair, his grip tightening as he whispered a broken, “Thank you.”

Then his hand moved to Vi’s, pulling her into the embrace as well. Mylo and Claggor followed suit, their usual swagger replaced by something quieter, more solemn. They all huddled together, a group of broken souls trying to find comfort in each other amidst the wreckage of their world.

Vander didn’t allow himself to break. Not now. His emotions, his grief—it was something he couldn’t afford to share. Not when they needed him. So, he kept it buried, hidden behind the walls he had spent years building. His chest tightened, his breath ragged, but he didn’t let it show. He just held them close, his focus entirely on comforting them.

The tears came, but they stayed inside, hidden beneath the surface as he clung to the kids, the ones who needed him to stay strong. The world could burn for all he cared. In this moment, it was just them. The broken pieces of their family, clinging together in the face of something too big to comprehend.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, tangled in their grief and shared silence, but eventually the sobs began to quiet. Vander didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. They would fight, they would carry on. For Y/N. For each other. He just held them, his heart breaking in ways he didn’t dare to acknowledge, his sadness locked deep inside, where it wouldn’t burden them.

And for them, he would keep fighting.

[thedevilssinner]

I wanna share something because I don't want to suffer alone with my thoughts 😅

It's one of the scenarios where Tav knew Astarion before he was turned, but I've never read anything where it played out like this.

I apologize if something is wrong, English is not my native language.

Imagine that Tav is an elf and Astarion's lover before he was turned.

They're devastated when they finds out that Astarion has been killed. Mourning his death for a very long time and even moving away from Baldur's gate because everything reminds them too much of Astarion.

They know that all their happiness and love are gone. No one can fill the void that Astarion's death has brought them.

And now, two hundred years later, they stand on the beach, the sun beating down on their head, the burning Nautiloid at their back and before them... Astarion?

Only it's all wrong, his eyes are red and he's pale... paler than he's ever been.

Anger rises up in Tav. How dare some shapeshifter even take on Astarion's form after their beloved has been dead for 200 years?

And do a bad job at it!

Before the pale creature could even call for help again, Tav lunged at him with an angry cry, surprising the imitation and truckling it to the ground, dagger pressed to it's throat while they straddled his body. "How dare you?! How dare you to take his form?! Show me who you really are... now!" They command, surprising even themselves with their actions. But they couldn't stop... not when someone is using Astarion's face for gods knows what.

"Darling, there seems to have been a little misunderstanding. I don't know what you're talking about, and I'd appreciate it if you'd remove the dagger from my neck." The shapeshifter replies, his voice smooth and flirtatious and so unmistakably Astarion's that it hurts, and Tav presses the dagger a little harder against his neck.

"Shut up, shapeshifter!" Tav shouts at him, gaze anchored on that so familiar yet different face. "Where did you even get his face?! His voice?!" They ask angrily, the hand holding the dagger starting to shake. "You have no rights to pretend you're Astarion when he's... when he's gone. And to do it badly!" They continue, still angry but deep seated sadness linger behind.

The shapeshifter's eyes widen, opening his mouth as if he wants to say something, Tav noticing the fangs there and even worse idea that him being a shapeshifter, starts to creep into their mind.

"Tav?" Fake Astarion finally speaks, saying their name as if he were saying it for the first time in a long time, tasting it on his lips. The previous flirting gone. Instead he looked confused and as if just now he remembered something that was hidden in his mind. "You are them, aren't you? Gods, how could I forget... so beautiful." His red eyes glide along Tav's face, his voice nothing than a whisper. He's clearly lost in his head and Tav swallows thickly, realisation slowly grasping their mind but they fight against it.

"No, stop! Stop it! You can't be him. You can't... he's dead and your eyes are wrong. You're wrong." Tav says, their body starting to shake all over, threatening to cut him by mistake with the dagger still against his neck.

But now it's easy for 'the shapeshifter' to take Tav's wrist and move their hand away from his neck, easily wrenching the dagger from their fingers and tossing it aside. His lips stretch into a sad smile.

"That's what vampirism do to you, my love." Astarion says ever so softly, the deepest pain and sadness etched in his voice and Tav knows, feels it in their soul, that he is telling the truth.

So that's how Tav meets Astarion again, this encounter more painful and bittersweet than anything else.

They stay on the beach for a little while, Tav crying their heart out and Astarion trying to hold back his own tears. Both of them not expecting something like this to happen.

(Sorry if Astarion seems ooc.)

[emthimofnight]

Alright, I have to know who out of the four siblings is a Daddy's boy/girl and who is a Papa's boy/girl?

I can kind of tell that Stellar is a Papa's girl and Polarity is a Daddy's boy but what about Void and Andromeda?

Stellar would say she has no favorite parent, but she is definitely more emotionally close with Shadow! She and Shadow are also the most physically affectionate, with Stellar often running up to hug him or jump into his arms when he comes home. That being said, she can find him to be overbearing or overprotective at times. Contrastingly, Sonic is the fun parent. 😂 He lets her get away with way more stuff, so the two of them are often partners in crime. A common phrase whispered between them is, "Don't tell papa."

Andromeda would definitely find it easier to relate to Shadow! The two of them would go shopping, out to eat, or to the spa together. That being said, they'd also fight unlike anyone else in the house. 😂 If Shadow tried to stop Andromeda from doing something she wanted to do, it'd become a big argument that could result in them being mad at each other for days. She and Sonic relate less in terms of interests, but she really appreciates his presence regardless. To Andromeda, he's very calming and relaxing to be around (despite his cheesy jokes and sarcastic remarks). The two of them would often watch movies together!

Polarity would love both of his dads, but Sonic would definitely be who he is closest to. He would think he is the coolest!! He'd love nothing more than hanging out with him and trying to copy everything he does. 😂 People would tease Sonic for having a little mini-me following him around. Shadow would actually find his attempts at imitating Sonic to be super endearing. He would have a big soft spot for all of his Sonic-like mannerisms.

Void's favorite is definitely Sonic. He and Shadow have a tendency to bump heads a lot (mainly because Shadow sees a lot of things he doesn't like about himself in Void). Void doesn't appreciate being told what to do, and Shadow doesn't appreciate his disobedience. 😂 Void likes Sonic for a lot of the same reasons Shadow does (not that Shadow would ever admit those reasons) and he appreciates that Sonic knows when to give him space. Sonic just seems to know how to approach him better than Shadow does.

[under0-0s]

200th Park Avenue, Midtown Manhattan, New York City. 02:43:27 A.M - Laboratory Room. ____________________ (listen to the music to improve the reading experience.)

_____________________

Tony Stark had always thrived in chaos, but this was different. This was a kind of entropy that clung to his bones, settled into his lungs, and refused to let go. Seventeen days and fifty-two hours—long enough for the world outside to twist into something unrecognizable. The weapons division was back, and so was the backlash. The media called him a war profiteer, a fallen hero, a traitor to his own ideals. The ring from a certain someone, that once held promises now lay forgotten in some drawer, and Serena’s voice still echoed in his mind, raw with anguish. Hunter was out there, bullet chambered, mark set.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was here, now, in the icy stillness of his lab. He’d shut out the noise, ignored the ghosts that clawed at his conscience. Instead, he stared into the heart of something unknown.

A transparent, human-sized chamber stood at the center of the room, its neon-lined edges casting eerie reflections on the steel walls. Inside, a rippling void hovered—a bright streak, like lightning frozen in time, a tear between dimensions. The air buzzed with energy, a whisper of something just beyond reach. He had calibrated every parameter to the most precise degree, pushing past theoretical impossibilities.

This wasn’t about weapons, not really. It wasn’t about escape, either. It was about the spark. The one thing that had eluded him in everything else.

“Sir, I must remind you that exposure to the anomaly beyond its current containment field presents a high probability of destabilization.”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice, crisp and composed, broke through the quiet hum of machinery. The AI had been monitoring the experiment with unwavering precision, cataloging every fluctuation, every surge of energy, every anomaly.

Tony exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Noted, J. But if I don’t push this further, I’ll never know what’s on the other side.”

“There is a fine line between discovery and destruction, sir.”

A wry smile ghosted across Tony’s lips. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been much for fine lines.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. hesitated, as if calculating the odds of Tony actually listening to reason.

“Would you like me to prepare emergency protocols in case of—”

“No.” Tony cut him off. “We’re not failing today.”

He adjusted the temperature again, a frigid cold settling into the room. His breath ghosted in front of him, cheeks pinkening from the artificial winter. He didn’t move. He barely blinked. He only stared, waiting, hoping, needing something to break through the weight of failure that had consumed him for far too long.

And then—it happened.

The spark.

Small, fleeting, yet infinite in its implications. A shimmer that pulsed through the tear in space, dancing along the edges of the anomaly, illuminating the abyss with an unearthly glow. Maybe it was just a reaction. Maybe it was nothing at all. But for the first time in days, something worked.

His fingers twitched, as if reaching for it, for the proof that something still remained. Something untouched by betrayal, by war, by loss. Maybe it was just physics. Maybe it was just a trick of the mind.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the proof that between every rupture, every break, every tear, there was a space where something new could exist.

And so he stared, unblinking, as the dimensions split just long enough to let the spark linger.

Because maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to salvage.

The air around him hummed as the neon streak pulsed once more, sending out thin tendrils of energy that wove through the air like living things. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he adjusted the stabilization settings on the console beside him. If he could just hold the split open long enough, he might be able to measure the properties of whatever existed within. Maybe even step inside.

The thought was reckless, but he had always lived on the edge of recklessness and genius. There was no denying the pull he felt—no denying the possibility that on the other side of that tear, something awaited. Something better. Something more.

But there were risks.

The algorithms were still incomplete, the equations still not fully understood. The chamber’s integrity was holding, but for how long? And if he lost control, what would happen to the lab? To the world?

“J.A.R.V.I.S., run a full diagnostic on the containment field.”

“Processing,”

The AI responded smoothly.

“Energy stabilization at 84%. Containment holding, but fluctuations increasing by 0.7% per second.”

Tony frowned. That wasn’t great. He had minutes at best.

He should stop. He should shut it down and walk away.

But he couldn’t.

Because for all the ways he had failed, for all the people he had let down, for all the things that had slipped through his fingers—this, this, was still in his grasp.

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening as the cold seeped deeper into his skin. The glowing fissure flickered, almost as if it, too, were waiting.

He stepped closer, the hum growing louder. The streak of light stretched and curled, forming delicate arcs that shimmered against the steel walls. His pulse quickened. He reached out, fingers hovering just inches from the anomaly, the energy tingling at his skin.

“Sir, I must reiterate—”

“J, shut up.”

The lab was silent, save for the faint vibrations of the machinery. No voices. No outside distractions. Just him, standing at the precipice of discovery—or destruction.

He took another step forward, heart pounding in his chest. The anomaly pulsed, its radiance fluctuating like the heartbeat of something alive. If he crossed the threshold, if he reached into the unknown, would he find answers? Or only more questions?

The machine hummed one last time before he exhaled and stepped back. He reached for the console, fingers hesitating over the shutdown sequence.

Then, with a final glance at the spark still flickering within the anomaly, he pressed the button.

The energy curled inward, collapsing in on itself until all that remained was the cold and the silence.

J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke first.

“Experiment concluded. Data has been logged.”

Tony turned away from the empty space, running a hand down his face.

Seventeen days and fifty-two hours. That’s how long he had been waiting for something to go right.

The weight in his chest shifted, just a little.

Maybe there was still time to make something of it.

_______________

( Tags so that this just doesn't die: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @the1-and-only-peggycarter @crazyinlovewithmarvel @thatone-midgardian @over-bi-the-wayside @its-nate-the-sharpshot @multiverse-peterbparker @clintbarton-thearrowguy @spidey-sensed-ur-follow @lunamarvels @insomniac-lifestyle @playgirlgenius @the-iron-rose @little-lost-prince )

[starcurtain]

Following Topaz's explanation that Cornerstones are made to fill the hole in the user's heart, what "hole" in Aven's heart do you think his drag queen powers are meant to fill? Especially since Topaz remarks he's the only one with such showy powers

Still trying to catch up with all the messages in the inbox; sorry to everyone for taking a million years to respond.

So cunty, and for what???

Anyway, first, when Jade talks about the Stonehearts' "voids," the alternate reading above that word is actually "ambition." And she mentions that the reason she risked reaching out to Firefly is that she views herself as similar to Firefly--Jade is someone with an unfulfilled wish.

I think there's enough here to suggest that the Stonehearts' voids are not quite what we would normally think of when hearing the word "void"--rather than being best understood as something removed or something lost, their voids seem to be "something desired." An unfulfilled goal. An unmet need. A burning ambition. A secret wish. They all have somewhere they want to get to, and they've signed on-board with Diamond's Preservation project because his power is the fastest way--maybe the only way--to get there.

The implication here, by the way, is that the Stonehearts are acting out the very act of Preservation itself with Diamond. The goal of Qlipoth is for the universe to be saved, an unshakeable resolution to stop Destruction's wanton obliteration. Thus, Preservation itself can be understood as "A desire that must be continuously protected and relentlessly pursued." To live. To endure.

In using the power of an emanator to protect and provide the Stonehearts with ways to pursue their own desires, we replicate in miniature the exact resolve and endless pursuit of perseverance that Qlipoth is acting out in the broader universe. The will of Preservation empowers the Stonehearts--and in turn, the Stonehearts swear an oath to aid in Preservation's mission. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, and it also simultaneously imitates Jade's shop perfectly: I'll give you exactly what you want, if you give me what I need.

I should clarify that I don't actually think the cornerstones themselves fill the Stonehearts' voids. Rather, they seem to me to be a tangible symbol of the oath between Diamond and the Stonehearts--"I'll give you this power to fulfill your deepest wish, if you work for me." Jade suggests that the power of the cornerstones provides Stonehearts with the means to fill their voids (I.e., having superpowers makes it possible for you to pursue your wish), so I think their individual cornerstone abilities are best understood as "The exact power I need to achieve my particular goal."

So what does that say about Aventurine's "showy" transformation?

Pretty much all the rest of this is just going to be my personal speculation, but I'd say the most telling glimpse we get into why Aventurine's power is so "visual" comes from these lines with the future "Aventurine" in 2.1:

There's two completely contradictory desires being expressed here: Aventurine's life "is the chip he's most eager to lay down" and "always has been"--that is, he genuinely wants to die. He isn't just willing to gamble with his life, he's eager to. The future "Aventurine" also says real Aventurine wants to be "polished up" (to be controlled and molded by others) and "cuffed with red-hot chains" (to be made powerless and not responsible for making his own decisions, to be punished).

But conversely, the real Aventurine also wants to be perceived as "a smooth operator" and "the solid gold deal-maker who doesn't waste a drop of sweat." He wants to be in charge of his image. He wants to be the one who controls the narrative and defines how others think of him. He wants to be "spotlit center stage"--to command the eyes of the world. In short, we could say that Aventurine wants his death (and conversely, his life) to mean something.

From these conflicting desires, I think you can derive a few totally opposite but equally valid interpretations of why Aventurine's cornerstone power is so "visual":

A combat-oriented transformation is another means to seek death.

Jade's power is scary, but she isn't using it to literally launch herself into fights. Topaz's seems to be similar--something that might allow her to win over her opponents in some way (she was about to use it in Belobog to no-sell the Trailblazer), but she clarifies directly that it is not a "transformation." Aventurine just literally turns into a boss enemy and goes straight out on to the battlefield.

In the fight, he doesn't even use shields. (Now whether that's something he never does because the cornerstone powers don't actually come with shields while in his monster form, if he couldn't use shields because his cornerstone was broken, or if he just chose not to use shields in this fight to give Trailblazer and Co. a fighting chance, only time will tell. However, it might be worth noting that his empowered Apocalyptic Shadow form doesn't come with shields either, despite having other new mechanics.)

The point is, this form, while looking cool and seeming strong, is actually a gamble in and of itself. To go out onto the battlefield, where you might not actually be the strongest combatant, is always a risk. And I think this is the kind of risk that Aventurine manifests continually in his life. He is constantly creating opportunities for his own luck to fail. His unfulfilled desire, the "ambition" he was desperate enough to join the Stonehearts to pursue--as his original goal to save his people is completely gone, his only current goal might actually just be a chance to die. His powers may manifest as a combat-oriented transformation because that is just one more way to throw himself into the crossfire.

In fact, this is exactly what Sugilite accuses him of in Jade's myriad celestia:

You didn't need to snatch his wig this hard, Sugilite. (Also I need you all to know I originally wrote "You didn't need to come for him this hard, Sugilite," but then I realized how unfortunate that wording was, so...)

You could even argue that the fact Aventurine's transformation comes with a mask that obscures his entire face is a sign that we're supposed to see this form as dehumanizing.

The facial features are completely obscured and asymmetrical, there's no mouth, his fingers have become claws--despite his body staying mostly human-shaped, it's obviously intended to hint at something monstrous, subsuming his original identity behind a violent facade.

Kakavasha disappears entirely behind "Aventurine" when he transforms, becoming a faceless enemy at the risk of (perhaps in hopes of) entirely losing himself. Maybe every transformation lets Aventurine throw himself closer and closer to the edge of death--and perhaps, before Penacony, only death could ever have filled the "void."

But, on the complete opposite hand (because Aventurine is always both sides of the coin), we could also argue the other end of the spectrum entirely:

A combat-oriented transformation is a show of force.

This screencap brought to you by Mr. Rubhen925 of Youtube.

Aventurine's entire life has been marred by disenfranchisement, by violations of his basic human rights, freedoms, and agency. At every turn, he has been victimized by others more powerful than himself: his childhood consisted of his clan being relentlessly hounded and hunted to extinction by the Katicans, having their food constantly stolen, their meager belongings burned to the ground, and each one of his family members systematically slaughtered, often in front of his eyes.

After his childhood, he was bought and sold as chattel for pennies, branded like an animal, and forced into a fight where to he had to beat other innocent people to death just to keep himself alive, all for the entertainment of the masses. Even Jade, who promised to help him achieve his goals, treats him like a business investment more than a friend.

In Penacony, we watch everyone he talks to degrade and ostracize him. Even though Aventurine led him into doing it, Sunday tortures and re-traumatizes him live for our entertainment.

Even more that, we see Aventurine constantly struggling with the question of whether his life is really his own or whether his blessing from Gaiathra means that his entire existence has been predetermined, his fate sealed in blood and sand from the very moment of his birth, utterly inescapable.

No matter how Aventurine tries to portray himself as the ultimate winner, he's only ever the "final" victor--being the only one left standing at the end is meaningless if on the road to getting there, you were treated like fate's favorite punching bag. Winning in the end is utterly pointless if on the road to winning, you still lost it all first, from the things you loved to your personal freedom.

What does a person who has been made powerless again and again truly desire? What void do you seek to fill if life has denied you your agency over and over?

Power. Dominance. The ability to literally strike back at those who've wronged you. The strength to intimidate and force people into a corner the way you've been intimidated and forced before.

If we say that Aventurine's "void" is not a literal desire for the release of death, then it might make sense for the "void" to instead to be a frantic desire to gain control over his circumstances. To be the one finally in charge of deciding his own fate.

Particularly in light of his character story which tells us that Kakavasha's original goal for joining the Stonehearts was to save his people, the desire to take on an impressive form that screams "I'm powerful" and has the ability to physically enact vengeance on others feels directly aligned. And it remains aligned even after the reveal that the Avgins are all gone--once more fate strips Kakavasha of his power to make a difference in the world, to achieve what he truly dreams of.

The Apocalyptic Shadow version of his boss fight is called "Desperate Diceroller."

How angry he must be, deep down. How hateful the world must seem. How sad it is to feel that way.

If destiny won't let you out of the cage, your only choice is to grow claws to tear it open.

Okay, but WHY so much swag though?

Are the peacock feathers and spandex really necessary?

Listen. Everyone talks about Ratio having "gifted kid" syndrome, but I'm here to tell you that Aventurine is actually a burnt out gifted kid extraordinaire.

He's literally, canonically, explicitly the chosen one of his people.

From the moment of his birth, his mother and sister--and presumably others in his clan even--were telling him that he was their clan's most precious treasure and that he would lead them to prosperity and safety.

He carried this weight even after fleeing from the massacre, all through his childhood and teenage years, through slavery and abuse, putting his very life on the line to join the IPC in hopes of finally fulfilling the destiny his mother and sister promised he could.

He was supposed to save them. That was his meaning. That was his purpose in life.

But he was too late.

The fate he was born for, raised believing, and risked everything to achieve... is still incomplete.

So, for all that talk about suicide and power-seeking, my real answer is this: Aventurine's "void" is his unfulfilled destiny.

His whole existence has been predetermined, his life's journey laid out in prophecy and blessings from the very beginning. Yet what he thought was his fate betrayed him, and where you head after becoming an unsuccessful chosen one is a question without answer.

His thoughts constantly circle around how he is a "failure" and a "loser."

When you have no sense of purpose, when your life has no meaning, when what you are still seeking is the role you were supposed to have from the moment of your birth: the glorious destiny of being a savior, being the "happiness" of your people, being the hero...

Of course you crave the spectacle. Of course you long for the spotlight--you long to be recognized. Because Kakavasha's the chosen one. "Spotlit center stage" is where he's supposed to be--in the leading role that was stolen from him.

I think that Aventurine's cornerstone transformation is so flashy because, at the core, it represents a longing to truly be the "precious wealth" of the Avgin that his sister promised him he would be. It represents his desire to transform from a useless, "discarded" person into a larger-than-life version of himself. (Hey, fun fact, out of every official depiction of Aventurine, his boss model wears the only outfit in which his slave brand is not naturally visible.) He literally transforms into a supernatural being, capable of seizing others' fates in his hands. It represents the power he needed to save his people and himself. Its extreme flashiness screams for attention, demands to be witnessed as something beyond a helpless human.

It's almost as if Aventurine is a child writing a wish-fulfillment story where he transforms into a hyper-glamorous, all-powerful masked superhero who is capable of saving the day and winning against his enemies every time.

Unlike Jade and Topaz, Aventurine can't hide his deepest desire. It was always going to be a "transformation," because Aventurine's unanswered wish is to be someone better than himself.

His "void," his deepest unachieved ambition--it's written right there, all over his body.

Aventurine's cornerstone power is a story he's telling himself about the person he was supposed to be.

But as Acheron claims, that's life itself.

Aventurine doesn't feel like he has any control over his journey's ultimate destination.

He doesn't know where's he's headed or what the purpose of it all is. But...

Jade explicitly describes the Ten Stonehearts and Diamond's endeavor as a "journey" as well:

Because Preservation represents the continuance of life itself, and the Stonehearts with their endless "voids"--Aventurine with his soul-deep longing to become someone better than himself--represent all of us very real human beings, trying our best to find our own "cornerstones," to gain the means to finally, finally achieve our own sweet dreams.

[simp4eshal]

Ballroom

Count Vronsky x poc!reader/OC(Arabella Von Jaga) (but she's mostly reader i just felt more comfortable giving her a name)

warnings: obsessive behavior, angst ??, smut, yearning, fluff, lemme know if i forgot something

In the dimly lit study of his opulent manor, Count Vronsky paced restlessly. His eyes burned with an intensity that betrayed his turmoil of emotions. It had been months since he had last laid eyes on her, months of sleepless nights and restless days spent yearning for the touch of her skin, the taste of her lips. His heart ached with a longing so powerful it threatened to consume him whole. She was his obsession, his raison d'être, and he would stop at nothing to make her his. Her name was Arabella, and she was the only thing that mattered in his world.

He paused before a large mirror, running his fingers through his unruly hair, trying to tame the wild beast that had taken over his appearance. His once-handsome face now bore the telltale signs of his all-consuming passion: dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin was pale and sallow, and his muscles were taut with unspent energy. Even his once-elegant attire seemed to reflect his inner turmoil, wrinkled and askew.

He could no longer deny it; he was losing his grip on reality. His thoughts were consumed with her, and his actions had become increasingly desperate. He had tried to fill the void with other women, but it was futile. They were but pale imitations of the one he truly loved. Arabella was his sun, his moon, his stars, and without her, he was nothing but a shadow of his former self.

Determined to take matters into his own hands, Vronsky gathered his most trusted servants and issued a decree. He would hold a grand ball in her honor, an extravaganza the likes of which the kingdom had never seen. The invitations were to be sent out far and wide, to every corner of the land, inviting everyone who was anyone to attend. The catch was that the ball would be by invitation only, and the only invitation that truly mattered would be in Arabella's hands.

For weeks, Vronsky's servants worked tirelessly to prepare the manor for the event, transforming it into a veritable wonderland of opulence and excess. Intricate tapestries hung from the ceilings, gleaming chandeliers cast their warm light across polished marble floors, and towering floral arrangements adorned every available surface. A full orchestra was hired to play throughout the night, their haunting melodies weaving in and out of the revelry.

As the appointed day finally dawned, Vronsky paced anxiously before the grand entrance, his heart hammering in his chest. He had spared no expense, had left no stone unturned, and yet he couldn't help but feel that it wasn't enough. He longed for her to be there, to see the depth of his devotion, to feel the weight of his obsession.

Dusk fell, and the first guests began to arrive, their opulent attire casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the ballroom. Ladies in shimmering gowns and gentlemen in finely tailored suits mingled amidst the fountains of champagne, their laughter and conversation filling the air. The orchestra played on, the music swirling around them like a living thing, weaving a seductive spell that enraptured everyone within earshot.

Vrronsky paced restlessly, his gaze darting about the room, searching for any sign of her. His heart felt as though it were being squeezed in a vise, the anticipation almost unbearable. He had invited every eligible bachelor and bachelorette in the kingdom, hoping that one of them might know where she was, might have heard a rumor or seen her somewhere. But so far, there was no sign of her.

Hours passed, and the ball reached its zenith. The guests, their appetites whetted by the endless feast and flowing champagne, had begun to let loose, dancing wildly to the orchestra's stirring melodies. Vrronsky, however, could not join in their revelry. His focus remained fixed on the grand entrance, willing it to swing open and reveal her.

As midnight approached, he grew desperate. He had to know if she would come, if she would accept his invitation. He spotted a servant hurrying across the ballroom and beckoned him over. The servant, out of breath from running, bowed low. "My lord, a messenger has arrived with a note for you." Vronsky snatched the envelope from the servant's trembling hand, his heart racing. With shaking fingers, he tore it open.

The note was brief, but it was all he needed to hear. In her delicate script, she had accepted his invitation, promising to attend the ball. He read it over and over again, the words losing their meaning as tears of relief and joy streamed down his face. He could feel the weight of his obsession lifting from his shoulders, a lightness in his chest that he hadn't experienced in years.

With renewed vigor, he rejoined the revelry, laughing and dancing with the other guests. He scarcely noticed the envious glances that were directed his way, for he was no longer concerned with the opinions of others. All that mattered was that she was coming, and soon she would be in his arms once more.

As the night wore on, the ball reached its climax. The orchestra struck up a new, haunting melody, and Vronsky could feel a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. He glanced at the grand entrance, willing it to swing open and reveal her. Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes turned towards the entrance. There, framed by the doorway, stood Arabella, resplendent in a gown of shimmering emerald silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, revealing the long, dainty column of her neck. She held a single red rose in one hand, its thorns glinting in the candlelight.

Vronsky's heart skipped a beat as he saw her, and he felt a surge of relief wash over him. She had come. She had accepted his invitation. With a graceful smile, she glided across the ballroom, her eyes never leaving his. As she drew closer, he could see the love and devotion reflected in her gaze, and he knew that she felt it too. They met in the center of the room, and without a word, they began to dance.

The music seemed to fade into the background as they moved together, their bodies in perfect sync. Their hands entwined, their fingers interlaced, and Vronsky felt as though he had found his anchor in the world once more. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, and the sensation was intoxicating. She leaned into him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, and he could feel her breath hot against his skin.

The other dancers seemed to fade away, leaving them alone in their own private universe. Time itself seemed to lose all meaning as they moved together, lost in the music and in each other. Their every touch was electric, every movement full of promise and passion. They danced until the orchestra had finished its final song, until the ballroom was empty and the candles had all burned down to stubs.

Finally, with a deep sigh, Vronsky lowered Arabella back onto the parquet floor and stepped back, his heart racing. She looked up at him with a mixture of exhaustion and contentment, her cheeks flushed from the exertion and the heat of their embrace. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice barely audible above the sound of their labored breathing. "That was... that was perfect."

He smiled down at her, his eyes taking in every detail of her face. Her lips were still slightly parted, her eyes shining with a mix of passion and desire. "I love you," he murmured, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "You are my world, my reason for living."

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, they stood there, lost in each other. Then, slowly, Vronsky bent down and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was tender at first, a gentle exploration of each other's mouths, before growing more passionate. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, and he could feel her respond to his touch, her hips grinding against his.

With a groan, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her across the ballroom and into his private chambers. The candles flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows as he laid her down on the bed. She arched her back as he trailed his fingers down her neck and over her breasts, helpless and full of desire at the same time.

Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as they tore off each other's clothes. Vronsky kicked off his shoes and shucked out of his trousers, revealing his aroused length. He positioned himself between her legs, feeling her hot, wet folds against his skin. With a growl, he pushed forward, burying himself inside her. She cried out in pleasure, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, driving deep inside her with each thrust.

Her body arched off the bed, meeting his each stroke with a grinding of their hips. Their sweat-slick skin slapped together in a rhythm that grew faster and more frenzied. The air was thick with the scent of their arousal, and the candlelight flickered against the walls, casting shadows that danced across their entwined forms.

As they moved together, lost in the intensity of their passion, Vronsky felt a building pressure deep within him. His thrusts became more urgent, more desperate, as he struggled to find release. He felt her body tense beneath him, her muscles clenching tight around him, and with a hoarse cry, she shuddered violently in his arms. Her inner walls gripped him tight, and he felt himself spill inside her, his climax overwhelming him in a wave of pleasure.

He collapsed on top of her, their sweat-slick bodies sticking together, his weight pinning her down. For a moment, they lay there, catching their breath, their hearts racing. Then, slowly, Vronsky rolled off of her, their entwined limbs separating with reluctance. He looked down at Arabella, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving, and felt a surge of love and possession course through him.

"You are my everything," he murmured, trailing his fingers down her stomach and over her hip. "My reason for living, my reason for breathing. No matter what happens, I will always be yours."

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled up at him. "And I will always be yours," she whispered, her voice still husky from their passion. "Forever."

Vronsky felt a shiver of possessiveness run down his spine at her words. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, and breathed in the sweet, feminine scent that clung to her skin. "You are mine, and I will never let you go," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "No one else will ever have you."

Their eyes locked, and he could see the heat of desire burning in her gaze. She reached up, tracing a finger down the line of his jaw, her touch sending shivers through his body. "I belong to you, Alexei" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I always have, and I always will."

[matrixbearer2024]

Cruel

[Mr Bill Pines AU: Bill Cipher-Pines x Clifford(Stanford Reincarnation)]

Bill misses his husband and he can’t decide at the moment if this was Karma or just another mistake he’d walked into. Fate could be very kind, but it could also be a very cruel thing.

Inspired by a comic from @honeqq and I decided why not write something related to it! I need to write more stuff for them PLEASE-

Bill had to steel himself once more at the familiar chime summoning him again. He already knew who it was and had a few theories about the reason behind it. The real problem was that he didn’t know if he could take it anymore; each moment felt like a deep cut, with wounds left to fester as his heart battled his mind, tearing apart any semblance of sanity.

He had to mentally prepare himself for every encounter with the lookalike of his deceased husband, the imitation of a man to whom he had once given everything. Just being there was painful—the same voice, the same face, the similar mutation…

But he wasn’t the same man.

Taking a deep breath, Bill stepped in front of the impatient artist, who regarded him with mild annoyance. The artist was blissfully unaware of the constant struggle the god faced just to maintain a decent appearance. For some reason, Bill didn’t dare to explain this to him; it made it easier… sort of.

“Oh, finally. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

Bill mused that someone must be pulling a sadistic prank, repeatedly putting him in this situation where every waking moment threatened to unleash the flood of emotions and grief once more. This man wasn’t the genius he had once loved. This guy wasn’t Sixer, no matter how similar they looked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d call you ‘lucky’ number seven, but you’ve just been annoying. Of all the cosmic beings to seek guidance from, you’d think you’d pick one that hasn’t faded into obscurity.”

“You were the muse for this journal’s author, so I thought you’d be able to help me in some way, somehow. I think.”

At the mention of the journal, Bill wanted to shrivel up and die. It was the only one he hadn’t had a hand in writing. The others he had co-authored with his husband, but this one… this one had eluded him for so long, only to be found by… this guy.

He wanted to bash his skull in and scream.

Stanford was gone; that pill had been hard enough to swallow a thousand years ago. Fate just had to rub salt into that open wound. This whole situation was cruel.

“What’s the problem this time?”

“I can’t decide what I want to paint.”

The empty canvas the other man gestured to seemed to beckon him, the stark white void drawing him in and holding him in a vice grip. The triangle stared blankly at the vacant space; an idea flickered to life in his mind, but he hesitated to indulge it. What if he did? It would only unleash another wave of grief, a haunting reminder of what once was and what he had lost to the relentless claws of time and the cold hands of death.

Bill already knew this was going to be idiotic. He felt it in his bones—he was about to make yet another stupidly ridiculous choice. Yet, before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. Regret settled in immediately after he spoke.

“How about this? What if you painted someone for me? A portrait.”

The reincarnation regarded him with curiosity and interest, and Bill felt an overwhelming urge to gouge out his lone eye at the sight. Don’t look at him like that. Don’t give him the same expression that once held so much love and adoration, the kind that had nearly drowned him. Don’t remind him of those memories. Don’t drive the knife in deeper.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.”

That was the amusement that haunted him: the ghost of a man he had once loved to his own detriment. Someone whose smile caused the edges of his eyes to crinkle with unbridled joy, someone whose gaze never wavered in love and adoration. It was a ticking time bomb to have chosen and loved a mortal; inevitable goodbyes lurked around every corner of his finite life. There was no telling how much time they had left together, yet Bill still felt like Stanford was taken from him far too soon.

What he would have given for just a little more time—one last kiss, one final “I love you.”

He was a god, yet he would have surrendered absolutely everything for just another moment with the man he once called a husband. His equal. His muse.

Bill had to turn away from the other man, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back; after a thousand years, the grief was still overwhelming. It felt like just yesterday he had been in the arms of his lover, and now that love and comfort were nowhere to be found. The ache in his heart throbbed and pounded, emotions turning him soft. What a useless god he’d become. What was once a pleasant feeling had morphed into crippling sorrow.

“If you don’t mind me asking, though… who is it that you want me to paint?”

That was a loaded question, burdened by the lament and grief of a thousand years—a love lost to the hands of time and the embrace of death. The one plane of existence where Bill couldn’t follow. Not as he was. Not when he didn’t have the ability to die. The sickness of an immortal, truly.

“Someone important to me. My muse.”

“You have a muse? Wow. They must be someone incredible.”

Bill could only let out an empty laugh. Stanford was incredible—more than he could ever dare to articulate. Words simply wouldn’t do the man justice; to have a god fall to his knees out of love was an immeasurable feat. The triangle always believed his lover was a force to be reckoned with, a powerhouse and then some. Yet, the relentless sands of time eventually wore him down. Even Stanford's brilliant mind, which had endured so much, couldn’t escape the inevitable; the grim reaper came to collect his dues.

No mortal was spared from that fate.

“Yeah. He was .”

The pain that bled through the triangle’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by the artist, despite his attempts to conceal it. However, the artist chose not to mention it, believing it was best not to pry. After all, it wasn’t his place to interfere; why would he?

Bill cleared his throat and floated up to get a better look at the empty canvas. Every instruction was clear and concise, every requested stroke of the brush executed with intention and purpose. The triangle’s close guidance and precise descriptions of each detail left no room for error; there were simply no mistakes.

As the painting began to take shape, colors and pigments blended seamlessly, crafting an image clearer than crystal. Gradually, the likeness of a man emerged—one with silver hair and a gentle gaze, complemented by a smile that reached his eyes, eyes that radiated immense love and adoration. It was evident that the painting captured an intensely intimate moment; such an expression was not meant for just anyone. Only someone so deeply loved and cherished could inspire a face like that. Only someone who felt eternally young could carry the weight of age with the wonder and joy of a child. The painting became a living juxtaposition.

The artist dropped his paintbrush in surprise; the painting looked so… alive. Under Bill’s guidance, this project had transformed into one of his best works. He couldn't help but wonder if its resemblance to a self-portrait was purely coincidental—an unnerving mirror he had created hour after hour, stroke after stroke, with immense specificity from the triangle beside him. However, the longing gaze from Bill toward the smiling subject made things clear. That action alone spoke more truth than any words they had ever exchanged. Yet, despite the painstaking effort poured into this piece, his eyes were inevitably drawn back to the final product.

It felt… familiar somehow, as if he knew this man, perhaps having met him somewhere before, despite the artist's certainty that he never had.

What was this sense of déjà vu?

The painting was beautifully crafted, distinctly unreplicable, particularly within the eyes of this man, which overflowed with mirth and fondness that clearly belonged to a lover. The expression he wore embodied the true essence of being loved, the purest depiction of happiness.

How had Bill even known about this? Not to mention in such explicit detail…

“Bill—”

“You have your painting, I need some time to think.”

The triangle’s voice trembled with overwhelming emotion, cracking under the weight of his grief. He couldn’t bear to look at the painting any longer. He turned away, unable to face either the finished work or the living, breathing human who looked so painfully similar to the man immortalised in the portrait. Every glance at the painting drove the knife in his chest deeper.

He had been right—this was a stupid idea.

“Just summon me again when you need me,” 

Bill muttered, his voice barely holding together. And with that, the god vanished before the artist could even respond.

Back in his original resting place, hot tears spilled from his lone eye as the grief he’d kept buried for so long finally poured out. The triangle broke down into uncontrollable sobs, curling up against a nearby wall, shivering as anguish consumed him. An agonised scream tore from his chest, shaking the very room. It was a miracle he had managed to stay composed for as long as he had.

Maybe he had wanted to see Stanford again—wanted to remember a happier time, to recall a memory frozen in place. The face of his husband, the man he had loved so deeply. But that love was now buried beneath a thousand years of pain and loss, an ache that had festered beyond measure.

Bill Cipher couldn’t move. He stayed there, weeping through the day, letting the weight of eternity crush him.

If he was truly fated to cross paths with that reincarnation, there was only one truth left.

Fate was just so cruel.

Fic is here as well on Ao3!

[compressedrage]

You know what could have been a really cool AvEducation episode?

Animation vs Chess.

We've got Yellow on one side, playing the black pieces. He's the expert, all confident, technically the antagonist of this episode.

And on the other side, we have Blue. Blue knows the rules of chess, enough to play, but he is still a beginner. He will play against Yellow, learning bit by bit as the game continues.

They're in the void, and I think it would be cool if the pieces start out maybe the size of those games of "big chess", you know the ones. For the lawn or whatever. But as the game goes on and Blue falters, the pieces grow until they tower over him and it becomes much harder to get around.

I don't think Yellow would take it easy on him per say, but he might pause, maybe give little hints ("don't move or I'll be able to get you, quick take that pawn", that kind of thing)

Blue not only takes his advice, but actually learns, observing Yellow's own moves and imitating it. Maybe at one point, Yellow would give him a hint that was meant to trip him up a bit, but by now Blue knows enough to not fall for it.

In the end, I don't think Blue would be able to beat Yellow. You don't go from being a beginner to beating a master in one game. But Yellow is a good sport, and Blue wants to get better, so they settle in for another game.

[blakeblueboi]

Cat Animagi Au

Purely self-indulgent- I simply wanted to draw some kitties and honestly, I feel like this could be hilarious so here's some head canons I thought of while drawing this ---->

Harry

Harry was not at all expecting to be a cat Animagus. He fully expected to be a stag like his father or some sort of dog like Sirius was. The last thing he expected was to be a cat, and a very large one at that.

Harry became an animagus in eighth year.

Professor McGonagall was thrilled that she was no longer the only cat Animagus at Hogwarts. She personally saw to it that Harry was registered as an animagus at the Ministry.

Hermione often finds Harry curled up in the common room on the windowsill.

Ron is convinced that Harry is some sort of "titan" cat due to his humungous size but Hermione speculates that he's some sort of maine coon or Norwegian forest cat.

He is very much a void in the darkness and has scared the piss out of Ron, Seamus, and Dean many times.

However, his animagus status is kept quiet from anyone other than his housemates. The other houses now recognize his animagus form and give him weird or outlandish nicknames. They're mostly to do with either the faint glasses markings around his eyes or his larger than normal size.

Harry takes advantage of his smaller size to sneak around the castle during the night.

He has taken pleasure by nipping Draco's heels in the hallway between classes.

Draco

Draco, on the other hand, was hoping his animagus form was anything but a ferret. Every since that incident in the courtyard with Professor Moody he has loathed the creatures.

His mother predicted he could have been an exotic bird and for a while he was fond of the idea until he realized he would have to molt feathers every year.

The first time he transformed Pansy gushed over him and promised to purchase him one of those pretty necklaces that she's seen muggles give their cats. Draco had to explain to her how that was, infact, not a necklace, but a collar. Blaise would not shut up about giving Draco a collar for the next month.

Draco takes pride in his appearance and that does not stop when he's in his animagus form. He's always very sleek and shiny without a hair out of place. His tail is by far his favorite feature with how it looks like a fancy feather when he walks.

He's yet to register with the Ministry as an animagus.

He can often be found infront of the fire in the Slytherin Common room curled up on a silk pillow.

Draco hates the black smudge on his right foreleg that imitated the dark mark on his arm. Even as a simple cat he can't escape the choices he made in the past. He's tried ripping the fur out there but found that the skin underneath was also just as black. He had a mind to dye it but that idea quickly went out of the window for a multitude of reasons. One being he did not have opposable thumbs.

Draco and Harry

When Draco stumbled upon Harry in his animagus form it was completely by accident. At first Draco was afraid that the Chosen one would somehow recognize him but was surprised to find a gentle hand passing over his head and spine. It was the weirdest experience he has ever had.

Draco took to following Harry around the castle on weekends convinced that Harry was none the wiser about who he was. It was nice. Of course when Ron and Hermione weren't around. WHen they were Ron teased Harry about gaining a follower, as if he did have those already, and Hermione studied him as if he was one of the massive tomes she carried around. He was half convinced that she had figured him out long ago, but just hadn't said anything for some unknown reason.

Draco met Harry finally in the other's animagus form while stalking the halls late at night. A quick glance and Draco was petrified by two glowing green eyes in the darkness and it took everything in him not to flee down the hallway.

It took awhile for the two to get along in their animagus forms and on several occasions had to be broken up by Professor McGonagall who during several of those occasions was in her animagus form as well.

After a while, Harry and Draco slowly form a weird routine of walking the halls at night. They bond quite well during their time together.

Harry at some point joins the gag about getting Draco a fancy collar. Draco is surprised that it doesn't seem like that bad of an idea when coming from Harry.

Draco teases Harry about how even as a cat his furr is still just as messy as his hair is in human form.

[misc-obeyme]

👉👈 since requests are open can i ask for sleepy mornings with Mammon or Solomon (or both wkdkfj, I'd flip a coin because I can't choose between them)

The fact that they BOTH aren't morning people is hilarious to me. I'm not either, I'm staying in bed until I absolutely have to get up, and then I'm scrambling to get ready. That's the panic that kicks in from hitting snooze too many times

Of course you can make such a lovely request, my friend!

I decided to go for both because when I started thinking about it, my brain was like oh here!! I have ideas!! And I was like yeah yeah okay lol.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Solomon x MC x Mammon

Warnings: none 'tis all fluff

You are in a soft and warm darkness. You don’t know where you are, but you’re so comfortable you hope to never leave. A dull and distant sound is chiming, but you barely hear it. You’re too wrapped up in the tenderness of someone holding you close.

That is until the arms holding you shift and you realize that there are in fact two someones and it is the alarm that you hear blaring.

“Shut up, ya damn thing,” someone grumbles from in front of you.

Someone behind you chuckles sleepily.

You scrunch up your face, fighting the awareness that will reveal to you the early morning hour. If you could just stay here a little longer…

There's some fumbling as the person in front of you moves about unsuccessfully, due to being unwilling to fully let go of you.

“Can’t get it,” he mumbles.

“Allow me.” A slight shift from behind you and a light flashing on the other side of your closed eyelids, indicating the use of magic.

The sound of the alarm stops abruptly.

Mammon groans as he buries his face back into your chest. “Thanks,” he says, his voice muffled by your body.

Solomon’s arms tighten around you, one of them wrapping around Mammon as well. “It only lasts for five minutes,” he says with a yawn.

Mammon groans again and buries himself deeper into the blankets.

You steadfastly pretend that you are completely unaware of all that’s happening, insisting on keeping your eyes shut in an imitation of deep sleep.

Solomon blows gently on the back of your neck, making you squirm.

“Oi!” Mammon protests. “Quit doin’ that!”

“You do realize MC is only pretending to be asleep, right?” Solomon asks. His voice is thick with sleep, but the amusement in it indicates how he can't help teasing both of you, even if he’s groggy.

“Yeah, let ‘em stay that way!” Mammon exclaims.

Solomon chuckles again, but settles for a few moments.

All three of you drift back into some semblance of slumber for a few minutes before being unceremoniously jolted awake again by the return of the alarm.

To your annoyance, Solomon pulls himself up, casting another spell at the alarm clock. “I suppose I’ll get breakfast ready.”

Mammon shoots up in bed, launching himself over you to grab both of Solomon’s hands. You grunt a little beneath his weight, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t ya dare!” Mammon exclaims.

You peek open an eye to watch them.

Solomon is looking at Mammon in surprise and curiosity.

Mammon is sweating. “Eh, I mean, ya were up late workin’, ya know! Go back to sleep for a bit, I’ll take care of breakfast. Right, MC?”

Having been caught, you roll over just enough to be on your back between them. “Yeah,” you agree. “C’mon, Solomon. You didn’t get into bed until hours after we did.”

Solomon smiles. “You’d really do that for me?”

Mammon blushes and lets go of Solomon’s hands, looking away. “Y-yeah. ‘Course. Just get some rest.”

Grumbling, Mammon stumbles out of bed, leaving a cold void beside you. You sigh and try to snuggle down into the blankets where his warmth lingers.

Solomon watches Mammon leave the room. “Are you sure he’ll be okay getting breakfast by himself?”

“Of course,” you say. “He’s done it before. Stop worrying and get a little more sleep, won’t you?”

Solomon does as you ask, settling back down beside you, pulling you into his arms.

Not long later, you’re both woken again by the smell of bacon.

“Is that…?” you inquire, eyes open.

“Bacon,” Solomon says. “From the human world.”

“Not shadow hog bacon,” you add.

“No,” Solomon agrees.

You both look at each other for a long moment before you’re scrambling out of bed and running to the kitchen, each trying to get there first.

When you come crashing in, you find Mammon just putting a plate of actual real bacon on the table. He looks at you both in surprise.

“What the-?” he starts to say.

“Bacon?” you ask, grabbing his arm. “Real actual bacon?”

Mammon blushes and shakes you off his arm. “Yeah, well, I got some ‘cause I thought maybe you humans missed some food from home, that’s all! Now sit down!”

Mammon has been practicing how to cook human world food with the help of Barbatos, as you later find out. You have to drag it out of him bit by bit, but eventually he admits it. He was just waiting for an opportunity to actually make some for both of you.

You smile happily around the table as Solomon teases Mammon again, the latter blushing and pretending he doesn’t care. While you would have enjoyed a little more time in bed, you decide that this is pretty nice too.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[savemeafruitjuice]

My first Sonic fic! 😈🔥 🔥 🔥🗣️‼️‼️

(and my first fic of the year)

Lee: Sonic

Ler: Maddie, Tom

TW!: SLIGHT MENTIONS OF GORE! (Not really descriptive, just a reference to a movie) Other than that just fluff!!!!!

THIS IS SET AFTER THE EVENTS OF THE FIRST MOVIE, SO BE AWARE!!! ALSO, NFSW DNI!!!! THIS IS A FAMILY. A CHILD AND HIS PARENTS.

Maddie had to admit, having a kid was an unexpected change of pace to her slower small-town life, but a welcome one nonetheless.

She and her husband, Tom, had recently adopted a young blue hedgehog, who just happened to have come from another universe. Sonic, as she had discovered his name to be, had joined their family after years of being hidden from the world. His newfound family had given him a chance to experience a safe and fun childhood- one that he enjoyed and cherished every single day.

Sonic seemed to be having a blast catching up on all of the things to do in Green Hills, and although he loved the sports, games, and foods he had gotten to try, an interest that had really stuck out among the rest was watching movies. Maddie found it interesting as to how such an energetic teen could be pacified into calmly sitting just by having a film playing in front of him.

Which, she wasn't going to judge at all. Especially when it meant a few hours of peace and quiet.

Sonic had made it a point to she and Tom that they should all watch movies together, admitting as to how he had totally-not-creepily watched a few from their window before he was discovered by the couple, but never got to finish most of them. This prompted an excited, albeit slightly concerned, Tom to insist on the three of them watching all of the classics that night, and having a bit of family time.

And just like that, the newly-made hedgehog mom was lounging on the couch, surrounded by plenty of blankets and pillows as Tom was going through their DVDs, naming them off as their blue-quilled son jumped up and down excitedly next to him, babbling about his favorite parts.

"Uhm.. Oh! How about 'Karate Kid'?"

Sonic jumped onto the couch, barely missing Maddie's leg, and did some ninja-kicks at the air, imitating some moves he must have seen in the movie. "Ohohoh! I love that one!"

Tom chuckled, flipping through another couple discs. "We also have 'The Princess Bride', have you seen that one?"

The hedgehog stopped his attack on the void, going back to bouncing on the couch cushions. "Hmm.. I didn't really understand parts of it. Like, near the end when Westley was threatening to cut off the other dude's nose and mouth and stuff, but leave his ears. Why would a dead guy be able to hear?"

At her husband's pause, Maddie laughed, shaking her head fondly. "I think it was the idea that his soul would still be able to hear things from his body's place. You don't have to look that far into it, though, hun."

Sonic shrugged, and Tom stood from his spot on the floor, carrying the selection of movies the three had agreed on, and settled them near the tv. He put one in the DVD player, and plopped down on the opposite side of the couch as his wife, leaving a bit of room for Sonic to sit once he was ready.

As the first movie's title appeared on the screen, Sonic cheered, letting himself fall onto the couch. He scooted back, then curled up against Maddie's side. "Alright! Jurassic Park sounds cool!"

"Betcha didn't know there are three Jurassic Park movies."

"And another three- don't forget Jurassic World, Tom."

The brunette smiled. "Right, can't forget those."

Sonic was practically in awe, jaw dropped as he stared at the two. "Wait, what? You're telling me there are six movies about dinosaurs?!" He sighed, flopping back onto the couch. "We have to watch them all!"

"Wohow, you're getting ahead of yourself there." Tom laughed, ruffling the smaller's head. "We can't watch all of them tonight, but I promise we can eventually. Just.. not all in one sitting."

Sonic smiled, nodding at the assurance. Tom then pressed play, and the family quieted, focused on the beginning scene in front of them.

As the movie played, Sonic had found himself deeply invested in the plot, rearranging himself every now and then into a more comfortable position. As of now, he was curled up in Maddie's lap, socked feet in Tom's lap. The teen's head was propped up in his hand as he focused on the tv screen, being caught off guard as a dinosaur screeched loudly, flinching back.

He froze, the hedgehog subtly glanced at Tom's face, hoping the Sheriff, nor Maddie noticed him jump. When neither of them had a reaction, Sonic let out a quiet sigh, trying to go back to focusing on the tense scene that was happening.

A couple minutes had passed, and he had finally relaxed again. The air in the room was peaceful, and everyone was calm. Maddie subconsciously reached a hand to gently rub at Sonic's side, used to holding hands with her husband or something of the sort when watching things together.

Nothing, though, could have prepared the small family for the noise that elicited from the blue hedgehog's mouth.

At the touch, Sonic absolutely screamed as if he had been shocked with a million volts of electricity, his head tumbling from his hand as he whipped around. The veterinarian's eyes widened, and her hand quickly pulled away from her son's body.

"Sonic! Are you okay?"

Maddie's eyes swept thoroughly over his torso, searching for any possible sign of injury. Sonic, on the other hand, was now turned to face her, looking just as shocked as she did.

"I- yeah, I'm okay. I guess you just.. scared me?"

Tom looked puzzled. "Seems that way, huh? We weren't even watching a scary movie, kiddo."

The teen shrugged. "I know. Weird."

Maddie thought for a moment, brows furrowing slightly as an idea formed. "Sonic.. Is it alright if I try that again? Just.. to make sure everything's alright."

Sonic nodded, sitting up to allow her easier access. As her hand went to gently touch his side, he glanced down with equal interest, only to jump and giggle the second her hand came into contact with his skin.

"AH! Wait- hahah!"

The green-eyed hedgehog looked up with a confused grin, head tilting slightly as Maddie pulled away again. She smiled back, laughing a bit as she spoke. "Looks like we figurehed out what 'scahared' you!"

Sonic looked back down at himself, grabbing his own side, face pinching in a perplexed expression. "What.. was that? You just- you made me laugh?"

Maddie glanced at her husband, who seemed to be shocked by this new piece of information. The sheriff's jaw dropped, and he stared at Sonic in disbelief.

"You mean you don't know what tickling is?"

When the smaller shook his head, Maddie quickly interjected. "Okay, we are fixing that right now." She straightened up in her spot, and reached for his side again.

"Tickling is when someone touches a specific part of the body that makes them laugh." She squished at his torso, gaze softening as he burst into happy giggles. "It's an involuntary response."

Sonic jerked away from the offending hand, flopping to the side as his arms went to curl around his belly. "Ahah! Snrt- Yohou mean Ihi've been wastihihing my time on johokes? This is- Snrt- ahawesome!" The teen kicked his legs out, squealing as another hand came to his knee. "HAH! Tohohom, noHO!"

"I still can't believe you had no idea what tickling is! I wonder where else you're ticklish!" Tom's excited smile morphed into something more smug, and he spidered his fingers all along the laughing teen's knees, reaching a hand up to dig into his underarm too.

A squeaky squeal escaped from Sonic's mouth, and he quickly clamped his arm down, kicking his legs out frantically. Maddie snickered, placing a hand over her husband's as she spoke. "Be gentle with him. We don't wanna overwhelm the poor kid."

Tom rolled his eyes playfully, but went back to tickling at his knees. When Sonic exploded into bright laughter again, trying to pull his legs away, he stopped, moving to instead rub at his leg comfortingly.

The hedgehog looked up as the fluttery sensation stopped, a confused residual smile plastered on his face. "Whahah.. Why'd yohou guys stop?"

"Figured you needed a break. You were laughing pretty hard there."

Maddie smiled for probably the umpteenth time today. "Unless you want us to keep going?"

She noticed a tinge of shyness in his tone, but the happy smile he wore way outshined it. "Yeah! I-If thats okay, of course. Tickling is just.. really fun!"

"We'd be happy to!" She beamed, bringing her fingers to his belly, scribbling her nails over it. Sonic's limbs flailed for a moment, then his hands snapped up, holding onto his mom's wrists, giddy laughter spilling from his mouth when Tom wiggled a finger into the crook of his neck.

The smaller cackled, scrunching his shoulders up. He wiggled about, legs instinctively kicking at Tom and Maddie's arms, though despite his half-hearted struggling, the kid looked like he was having a blast.

Maddie cooed, half expecting to be pushed away, but she never was. Sonic just held onto her, eyes squeezing shut in mirth. After a few seconds, Tom pulled his hands back once more, his son peeking an eye open through his giggles to see what was going on.

"Honey, can you get his hands? I wanna try something."

"Sure, Tom." She smiled, reaching forward a bit to gently scoop up the smaller's wriggling arms, lifting them above his head.

Sonic tugged at his hands, attempting to pull his legs up to gain some sort of protection, as he was feeling a lot more exposed now. An anticipatory smile tugged at his lips as Tom drew closer.

"Nahah! Snrk- Get awahay!" Sonic tried to kick at the elder, only to squeal in an embarrassingly high pitch as his ankle was grabbed and pulled away, being quickly pinned onto the couch. "Tohom! Whahat're yohou doihihing?"

The brunette grinned, sneaking a tickle across his son's side, prompting the younger to burst back into giggles.

"Nothing much, bud. I just wanna introduce you to tickling properly. And this is the best way to do it!" Tom lunged forward, inhaling deeply before blowing a huge raspberry against Sonic's belly.

The hedgehog shrieked, immediately tearing his arms and leg from his parent's grasp as he exploded into cackles. His arms curled around Tom's head, eyes going wide at the horribly ticklish feeling shooting through his torso.

"PFFAAHAH! SNRK- TOHOM!" he squealed, legs kicking frantically in a blur of movement. A few seconds went by, and the raspberry still didn't stop! The blue teen tossed his head to the side, cheeks growing redder the longer he laughed. "EEEAHAH! HAHAH! SNRK- OKAY OKAY OKAHAHAY! PLEHEHEASE!"

Tom pulled away, chuckling at the giggling mess of laughter on the couch. "Whahat? Too ticklish for you?"

Maddie laughed, shaking her head as she helped the younger up. "Oh my goodness.."

The blue-themed teen slumped into her, hiding his residual giggles into his hands as he recovered from the playful attack. "Geheez, I.. cahan't believe thahat- Snrk- just happehened.."

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Sonic let his arms fall from their spot over his face. He looked up at Tom with a gentle smile. "..Thanks, Tom."

The sheriff smiled back, then crashed into the two, wrapping his family in a hug. "No problem, little man."

The three seemed perfectly content, until the youngest burst into laughter again. "Pfft! Wehe- We plahanned out this whohole movie night, and didn't eheven watch a sihingle movie!"

"Ohoh yeah! We were watching a movie, weren't we?"

Maddie cracked up, shaking her head at the silliness of the situation. "Ihi don't even remember what part we were at.."

"Rihight.." The youngest thought for a minute, then shrugged. "Yeah, I don't know."

"Want to pick a different one, and go back to Jurassic park later?"

"Yeah! Oh, I know the perfect one.."

-----

Rahhh I finally finished it!! I really liked writing this, they're such sillies! 💙💛💙💛