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latrespada · 3 months ago

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ᯓ ✈︎ apple of his envy

You arrive home late, far past the promised dinner time, only to find Caleb soaking in a warm bath. As you approach, you notice his expression, even in sleep, is etched with a scowl of annoyance. Gently, you bend down to touch his cheek, but before you can, he pulls you into the bath with an unrelenting grip. His arms are tight around you, his voice thick with tension and a hint of desperation, as if he had feared you wouldn’t return, or worse, that you had chosen someone else over him. In the steamy embrace, he reminds you with unspoken intensity where you truly belong—by his side. Even if it means sinking together into a bath swirling with sensual, envious passion.

lads caleb x reader

warnings : semi-jealousy, bath sex, bathtub sex, possessive sex, angst and hurt/comfort

6.5k words

rated : m

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62700367

A/N: This was a bit tricky to write—I wanted to make the positioning clear, but bathtubs are surprisingly complicated! Also, I couldn’t help but notice how much you all enjoyed the dry-humping fic. I’m really happy you liked the last one.

You exit West Garden Station and sprint toward home, your heart pounding with worry and a tinge of fear. Thoughts race through your mind, colliding in a cacophony of guilt and dread. You had promised to be home before dinner, but the day spiraled out of control. You meant to take a short break from your reports, but one thing led to another, and now it’s nearing midnight—four hours past when you were supposed to be home.

The air feels heavy, thunder rumbling ominously in the distance as the clouds above flash shades of purple. A storm is brewing, but it’s nothing compared to the one waiting for you at home. You know Caleb doesn’t mind when life gets in the way of plans, but failing to keep him updated? That’s what sets him off. You push your legs harder, running as though you can somehow outrun his disappointment.

You finally reach your apartment complex, breathless, your chest tightening as you fumble for your keys. Your trembling hands make quick work of unlocking the door, and you step inside, greeted by darkness. The faint aroma of red-braised tofu lingers in the air—a reminder of the dinner you missed. The silence is suffocating as you pull out your phone, using its flashlight to guide your way.

The living room is empty, with not a single light left on. The kitchen has been cleaned, and the only evidence of its earlier use is a faint warmth in the air. You move toward the bedroom, kicking off your boots, socks, hunter’s vest, and belt as you go. It’s eerily untouched, and the bed is still neatly made, save for a few wrinkles, as though someone had briefly sat there before moving on.

The bathroom door creaks slightly as you push it open, and your eyes fall on a shadowy figure reclining in the tub. Your hand searches for the light switch, and when you flick it on, the scene becomes clear. Caleb lies there, his head tilted back, a towel draped over his face. His arms rest along the sides of the tub, and his knees break the surface of the water. He looks like a marble statue, serene yet heavy with unspoken emotions.

“Light… off,” he mumbles, his voice low and flat.

“You want me to turn off the light?” you ask cautiously.

“Off,” he snaps, louder this time.

“Alright, alright,” you say, raising your hands in surrender. Turning off the light and stepping out into the hallway, your heart is still racing. After rummaging in the kitchen, you return with a candle and a lighter. The faint glow casts soft, flickering shadows on the tiled walls as you enter the bathroom again.

Caleb hasn’t moved, still draped in his dead-like pose, but the candlelight softens the edges of his silhouette. “I brought a candle,” you say gently, placing it on the counter. “Just to give you some lighting and mood for your relaxation.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths, but you think you catch the faintest twitch of his lips—a subtle acknowledgment of your gesture.

“I’m not relaxed,” Caleb says, his voice low, etched with an almost threatening seriousness.

“Why are you in the bath then?” you ask softly, sitting on the edge of the tub, your concern growing with every second.

“I’m stressed… thought this would help. It’s what you do.”

“Stressed? Why’s that?” you ask, leaning forward to touch his cheek. But before your fingers can graze his skin, Caleb’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist and pulling you into the tub with him.

Water splashes everywhere as you struggle against his hold, your clothes heavy and clinging to your skin. Caleb’s grip is unyielding, his strength pinning you down. Finally, you push yourself free, shoving his shoulders with a force that makes his back hit the porcelain edge. “What the hell, Caleb?” you shout, water dripping from your soaked hair.

Caleb doesn’t react immediately. He sits there, his head tilted back, the towel still covering his face, ignoring your anger.

Grabbing the towel, you hit his face with it. “I said, what the—”

“I know what you said,” Caleb interrupts sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He pulls the towel off his face, his eyes locking onto yours with a raw intensity. “You were gone for so long. I didn’t know if you were coming back. You said you’d be here hours ago.” His voice wavers slightly as he sits up, his hands suddenly gripping your face, forcing your foreheads together. His breath is hot, his touch desperate. “I thought you’d finally left. That you didn’t need me anymore. Or maybe… maybe you found someone else too…” He stops, his words choking in his throat. Instead, he rubs his forehead against yours, the motion rough and unsettling.

“Stop it,” you groan, pushing him away.

He falls back slightly, his hand covering his face as if shielding himself from his own thoughts. “Were you with Zayne?” he asks, his voice quieter but laced with suspicion.

“No,” you answer firmly.

“Your colleague. Did he drag you into his work again? You know he shouldn’t need you for everything.”

“No,” you repeat, your patience wearing thin.

“Were you hired as some overnight bodyguard?”

“Enough,” you snap, your tone cutting through the room like a whip.

“Enough?” Caleb laughs bitterly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Am I not enough?”

You try to stand, to pull yourself out of the tub, but Caleb grabs you again, his hold growing tighter. He drags you back into the water, his desperation palpable.

“Caleb, I’m still freaking dressed!” you exclaim, trying to wrestle free.

“Am I not enough?” he repeats, his voice trembling, his eyes searching yours for answers you can’t give. “Answer me!”

“Caleb…” you groan, prying at his hands, but his grip doesn’t waver.

Then, without warning, he places a hand over your mouth and the other on your back, dipping you into the water. It’s not forceful, not meant to harm—there’s no malice in his actions. Instead, it feels like he’s trying to calm himself, to ground his spiraling emotions. He pulls you back up moments later, your hair slicked back, water streaming down your face as his half-lidded eyes bore into yours.

“I was waiting,” he whispers, his voice raw and broken. “And while I waited, I thought maybe I could distract myself. Played with myself. But every time I tried to think of you, to feel close to you… my mind kept drifting to the idea that you’d found another home.”

“Caleb, I was stuck at work,” you say softly, your voice trembling with sorrow.

“For that long?” he asks, his tone teetering between hurt and disbelief.

You don’t reply. There’s no excuse you can offer or words that would improve it.

“I thought you’d found someone else to hold,” he continues, his voice barely audible now. “Someone else to need. To cook for you.” He laughs bitterly, the sound hollow. Dropping his head onto your chest, he nuzzles into the exposed skin of your cleavage, his breath warm against your damp skin. “Am I really that replaceable?” he asks, his voice breaking, his vulnerability spilling out like the water around you.

As you press his head against your chest, cradling him, your head resting on his, there’s a quiet understanding in the shared silence. His arms snake around your thighs, shifting your legs to fit snugly against his lap, grounding you both in this moment.

“No, you’re not replaceable,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady. “But even if I tell you that, I know you won’t believe me just like that.” Your fingers stroke his damp hair as you ask, “What can I do to assure you?”

Caleb tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an almost childlike vulnerability. “What’s the most important thing I need from you?” he asks, his tone imploring, as though willing you to understand without him saying it outright.

Your brows knit together as you hesitate. “To own me?” you offer, unsure, the words trembling out of your mouth.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head before leaning back, still keeping you anchored on his lap. His hands rest loosely on your hips, but his gaze is intense, flickering between the water and your face. He brushes his wet hair back, the strands sticking to his forehead, his usually sharp features softened by the dull ache in his eyes. You’re transfixed, your fingers instinctively tracing the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the swell of his lips. His mouth is slightly swollen, perhaps from his teeth pressing into it—whether out of frustration, longing, or anxiety, you can’t tell.

Caleb catches your hand, kissing it with surprising tenderness. “To feel you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your knuckles again. “To know you need me.” His voice is raw, the words carrying an unspoken weight.

He shifts beneath you, his legs spreading wider to adjust your position as he pulls you closer, to him. His hands are firm yet reverent. “Though this feeling isn’t the most important thing to me,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “it’s one I don’t mind… as long as your warmth is on me—and me only.”

You’re hyper-aware of his body beneath yours, the press of his erection evident even through the layers of damp fabric. The friction sends a jolt through you as you instinctively move, attempting to kneel, but your movements falter, slipping against the slick surface of the tub.

“Let me help you,” Caleb says softly, his hands steadying your waist. His fingers find the waistband of your soaked pants. “Stand up for me,” he coaxes, his voice gentle yet commanding.

You rise slowly, your gaze never leaving his as he unbuttons, unzips, and peels the fabric away with deliberate care. The water clings to your skin, droplets cascading down, some splashing onto Caleb’s face as he maintains unwavering eye contact. With a quiet determination, he slides your pants and underwear down your legs, his touch grazing your thighs. You lift one leg, then the other, stepping out of the discarded clothing, which lands with a wet thud on the bathroom floor.

Caleb’s hands trail up your legs, his fingers barely grazing your most sensitive areas before sliding beneath your blouse. His hands are warm despite the cool air, and they skim over your stomach before finding their way under your bra, cupping your breast with tenderness. His thumb brushes over your skin, igniting goosebumps in its wake.

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with emotion, “let me feel you in ways words can’t express.”

You drop to your knees, water sloshing over the tub’s edge, drenching the tiled floor in rippling streaks. Your fingers tremble as they grip the porcelain rim, your body leaning forward until your forehead rests against Caleb’s. His warm breath fans across your skin, mingling with the steamy heat from the bathwater. His hand lingers over the curve of your breast, his touch equal parts grounding and electrifying. Time seems to stop for a moment, the world outside the bathroom dissolving into the sound of rain tapping insistently against the windowpane.

Your hand wraps around his, gently tugging it free from beneath your soaked blouse and bra, guiding it upward until his calloused palm cradles your cheek. His thumb grazes your bottom lip, tracing it with a tender slowness that belies the tension between you. Your lips part under his touch, and before you can think better of it, he closes the gap, his mouth crashing against yours with unrestrained hunger. The kiss is messy, teeth grazing as his lips claim yours, an edge of desperation bleeding into every movement.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling it slightly before his tongue sweeps over the sting, soothing and coaxing. His hands slip to your back, the broad span of his palms pressing you against him, molding your bodies together. Your arms loop around his neck in a frantic embrace, pulling him so close it feels as though you might never let go. The friction of your lower halves grazing, ignites a fire that licks at every nerve ending, an ache building deep and insistent.

Caleb pulls away suddenly, leaving you breathless, his chest heaving as he struggles to regain control. His hands find your hips, pushing you back until your spine meets the cold, slick surface of the tub. You let out a soft gasp at the sudden chill, your legs laying open as though of their own accord, your knees resting against the tub’s edges. The candlelight flickers across his face, half glowing warm and golden, the other lost in the inky shadows cast by the storm outside. The duality of light and darkness mirrors the push and pull between the gentleness in his touch and the raw, carnal need in his gaze.

His eyes trail over you, lingering on the translucent fabric of your blouse clinging to your skin. The faint outline of your bra beneath it seems to taunt him, his jaw tightening as his restraint frays. Slowly, almost reverently, his lips find yours again, softer this time but no less intense. His hands move with a deliberate urgency, tracing the soaked fabric to the buttons that run down your front. With a sharp tug, they give way, scattering across the floor with muted clinks, the sound swallowed by the storm’s distant rumble.

The blouse slips from your shoulders, the wet fabric sticking briefly before it’s discarded to the water enveloping you. Caleb doesn’t stop, his hands finding the delicate straps of your bra. Frustration flashes in his eyes as his fingers fumble with the clasp, his impatience winning out. He hooks his fingers under the straps and pulls, the lace and elastic giving way with a sharp snap. The ruined garment joins the growing pile of discarded clothing, leaving your skin bare beneath his gaze.

His breath catches, and his eyes drink you in with a reverence that sends a shiver racing down your spine. He lowers himself onto you, his weight pressing you deeper into the curve of the tub. The contact is intoxicating, and his warmth bleeding into your skin as your legs near around his hips, anchoring him to you. The water churns around you, soap bubbles bursting and clinging to your bodies as you move together, the rhythm driven by a shared, unspoken need.

You grip his shoulders, your nails biting into his slick skin as his lips trail from your mouth to your jaw and down the curve of your neck. The storm outside roars louder, the thunder echoing through the room, but it’s distant compared to the pounding of your heart, the ragged sounds of your breaths mingling with his. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered moan feels like a fuse burning faster, drawing you closer to the edge of something neither of you can control.

"Caleb…" you breathe out, your voice trembling as his lips trail along your jawline, their warmth lingering before descending to your neck. His mouth moves with purpose, licking at your sensitive skin before returning to claim your lips. His tongue dances with yours, the intimacy deepening with every heated second.

Your fingers find their way into his damp hair, grasping at it as though it’s the only anchor you have. He pulls away briefly, his eyes dark with desire as he takes one of your hands. Without breaking eye contact, he brings two of your fingers to his mouth, his tongue swirling around them sensually. The heat of his mouth and the slickness of his saliva send shivers through you. After a few lingering seconds, he releases them, your fingers now glistening.

Without thinking, you bring them to your lips, smearing the saliva across them like a makeshift balm, feeling the moisture cool in the air. Your gaze flickers to him, your expression daring and full of intent. Slowly, you shift yourself over, moving with purpose. Your knees find ground on the porcelain base as you lean forward, your torso arched enticingly. Your free hand grips the edge of the tub tightly for support, while your hips tilt back, pressing your rear firmly against Caleb’s groin.

The anticipation is electric as you use the slickness of his saliva to guide your hand under you, seeking out your sweet spot. Meanwhile, Caleb teases at your entrance with the tip of his length, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

"Mmnh," you moan softly, biting your lip as the ache of desire builds.

For a moment, both of you hover in this space of mutual teasing, pushing each other closer to the edge without fully giving in. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body’s response undeniable as you prepare yourself for him.

Finally, your hand pulls away from your sweet spot, and you grip the opposite side of the tub, bracing yourself. Caleb wastes no time, his hands steadying your hips as he slowly slides himself inside. The touch is perfect, the heat overwhelming, and a low grunt escapes his lips at the sensation of you enveloping him.

"Nnngh," you whimper, your head tilting forward as his hips begin to move. He starts slowly, almost experimentally, before gradually picking up speed. The rhythm of his movements becomes more deliberate, his body pressing against yours with every thrust.

Your soapy hands begin to slip against the tub’s edge, the lack of grip threatening to throw you off balance. Sensing your struggle, Caleb tilts over your back, his chest pressing against your back, his heat enveloping you entirely. His hands cover yours, his fingers slipping between to lock them in place, giving you the stability you need.

The two of you move together in perfect harmony, the water rippling and splashing around you, the air thick with the sounds of pleasure and desire. The combination of his touch and the feeling of him inside you drives you to the brink, your senses overwhelmed in the most intoxicating way.

With a grip that is almost trembling, Caleb pulls your hair to one side, his fingers threading through the damp strands, only to find their spot again on your hands. His breath is warm and unsteady against your ear. He exhales a low, shaky sound that makes your stomach twist. His lips brush your skin, but he doesn’t kiss you—not yet. Instead, he lingers, his breathing heavier than before, like he’s trying to steady himself. Like he’s battling something in his head.

“You kept me waiting,” he whispers, the words coming out slower than usual, his voice laced with something quiet but raw. “I thought—” He stops himself, cutting off whatever thought had started to spill.

His lips press to the curve of your shoulder, his kisses softer than usual, more hesitant, like he’s savoring every inch of you, trying to remind himself you’re still here. His hips rock forward, slow and deliberate, and the movement forces your legs to spread wider, your back arching into him instinctively. But even as he moves, even as he drowns himself in you, there’s a tightness in the way he holds you.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze through your peripheral vision. His eyes are shadowed, darkened by more than just the dim candlelight. There’s something in them that makes your chest ache—something vulnerable, something afraid.

“It’s not like that,” you whisper, knowing exactly where his mind has taken him.

Caleb exhales sharply through his nose, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his grip tightens around your hands. "You say that now," he mutters, pressing his forehead against the side of your head. "But people get tired. They move on. They find something— someone —better. More exciting. More… necessary ." His voice dips on that last word, almost like it pains him to say it aloud.

You turn your head fully this time, your nose brushing against his cheek, and he closes his eyes as if it’s too much to look at you right now.

“I don’t want to be left behind,” he admits, so quietly it’s almost swallowed by the rain hitting the window.

Your chest tightens, your throat suddenly thick with emotion. With both your hands still locked in his, you squeeze, trying to ground him, trying to reassure him in the only way he’ll let you. “You won’t be,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Caleb finally opens his eyes, searching yours as if testing the weight of your words.

"Prove it," he murmurs, his voice no longer commanding, no longer tainted with jealousy—just desperate. Just pleading. "Stay right here. Just… let me feel you.”

Letting go of your fingers, his arms envelop you in a way that feels both possessive and desperate. The heat of his breath fans over your neck as he leans in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear before trailing down to your shoulder.

You can feel it in the way his fingers dig into your skin, in the way his body molds so perfectly against yours as he spoons you from behind. One hand cups your breast, kneading, his thumb rolling over your nipple, sending small shocks of pleasure down your spine. The other dips lower, fingertips teasing over your sweet spot, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that match the lazy, deep rhythm of his thrusts inside you.

A shiver runs through you, not just from the pleasure but from the way he’s holding you—as if he’s afraid to let go.

“Caleb…” you breathe, his name slipping from your lips like a plea, a prayer.

“Please…” his voice is hoarse, strained, “keep—” he groans, his thrusts stuttering slightly before he regains control, “keep saying my name.”

His movements are slow but insistent, his lips never leaving your skin, as if grounding himself in you, as if needing the reassurance that you’re still here.

You moan again, letting his name tumble from your lips like a mantra, and you feel his breath hitch against your neck. His grip on you tightens, his thrusts pushing just a little deeper, his fingers pressing just a little harder.

But then, you feel it—his hesitation.

The momentary pause in his rhythm, the way his lips linger on your skin like he wants to say something but can’t. It’s in the way his fingers tremble slightly against you, the way his breath falters, the way his arms tighten around you just a little too much.

Your heart clenches, the realization settling in.

He’s scared.

Not of losing you physically, no—that’s not the kind of fear that grips him. It’s something deeper. The thought of someone else replacing him, someone else becoming the one you turn to, the one you whisper your secrets to, the one whose name you say when you need comfort.

The one who matters to you.

You shift slightly, pressing your body even closer against him as if trying to reassure him without words. Your hand moves to cover the one he has on your chest, fingers intertwining, holding him there.

“I’m here,” you whisper, barely audible, but he hears it. You know he does because his body stills for just a second before he exhales, a deep, shaky breath against your skin.

And then, he moves again—faster now, rougher, his hands leaving your breast and sweet spot to grip your hip, holding you in place as he thrusts harder.

As if trying to prove something.

As if trying to remind you that it’s his name you say.

That it’s his touch you crave.

That it’s him . Only him .

As your remaining hand slips off the tub's edge, it instinctively reaches behind you, cradling Caleb's head against your shoulder with a tender yet unyielding grip. The other arm remains steadfast, covering the arm Caleb has wrapped around your chest, holding him close as the warmth of the water and the intensity of the moment envelop you both. Your body begins to rock back and forth, a gentle yet insistent motion that helps Caleb deepen his penetration, the sensation sending shivers down you.

Caleb's teeth sink into your shoulder, the bite hard enough to make you hiss, a sharp intake of breath that mingles with the sound of water splashing around you. It's as if the deepwater waves are engulfing you both, pulling you under with their relentless rhythm. As Caleb leans back onto his side of the bathtub, his arms release their hold on your body, only to wrap around your neck, pulling you into a tight, almost suffocating embrace.

You find yourself practically sitting on his lap, your body tilted back against his shoulder, his arms tightening around your neck like a vice. Your hands grasp the edge of the tub once more, and you begin to bounce up and down, the motion sending waves of pleasure through your body. Caleb's whimper of "Fuck…" is music to your ears, a testament to the intensity of the moment.

Your moans are stifled by the chokehold, but you manage to gasp out a few words, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. One of Caleb's arms releases its grip on your neck, only to find its way to your sweet spot once more, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. You take control of the penetration, moving up and down with a frenzied intensity, while Caleb focuses on making you feel good, his other arm still wrapped tightly around your neck.

As he presses his lips against your ear, his breath hot and erratic, his words slurred with desire, "This is what I want," he groans. "I… want us to be one…" The sentiment sends a shiver down your spine, and you continue to bounce, going even faster, your body straining towards release.

Your words are barely intelligible, but Caleb finds your struggle seductive, "Ask again?" he whispers, his voice a low, husky growl.

You manage to gasp out a few words, "Tou…ch…me…" your saliva dripping from your lips as you point to your breasts, "Plea…se."

Caleb's arm releases the chokehold, massaging your breasts with a gentle yet insistent touch, sending you into a frenzy of pleasure. You turn your head, whispering sweet nothings into Caleb's ear, "Yours… Always yours…" The words seem to send him over the edge, and he sighs, his body relaxing into the moment.

As you continue to move, a final kiss lingers on Caleb’s lips before you shift forward, your hands plunging into the warm water, pressing against the smooth base of the tub. Your body arches instinctively, your back curving as if offering yourself to him, the motion a silent plea, a shared rhythm that neither of you can resist.

The water sways and splashes around you, cascading against the porcelain, a steady pulse in tune with your bodies. Your hips roll and press against his, the friction igniting every nerve between you. Caleb’s breath grows heavier, a low, husky whimper slipping from his lips as his fingers tighten around the tub’s edge.

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him—his head tilted back, his throat exposed, an image of surrender and control all at once. His eyes are barely open, dark lashes fluttering, yet within the narrow slits, a glimmer shines through. He’s watching you, devouring the way your body moves, the way your lips part as you stifle your sounds of pleasure.

There is something unspoken between you, something deeper than mere desire. It’s in the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you again, in the way his breath hitches when you shift just right. The water, the heat, the tension—it all builds into something near unbearable, an intensity neither of you can escape.

You face forward again, and the sound of Caleb’s fingers tapping—no, clawing—at the tub’s edges fills the air, a silent display of restraint unraveling. The water ripples around you, heated waves splashing against your skin as you move with growing urgency, your hips rolling and pressing down in time with Caleb’s eager thrusts.

“Haa… ha…” you breathe, your voice breaking into the humid air, swallowed by the rising tension between you.

Then, a shift—your body twisting as you turn to face him, your legs spreading to straddle him completely. The moment your gaze locks onto his, you slow just enough to let him take in the sight of you. Your hands slide up your cheeks, fingers tangling into your damp hair, lifting it, teasing, as your hips begin to circle in slow, hypnotic rolls against his lap. Every movement is deliberate, each sway of your hips a silent dance meant for him alone.

Caleb watches, utterly mesmerized. His breath hitches, and his lips are slightly parted as if he is unable to find the words to describe what you’re doing to him. His fingers twitch at the edges of the tub before finally releasing their grip. Instead, his hands find your waist, strong fingers digging into your skin as he matches your rhythm. His own urgency is evident in the way he guides you—rougher, more desperate.

Your own hands glide down from your hair, trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, teasing, fondling, reveling in the sensation. Your damp strands of hair cling to your face, framing your half-lidded eyes, and through the veil of tangled locks, you see Caleb watching—spellbound, lost in you.

The water sloshes violently against the porcelain, the sound a mere backdrop to the intoxicating symphony of your mingled breaths and whispered gasps. Your fingers find the tub’s edge again, gripping for leverage as your movements become wilder, and faster. Caleb meets you with equal fervor, his hands holding you tighter, guiding you, urging you.

Your head tilts back, and your wet, unruly hair cascades over your shoulders, sticking to your skin in dark waves. The feeling builds, winding tightly inside you like a fire threatening to consume you both.

You lean back, letting the warm water envelop you, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. Your eyes flutter shut, and your hands reach blindly through the rippling depths, searching for Caleb. The moment your fingers brush against his skin, he shifts, adjusting above you, the weight of his presence pressing closer.

Then, the pressure tightens—Caleb submerges, following you into the water’s embrace. The world above grows muted, distant, leaving only the sound of your racing heart and the rush of bubbles breaking between you. His lips find yours beneath the surface, soft yet insistent, melding against yours in an urgent kiss. His hands slide down your body, fingers finding your thigh and pulling you against him.

Even beneath the water, his movements are fluid, and precise—a rhythm that sends ripples through you both. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as your bodies move in perfect sync, the weightlessness making every sensation feel heightened, electric. The water shifts with your movements, a silent witness to your shared intensity.

Then, in one swift motion, Caleb lifts you, breaking the surface. The rush of air fills your lungs, but before you can fully recover, your back meets the cool porcelain with a forceful thud. The contrast of heat and cold, of water and open air, sends a jolt through your system.

Caleb towers over you, droplets streaming down his face, his breath heavy and erratic. His hands remain firm, one still gripping your thigh, the other braced against the tub. His body moves with reckless abandon, each motion deep, and relentless. Water sloshes over the edge, cascading onto the floor, forgotten.

His grunts mix with ragged breaths, his voice breaking through the sound of splashing water. Your gasps mirror his, the tension between you coiling tighter with every movement. Every sensation—his touch, his breath, the warmth of his body against yours—feels amplified, consuming.

His fingers tighten their hold, his pace unrelenting, pulling you both toward the inevitable, where words no longer matter—only feeling, only this.

Caleb shifts, guiding your legs over the edge of the tub, the cool porcelain a stark contrast against your heated skin. A shiver of anticipation courses through you, a delicious tension coiling in your stomach. His hands planted firmly on the tub’s rim, framing your face, caging you beneath him. You tilt your head back, searching his eyes—those dark, smoldering depths that drink you in like you’re something sacred.

Droplets of water fall from his damp hair, landing softly against your skin and trickling down like whispers of rain. The heat of his breath fans against your lips as he leans in closer, his voice hushed yet commanding.

“Look at you…” His tone is rich and reverent. “You’re breathtaking.”

Your breath hitches, your fingers tightening around his arms. Then his lips crash against yours—hungry, unyielding as if he’s trying to claim every unspoken word between you. The kiss deepens, tongues meeting in a slow, intoxicating dance. Your fingers weave into his wet hair, pulling him closer, savoring the taste of him—faint traces of warmth and something undeniably his.

Then, with one swift movement, he shifts, pressing deeper, and a strangled gasp slips from your lips. The sensation is overwhelming, your body trembling beneath him. He swallows your moan, his own breath stuttering as he holds still for a moment as if grounding himself in the way you fit so perfectly beneath him.

Your nails press into his skin, trailing down his back, desperate for something to hold onto. Caleb’s forehead presses to yours, his voice a shaky whisper against your lips.

“Tell me…” His breath is ragged, his body taut with restraint. “Tell me you feel this too.”

Your voice is barely more than a whimper. “I feel everything…”

He groans, his grip tightening, his body responding with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. You arch into him, your breaths coming in gasps, your senses drowning in the heat, the sound of water sloshing around you, the deep timbre of his voice breaking between heavy breaths.

“Say my name,” Caleb murmurs against your skin, his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your pulse point, where his tongue flicks, teasing.

“Caleb…” You breathe it like a prayer.

His lips curve into a knowing smile, his eyes dark with something unspoken, something primal.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, his hands gripping your waist, his movements deep, slow, deliberate. The way he looks at you—like you are the only thing in the world—sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“My world… my life,” your voice is soft, yet resolute, your fingertips tracing the contours of his damp skin. “It includes you.”

Caleb stills. A breath catches in his throat, his body rigid as your words sink in. For a moment, the possessiveness, and the urgency, all dissolve into nothing. What remains is something raw—something unguarded. His lips find yours again, but this time, the kiss is different. It’s not hungry. It’s not desperate. It’s deep, steady, a silent confession. A kiss of understanding, of devotion.

It’s a kiss of acceptance.

His hands, once gripping with unrelenting fervor, now hold you like you’re something fragile, something irreplaceable. He’s always claimed you as his, but now, in this moment, he understands—he is yours just as much. There is no fear of loss, no silent battle for reassurance. He is here. He is loved. And he finally believes it.

“I’m sorry…” His voice is breathless, a whisper against your lips, though his body continues to move—slow, as if savoring every second.

You respond with a soft hum, your body shuddering against him. The peak of your pleasure had passed moments ago, but you hold on, staying with him, letting him embrace this moment fully. Your forehead rests against his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin.

“Nngh…” His breath stutters, a quiet whimper slipping from his lips as his body tenses, shuddering against yours.

And then, release.

His grip tightens, his arms pulling you impossibly closer as he finally lets go, his breath heavy, tangled with yours. There is no rush to part, no need for words. Only the quiet rise and fall of your chests, the lingering warmth between you, and the unspoken promise sealed between your lips.

Caleb shifts, his movements slow and tender as he guides your bodies into a new position—his back resting against the cool porcelain while you lay against him, your body melting into his warmth. His arms encircle you, securing you against his chest, your head finding solace on his shoulder.

His breath is still uneven, lingering in the space between you, but he presses soft kisses along your shoulder as if grounding himself in your presence. Each press of his lips is a silent whisper, a quiet confession.

You reach for his right hand, tracing the calloused ridges of his fingers before gently opening his palm. Lifting it toward the window, you slide your hand beneath his, pressing your fingers together—lining them up, feeling the contrast, the fit. His fingers move first, locking with yours, holding tight. Then, without hesitation, he pulls your joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of your hand with a reverence that makes your chest tighten.

A beat of silence.

“I…” His voice is quiet, as if the words have been sitting on his tongue for too long. “I love you.”

You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t feel the same, but because the weight of his words lingers, filling the space between you like something sacred.

He exhales, then presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you,” he repeats, more certain this time.

You smile faintly, tilting your head against him. “I know.”

A short laugh escapes him, but then he grows serious again. His grip on your hand tightens, his lips hovering close to your ear.

“No… I love you a little more than you realize.”

The words settle deep in your chest, warmer than the water surrounding you. And in his hold, in the quiet of this moment, you believe him.

You don’t speak, but the way you squeeze his hand, the way your fingers stay laced between his, tells him everything.

The room is quiet now, save for the faint dripping of water from the edges of the tub, and the slow rise and fall of your breaths. Caleb lets out a deep sigh, his chin resting against your damp hair, his arms wrapped around you as if afraid to let go.

Outside the window, the world feels distant—lightening flickering, the candle casting a soft glow across the bathroom. But here, in this small, water-kissed space, nothing else matters.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, memorizing every dip and ridge of your skin. You tilt your head slightly, your lips barely grazing his jaw before whispering, “I know… and I love you, too.”

Caleb doesn’t speak, but you feel it—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his breath stutters for just a moment, as if those words unraveled something deep within him.

Neither of you move. There’s no need to.

Because here, at this moment, tangled in warmth, wrapped in whispered confessions and lingering touches—this is everything.

And neither of you would change a thing.

#caleb fic #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #l&ds caleb #l&ds reader #lads caleb #lads fic #caleb x mc #caleb x you #lads mc #love and deepspace mc #lads #mc love and deepspace #love and deep space #lnds caleb

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daxisyzz · 1 month ago

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As the world caves in

Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be a simple mission turns into a nightmare when Bucky and the reader lose contact with their team and find themselves trapped in a collapsing Hydra base. As the world crumbles around them, they cling to each other, holding onto love even in the face of the inevitable.

Word count: 2.2k+

Warnings and tags: Angst, hurt/no comfort, character deaths, feeling hopeless, collapsing buildings, gunfire and blasts, very sad.

Prompt idea goes to @la-gotica-fantasma

Prompt: “When we get home, I’m going to love you so well.” “We aren’t making it out of this alive.” “I can love you in Hell, my love for you is unconditional.”

A/n: Writing this genuinely broke my heart. Idk what to feel anymore 🥲

P.s requests are open. Feel free to send some

The wind howled like a wounded beast as you trudged through the desolate, snow-covered wasteland with Bucky at your side. The sky was a relentless gray, and the falling snow blurred the line between earth and heaven, lending the world an eerie, frozen silence. It was supposed to be a simple mission—a brief extraction of intelligence from a Hydra outpost nestled in the bitter cold—but nothing had ever turned out as planned.

Earlier that day, in a rare moment of calm before the storm of chaos, Bucky had leaned in close, his eyes soft yet resolute, and promised, “When we get home, I’m going to love you so well.”

Those words had been a beacon of hope amid the constant threat of violence and loss. You had believed in the possibility of a future where the battles ended, where quiet mornings and gentle laughter replaced the roar of combat.

Now, as the wind cut through the silence like shards of glass, that promise felt like a distant dream—fragile and almost cruel in its unattainability.

You remembered the plan: infiltrate the outpost swiftly, extract the needed data, and rendezvous with the rest of the Avengers waiting back at base. The mission brief had been confident, almost nonchalant. But as you and Bucky advanced deeper into the icy expanse, every step seemed to echo the growing dread in your hearts.

The communications link, your lifeline to your teammates, went dark almost as soon as you crossed into enemy territory. No reassuring voices, no status updates—only static and the gnawing realization that you were utterly alone.

Then, without warning, the ambush began. Hydra operatives materialized from the swirling snow like specters of death. The first shots rang out, shattering the silence and sending adrenaline surging through your veins.

Bullets and energy blasts whistled past as you dove behind crumbling concrete walls, the world erupting into a chaotic blur of violence and icy wind. Amid the clamor, every instinct told you to fight—to survive. But as you exchanged fire with the enemy, a grim truth began to settle over you both.

Between bursts of combat, you caught sight of Bucky’s face—his eyes narrowed in concentration, his jaw set in determination—but you also saw something else: a deep-seated sorrow, a silent acknowledgment of the danger you both faced.

In a moment of desperate clarity amid the chaos, his gravelly voice cut through the din, heavy with resignation, “We aren’t making it out of this alive.”

The words reverberated in your chest like a death knell, each syllable a painful reminder of your mortality.

In a frantic bid to salvage any hope, you fumbled with the comms device, your trembling fingers desperately trying to re-establish contact with your teammates. “Avengers… come in, do you copy?” you cried out, your voice barely audible over the roar of battle and the relentless howl of the wind. Static was all that answered.

You repeated the call until it became a ragged litany of pleas that dissolved into the indifferent winter. Each failed attempt gnawed at your spirit, the silence a stark testament to the isolation you now faced.

The fight raged on, a brutal ballet of survival amid falling snow and shattered dreams. Hydra soldiers pressed their attack relentlessly. You and Bucky fought side by side, your movements mirroring each other in a desperate dance for life. Every explosion, every ricochet of shrapnel, was punctuated by the sound of your rapid heartbeats—a rhythm that now served as a mournful metronome counting down your final moments.

As the battle wore on, the structure of the Hydra base itself began to betray its strength. Cracks appeared in the walls, and the ground beneath your feet trembled with the violent shudder of collapsing concrete. The once formidable outpost was now crumbling, its defenses disintegrating as if the very building were succumbing to the despair that filled the air.

Debris rained down around you, and in the midst of the falling rubble, Bucky shouted, “Get down!” His tone was urgent, laced with both command and raw fear.

You dove behind a large chunk of concrete, your body slamming into the cold, unyielding surface. The impact stole the air from your lungs, and for a moment, you lay there, the taste of dust and defeat mingling in your mouth. When you looked up, you saw Bucky already moving, guiding you to a small, partially intact alcove—a temporary refuge amidst the chaos. It was cramped and dark, barely enough room for the two of you, but it offered a semblance of shelter from the relentless storm outside.

In that suffocating space, the sounds of the battle raged on outside the thin barrier of the crumbling wall. Your hearts pounded in unison, echoing the rhythm of a shared, desperate hope that somehow, against all odds, you might survive this ordeal. Bucky’s eyes met yours in the dim light, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away, leaving only the two of you suspended in a fragile bubble of intimacy amid the madness.

“Do you think… do you think they’re coming?” you whispered, your voice trembling not only from the cold but from the overwhelming sense of impending doom. It was a question born of both fear and the desperate need for connection—a plea for reassurance in a moment when even the strongest bonds seemed to be unraveling.

Bucky’s response was slow, measured, as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “I tried to reach them,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Every call… nothing. It’s like we’re lost in a void, cut off from everything we once knew.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment, the hardened warrior you knew softened into a man laid bare by the cruelty of fate.

Silence fell over you both, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the Hydra base shuddered with the force of its impending collapse. The sound of crumbling concrete, the distant echo of explosions, and the relentless whistling of the wind combined into a dirge for the dying hope that you might ever escape this frozen nightmare.

As if sensing the despair in your voice, Bucky pulled you closer. “Remember what I said earlier?” he murmured, his tone both tender and fatalistic. “When we get home, I’m going to love you so well.” It was a promise made in brighter times, a vow that now felt painfully out of reach. But even in the midst of despair, those words carried a weight of truth—a promise that, no matter how bleak the present, the love you shared was real, undeniable.

You nodded, unable to muster any words, your throat tight with emotion. The hope of a future together—of peaceful mornings, shared smiles, and quiet moments of tenderness—had evaporated into the cold, indifferent air around you. All that remained was the brutal reality of the present, a fight for survival against impossible odds.

The Hydra operatives continued their assault, their voices and shouts muffled by the falling snow and the collapsing walls. In a rare lull between attacks, you and Bucky exchanged murmured words—a mix of confessions, regrets, and bittersweet promises. “I’m scared,” you admitted softly, tears freezing on your lashes as they fell silently into the snow. “I don’t want to lose you,” you added, your voice barely more than a whisper in the dark.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours. “I know,” he replied, his tone laced with sorrow and determination. “Every moment with you is a gift, even if it’s our last.” There was a raw, heartbreaking beauty in his words—a recognition that love could still flourish in the shadow of death, even if only for a fleeting heartbeat.

In that cramped, shadowed corner of the collapsing base, time slowed. Every heartbeat, every ragged breath, felt amplified—a stark reminder that life was slipping away. Outside, the structure continued to crumble, the roar of destruction melding with the persistent, mournful sigh of the wind. The cold had seeped into every crack of your bones, and the promise of rescue or escape had all but vanished into the void.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the comms one last time, your eyes searching the static for any sign of life. “Avengers… please, if anyone can hear us… Steve, Tony, anyone...” your voice trailed off into the oppressive silence. There was no response—only the relentless sound of your own despair mingling with the fading echoes of distant explosions.

Bucky pulled you closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can love you even in hell,” he said, the words a defiant stand against the cruel fate that had brought you here. “My love for you is unconditional, doll.” His voice was steady, yet beneath it lay an undercurrent of sorrow that matched your own. In that moment, his words were both a comfort and a lament—a final affirmation of the bond you shared even as everything around you crumbled.

The minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. Each second was filled with the sound of falling debris, the relentless beating of your hearts, and the unspoken acknowledgment that nothing could change the inevitable. The Hydra base, once a symbol of enemy might, was now nothing more than a tomb—a grave for hopes, dreams, and the promise of a future that would never be.

As the structure groaned and finally began its irrevocable descent into ruin, you and Bucky clung to each other, seeking solace in the familiar warmth of your embrace. Tears mixed with the snow on your cheeks as you whispered your final goodbyes—not to the world, but to the life you had once dared to dream of. The bitterness of regret, the agony of loss, and the deep, aching sorrow of unfulfilled promises coalesced into a single, shattering moment.

“Do you remember,” you asked in a voice choked with emotion, “when we talked about running away, escaping all this madness?” Your question hung in the air, fragile as a snowflake in the storm.

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, he said, “I do. I dreamed of a life where we wouldn’t have to fight, where the world was kinder, where I could hold you every morning without the fear of losing you.” His admission was raw and honest, a confession of all the hopes that had been built and now lay shattered.

The sound of collapsing walls drew nearer, and the harsh reality that you were nearing the end pressed in like the cold itself. With a shaky laugh that was more a sob than mirth, you murmured, “It feels like even our dreams are falling apart with this place.” Your voice cracked under the weight of truth.

Bucky’s grip tightened, his fingers tracing the line of your tear-streaked face. “Maybe we were foolish to hope,” he replied softly. “But even if this is the end, I wouldn’t trade these moments with you for anything—even if they’re wrapped in sorrow.”

Time itself seemed to slow as you sat huddled together in that dark, cramped corner. The only sounds were the rhythmic beating of your hearts and the soft, sorrowful whispers of the wind outside—a lullaby for the damned. In that final space, you and Bucky clung to each other, sharing a look that spoke of years of love, pain, and the bittersweet beauty of life even in its final throes.

As the final moments approached, Bucky’s voice, barely audible above the collapsing din, broke the heavy silence once more. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone a fragile mix of regret and love, “that I couldn’t do more. But I promise… I will love you in every possible way, until my very last heartbeat.” His words wrapped around you like a fragile shield against the inevitable, and though there was no rescue, no miraculous escape, there was a profound connection that neither death nor destruction could ever erase.

With the Hydra base collapsing fully around you, the walls and roof caving in with a final, mournful groan, you both closed your eyes and held each other tightly. In those heartbeats, as the echoes of your shared love mingled with the sound of falling debris, you allowed yourselves one last moment of vulnerability—a final embrace where all the pain, hope, and regret converged into a single, unforgettable truth.

There, in the darkness and despair, as the light of day faded beneath a blanket of snow and ruin, you and Bucky found a small, defiant solace. The world was ending around you, but in that fleeting, poignant instant, you had each other. And though rescue was a memory lost in static and hope was buried under endless layers of ice and concrete, the love you shared—raw, unyielding, and achingly human—remained the last, unwavering truth.

In the dying echoes of that crumbling Hydra base, your final moments were marked by tears that froze on your cheeks, by whispered apologies and desperate confessions, and by the unbreakable bond of two souls intertwined even as the world fell apart. There were no heroes emerging from the wreckage that day, no triumphant survival. There was only the haunting beauty of a love that dared to shine, even in the coldest, darkest of nights—a love that, despite everything, burned fiercely until its very end.

And as the snow continued to fall, blanketing the ruins in silence, your hearts beat together in a final, sorrowful cadence—a cadence that, even in the face of oblivion, whispered of promises kept, of lives entwined, and of a love that would echo long after the storm had passed.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel fanfiction #avengers #angst #avengers fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #angst with a sad ending #hurt/no comfort

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sporesgalaxy · 2 months ago

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hey I updated the Pierre Document. The document with all the information about which version of events I consider canon to Pierre. the Pierre document where i write down random shit all the time. that document.

posting this as im on the verge of passing out so i dont have time ti regret it yayyyyyyy

•••

Pierra's family are avid travelers, possible for mild-mannered citizens like them due to their home island Old Tool's status as a travel hub and their family history of working in the Marine shipbuilding and sailing industry. Thus, Pierra being taken along on a pleasure cruise with the rest of her family would be an unheard of luxury in most of the world, but it wasn't originally all that big a deal to Pierra.

Things took an unexpected turn after the cruise ship Pierra was on had already crossed the Grand Line (using sea prism stone technology) and entered the East Blue.

Since the East is supposedly the safest of the four blues, the hired Marine guards were lazy in their security measures, drinking and partying to congratulate themselves on crossing the Grand Line without incident.

Therefore the ship's protectors were woefully unprepared when the Buggy Pirates suddenly attacked! The Pirates were on their way to Reverse Mountain, and energized after reuniting with their captain and escaping Marine custody!

The pirate attack happened while Pierra was avoiding her family (and especially her mother) on a quiet part of the ship and quietlt spiralling into despair about how she has no idea what to do with her life. The terrifying pirate attack was almost a welcome distraction.

With no one she knew close at hand to worry about the safety of, Pierra's first instinct was to hide, and she was scared enough to employ the devil fruit powers she swore never to use in order to hide in an impossibly small space! This gambit backfired however, and to Pierra's acute horror, her hiding spot inside a crate of alcohol was taken aboard the Big Top as loot.

Pierra managed to stay hidden as a stowaway on the Bigtop for at least a couple of weeks. Then, the Buggy Pirates met Portugaz D. Ace, who managed to be the first person to notice the giant red centipede sneaking around the ship. Luckily for Pierra (who spur-of-the-moment decided to go by Pierre and "pretend" to be a guy), Ace is nice and believes Pierre when he says that he never meant to cause any trouble. And luckily for the Buggy Pirates, Pierre is down to his very core desperate for approval and has a lot of chitinous helping hands he's delighted to lend as long as you tell him he did a good job.

--------

Tiny Pierra lets ants crawl all over her. She watches them tear apart a dying grasshopper in the garden, piece by piece.

Pierra looks with wonder in her eyes at a rotting fish covered with maggots. At a dead baby bird that fell from its nest too soon. At a bag full of bloody ducks her father shot.

Pierra gets too upset sometimes, and too frightened frequently.

Pierra hides as often as possible.

When Pierra starts getting big, she wishes she was still small. She used to like squeezing into tight spaces; inside a box, under a small desk, under a bed. She doesn't fit anymore. Sometimes she feels like she's stopped fitting anywhere at all.

Pierra sneaks into other people's rooms when she's alone in the house, just to look around without disturbing anything. Just to hear the silence.

Pierra takes food she is not supposed to eat, just to get away with it. Just to test how far she can go without being noticed. Just to be unnoticed and forgotten on purpose, instead of as a reflex.

When Pierra is 16, she goes to the market with her mother. While her mother speaks to someone, Pierra breaks off a tiny piece of the most interesting fruit at the stand. No one notices her do it this time. Pierra chews and swallows the piece of fruit, and it tastes bad, but Pierra is pleased to have learned what it tastes like without permission.

Later that evening, alone in her room, Pierra thinks she is dreaming, or maybe losing her mind. She wonders half-heartedly if the fruit was poisonous and she is dying-- but she doesn't want to disturb anyone if she's wrong again.

So, she does what she always does when she thinks she is losing her mind: distracts herself and waits for it to pass.

It passes, eventually, but this won't be the last time. She learns that it's not madness, but the curse of a Devil. She learns she can't swim anymore. She prays for forgiveness. She tells nobody.

When Pierra gets too upset and admits it her mother a year later, she is begged never to transform again. To hide it forever, for her own safety. Human traffickers could be anywhere, her mother says, and Devil Fruit users fetch a high price. Pierra promises to keep hiding. Pierra wonders if it will be easier now, having someone who understands.

Pierra's mother goes back to acting like nothing ever happened. It doesn't get much easier.

---

"It'll be okay," says Pierra's mother gently, drawing her daughter into her arms. Pierra wraps her arms around her mother as well, because she is supposed to.

"We'll figure this out..." her mother continues, "...we can fix this."

Pierra stares over her mother's shoulder as she feels the last remains of her hope crumble away in silence.

That's it, then. Despite everything, despite so many years of cyclical disappointment and pain... Pierra's mother would not give up on "fixing" her.

She and her mother had been repeating this painful exercise for Pierra's entire life. Over and over, every year, every month, every week, for as long as Pierra could remember.

Pierra is so tired of trying to be fixed. She is tired of trying to be something she isn't. She is tired, so so tired, of letting down people who see something in her.

She had hoped that after such a spectacular failure as this one, her mother might finally give up on fixing her. She had hoped that her mother might start trying to learn how to forgive her, instead.

That hope was gone now.

Now, Pierra can see that her mother will never stop waiting for someone less disappointing to take Pierra's place. Pierra can see that her mother's pity will always be directed at the less disappointing person Pierra is certain she can never be.

Wrapped in her mother's arms, Pierra has never felt more alone.

"We'll figure it out together," her mother adds, squeezing Pierra's shoulders tighter.

----

Humans have to be taught everything. We're very good at learning. It's what we evolved to do.

Some animals have to be taught how to do things. How to hunt, where to go.

But many animals exhibit behaviors that are never taught to them.

Humans have a precious few. Holding our breath underwater, hanging on with our arms.

The less social the animal, the less learning it tends to do.

The more its behavior is ruled by instinct.

-----

Most Observation Haki users learn to tune out the auras of nonaggressive bugs, consciously or unconsciously.

Otherwise, their senses would be overwhelmed by spiritual "noise" from hundreds of tiny auras. The glut of information can make it harder to notice actual threats, and the easiest solution is to ignore typically irrelevant details-- i.e., bugs.

It's something like mentally tuning out the sound of cicadas in a forest when you are listening for a distinctive bird call.

In his centipede form, because of his skittish nature and typical lack of malicious intent paired with centipede instincts from his Zoan abilities, Pierre's aura usually registers as a genuine nonaggressive bug aura. It can therefore go easily overlooked, despite Pierre's large size.

Like if our proverbial birder was listening for bird calls, but Pierre was a bird whose call almost perfectly mimicked a cicada.

It takes a very skilled Observation Haki user and a very sharp mind to take in ALL auras in an area without tuning out small details like harmless bugs. To these sort of people, centipede Pierre can be detected just as well as anything else, and his large size will even cause him to stick out.

In the cicada metaphor, these people are sharp enough to identify any bird calls and count the number of cicadas calling at the same time. And Pierre sounds like a cicada...but not a species of cicada the expert listening recognizes. Thus, Pierre sticks out.

Pierre's attitude can also ruin his bug aura camoflauge. If he is too focused on anything besides his own survival, his aura ceases to be nonthreatening or buglike enough and he will no longer go overlooked.

For bird-Pierre, this would be like accidentally letting out a distinctly bird-ish squawk rather than the mimic-cicada call.

-------

B: [unlocking a chest] This poster better be the best thing since sliced bread or I am completely SCREW--

[Pierre is revealed to be inside the chest. Buggy gawks at him.]

P: I- I know how this looks!

P: But it's not the same as last time!! I'll leave as soon as I--!

B: [snotty, sobbing, frantically grabbing Pierre's shoulders] NO!!!!!! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!

P: !!!! [Pierre is wide-eyed and speechless]

B: [stops sobbing] wait a second.

B: [shaking Pierre by his lapels, angry now] Where the HELL have you been, Chucklehead?!!!

P: [being comically shaken around too much to form a response]

B: I haven't seen you since we got arrested on--!!!

B: [stops shaking Pierre, squints at him] .....OHHHHH.

[Pierre has no idea whats going on, is still being grabbed by the lapels]

B: [angry smile] [lets go of P and crosses arms] I see what happened!!!!

B: [vindictive] The government took back your pardon because they abolished Warlords!

B: [pokes Pierre in the chest] So after two years of thinking you're BETTER than me,

[Pierre's eyes widen]

B: You had no choice but to come crawling back!!! [flicks Pierre's nose] GYAHAHAHAA!!!

B: [patting Pierre's head condescendingly] Don't worry Chucklehead, I won't make you grovel. Much. [mean grin]

P: Wait, what?! [earnest] I-I'm not-- I don't think I'm above you, Buggy!! That would be crazy!!

B: [smug aura cracks slightly] Eh?

P: [sheepish] I'm surprised you even remember my name! A famous pirate like you must meet so many amazing people, I didn't think I'd stick out at all...

[Buggy gets smug again, and a bit flustered]

B: Well, heh heh...

B: [remembers he's mad] Then why'd you ditch me?!!

P: I-I didn't ditch you!

B: Like hell!!! All the Buggy Pirates got pardoned when I became a warlord, but YOU never came back!!

P: Because I'm not a Buggy Pirate?! I was a stowaway!

B: [gawks again, like "are you serious??"]

P: ...you...wanted me to come back??

B: [dodging the question] YOU'RE DODGING THE QUESTION!!!

B: What were you even doing for th last two years that was so much better than ME-- MY CREW!!!!!!

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre on the Snail. He is saying "No, Mom-- I-- I DO want to be here. The science is really interesting, I just--"]

P: ...Well, keheh... [drags hands down face] ...Ugh. Trust me, I did NOT wanna be there.

P: So, when the navy caught the Buggy Pirates, they saw my Devil Fruit power.

P: [before Buggy can ask] I know I told you I've had this since I was a kid, but I never used it before I was with you. It was always this big secret.

P: Anyways, I was really afraid that I'd get in trouble for hiding it, so I told them I got the Devil Fruit on your ship and that I was a hostage.

[Buggy squints at Pierre. It's a good thing Buggy likes him and is exactly as cowardly]

P: They believed it, and I was hoping they would just let me go home, but they really wanted my Zoan powers, so I ended up stuck with the Marines...

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Marine representative says "You've got a unique ability, Ms. Pierra. Opportunities like this shouldn't be wasted! Please, consider our offer, at least--" Pierre interrupts: "I'll do it." He looks terrified and miserable as he says it. What's his problem?]

P: And that's where I've been for...two whole years.

[FLASHBACK PANELS: Pierre thinking "I have to get out of here." "I hate this." "I can't do this anymore." Pierre talking on the snail again, "Yeah, I'll look into research positions." "No, I haven't looked yet." "I've been really busy..." "I just haven't gotten around to it." "I still wanna do something different."]

B: Okay. So how the hell did you end up in my closet???

P: Uh.

P: They sent me with the guys who were supposed to arrest you, actually, but I ditched them.

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre is on a Marine ship looking miserable and indecisive. Suddenly it is chopped in half by Crocodile. Pierre survives by hiding in a barrel & manages to paddle ashore.]

B: And you snuck all the way in here? On an island full of bounty hunters??

P: [manic grin] ...I guess!

P: I'm kind of just trying to not die right now!

P: Thanks for not killing me, by the way! Kehaha!

B: Kill you?? Of COUUURSE not, Pierro-chan!!!

B: [claps Pierre on the back] Why would I kill my own PERSONAL bodyguard!!!

P: ........HUH?

#1pc #centipierre #op oc

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okwonyo · 1 year ago

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PRETTY U — a lee heeseung social media au

précis ୨ৎ there is a lot of things heeseung knows about is brother; he is not as cool as he is, he talks in his sleep, he is annoying but most importantly— he has a very pretty best-friend, who always comes to visit him during spring break.

or in which — heeseung spends his whole spring break trying to get with the girl he is in love with since elementary school.

staring › lee heeseung + female reader

co-ed › face claim as wested_arin, jay, jake & sunghoon (enhypen), hyeju (lossemble), sunwoo (the boyz), gaeul (ive).

genre › social media, brother’s best friend! reader, best friend’s brother! heeseung, childhood crush, one year older reader, he fell first, chasing, loser boyfriend, humorous, fluff and tiny angst.

taglist › open — send an ask or dm to be added

update : regular ｜status : upcoming

SOUNDTRACK

🔓 lOOsers (jungkook’s version) & snsd cult’s founders

one. is That supposed to be my problem? two. he’s such a Loser woah ... ( written ) three. no i do Not . Lols four. Please come save me five. can’t let gang know i fw tis six. its 3am dpmo lil boy

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Winter's King 19

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Have a good day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen rises, restless as her skirts sweep around her, streaked from the hem with the filth of the road. Her insistence on finery has proven fruitless. Her once prized gown will likely never be free of stains. She has many more, you only hope they survive the journey.

She struts back and forth, scowling as she faces the wall and drops her shoulders.

“Why is there no mirror?” She pouts, “this place is drab. How am I supposed to keep from going blind with dullness.” She flops back onto the bed, “ugh,” she rolls over, “maid, I need wine.”

“Your highness,” you say sheepishly.

“Do not,” she raises her hand in a harsh point, “I don’t care about the king’s orders. I have been on the road for weeks, I am sore, I am filthy, and I am tired!” She snaps her fingers, “if I want wine I will have it.” She puts her hand over her middle, “it is for the king’s child. He is thirsty.”

You avert your eyes. You can’t deny her. Even if the king ordered that she be deprived, you cannot look her in the face and tell her no. If they king never knows, it mightn’t matter. You turn, your disobedience nipping at your ears.

You emerge into the corridor. The orange-haired guard remains, along with the shadow standing across from him. Bryce looms, picking his nails with a small dagger.

“Has the queen retired so early?” He asks.

“She requires wine,” you return, “I won’t be long, sir. Might you point me towards the kitchen?”

“I will accompany you,” he insists as he stand straight.

“Do not trouble, sir, I am faster alone. I only need direction.”

You see the disappointment tick in his cheek. You’re not so mad as you were, only cautious. The king will always come first, his will shall always circumvent your own. It is a reality you knew before but now it gleams in a much different light.

“Down to the east, on the lower floors behind the statue of the knight in black armor,” he explains, “do take care not to lose yourself.”

“I will, sir,” you nod and glance over at the other soldier. The man with carroty hair eyes you up and down.

You flit off, hurrying upon your quest for a bottle. You’re not certain you’ll find bounty in your mission. This is not the king’s castle and you are not a thief.

You descend and come around the bottom of the wide stone railings. The great hall is empty and only a few lanterns remain lit to guide you. You go east and find your way, coming upon the knight in black armour that at first appears as a real sentinel in the dark. You stop to look upon the suit, admiring the ripples in its forging.

You go into the kitchen and find the haze of the stove lighting the empty space. You peer around at the dark alcoves as the air glows amber, pulsing with the heat of the embers. You tiptoe inside, narrowing your eyes to see through the dim.

“Are ya lost?” A growl rises from the darkness.

You spin and face the black silhouette of a large man stood on the other side of the thick wooden table at the center of the kitchens. You gulp and sway on your feet. He must be the cook or perhaps the cellarer. He likely thought you a rat scurrying around looking for crumbs.

“No, sir, I... would there be a bottle of wine? For the queen?” You ask, your voice catching in your throat as he looms like some great husky bear. He reminds you of the white beast in the corridor as he comes around the table, the light catching the white of his thick locks.

His body is as thick as a barrel and his shoulders broader. The flickering hue reveals the scar above his left brow and his pocked cheeks. You wonder at the tint of his hair as you try to tell if it’s the age the lines his face or if it is the same effect as the king.

“Wine? For the queen?” He echoes sonorously, “hmmm.”

“Yes, sir, if there would be any to spare?”

“Mm, suppose a bottle might go missing,” he backs up and turns. He doesn’t beckon you onward but you follow anyway. Something about him bids you without a word.

He takes you to the far end of the kitchens and grunts as he squats and reaches to his belt, jangling a ring of iron keys. He shoves one in the thick lock in the clasp of the hatch and unhooks it. He lifts the heavy door, thick cedar bolstered with steel and throws it back to hit the floor.

“Ah, hold,” he signals you with a palm as he stands and retreats.

He strides across the kitchens and without a word, shuffles in a cupboard. He mutters as he takes a tallow and lights its wick from the embers, setting it into a brass holder. He offers it to you and you take it without a word, curious at the grumbly cook.

He descends the steep stairs first and you follow, balancing the candle carefully. He takes you by the elbow to help you to the beaten floor and you raise the candle to light the expanse of the cellar. It extends well past the limits of the flame’s eye.

He goes to a shelf and slides a bottle free of its cubby. He tuts and puts it back. He pulls out several bottles before he makes a decision. He comes closer to examine the glass by the flame.

“Summer wine,” he says and flicks his pale eyes up to you. They remind you of the king’s though they are paler in the candlelight. “And you, serve the summer queen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a summerer?” He asks.

“Sir,” you bow your head, “you can tell?”

“Aye, no winter’s blood wears a cloak with walls to hold them over,” he chuckles and looks around.

You glance down at the cloak. You hadn’t thought to remove it as the cold radiates from the stone. Even without the wind, a shiver creeps through your flesh.

He frightens you as he reaches for you, only to touch the fur collar of the cloak, rubbing a tuft between his fingertips, “it is well made.” He lets his hand trail along the front and turns out the interior of the trim. You look down your nose as he reveals a patch you didn’t notice before; a wolf’s head.

“Yes, sir, it is warm,” you agree and he withdraws his hand.

“Suppose a summer’s maid needs it more than a winter’s king,” he says.

You’re quiet. You have nothing to say to that. How many others took note of you in the king’s cloak? Do they whisper about it?

“Your queen may take the wine,” he holds out the bottle, “and the king, might have a cask of ale should he require. Only one,” he lets go of the bottle as you accept it and holds up a finger, “he does not have leave to drink this cellar dry. Crown or no crown.”

“Yes, sir. Many thanks.”

He snorts and shakes his head, peering down at you, “a dove like you is out of place in this nest of vultures,” he muses and gently takes the candle from your hand, “better fly back to your queen, bird.”

“Sir,” you turn towards the stairs as the candle illuminates your shadow against the shelves. You turn to climb and peer back at the man. He watches you, his eyes flickering with the flame.

“Gentle creatures don’t fare well in the cold,” he clucks, “best keep that cloak close.”

You ascend and cradle the bottle at the top, keeping it close as the liquid sloshes heavily inside. You pad over the kitchen floor and into the corridor. The great hall is even colder as the shadows ripple over you. As you come up the stairs, a shiver quakes through you.

Something about that man, about his words, clings to you. His way of speaking is ominous, like those card readers who would visit Lady Rezlyn. Or perhaps it is only that you are waiting for the inevitable.

As you near the queen’s chambers, you hear distant footsteps from the other direction. You come in sight of the grey soldier, spinning his knife as he whistles, the redhead guard sending him an irritated glower. You slow, preparing for the guard to repel you or at least seize the bottle from your arms.

He does not. Even as he turns his scowl on you, he only reaches for the door to let you in. Before he can push inward, a throat clears. You all pause and turn to face the new figure. The king looks between you all; from the guard, to you, to Bryce. Your nerves flutter wildly. You haven’t been this close since the night on the pass.

“I hope that wine is meant for you, Sir Bryce,” King Geralt booms, “as my queen is not permitted to indulge. She has a vile reaction to the stuff.”

“Your highness,” the guard swallows audibly, “I... the queen--”

“The queen is my wife and a wife must bend to the will of her husband,” the king insists hotly. The guard’s expression draws and he mutters an apology.

“I was unaware of the ban,” Bryce intones, “but I’ll gladly claim the bottle for my own.”

“Gilles,” King Geralt ignores the quip and points to the redhead guard, “you will inform the queen that she needs retire for the night. In her condition, it is necessary that she rests. If she requires sustenance, she may have bread and cheese and a bit of goat’s milk.”

“Your highness,” the guard, Gilles, nods diligently.

“And you will fetch it yourself,” the king insists, “I trust you might find your way around a tray.”

Gilles stares at the king then slowly pushes into the queen’s chamber. The king nears and takes the bottle from your hand. You let him and back up as Bryce steps closer.

“Your highness,” the soldier begins, “if I’d been aware--”

“Hardly matters now,” the king shrugs and steps close to his man. He leans in and whispers something you cannot hear, “as you were,” he slaps his shoulder then continues on. You watch after him, perplexed but relieved at his indifference. Perhaps he has rethought his intent.

Bryce is quiet until the king’s footfalls fade off. He lowers his chin, rubbing his thick beard. He touches your cloak, a small tug on it, “this way, maid. Let us find you a place to lay your head.”

The promise of a bed is nice and reminds you of your weariness. Your legs ache as you follow Bryce along the corridor. Your shoulders rack and the remnants of the road begin to lace through your muscles. It is only as you think of laying down that you feel the effect of those last months.

You yawn and stifle it in your hand. Bryce glances over and lets out a willowy breath. He is certain of his path despite the twists and turns. He directs you to a door at the base of one of the castle’s towers, opening it to a spiraling staircase.

“Would be at the top.”

You look up at the winding ascent. The walls are mounted with lanterns over every fifth step. You frown and pull back, turning to the soldier. Your stomach churns.

“Up there? May I not rest in the servant’s quarters?”

“You must be closer to the queen,” his lip trembles. He raises his chin and looks away. When his eyes meet yours again, he puts his hands on your shoulders, “rest your head, mouse, you’ve come very far. You’ve earned it.”

You look at him. You know he isn’t saying all he could. He can’t. You put your hands on his arms and squeeze.

“I’ll try,” you affirm, “thank you, sir. I am very tired.”

“Yes, mouse, sleep,” he pulls away.

“Good night, sir.”

He hesitates, “good night.”

He turns stiffly and marches off. You step into the staircase as his shadow disappears and you pull the door shut. You look up, climbing step by step, legs shaking as you get higher and higher. You reach the top step and another door.

You push the handle down and the lever rises on the other side. You enter the chamber to find it empty. You stand at the threshold and turn, searching for any shadow, any shimmer in the low light of the fireplace. It’s only you.

You breathe and turn to look down the staircase. You listen. Nothing but the winds battering the walls without. You close the door and slowly wade into the warmth of the room. The windows are hung in heavy curtains and there is a tray waiting on the table. An ewer, cups, a plate heaping with delights. You aren’t hungry for any of it, you’re too uneasy.

You unbuckle the cloak and drag it from your shoulders. You turn it over your arm and feel the patch sewn into the lining, examining the wolf’s yellow eyes. He’d marked you and you never even knew it. You fold the heavy length over a chair and back away.

You untie your cap and unveil the short shanks of hair jutting out from your scalp. You haven’t had a chance to shear your unruly locks before they could get too long. You fold the cap and put it on the bed. You remove your apron then your dress and leave them with your cap.

You take a pillow and a blanket from the mattress and bring them down to the bench at the end of the bed. You fit yourself onto the hardwood and watch the fire’s light pulse on the stone wall. Your eyes glimmer with tears, turning your vision to speckled hues.

It’s all so nice, too nice for you, and knowing why you’ve come upon it, turns it sour. It is not kindness, there is expectation attached to such generosity. You should’ve known. You did. You were just too stupid to see it, just as the queen always said.

You twit.

You close your eyes and pull the blanket to your chin. You embrace the warmth, your one comfort left. There’s a long road that awaits you still. Not only through the Hinterlands but another, more treacherous path. One you never meant to stumble upon.

Your body weakens, succumbing to your fatigue, overtaking your wrought mind. Your eyes roll back behind their lids and your breath peters out. Sleep enshrines you as blackness eclipses the orange haze of the chamber.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

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artifacts-and-arthropods · 4 days ago

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The Petelia Tablet from Ancient Greece, c.300-150 BCE: this "passport for the dead" provides instructions on where to go and what to say after crossing into the Greek Underworld

This little tablet was crafted from a sheet of gold foil, and it measures just 4.5cm long. It was found in a small pendant case in Petelia, Italy; the tablet itself dates back to about 300-150 BCE, but the pendant case and chain were likely made about 400 years later, during the Roman era.

Above: the Petelia tablet and the capsule-like pendant case in which it was discovered

Experts believe that the tablet was originally buried with a human body, and that an unknown individual later removed it from the burial site and stuffed it into the pendant case. Unfortunately, they simply rolled it up and snipped off the tip of the tablet in order to make it fit, and the final lines of the inscription were destroyed in the process.

This type of textual amulet is often described as a totenpass or "passport for the dead." Totenpässe were supposed to be used as roadmaps to help guide the spirits of the dead as they journeyed through the Underworld, and they were also meant to serve as indicators of the elite or even "divine" status of certain individuals, providing special privileges and allowing them to obtain an elevated position in the afterlife.

This particular totenpass is incised with a Greek inscription that reads:

You will find a spring on your left in Hades’ halls, and by it the cypress with its luminous sheen.

Do not go near this spring or drink its water. You will find another, cold water flowing from Memory’s lake; its guardians stand before it.

Say: "I am a child of Earth and starry Heaven, but descended from Heaven; you yourselves know this. I am parched with thirst and dying: quickly, give me the cool water flowing from Memory’s lake."

And they will give you water from the sacred spring, and then you will join the heroes at their rites.

This is [the ... of memory]: [on the point of death] ... write this ... the darkness folding [you] within it.

The final section was damaged when the tablet was shoved into the pendant case; sadly, that part of the inscription does not appear on any of the other tablets that are known to exist, so the meaning of those lines remains a mystery (no pun intended).

Tablets with this motif are also known as "Orphic lamellae" or simply "Orphic tablets," because they were traditionally attributed to an Orphic-Bacchic mystery cult.

Above: orphic tablet from the Necropolis of Thurii, in modern-day Italy, c.400-300 BCE

Only about 40 orphic tablets are known to exist, and they are all made from sheets of gold. The inscriptions vary, but they generally include references to a cypress tree, a spring that must be avoided, another spring known as the "Lake of Memory," the sensation of thirst, and a conversation with a guardian (or another entity that is associated with the Underworld, like the goddess Persephone) in which the dead must present themselves as initiates or divine individuals before they are permitted to drink from the Lake of Memory, which would allow them to obtain privileges reserved only for the elite.

Above: orphic tablet from Tassaglia, Italy, c.350 BCE

The details of that reward are unclear; orphic tablets may have been viewed as a way to gain access to the Elysian Fields, to participate in certain sacred rites, or to break free from the eternal cycle of reincarnation. Regardless of the specific details, the overall objective was likely the same: to obtain a special status and acquire privileges that were inaccessible to most of the souls in the Underworld.

Note: I've been trying to go back and edit/fix the original "Petelia Tablet" post that I published on this blog about 2 years ago, but none of my edits are going through for that post, so I'm just submitting this as an updated and much more concise version

Sources & More Info:

The British Museum: Tablet and Pendant Case

Atlas Obscura: The Ancient Greeks Created Golden Passports to Paradise

Getty Museum: Golden Tickets to the Underworld

Getty Museum: Underworld: Imagining the Afterlife

Bryn Mawr College: Festivals in the Afterlife: a New Reading of the Petelia Tablet

#archaeology #artifacts #petelia tablet #history #anthropology #ancient greece #totenpass #orphic tablet #religion #greek mythology #afterlife #greek underworld #literal ticket to paradise

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hana-no-seiiki · 2 years ago

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I saw that you need ideas, so how about a yandere from the Neons? I mean, I would like to see more content from them since they represent the elements in Honkai star rail, by the way, sorry if you don't understand, my English is bad... I leave you a little drawing of a masculine makima (it has nothing to do with it, but as a gift ) xd Also, I don't know if I'm the only one, but Nanook makes me handsome >///<

(Sorry, I had already finished it but the work was stained hahaha and I did it again)

Yus the Aeons are so cool looking!! You really feel like they’re actual gods of the universe, especially since you don’t see them first hand (at least for now). Also Masculine Makima reminds me of Karma Akabane lol. I’ll draw it in my style, and add it here as an extra for you ♥️

Hb we mash those two topics up together actually?

warnings: mild yandere themes. mild spoilers for csm. major canon divergence. reader takes the shape of a masc/amab character but it isnt their original form.

status: unedited. updated art.

YANDERE! AEONS + VARIOUS! HSR x AEON OF FEAR/CONTROL! READER

You have no memory of your conception, only that you started existing for what felt like an eternity.

You represented fear and despair, but unlike IX whose mere presence drove humanity into insanity, or the rest of your fellow aeon’s godlike status amongst the world,

you walked around as a normal, ordinary human being.

As normal as an Aeon can get anyways.

In your current lifetime, you took the shape of Himeko’s “brother”, planting fake memories into her mind and being the one that urged her to travel the stars. While she was the navigator, you took the role of conductor before creating Pompom to supplant you.

Welt always knew you weren’t just a regular person. Your eyes always felt distant, so far off that not even a century’s worth of trail blazing would allow him to come close. As such he mostly kept cordial relations with you.

The youngsters of the bunch on the other hand, never seemed to realize the sheer magnanimity of the danger you held and always hung around you.

Particularly that Caelus. The newest addition to the crew. The stellaron within him always pulsed in some sort of giddiness and excitement whenever you were around. The boy couldn’t help but be a nervous wreck when he was around you. Stuttering and stumbling was a common occurrence whenever you so decide as to just breathe at his direction.

You knew what those Stellarons are, their nature, their purpose, the way they were created. In fact if you wanted to, you could have taken the Astral Express straight to the source of it all, your partner: Nanook.

However that would have ruined the fun of it all. So you chose to let them have their little adventures before the final confrontation.

Also because you signed a contract to not meddle with Nanook’s business in exchange for your freedom. But that was another story to tell.

“Why . . . why do you continue this farce? This utterly worthless play?”

IX’s voice rang within your ears and no one else’s. You were the only being it ever gave the time of day to. You imagine it to be the reason why insanity slowly built itself within the recesses of your head.

“You may see the entire universe as worthless . . . but I,” You breath hitched. You looked around your room. Time was frozen. Everything turned grey. You weren’t afraid of the others in the express hearing you, just that the following words you were about to spout out felt like bile on your mouth. “I suppose I’m still a bit like them in a way. I wish to see the world without its evils.”

“And destroying them. That is my first step.” You summon an orb of golden light. Stellarons. The creation of the very thing that made you loath all evil. Including yourself. You will eradicate these and then Nanook yourself. One day.

“Is that why you send those hunters out?”

“Perhaps.” The orb within your hands get covered in chains, quickly getting crushed within the metal like substance as it soon disappeared.

“Do as you wish. Just do not bother me like that imbecile.”

“I promise. I will be much worse than Yaoshi.”

IX remained silent for several seconds, no doubt regretting its decision of associating with you before adding, “. . . And do not die.”

“That one I cannot guarantee.”

Your room’s color returns, time continues. Signaling the end of two Aeons’ encounter.

Nanook, the Aeon that threatened to eradicate all that you love. All so they could have your soul once more. Within your gilded cage. Within your original body that lied dormant.

The Destruction will no longer be a path. That is a guarantee you write upon the stars when your Trail Blazing lifetime eventually comes to a close.

The stage is set, your actors ready.

All you needed was the cue.

Your gloved hand arose, pointing towards the express’s windows in the shape of a gun.

“Bang.”

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jekyll-doodles · 4 months ago

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The Ladies of Addagala || Kofi | Commission Info | Threadless Shop|| Do not edit, trace, or repost!

So this started as another one-off bit that involved drawing the lords of Alagadda with inverted colors, but it grew into a whole realm with Lore. The finding of this place written below, pov of my sprite persona.

[ You would think I would have learned my lesson by now, considering how the blame fell on me for witnessing and then interfering with these kinds of entities. But, no. And so, with the knowing expectation that I will be held responsible for merely observing this, I wish to tell you what I saw while around the outer boundaries of ■■■ verse, ■■■ space-■■■ time, "SCP Wakey Wakey"’s reality. It would appear that, by accident, a secondary nexus evolved from my observations of Alagadda and its tributaries. An attempt by What Is and What Isn’t to balance out the chaos of the city-state: an antithesis. Such a place is a hefty feast to observe by oneself – hence my absence – so I took in what I could for now. More undoubtedly lingers beneath its glossy surface.]

The Land of Addagala – a name a little too on-the-nose in my opinion, but that's not important – was a citywide sanctuary locked within a snowglobe. The first notable sensation I recall being the chill in the air; I learned later that it became just warm enough in its spring and summer seasons to let the flowers bloom and produce fruit. A warmth that apparently came not from the grey sun, but that radiated out from their beloved monarch. The sun, which also acted as its moon, was more of a static decoration in the sky. No sunrise or sunset; the day faded into night into day into night again without it. The kingdom’s borders were high stone walls, beyond which was a mystery that even my kind could not perceive; it simply did not exist. Leaving through the gates led out to… Well, it led me out to Nowhere, but others presumably back their native reality (hopefully). Within said walls were sprawling, spiraling meadows, pastures, and gardens. Neat rows of simplistic homes and facilities leading up to its centerpiece: a modest basilica with a clock tower that stretched far higher than seemed necessary. Everything within this scenery had its similarly mandated colors – or only naturally occurring ones depending on the realm’s laws– of Silver, Indigo, Sapphire, and Turquoise.

After a general overview, I floated down and followed one of the branching stone paths in the garden. Blue roses and peonies lined in neat spirals, soft turquoise grasses, beautiful stone statues, bumbly honey bees buzzing about; I must’ve spent hours in the garden alone. The aforementioned clocktower would sweetly chime each hour before falling into a peaceful quiet again. I spied a few citizens there as I perused the flowers. Besides the silver masks (also mandatory here), they dressed in accordance with the cold weather: Long gowns, capes, and sleeves; furs, feathers, and fluff; soft, warm, and layered to keep the cold at bay. I learned later that those unfortunate few to enter without proper fittings would not stay cold long as the advising Ladies and their orderlies would happily provide suitable clothing. Their motives are well-intentioned, yet also motivated by an implied modesty dress code. Suppose I should have expected as much from the opposite Alagadda.

It was there within the gardens where I found the first lady of the city: Lady Turquoise, wearer of the Solemn mask. Dignified yet understanding. Her stature towered, imposing an air of respect. She was hard at work tending to the hedges; precise in every movement and measurement. A look within revealed more about her and the kingdom itself: This place had a rigid sense of time and a stern set of rules to keep order: both of which were expected to be followed by every citizen. And schedules needed to be planned, written, and updated by someone. The sense of such strict routines was somewhat nauseating – and I like routine, mind you. But now, in a moment of allowed leisure, she tended to her gardens. I would’ve lingered longer to watch her work, but the hint of desperate perfectionism within warded me off. I drifted off towards the main square.

More citizens, and few visitors, were found here. Pleasantly conversing, eating lunches, etc. It was hard to imagine this place had any tie to Alagadda, opposite or not. The mundanity of it was too… mundane. Even the silver masks adorn by all only gave a small sense of strangeness. Even the appearance of the second lady held little fanfare – if you could even call it that. Lady Silver, wearer of the Solaceful mask. A face that knew deep sorrow yet so hopeful. She was out on a daily constitutional, greeted by the occasional passerby. As I lingered near her, more revealed itself: this was a place of pacifism. Violence of any kind would not be tolerated and be “corrected”. That word always worried me, and for good reason. As the clocktower chimed again, I saw how these “corrections” were made. The tower held many rooms: rooms of solitary for those who needed time to accept the help they were so graciously getting. To break those unfortunate habits they brought with them. Truly, they – well, Lady Silver here had her doubts about it, how helpful – believed this method was humane. My growing disappointment accompanied me as I continued my investigation. The city’s basilica awaited.

More flowers, statues, and an endearing fountain decorated the atrium. A faint humming led me to its kitchen. A friendly tune, hummed by a most friendly person. The third lady of the city: Lady Sapphire, wearer of the Amiable mask. Her countenance bore a gentle, inviting smile. She was discussing medicines with a few visitors it seemed, all while baking some kind of honey pastry. Each and every concern of theirs was met with reassurance, every question had a simple answer. There within her I saw the purpose of the city: to be a place of healing and peace. Vows of sobriety, working treatments for nearly every ailment, and a steadfast belief that anyone could be rehabilitated. Such an unwavering optimist, of her own skills and of people in general, that it was almost… concerning. I did not peer any further.

I meant to keep this short, I really did. However, recalling the little pleasant details before Knowing has helped me get to this point. I remember the walls and columns of the nave being a marble of some kind, streaked with silver and indigo. The natural lighting filtering in and mingling with the grey candle lights. Upon the bema towards the altar, lavish bouquets had been placed. I wish I could have enjoyed the scenery longer – I wish I could have enjoyed Addagala in general longer. However, that is not possible now. There upon the altar stood a large crystalline coffin, occupied by a giant corpse wrapped in glimmering, gossamer shrouds: their beloved monarch, the Charred Queen, seemingly at rest in eternal tranquility. And kneeling at her feet, was the fourth lady of the city: Lady Indigo, wearer of the Quiescent Mask. A face serene in sleep. She was deep in prayer, some hushed communion with the queen. Beseechments of guidance, blessings, and the like. I went to peer in to gain some more insight…

But I found nothing. Hollow. Instead, I felt a connection, a string if you will, leading back to the queen’s corpse. So I followed, and I looked within her instead.

I left the basilica hastily. Back out into the open, chilly air. Up, up, up towards the grey sun until the strange claustrophobic feeling left my chest. Having experienced similar horrors already, it should not have surprised me and I should have expected it, but as you can see – I did not learn my lesson! After a moment to calm down, I decided to make one more investigation before leaving. Hesitantly, I stepped down onto the grounds of the garden. All around me revealed the brilliant branching life of the plants, healthy and prospering. Then… then there were the “statues”. Some brighter than others, some were dimming, but none were extinguished completely…The lucky few to receive the Queen's “blessing”, I learned : an eternal state of peace in the land of Addagala. Or at least, that's what the queen told them, the Ladies, everyone...

No. She would not rest peacefully anymore.

All it would take. Is one. Little. Push.

~~~

#scp addagala #scp oc #ocs #scp alagadda #scp #fan oc #lady indigo #lady turquoise #lady sapphire #lady silver #the charred queen #greenghostlyjekyll #jekylldoodles #lmao i already have a ship for one of them and graves for some others #been hard at work with this 😅

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xiaowhore · 4 months ago

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i messed up 😅 i wasn't supposed to post that ayato wip but anyway

heyy it's been a while! i was looking through my account for nostalgia's sake, and i found a bunch of drafts that were already pretty lengthy but i don't think i'll have the time to finish to completion. it's kind of a waste to let them be stuck in the draft dungeon, so i was thinking of posting them in their wip form and adding what the story flow was supposed to be. the fics end awkwardly where i left them, but if you decide the pain of reading an unfinished fic that hasn't been updated for years is worth it to satisfy your curiosity, feel free to read them.

when i tell you they've been rotting in my drafts, they've been rotting. the ayato one i mistakenly posted, i was writing at around the same time i posted "put a ring on it"...

i'll edit that ayato fic to write the story flow at the end and inform readers of its incomplete status after i write this notice, but here are some of the drafts i've looked through that i'll post soon:

- neuvilette transmigration/royalty au

- neuvilette au where ur already married but it's from outsiders' pov

- lyney childhood friends au (this was written at the time of lyney's release and that feels like decades ago)

i cannot warn y'all enough that these drafts are INCOMPLETE. they end abruptly and do not have a proper conclusion. college has been kicking my ass pretty badly so i don't have the time to write, but so that my past self's efforts of writing these drafts don't go to waste, i'll be posting them nonetheless. it's completely up to you if you wish to read them! in the case someone is interested in picking up where the fics left off, feel free to do so. a little bit of credit would be appreciated if you take inspiration from them :)

i've noticed that genshinblr is somewhat dead these days, what with the apparent lack of new male characters, but to those who are still here, it's nice to see you again!

(i also had one (1) draft for love and deepspace??? which i completely forgot about lmao??? i only wrote zayne's but i'll write each male lead's idea/story flow if you guys want me to post that draft lol)

#mao — !

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ganondoodle · 1 year ago

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so, inspired by the warm welcome the captain received with that rough doodle i posted, i made an updated design for Ki'ita as well (basic and with clothes)

i removed the piercings she had bc considering that they spend the majority of their time in arctic waters i think having metal directly in your skin is a bad idea, no matter how thick your blubber is; i also gave her typical white markings a green hue bc ... i liked how it looked and makes them stand out a little more

(i will not repeat what i wrote on the post about the captain but wanted to add a bit of more info about Ki'ita herself)

(i dont have ALL of their backstory done yet but) the captain and Ki'ita worked together in another organization, one in which the father of the captains child also worked at, before being betrayed and barely managing to escape, after which the both of them founded their pirate crew (possible name is the Solar Pirates bc of their solar powered boat stuff); since the captain had her daughter shortly afterwards Ki'ita managed most of the organisational matters at first, including the construction of their base on an abandoned island they had initially fled to

over the years they invented the solar powered ships that allowed them to gain control over a large part of an important trade route, leaving normal ships (mostly) alone but attacking those of hunters and similar, rescuing demons and mutants, even some humans from them, most of which also join the crew and it quickly lead to them becoming their own little community

Ki'ita does not like to spend alot of time among large groups of people, no matter how much she cares about them, and her originally being from norther lands gave her the idea to explore, and if viable, do underground missions in those norther areas to disrupt the infrastructure the hunters had built in recent years and overall keep the crew informed about things that may otherwise stay hidden; with each of their travels her time absent from the base increased but the patience of the captain is wearing thin so its likely a serious talk is underway on Ki'itas third solo mission she nearly died due to entanglement in abandoned nets made by hunters from an unknown material that she could not break, the massive scars on her tail especially come from that, only surviving bc the date they were supposed to return to the crew had passed and the captain grew to worried about her and made the entire crew rush into an emergency search, including the captain herself and her toddler, who were not suited for the cold climate just like the rest of crew, taking a huge risk that Ki'ita still feels ashamed of for causing; they stayed within the base for a whole year afterwards, not just to recover but also as a silent apology, taking time preparing herself to ensure theyd not get into a situation like that again

(before departing on their next mission the captain gifted her a sword with the blade made from the material of the net, a wooden handle, bc of the cold, and a blue wrap around it reminiscent of the captains striking blue teeth; a reminder of what had happened, a means to defend herself when their strength and teeth are not enough, and also a promise to always return again)

the oldest members of the crew know Ki'ita well and treat her like an old friend, among the newer members she has more of a .. cryptic status, the mysteriously absent vice-captain who only appears every few months or so out of thin air, throws a big party, sleeps for a few days and then vanishes again, the only hint to when they will return soon again being the captain getting noticably grumpier

(OC art, Ki'ita, she/they)

#ganondoodles #art #oc #original art #artists on tumblr #original character #character design #monster #man why do i keep writing such long texts #its not even that much i wrote here!!#sorry for the long post #idk if its good to write more about my ocs maybe i shouldnt? might make the post less rebloggable with so much text on it idk #right now im thinking about them actually having a kid together later on but i havent decided yet #their relationship is kinda out of the norm i guess #neither ever said they were in a relationship and neither does the crew know #and they are not overtly like a typical pair in love kinda thing #its hard to explain #they do love each other but its like super private while also not??#like they never say publicly that they love each other nor kiss #but when youd hear the news that the captains having another child and its from kiita youd be like yup that makes sense #(also her nickname is Kiki but only the captain knows that)#ANYWAY #sorry for this sudden disconnected oc spam #i love these lads #and im so happy i got their design down more coherently #i spent over and hour writing all this argh i wanted to get more sleep for once damn it #just now noticed i fked up kiitas arm there #man #dont draw when you are tired and need to sleep kids

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amethystarachnid · 4 months ago

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Hi! 🤍

I was wondering if I could request 14- A Little Christmas Magic with Tony Stark x F!Reader?

I was thinking maybe Tony’s on a mission that was supposed to have him home by December. his fiancé/girlfriend/whatever just got notified that the mission has been extended by a few months and things are not looking good for him. Christmas Eve rolls around with little update on the Tony’s status and she’s can’t help but worry about him. But then surprise! he makes it home safe and sound for Christmas after all!

Feel free to use all or none of my idea. You’re the amazingly talented author not me 😜 thanks!

CHRISTMAS MAGIC

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The living room smells of cinnamon and pine. The tree is already up in the corner, draped in twinkling lights and glittering ornaments, though the star at the top waits patiently in its box on the coffee table. You want Tony to put it up with you—one of the little traditions you’ve built together over the past couple of years. Your phone sits propped on the arm of the couch, playlist cycling through Christmas classics as you hum along, arms full of ribbon and paper. The gifts you’ve been quietly sneaking into the house are finally getting wrapped.

It’s one of those moments where the house feels just right. The kind of warmth and peace that makes you smile without realizing it. Outside the frosty windows, a light snow drifts down. You glance at the weather and wonder if Tony’s flight will come in on time. You’ve been anticipating his arrival like a kid waiting for Santa—counting down days, hours, and minutes until he’s back.

The sound of your phone buzzing pulls you out of the wrapping haze. Your heart leaps with the familiar tone of Tony’s incoming call, and you swipe to answer, eager to see him. The screen flickers, and there he is, a little grainy from the connection but still breathtakingly Tony. His trademark smirk softens when he sees you, and despite the distance, you feel a rush of warmth.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, his voice threaded with that weary edge you know too well. Missions take their toll, and this one’s been dragging for days already. Still, he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

"Tony!" you chirp, setting the half-wrapped present aside. "You have perfect timing. I was just about to start on your gift, but I guess the surprise would’ve been ruined."

He chuckles, a sound that makes your heart squeeze. "Caught you red-handed, huh? Maybe I planned it this way." His expression falters for just a second, a flicker of something you can’t quite place.

"You okay?" you ask, leaning closer to the screen. "You look tired."

"Yeah," he says, but there’s a weight to it. "About that… Look, I hate to do this—especially now—but the mission’s gotten a little more complicated. I’m going to be out here longer than I thought."

The words sink like stones in water. Your heart skips, then thuds painfully, and you feel the cheer of the room dim. "How much longer?" you ask, even though you can hear the answer coming in the hesitation on his face.

He looks away for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. "I probably won’t make it back by Christmas."

You sit back, the weight of it pressing on your chest. Christmas without Tony. It’s unthinkable, but the reality of it is staring you down through the screen. "Oh," you manage, your voice quieter than you’d like. "I—I mean, I get it. You’ve got to save the world and all."

"Y/N…" He leans closer, like he wishes he could reach through the screen. "I’m sorry. I know how much Christmas means to you. I tried to wrap things up in time, but it’s just not happening."

"It’s okay," you say automatically, though the lump in your throat betrays you. You don’t want to make him feel worse than he already does, but the idea of spending Christmas alone sends a pang through you. "I know it’s not your fault."

His face softens in a way that makes it harder, not easier. "You sure? Because if there’s anything I can—"

"No," you cut him off, forcing a smile you don’t quite feel. "No, really. I’ll be fine. Just promise me you’ll stay safe, okay?"

"I promise," he says, his voice low and steady. "You’re too good to me, you know that?"

You laugh, though it comes out more brittle than you intended. "Someone’s got to keep you humble."

"Keep the tree warm for me," he says, and his smile is back, even if it’s tinged with regret. "I’ll make it up to you, I swear."

"You better," you tease, though your voice cracks slightly. "I expect something shiny under that tree when you do."

"It’s a deal," he says, and for a moment, you just look at each other, neither of you wanting to end the call. Finally, he sighs. "I should go. But I’ll check in when I can. Love you, Y/N."

"Love you too, Tony." The call ends, and the screen goes dark, leaving you staring at your own reflection in the glass.

The house feels too quiet now. The music still plays, but it doesn’t seem as cheery. You sit for a moment, the roll of wrapping paper abandoned beside you. The ache of missing him settles in, but you shake your head, trying to push it aside. It’s not like you didn’t know this was part of loving Tony Stark. He’s Iron Man, after all. Saving the world comes with the territory.

Still, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt.

You force yourself back to the task at hand, wrapping gifts with renewed determination. If Tony can’t be here, you’ll make the most of it anyway. You’ll put up the star, drink the eggnog, and watch the cheesy holiday movies you’d picked out for the two of you. He’d want you to enjoy it, even if he can’t be part of it.

The hours slip by, and the house fills with the quiet hum of your efforts. You finish wrapping the last gift, arrange them neatly under the tree, and light a candle that smells of peppermint. The ache in your chest lingers, but you try to focus on the little things, the things you can control.

Later, as you sit by the fire with a mug of cocoa, you let yourself daydream about what it’ll be like when Tony does come home. You picture him sweeping you up in one of his dramatic airport reunions, showering you with that over-the-top charm that only he can pull off. You’ll tell him how much you missed him, and he’ll tease you for being so sentimental, even though you know he missed you just as much. The thought brings a small smile to your lips.

The snow falls heavier outside, blanketing the world in white. You curl up under a blanket, watching the lights on the tree twinkle softly in the dim room. It’s not the Christmas you planned, but as you sit there, you remind yourself that loving Tony means taking the good with the bad. And no matter where he is, you know he’s thinking of you. That has to be enough—for now.

The week before Christmas is quieter than you expected it to be. The festive buzz around the city doesn’t reach you in the same way it usually does. The joy of decorating, baking, and planning feels hollow without Tony to share it with. You go through the motions, trying to keep yourself busy. Wrapping presents, watching Christmas movies, and even putting up the star on the tree—all of it feels muted. There’s no one to laugh with you when you drop half the sprinkles on the floor, or to playfully complain about the holiday music you insist on keeping on repeat.

You try not to let it get to you. Tony’s doing something important; you know that. You tell yourself that he wouldn’t be away unless it was absolutely necessary. But every time you see the empty space beside you on the couch or pass by the photo of the two of you laughing in front of last year’s Christmas tree, your chest tightens.

He calls when he can, though the timing is sporadic. It’s usually late at night when you’re bundled in pajamas, the house quiet around you. The grainy video calls are the highlight of your day, even if they’re brief. He always has that same soft smile when he sees you, the one that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

On one of those calls, a week before Christmas, you decide to bring it up. You’ve been holding onto the idea of sharing at least a small moment with him on Christmas. Even if he can’t be here, maybe a video call at midnight would be enough to close the distance.

"Hey," you say, trying to sound casual as you lean closer to the screen. "I was thinking… Since you can’t be back by Christmas, what if we video call at midnight? You know, to celebrate together in some way. It’s not the same, but… it’s something."

Tony’s face shifts, and the easy smile falters. There’s something guarded in his expression now, and you feel your stomach twist before he even says a word.

"Y/N," he starts, his tone careful, as if he’s trying to figure out how to soften the blow. "I was going to tell you… The mission’s entering a different phase. It’s more secure now—strictly off-grid. I won’t be able to call you anymore until it’s done."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you just stare at the screen, trying to process what he’s saying. No calls. No texts. No way to hear his voice or see his face for who knows how long.

"Not at all?" you ask, your voice small and unsteady.

He shakes his head, guilt etched into every line of his face. "Not at all. It’s protocol—classified stuff. I hate it as much as you do, believe me."

You bite your lip, fighting the tears that are already threatening to fall. "So, that’s it? You’re just… gone until whenever this mission’s done?"

"Y/N," he says softly, leaning closer to the screen as if he can somehow reach you. "I don’t want this any more than you do. If I could, I’d drop everything and come home right now. But I can’t. And I hate that I’m leaving you alone during Christmas—especially Christmas."

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you understand. But the words stick in your throat. It doesn’t feel okay. Not at all. Christmas is supposed to be about togetherness, warmth, and love. And now the one person you want to share it with is being pulled away even further.

"I know you have to do this," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it feels like… like everything is just slipping away this year. First, you’re not here, and now I can’t even talk to you? It’s—it’s a lot, Tony."

He looks down, his jaw tightening, and when he speaks again, his voice is heavy with regret. "I know. And I’m so sorry, Y/N. I wish I could make this easier for you—for us. But you have to know how much I love you, even if I can’t say it every day. That doesn’t change."

Your heart aches at his words. You know he means them, but it doesn’t stop the pain. Tears spill over despite your best efforts, and you quickly swipe at them, not wanting to break down completely in front of him. "I just miss you," you say, your voice cracking. "I miss you so much, and it’s hard knowing I won’t even have you for Christmas."

Tony’s face crumples, and for a moment, he looks as helpless as you feel. "I miss you too, more than I can put into words. And when I get back, I’m going to make this up to you, I swear."

"When?" you ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer. The uncertainty stretches between you like a chasm.

"I don’t know," he admits quietly. "But as soon as I can. That’s a promise."

You nod, though it doesn’t feel like enough. There’s so much you want to say, but the words get caught somewhere between anger and sadness. Instead, you stare at him, memorizing every detail of his face—the way his eyes soften when they meet yours, the faint stubble on his jaw, the warmth in his gaze even now.

"I love you," you say finally, your voice trembling. "Even if it hurts right now."

"I love you too, Y/N," he says, his voice breaking just a little. "Always."

The call ends not long after, and as the screen goes dark, the silence of the house feels suffocating. You press your hand to your chest, trying to steady the ache that feels too big to contain.

Christmas is going to be harder than you imagined.

The house is quiet, almost too quiet for Christmas Eve. You sit curled up on the couch in your coziest pajamas, the flickering lights of the Christmas tree casting soft shadows around the room. A holiday movie plays in the background, but you haven’t been paying attention to it for the past hour. Your phone sits beside you on the coffee table, its screen dark, a constant reminder that there’s no call coming this time.

Your friends had called earlier, trying to coax you into joining them for a little Christmas Eve celebration. They’d promised laughter, food, and distraction from the heaviness that’s been weighing on you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to go. The thought of smiling and pretending to be okay when your heart feels so heavy didn’t appeal to you.

Instead, you’d stayed home, trying to cling to the smallest fragments of holiday spirit. But it’s hard. The room feels too big, too empty without Tony. Midnight is only minutes away, and with every passing second, the ache in your chest deepens.

You glance at the clock—11:59. In one more minute, it’ll officially be Christmas, but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like any other lonely night, only worse because it’s supposed to be magical. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over you, and you take a shaky breath, willing yourself not to cry.

The clock ticks over to 12:00. Christmas. You squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip hard to keep the tears at bay.

Suddenly, a knock echoes through the quiet house.

Your heart leaps, then immediately sinks. You tell yourself not to get your hopes up. It’s probably a neighbor or someone who got the wrong house. Still, you stand, your steps hesitant as you move toward the door.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Coming," you call, though your voice is barely above a whisper.

You unlock the door and pull it open, and the breath rushes out of you.

"Tony," you whisper, staring at him in disbelief.

There he is, standing on your snowy doorstep, looking tired and a little disheveled but very much alive. His hair is tousled, his jacket dusted with snow, and there’s a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"Surprise," he says, his voice warm and full of relief.

For a moment, you can’t move. You just stare at him, your mind racing to catch up with what your eyes are seeing. Then, before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you can.

"You’re here," you choke out, your voice muffled against his shoulder. "You’re actually here."

He wraps his arms around you just as tightly, burying his face in your hair. "I couldn’t stay away," he murmurs. "Not for Christmas. Not when I knew how much it meant to you."

Pulling back slightly, you look up at him, your eyes searching his face. "But the mission—you said you couldn’t call, and I thought—"

"I wrapped it up faster than expected," he says, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "I pulled a few strings, worked a little Stark magic. There was no way I was going to let you spend Christmas without me."

The tears you’ve been holding back all night finally spill over, but this time, they’re tears of relief. You laugh through them, shaking your head. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

"Oh, I have an idea," he says, his tone teasing but his eyes soft. "Because I missed you just as much."

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips. It’s warm and full of all the things neither of you can quite put into words.

When he pulls back, he glances past you at the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner. "Looks like I made it just in time," he says, his smile widening.

"You did," you say, wiping at your cheeks. "You really did."

He steps inside, kicking the snow off his boots, and you close the door behind him. The room feels different now, brighter and warmer, like the Christmas magic you’ve been waiting for all season has finally arrived.

As he shrugs off his coat, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a small box, holding it out to you with a grin. "I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d make it up to you. Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

You laugh, taking the box and opening it to reveal a delicate necklace with a tiny, shimmering star charm. Your breath catches, and you look up at him, your heart full to bursting.

"It’s perfect," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles, pulling you into another hug. "You’re perfect," he murmurs.

For the first time all season, it finally feels like Christmas. And as you sit together by the tree, your heart full and his hand warm in yours, you know this is a moment you’ll never forget.

You curl up against Tony on the couch, the warm glow of the fireplace illuminating the room as the faint crackle of logs fills the air. His arms are wrapped around you, holding you close like he never wants to let go. For the first time in weeks, your heart feels light, the ache of missing him replaced by the steady comfort of his presence.

But there’s a lingering curiosity in the back of your mind, one that’s been nagging at you ever since he showed up at your door. You lean your head back to look at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

"Okay, spill," you say, narrowing your eyes playfully. "How did you really get here? Last I checked, your mission was supposed to be classified and impossible to leave. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’re here, but I know you, Tony. You don’t just pull strings. You rip them right out of the piano."

He chuckles, his chest rumbling beneath you as he shifts to meet your gaze. "You know me too well," he says, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "Fine, you want the truth? It’s a little embarrassing, but here goes."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "I’m all ears, Stark."

He takes a deep breath, his lips twitching into a smirk. "So, the team I was working with… Let’s just say they weren’t exactly operating at peak efficiency. A lot of standing around, too much red tape, and way too much talking about doing things instead of actually doing them. After about three days of that, I hit my limit."

You bite back a laugh, imagining Tony’s frustration. "Let me guess—you took matters into your own hands?"

"Of course I did," he says, grinning now. "I’m Tony Stark. I’m not built for inefficiency. I started doing my own research, cross-referencing every bit of intel we had, building my own models, running simulations. And guess what? Turns out, when you stop waiting for a committee to make a decision, you can actually get things done."

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. "You solved it, didn’t you?"

"Five days," he says, holding up a hand like it’s a trophy. "Five days, and I had the bad guy’s location, his entire operation mapped out, and a strategy to take him down. I handed the team my findings on a silver platter and told them to execute it while I booked it home."

"Unbelievable," you say, your laughter mixing with genuine admiration. "You’re a genius, you know that?"

"Yeah, but it’s nice to hear it from you," he quips, pulling you closer. "Although I’ll admit, my motivation wasn’t exactly pure."

"Let me guess—me?" you say, teasing but already knowing the answer.

"Of course you," he says, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. "I couldn’t stand the thought of you being here, alone, on Christmas. I know how much this time of year means to you, and the idea of missing it… missing you… It wasn’t an option. I had to make it happen."

Your heart swells, and you lean up to kiss him, slow and lingering. His hand slides to your cheek, holding you there as the kiss deepens. The warmth of the fire blends with the heat of his touch, and you feel yourself melting into him.

His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear that always sends shivers down your spine. His hand moves to your waist, fingers brushing against the edge of your shirt, and your breath catches.

"Tony," you murmur, your voice a mix of hesitation and longing.

"Hmm?" he replies against your skin, his voice low and teasing.

You pull back slightly, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. His eyes meet yours, darkened with desire but immediately softening when he notices the hesitation in your expression.

"Wait," you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I want to give you your gift first."

He blinks, surprised, then sits back, tilting his head as he studies you. "My gift? I thought I already got it when you opened the door and let me in."

"Nice try," you say, laughing softly. "But no, this is something I’ve been working on for a while, and I’ve been dying to give it to you. Just… wait here, okay?"

He nods, his curiosity piqued. "You’ve got my full attention, sweetheart."

You climb off the couch and hurry to the bedroom, where you’d hidden the gift beneath a pile of blankets in the closet. It’s wrapped neatly in glossy red paper with a gold ribbon, and your heart races as you carry it back to the living room. This wasn’t just any gift; it was something you’d poured your heart into, something you hoped would show him how much he meant to you.

When you return, Tony’s eyes light up as he sees the package in your hands. He sits up straighter, reaching out as you hand it to him.

"Wow," he says, turning it over in his hands. "Fancy wrapping. Should I be worried about what’s inside?"

"Just open it," you say, settling back beside him and tucking your legs under you.

He tugs at the ribbon and carefully peels back the paper, revealing a sleek leather-bound book. He flips it open, his eyes scanning the pages, and you watch as his expression softens.

It’s a scrapbook, filled with photos, handwritten notes, and little mementos from your time together. There are snapshots of the two of you at galas, on lazy mornings in the kitchen, and on spontaneous road trips. You’d included ticket stubs from movies, pressed flowers from a trip to the countryside, and even a napkin with a doodle he’d once scribbled during a coffee date.

"Y/N," he says softly, his fingers brushing over a page where you’d written a heartfelt note about how much he meant to you. "This is… incredible. I don’t even know what to say."

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, and you shrug, trying to downplay the nerves bubbling inside you. "I just wanted you to have something that reminds you how much you’re loved. Especially when you’re off doing Iron Man things and we can’t talk. So, even if we’re apart, you’ll always have this."

He looks up at you, and the emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. "This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten," he says, his voice thick with sincerity. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

You smile, leaning against him as he pulls you into a hug. "I’m glad you like it," you whisper, feeling his arms tighten around you.

"I love it," he says, his lips brushing against your temple. "And I love you."

"I love you too," you say, tilting your head up to kiss him again.

This time, the kiss is slow and sweet, a promise of everything you’ve shared and everything still to come. The fire crackles in the background, and the snow continues to fall outside, but in this moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other and the magic of Christmas.

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