#I kept forcing to at least finish the sketch

[nounaarts]

I’ll finish this another day is what I’ll keep telling myself for the next week or so

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

[necromosss]

Saying this in best way possible.

I envy on how you can convey everything wonderfully with only sketches yet it feels like a finished piece. I envy you not because I think my art is bad but more because of my perfectionist mind forced me to fleshed everything out before it deemed "post worthy" one day I want to improve and be more confident with my sketch just like you so I won't physically strain myself by making everything I made as polished as possible.

This might come as me also venting, (but!) this ask made me.... think.

Believe it or not, anon, what you envied of me is actually one of the biggest insecurities i have as an artist. I really think I should have put more effort to finish my works, but it just feel off whenever I did :")

Anyways!

It's totally alright to take time for your art! But if you do want to try to be confident with your sketch more, I'd suggest......to think that nobody cares.

This.... might be a bad advice and a bad way to see your own artworks, but these are what I kept telling myself:

Nobody would care if I had/hadn't finish or perfect this. Nobody will point it out anyway. No one ever did.

To me this looks clear enough. Readable enough. If my dumbass brain can understand it, so can everyone else.

Does this sketch sets the mood/feeling/intensity enough? If it doesnt then its time to rely on splashing some colors

If they like this messy excuse of an art then good for them and if not? Well at least my thoughts are already put OUT there and not kept locked inside. Like breathing a fresh air.

And thats that. I hope you can feel more comfortable with your sketches soon🫶 OH and thank you, anon🥹💖

Sad thoughts/vent part below cut. Not necessarily connected to answer anon!! (just me pouring my own feelings/thoughts out!)

I... really enjoy just putting out my thoughts emotions and ideas via my sketches but at the same time, it kept made me question myself if I—as an artist—was ever worth all this attention when I couldn't even deliver something "finished." Hells, even when I did a finished, rendered art, it never made an impression as close to equal sd my "stupid doodles" does.

I feel like i perform and deliver better using rough sketches because I love to emphasize the rawness of gestures and emotions that raw sketches provide. But nobody around me thinks so. Because it's like im not done yet.

I didn't know my place. Nobody around me (in my local indo artist communities) preferred my works because there's always someone out there with a more polished & pretty art. Mine is... just never seem to look finished. I always look like i... underperformed.

So what Im trying to say is. Maybe we have our own strengths and weaknesses. Whats important is that we find out own comfortable paces and methods. And that is still a long heck of an artist journey that i myself still need to discover.

[lapinauxfraises]

Making your Michael some more soup (cazuela so he gets his protein and carbohydrates and veggies), and then tucking him to bed bc he looks exhausted. Baby, please take a nap, do it for your fans

He would love to lay down and rest, sleep, but sleep is not what he calls it anymore, just like he doesn't call that thing that works with him by the name of Elias Bouchard.

Michael can't sleep, hasn't for a long time. The closest he feels of it being the small moments of respite he feels when his body decides to shut down for some newded hours before he's forced back up again. He doesn't believe it is his own body forcing him awake.

And he knows why. And he sees why. He knows that this faceless thing that follows him in the smallest, faintest dreams he can make is whatever took Elias away from him

He used to like Elias, he really did. Their relationship has not a label he could properly set on it, but it made them happy enouh for their shitty little institute jobs that more often than not had people looking down on them.

Michael doesn't remember when it changed, doesn't want to. But he knew the moment that it did. Elias's green eyes had been beautiful, but the grey ones that stared at him trying to mimic the same warmth just could never do it.

It felt like staring at a corpse.

And that corpse seemed to enjoy to stare, knew that the longest he looked the more afraid Michael would be of being *seen*.

[I actually have some sketches of Pre-Jonah Elias laying around! I just couldn't finish them for the ask... Buuut I kept it here! I'll put it down once itget to The Episodes. I'm only on s4 right now]

[also tagging @sleepdeprived-idiotlol since you asked for Michael with a kitty before:] it did make me think! And at first I thought it'd be funny to have him allergic to cats, but maybe that was before or after he got this one. He loved it with his whole soul, he always felt so lonely, at work, at life, but this baby made him keep going, so he did.

Some part of the Distortion wonders if Gertrude was kind enough to find it a home. Or if she had at least set it free so it wouldn't starve in an empty home.]

[stolaz-the-artist]

Alright so.... here's my first NK request.

MORE PRINCE CLAY!!!!!! PUFFY SLEEVES AND PANTS AND A FANCY VEST PLEASE!!!! And a talking robot hawk because royals used to hunt with birds of prey and also its his symbol :3

‼️YEAH NEXO KNIGHTS, FINALLY‼️

This is the first fully finished piece i've made in weeks! i know that doesnt make sense since i've kept up my consistant posting every friday, but thats only because of ✨scheduled posts✨

Exams have been kicking my ass. So getting to put my baby boy in a pretty little outfit after weeks was such a reward. I had so much fun working on this. Figuring out the colour palette wasn't easy, but i liked what i came up with in the end. And i also messed around with a few variants on the gems. It was a hard pick, but here are the other ones i really liked.

Now i had a lot of fun with this AU once more, so obv i came up with my own ideas, so a bit of text is coming up along with some sketches. But if not, at least check out the original version of this AU made by @localcryptid3. Super cool people, both the asker and AU creator. Support them!

Want to make a request? Heres info, and a deeper dive into the rules.

Alright here we go!

In the orginal version it seems like Merlok is somewhat the king, but i personally woulndt go with that. In this specific version i made Wanda is the queen but she's sort of crazy. Like cursed. I recently got back into Ever After high so i'd imagine something like the Queen of hearts maybe. But if Merlok would be the king i'd put her in more of a spot like The evil queen iykyk. If you don't, watch it!

This is not his prefered style at all. This is Wandas style, which she forces him to wear. So dont come after me. He def doesn't like the corset, and crystals, yada yada. So bulky and gets so much in the way for him.

He definetly has this formal persona that is meant to make social situations less awkward, but it really doesn't. Big words, strict mannerisms. People mistake him for trying to act like he's better than everyone else, but he truly doesn't think that at all, not even remotely. Cough Cough autism Cough Cough

He'd be in a very similar place as Macy, where he has to beg his mother to let him be a knight. His mother only caved in because he promised to prioritises his magically studies (He's still overworked, he cant and wont escape that fate.). But he is still very well taught in fighting, just not in a knightly way.

I always like that Clay seems to have a minor fear to public speaking (according to his VA) and i would definelty wanna play more on that. Like him dangling over a mental breakdown before every royal speech, only for him to bottle it all up and just push through it (something that totally wont have sever consequences)

The castle isn't as open as it is in canon. Very closed off, scary gothic castle vibes. The spying birds is to both keep track of staff and Clay and Fletch.

Alright enough rambling, time for doodles

(Cursed/put under a spell to be crazy/crazy)

(Misses how she used to be but plays along for the kingdoms sake)

Fletch appreciation

Was forced to wear this if he was to work at the castle (endures it so he can ensure his nephews safeties)

Crazy lady appreciation

Pre-curse (Yeah physically you cant really tell a difference)

Fletch fit

Fletch ❤️

Anyway, do give me more NK requests, i enjoy doing them so much! i had a lot of fun and would love to have an excuse to keep drawing my babies!

[stardustrebels]

More of You- Chapter 3

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

WC: 2.6k

Rating: 18+ for eventual smut, MDNI

Series Masterlist | Blog Masterlist Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: After a devastating betrayal and loss, you left everything behind on the East Coast and promised yourself a fresh start in Austin, Texas. Independence as your new mantra, you vow never to let anyone too close again. Then you meet Joel Miller- a man whose warmth and Southern charm makes it hard to stick to your resolve. As your feelings deepen, you’re forced to confront your past- and question if letting someone in again is worth the risk. 

Tags: No outbreak!AU. Coffee shop meet-cute with a slow-ish burn. Sickly sweet fluff with eventual smut. I wanted to write something that gave me the warm fuzzies, and I am kicking my feet and giggling while I write this. Joel Miller just deserves a good life, you know? Joel and reader have a teeny tiny age gap- Joel is 42, reader is mid 30s. Sarah is 19. No use of Y/N, minimal descriptions of reader. She has hair long enough to tie back and she wears skirts and dresses.

A/N: I'm really beginning to enjoy writing again, and this fic has really become the highlight of my holiday season. If you're reading this little story, thank you from the bottom of my heart- I really hope you enjoy it! Maybe these two idiots will actually manage to speak to each other in the next chapter. We can but hope, eh?

Your heart sank a little the next day when you arrived and the table where the handsome Mr. Miller had been the day before was empty. You tried to ignore the little stab of disappointment as you ordered, and sat down in your usual spot, scanning the rest of the tables for any sign of him and told yourself to stop being absurd. You were disappointed because, what, a handsome man in a coffee shop wasn’t there to shoot you half-smiles while you ogled at him? 

Despite the internal scolding you were giving yourself, you kept glancing at the clock as you worked. He’d been here early the last two days. You guessed before his 9-5. You absently wondered what he did for work. Nothing about his phone call yesterday had given it away. You figured if he didn’t show in the next fifteen minutes, then he wasn’t going to. 

Despite your clock-watching, you managed to get a good chunk of your own work done. You’d brought your drawing tablet today and were digitising another logo based on some sketches you’d done the night before. It helped distract you, at least that’s what you told yourself. Every now and then, your eyes darted to the door or scanned the empty tables around you. Each time, the knot of disappointment in your stomach tightened a little more. 

By the time you’d finished outlining the design, an hour had passed and you were resigned to the fact that he wasn’t coming. You felt foolish. He was just some guy whose morning routine had coincidentally, temporarily overlapped with yours. A thought struck you then, harsh and clanging: you hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on his hand. 

Had you even looked?

Your stomach turned at the realisation. No, you hadn’t. You were hit with a sudden shame, laced with biting hypocrisy. Too caught up in a fanciful daydream without stopping to consider the most basic facts. For all you knew, he could have a wife, kids, a whole life that had nothing to do with you and never would. 

You let out a sigh and set down your tablet with as much care as your exasperation would allow, irritated with yourself. You glanced around at the other customers in the coffee shop, caught up in their own busy morning routines and told yourself to let it go. You shook your head in an attempt to clear the thoughts. There was no point in spiralling over a complete stranger. Maybe it was better this way; a stark reminder to stick to the plan you’d promised yourself. This was just the universe’s way of making sure you stuck to it. The universe was a dick, you concluded.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and you were mulling over whether you would be better off finishing your work for the day at home. You were not, you told yourself firmly, going back to your apartment to sulk. 

The chair scraped lightly against the floor as you shifted to begin packing up your things. Just as you reached for your tablet, the bell over the door jingled and a gust of warm air swept in to the shop. 

You glanced up reflexively, and your stomach swooped. There he was. As if you’d summoned him with the sheer force of will. Mr. Miller. 

He stepped up to the counter, his broad flannel-clad shoulders framed by the morning light spilling in behind him. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He looked harassed, and didn’t return the cheery smile the barista offered as he ordered.

It might have been wishful thinking, but his expression looked faintly apologetic as he glanced over at you, before turning toward his usual table. He ran a hand through his unruly curls as he glanced down at his phone, frowning. He caught your eye again and you offered him a small smile. The furrow in his brow lessened and he smiled back. He draped his jacket over the back of the chair in front of him and hesitated before he pulled it out to sit. He took a step away from his table towards you and your eyebrows shot up- was he actually coming over here? Was he going to talk to you? You were struck with a sudden panic;  heat rising up the back of your neck as you tried to look nonchalant. Before you could gather any kind of coherent thought, a familiar voice rang out from somewhere behind him.

“Hello, stranger!” 

You looked up, startled, and watched as he paused awkwardly mid-stride. You resisted the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation as the source of the voice bounded past him, her dark curls bouncing as she moved, a bright smile plastered across her face. You would recognise that voice anywhere.

“Summer, hi!”

A genuine smile spread across your face despite the unexpected interruption as you stood and pulled her in to a hug. Summer was the one good friend you’d made since moving to Austin- a whirlwind of energy and unfiltered opinions who, after a brief but unforgettable drunken conversation, had taken you under her wing. 

You’d been sitting quietly at a bar the night that you met her, nursing a drink and privately celebrating your first freelance client. It was a small victory, but one you were determined to savour, even if it was in solitude. Summer had appeared like a bolt of lightning, plopping down on the stool next to yours with a conspiratorial grin. 

“Celebrating alone? That’s tragic. Me too,” She’d declared, flagging down the bartender before you could respond. Her confidence had been disarming, and you found yourself telling her all about the new client and how you’d only just moved to Austin a few weeks ago and didn’t know anyone. “You do now!” She’d said happily, clinking her glass against yours. 

From that night on, Summer had been a constant in your life. She dragged you out of your apartment for brunches, happy hours and art shows. She’d shown you the best thrift stores, the hidden coffee spots, and the parts of the city you’re sure you would have never found on your own. And despite her tendency to bulldoze through social norms with her exuberance and complete lack of filter, she’d become someone you’d quickly considered a true friend. 

“You are not going to believe the morning I’ve had,” Summer said, flopping in to the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. “I am officially in the market for a new job. Again.”

As happy as you were to see her, as she chatted away you couldn’t help but sneak glances over to the other table when you thought Summer wouldn’t notice. Your heart sank slightly as, not long after he’d arrived, he shot back the last mouthful of coffee and made moves to leave. You tried to keep the disappointment from showing on your face. 

“You’re distracted,” Summer said suddenly, pulling your attention back. 

“What? No I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving in to a smirk. You opened your mouth to protest further, but the words stuck in your throat. Your eyes flitted back over to the table over her shoulder and her eyes followed yours, and before you could stop her, she turned in her seat to look. You didn’t dare take your eyes from her as she snapped her head back to you, curls flying conspicuously.

“Huh. Well, I don’t blame you. He is pretty distracting.” Summer murmured, looking back again in a way that was anything but subtle. You hissed her name through your teeth, mortified. 

“What? He’s hot,” she said,  shrugging unapologetically as she turned back to you again. “And he’s looking over here.” 

You felt your cheeks heat, and you busied yourself with your coffee. “He’s not looking over here.” 

“He totally is,” she insisted, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eye.

You hesitated, glaring half-seriously at her over your coffee cup, weighing up whether to throw gasoline on this particular fire. You leaned in, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sketchbook. Summer smiled sweetly at you from across the table, hands clasped under her chin, eyes wide with anticipation.

“He comes in here a lot,” You murmured across the table, setting your coffee down, “Every day, in fact. We’ve… smiled at each other a few times.” You said, only realising how ridiculous it all was when the words left your mouth.

Summer laughed and dragged a hand down her face dramatically. 

“Oh my stars, you’ve smiled at each other? Alert the church elders!” she said, her eyes glinting in a way you didn’t like. “Next time he looks over, wave him over here. I’ll do it for you if you-” 

“No!” You said quickly, ignoring the fact that you saw his head snap up to look at your you in your peripheral. Your heart was suddenly pounding in your chest. 

“Don’t you dare. Summer,” you pleaded, “I mean it.”

Summer laughed again, but held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, fine. I won’t.” 

You sighed in relief as he went through his usual leaving ritual, stealing glances as he shrugged on his jacket, checked his watch and carried his empty coffee cup to the counter.

“I wonder what his name is,” Summer said as she watched him leave, her head tilted as she admired him before turning back to you with a sly smile. “Bet it’s something rugged like Jack or Keith.”

You giggled and relaxed a little back in your seat now that there was no danger of him overhearing you, or Summer talking to him on your behalf. 

“His surname’s Miller,” You said on impulse. You shrugged and blushed slightly at the expression Summer shot you. “I overheard him on the phone yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you say?” She groaned, grabbing her phone from the table. She tapped furiously at the screen, her brow furrowed with concentration. You sipped your coffee, watching her with a mix of amusement and unease. 

“What are you doing?” You asked warily. 

“Finding him, obviously,” she replied without looking up. 

“Summer, no,” you protested, leaning forward as if you could somehow stop her through sheer force of will. “That’s creepy!”

“It’s not creepy; it’s resourceful!” She countered happily, lips twitching in to a grin. “If you spend every day pining over this guy, you might as well find out who he is.” 

You groaned, sinking back in to your chair. “I’m not pining.” 

Summer raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. A few seconds later, she let out a triumphant noise and turned her phone screen toward you. “Miller Construction,” she announced. “That him?” 

You reluctantly leaned forward, your stomach flipping as you scanned the screen. There, under a sleek header for Miller Construction: Consultation & Project Management, was a row of polished photos of the company’s leadership team. 

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you spotted him. His hair was neater, his beard was shorter and he was maybe slightly younger, but it was unmistakably him, smiling at you from the screen. You smiled back at his picture despite yourself, ignoring the flips your stomach was doing. You blinked at the name under his photo.

Joel Miller. 

Summer grinned wickedly, turning the phone back to look. 

“Told you it’d be rugged,” she said, putting on a deeper voice and waggling her eyebrows at you, “Jack. Keith. Joel.”

You laughed, watching as Summer scrolled through the website, her eyes darting about the screen. “If he’s here tomorrow you have to speak to him. Introduce yourself. He clearly wants you to,” she said, flicking her eyes back up to you. 

“I don’t know, Summer. He’s probably married or-”

“No ring,” Summer interrupted, wiggling her left hand at you “First thing I checked.” 

You rolled your eyes at her, but your face felt hot. 

“I’m supposed to be focusing on myself, Summer,” you said, before draining your coffee cup, “I don’t have time for-”

“For what?” Summer interrupted you, “Who says it has to be anything serious? He’s gorgeous, seems polite enough, owns a thriving business apparently. You should just let yourself have a bit of fun once in a while.” 

You stared down at your empty coffee cup and bit your lip as Summer continued, “Life’s too short to pass up an opportunity like that,” she said, locking her phone and placing it back down on the table.

“You’re incorrigible,” you said, throwing her a weak smile. 

“And you’re stubborn,” She shot back, grinning at you fondly. 

“Anyway, you jobless wonder” you said, eager to move the conversation on, “tell me everything that’s happened since I last saw you.” 

Summer left an hour later, only after you agreed to join her for brunch at the weekend. You packed up your things and headed home with every intention of diving back in to your work, but your focus wavered the moment you walked through the door. Your space felt unusually quiet; the hum of your appliances doing little to fill the void. You threw open a window to let the buzz of the city float in before you set up at your desk, determined to finish the logo you’d been working on this morning. It was no use, after ten minutes you’d made zero progress. The pen sat idly in your hand against the tablet. You pushed back from the desk, rubbing your temples, and tried not to think about Joel Miller. 

The memory of his hesitant step toward you in the coffee shop replayed in your mind. The furrow in his brow, the way his eyes had softened when you caught his gaze- it was maddening how much detail your brain had decided to cling to.

Before you knew it, you’d typed “Miller Construction Austin” in to your browser search bar. A moment later, the company website loaded, clean and professional with bold, simple fonts. The homepage featured photos of their completed projects and a blurb about the company. You clicked through to the “About Us” tab at the top of the page without a second thought.  

And there he was. Joel Miller, listed as founder and co-owner. Dressed in a nice suit and tie, dimples framing his easy smile. The image was a different side of him than you’d seen in the coffee shop, but his eyes were the same- dark chestnut pools filled with a warmth that made your chest tighten. 

Your finger hovered over the x on the tab, ready to close it, but you didn’t. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as if putting some distance between yourself and the man staring back at you from the screen would somehow untangle the knot in your chest. 

You’re unsure whether Summer had done you any favours by finding him, by giving him more of a weight in the world. You might have been better off with the limited information you’d had before. With a heavy sigh, you finally closed the tab and shut your laptop. You sat for a moment, staring out the window as the sun set over the city.

You allowed yourself a moment to reflect on your experiences so far here in Austin. You’d arrived here without any kind of plan beyond ‘find somewhere to live’, and ‘make money so you don’t starve’, and everything seemed to be going okay so far. You considered Summer; you always aspired to be more like her- less anxious and worried, more impulsive and hedonistic. You were working on it. It was a slow process. 

You pushed away from the desk and stood, stretching your arms above your head, pushing away deep internal conversation and instead wondering what to have for dinner. 

By the time you climbed in to bed later that night, you’d worked through some of the thoughts bouncing around inside your head, and settled on the rationalisation that you often forgot: that life would unfold as it always did, in its own time, no matter how much you tried to steer it.

For now, you’d let the day end and see where tomorrow took you.

Next Chapter

[sempsimps]

Gregory Violet x reader

okay so after episode 5 i made this draft and I've only just finished it now leave me be anyway i have no idea why i thought that making reader a bluwer sibling but the narrative fits to good? i don't know. I've written so much that i cease to see who asked anymore, but oh well

sweet fluffy kisses turned

admirers to lovers?

fast burn boi (its a one shot what do you want?)

slight mention of you being an unwanted sibling because you haven't done anything yet. lol imagine

Context

It's the cricket opening ceremony, you are the twin of Lawrence Bluewer, along with your 7 sisters who needed to go to the cricket matches to see Lawrence play it, was his last year after all. but you didn't really like parties that much, too many people, but someone caught your eye the first year you came here. unknowingly, Gregory had found his gaze drifting over to the sister Bluewer never mentioned. It's always the 3 older and 4 younger, never the twin, always a stain on the family. but Gregory always noticed the empty space on his sketch "something's missing," never pointing it out. although curiosity almost getting the better of him, and you seen that over the years he became a prefect and he was just so pretty from afar. Just the right type of quiet but skilled and fitting into the role of prefect, and he wasn't even there?

Standing next to the blue athlete door, resisting the urge to yawn. Listening to the lower headmaster of the school although it was unusual for him to do the speaking it was still the same boring lines and then the thudding came 'green house I suspect oh look at that I'm right' they received the most applause and respect becuse they always won 'mh with that knowledge it will be red next' the second i thought it the rose petals fell all around and some of my sisters audibly swooned at it 'ugh gross, their practically throwing themselves at Redmond' I rolled my eyes at this, but I seen the lights dim, and focused on the purple door the candles let off a purple flame it was beautiful but short lived the doors opened and... 'Nothing?' No one came out. A scream from further in the room rang out. 'ah somewhere in the crowd then at least that was new' a soft smile on my features as I scanned the crowd, to look for him, only catching a glimpse of a golden tassel, before my shoulders are grabbed and I'm forced to look at my brothers team, walking though the reception for blue was always so awkward barely a few people even clapped. 'wow what a crowed anyway' i looked around for the purple, noticing the cloaks were all the same so i kept scanning each one looking for the slight difference amongst them, i looked to my chaotic relatives the older two playing match maker with Adela (only cannon name i can find) the taller little girl with glasses and an equally awkward blue house boy rolling my eyes away i started to walk towards the purple house eating area attempting to walk away i was stopped by a hand on my shoulder i freeze completely slowly turning my head to see it was Redmond 'oh my god no no no please don't' forcing a smile

"hello?"

"Good evening, my lady. Would you care for a dance tonight? i know it's only the announcement, but -"

"No! i mean uhh no thank you"

i blurted out, giving a small cough and turning to let the hand fall from my shoulder. 'oh my fucking god no, no, no, not now, not ever' thankfully a younger sister called out to the prefect to ask for a dance. sighing and looking up, seeing another flash of gold and purple with white hair moving at the purple door as i try to move away again, but my older sister stood in my way.

"Why would you ever turn down Redmond? he has plenty of status for you to be of -"

"No, I'm good"

she looked shocked, and another broke in. i felt anxious now, feeling some eyes on me.

"You have to like someone here. There's plenty of handsome boys around"

I'm sweating bullets now, awkwardly shimming to the side, trying to escape. standing on my tip toes, getting a flash of his deep purple eyes, and looking at me between the crowd before turning away. my eyes widen and i try to walk over yet again, not even getting a foot forward before i felt another person invading my space, this time i glared daggers at the poor soul who was also know as Lawrence, his face was a thin line and half serious eyes.

"Could everyone just leave her alone"

"awww Lawrie"

they faded out as i was overwhelmed already, this place sucked and i only wanted to build up the courage to talk to-

"It's violet, right?"

"...huh?!"

i was more shocked in horror now looking at my brother, the calm tone setting in, and my face flushed he just sighed, fixing his glasses with one finger looking away before speaking.

"i hoped it wasn't but, alright come on"

"Huh? w-wait, how did you?"

my words fell flat he started to walk back through the door the athletes used, and i quickly glanced around before following him through. i was confused. No way, it had been obvious, right? All the girls would have picked up on something they're like sniffer dogs with this stuff. once i caught up with Lawrence, i looked at the spacious corridor that was perfect to make the entrances that they always did. I'm surprised curiosity never came through me to explore behind here. All the way the walls looked was beautiful, like most of this gothic school. once i was done admiring the architecture, i saw my brother moving along. we had passed the red door, then we reached the purple one. 'Wait. is he seriously taking me to Violet? oh god, he is, isn't he? i thought he didn't care about me, and why now is it because it's his last year?' My mind was spinning, and my face felt warm. Lawrence simply moved towards a door it looked like a store room, and he knocked before speaking.

"Hello Violet, I've brought company"

nothing was heard from the other side, but the blue haired boy opened the door. i tried looking in it was basically pitch black except for a small purple flame, which illuminated the space, not to mention the little light coming in from the hall me and my brother blocking the majority of it.

"Oh, it's you, thanks you Bluewer"

i was confused, but i didn't have much time to think, as i was lightly pushed forward, and my brother made a slight go-ahead gesture. i made a "really" face to him, to which he nodded, pursing my lips but proceeded into the void.

"I'll get you after the celebration dies down"

"wait Lawrence what's going on?"

he just smiled, giving a small good luck and left, closing the door so that the only purple flame from the prop lit up the room. my gaze was dawn to it, and maybe to avoid the intense stare i was getting, my eyes looked over the intricate design of the wand? it was amazingly crafted and the wolf skull was awesome every year purple house was the most interesting to see but its not like they won the game but i still found myself cheering for them i first seen violet in the stands and he talked to Lawrence they were the drudges at the time speaking of that boy i looked to the side of me he looked awkwardly sat his knees up to his chest arms crossed in the crook of it his eyes boring into mine and at this i immediately looked away the dark lighting did nothing to hide how pretty he looked those eyes which were illuminating and that lipstick made him seem so kissable 'oh god I'm in the same room as him alone. wait, alone, this is just like that game. Sis mentioned it. Ugh, what was it called again?' lost in thought i failed to notice that Gregory had moved, and his hand had come in contact with my cheek, his palm was soft, like he hadn't done much physical work, but the calloses on his fingertips proved his did a lot of art. 'Wait, he's...' My face exploded with heat, as my brain and his eyes came into contact with mine. The purple was intense and extremely captivating.

"uuhh h-hi so, is this where you disappear to after the entrances... It's quite nice not many people go here either, so it's a lot quieter. So, how come Lawrence knows where this is? Did you tell him, or do all the prefects do this? Sorry, i realise I'm talking too much. I'll just shut up now okay great"

i covered my mouth with both my hands backing up slightly, his hand falling from my face.

"How come Bluwer never mentions you?"

"Oh well, I'm uhhh kind of not that welcomed by everyone since i haven't shown much potential or ..... benifit"

i was embarrassed by this. i didn't really want to talk about it, obviously, but what he said next was unexpected.

"You're beautiful, peculiar. like salamander eyes"

i looked at him, blushing and confused. 'Is that going to be a compliment, too?' Either way, i had no other thoughts other than to kiss him

"Can i uhh...."

my words fell flat, and i just leaned forward. my lips kissing his i felt lightheaded, butterflies in my stomach. i felt some of his lipstick smear onto my lips. i pulled away the softness of them still lingered on mine. he faintly tasted like a mix of the fruit juice they had set out, defiantly apple and a hint of orange, maybe cranberry as well. Gregory had a light red blush dancing across his face.

"I'm sorry i didn't ask if i c-could uhh do that"

"It's alright, i didn't ask you to stop"

Gregory looked away it was now my turn to place my palm on his cheek, and i pulled him towards me, and his body wilfully followed.'Oh god, is this really happening?' we awkwardly kept our hands on each others faces, our teeth accidently clashed, and he pulled away. a bigger and deeper blush spreading from his cheeks down his neck, which was only barely visible in this outfit and the dimly lit room he broke my silent adoration, my mouth unknowingly was open.

"You're... uhh, you're really pretty"

"i uh t-thank you. i think you're pretty too"

we both blushed, and i looked away. but his gentle touch slowly turned my head back, letting us have another kiss. This one was slower more organized than the others. It let us fully enjoy the moment of peace and half confession. his tongue lightly passed through my lips, and i returned the gesture, he let out a small noise of surprise, this didn't feel real. I was so lost in the moment that we both failed to notice the door opened. and a clearing of a throat made both me and the lover boy break apart and look towards the sound. There stood my brother and Redmond, who giggled a little. I'm guessing Greenhill was somewhere off to the side

"Come on, sister, the others are leaving now"

Lawrence was obviously annoyed but held a smile. while Redmond thought to tease the poor emo boy some more.

"My , i wouldn't have guessed this from a Bluwer sibling. How romantic. How are you feeling Violet? rather flushed, it would seem"

"Be quite Redmond"

Gregory was blushing his mouth noticeable, had some sliver on them, and he wiped his chin.'When did that happen?' but we both equally looked a mess. i could feel the remnants of his lips on mine, not to mention the likely stained black lipstick. soon i stood up, and everyone moved out of the doorway. Violet followed after me, and i felt him link pinkies with me 'god that's adorable'.

"Lawrence, could i -"

"Yes, here"

it was a bit of paper that had our address specifically for letters. I passed it to Gregory, which he placed into an inside pocket. afterwards, we said our goodbyes and Lawrence led me to the other girls. When i left, i heard Redmond tease by saying violet should have had a parting kiss with such a beautiful maiden.

okay so this took me sooo long to write like i started it after episode 5 and here i am weeks later but i feel like did really good on this so whatever i will make a smut scene that i was going to add but i thought to keep it separate but on ao3 it will be one fic

[ghcstao3]

Soap likes to draw. It’s a simple fact of his life, and just about anyone who knows him knows it too. On or off base, he’s usually never without a notebook and an apparatus of some kind, because it passes the time, and it serves well to document his missions in further detail for both himself and debriefing.

Everyone knows this, and Soap is aware of that. What no one knows, however, is Soap’s favourite subject, because that’s a notebook that’s kept secret and often left only to be used on leave.

The only person who knows is Ghost, whose form fills those pages in some way or shape, because Soap knows damn well no matter the effort he’d never be able to hide such a thing from him, especially not once they’re living together beyond work.

(Of course, it doesn’t help, either, that Soap prefers to study Ghost while he sketches, rather than drawing solely from memory—because how else would he capture the most intricate of details?)

That being said, Soap could trace the fixation back to a single moment in time, where an itch to scratch branched off into a near obsession from only a couple of seconds, and that moment is the first time Soap ever sees Ghost’s face.

It’s unexpected, the way Ghost pulls off his mask in front of the 141 and company. His eyes are almost squirrely, never quite meeting anyone’s gaze, but Soap doesn’t think he’s ever been so in love.

He doesn’t get quite enough time to memorize, however, before another mask is being slipped over mussed blond hair and pale scarred skin, and suddenly Soap is overcome by the desire to draw Ghost.

To draw Simon.

When they finally arrive back on base following the Las Almas operation, Soap doesn’t waste any time pulling out his notebook and drawing Ghost to the best of his memory. When he finishes, he knows he’s gotten some things wrong, but he hasn’t much to work with. He erases and pencils in new lines tens if not hundreds of times trying to get it right, but it simply isn’t possible.

It’s too bad for Soap, because he just isn’t satisfied with his current result, and it’s too bad for Ghost, because Soap is a persistent, stubborn sonuvabitch.

They’re not quite on leave when Soap begins his endeavour, just between missions. He starts by making a purposeful show of drawing the 141, forcing them to sit so he can, supposedly, get everything perfect. It’s under the guise that he sucks at drawing people (a complete and utter lie), and what better way to practice than with those waiting around.

Soap saves Ghost for last, and it’s a damn good thing he does, because what a difficult affair it is convincing him to sit for, what Ghost deems, “a stupid art project”.

“I have better things to do, Johnny,” Ghost tells him. “And you do, too.”

Soap shrugs. “Maybe. But I won’t stop asking ‘til you agree, Lt.”

Ghost would continue to push off the request—a true testament to his resolve, really—but Soap would continue to insist, so finally, eventually, Ghost breaks.

The encounter is more than reluctant, but Soap figures that Ghost has realized it's either now or later that it happens. He still wears his mask, of course, but it’s only the balaclava—so at the very least, Soap could get his eyes just right.

And that’s a better start than none.

They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of the base for Soap’s “stupid art project”. Ghost shifts constantly while Soap scribbles away in his notebook, first unsure where to look, then unsure of where to put his hands. Soap wears a smile the entire time.

“You’re allowed to move, you know,” Soap says after much too long of a time. He keeps himself from laughing. “It’s better if you do, really.”

Ghost glares daggers at Soap. “You didn’t want to tell me that sooner?”

Soap grins at the Lieutenant but makes no further comment. He’d rather have his life spared for the time being.

Once Soap has finished, he doesn’t say anything. He just sets his pencil down and closes his notebook and makes to leave. Ghost watches every movement closely and remains silent himself. Only, he doesn’t move from his spot, and Soap can almost feel that he has a question he’s debating to ask.

It never ends up phrased as a question, but Ghost’s hesitation is so palpable it might as well have been.

“Let me see.”

Soap hadn’t expected Ghost would want to, though a part of him had most definitely hoped otherwise. He doesn’t put up a fight for such a reason, instead wordlessly passing the notebook to Ghost to browse.

It’s Soap’s turn to fidget as Ghost flips through pages. Most take only a few seconds, nothing more than an impassive look, but Soap knows the moment Ghost stumbles upon the page of his face, sans mask. There’s an instant of realization from them both, and the world feels at a standstill.

When Ghost clears his throat, Soap does his best not to flinch. Maybe this endeavour isn’t worthwhile. Maybe it’s nothing more than an invasion of Ghost’s privacy. Of his person.

Finally, Ghost looks up at Soap, his hardened gaze no different from the one he always wears. There’s no emotion in them, and Soap doesn’t know if that makes everything better or worse.

Soap doesn’t notice how tightly Ghost grips the notebook until later, when he spots the accidental smudge of graphite from the Lieutenant’s thumb.

“When did you do this, Johnny?” Ghost asks. His voice is low and steady as usual, but there’s a near unnoticeable strain that sends guilt through Soap’s body. By now he’s certain he’s made an irreparable mistake.

Soap swallows. “When we got back from Las Almas, sir.”

Ghost looks back at the drawing and nods. He does as Soap had and closes the notebook, sliding it back and standing from the bench where Soap had told him to sit. Soap waits nervously, impatiently, for Ghost to say anything, to curse him out, to tell him to get rid of it, but soon it seems like he would do nothing of the sort.

“Not bad,” is all he tells Soap, before walking off to disappear to God knows where. Soap stays glued to the spot for a solid five minutes following, until he finally feels like he can breathe again.

Not bad. Soap supposes it could’ve been a lot worse.

[crowtaclysm]

I also got into pressure and made a Pressure self insert sort of!

Meet Rivet Stitch!

He got yoinked by UrbanShade because he along with a coulple of friends were tryin to gather intel on the company to expose all the horrible things they had done, plan didn't go as accordin though when the hacker of the group accidentally triggered security, Rivet and his friends had to make a run for it but in their desperation to escape they threw him under the bus, leavin him to get caught. As punishment he was used for experimentation and kept in the site, forced to comply and work as "The Warden" via various control devices they had on him.

He seemed to get along with Sebastian and tolerated anyone he considered innocent working at the site(like janitorial staff and such), when the lockdown happened the control devices he had on went off, leavin him paralyzed and in pain, with no hope to escape, it was Sebastian who found him first and removed them for him.

Nowadays he stays in the site as he knows he has no chance at returnin to society while lookin like this. He resents his ex-friends, not only for usin him to save their asses but because he knows(and it's true) that they never again tried to get in, hack or even contact him to see if he was still alive.

After years of knowin Sebastian as well as spendin time with him after the lockdown, they grew close together, started datin and are currently "married". Rivet is not a big fan of marriage and would rather avoid it, but he went along with Sebastian because he seemed happy with the idea, he likes matching marriage rings with him and loves bein called husband/hubby by Sebastian.

Rivet has the DNAs of a Leopard Seal, a Lion Fish, a Lancetfish, a Shortfin Mako Shark, an Inland Taipan, a Flashlight Fish and [REDACTED]

Size wise he's not as long as Sebastian but he's larger than him, Seb reaches at about Rivet's shoulders. The redacted creature in his DNA is what gives him his size. Rivet is also both venomous due to the Inland Taipan as well as poisonous due to the Lion Fish. His bite as well as anything green and sharp are to be avoided if you want to survive.

His game mechanic has him stalkin the player most of the times, he always spawns in thouse rooms with windows that have Naval Mines outside, he'll be hidin behind thouse, makin constant eye contact. He only becomes a threat whenever the player is underwater, be it crossin a big openin on the site followin the beacons or in flooded rooms. His tell will be the loud scratchin of his claws against the floor and walls as well as his hissin and growlin as he rushes towards the player. If he doesn't see you he very much acts like an Angler(will rush in and out at least twice and at most five times), minus takin the lights out. If he does see you however you'll have to hide in a locker and will get a minigame similar to Pandemonium's or you can avoid him by hidin somewhere out of reach like a vent or a small crevice, he'll claw at it for a bit before givin up and leavin.

Lastly he also has a mechanic in which he will use his natural glow to make the player think it's a beacon and lure them into a hole in the wall that leads to water before swipin at them and draggin them in, if you have another player close by you'll be able to be rescued by them at the cost of 50 points of damage that continuously drain overtime due to his poison unless you use a medkit or pay Sebastian to remove the poison out of you(if you pay him you'll get an easter egg of Rivet laughin and lookin at you from the hole on the ceilin of Seb's shop, Sebastian will also let out a small amused chuckle at Rivet's mockery), if you're solo or your friends are too far it's an instant kill, the tell is easy however as real beacons also have smoke comin out of them while Rivet's fakeout only has the green glow.

And now, a WIP of the gays under the cut:

Lord this sketch is so messy, I'll try to finish it tomorrow.

[darkroguescribe]

Hitsuhina Week 2024 -Day 3: Wings / On a starry night

Rating: T

Summary: Fantasy type AU with dragons and magic. I'm not entirely sure how to describe it just yet.

AN: Inspired in part by Sarah J Maas' books. I am OBSESSED.

I honestly spent so much time on this I barely touched any of the other prompts.

I probably have at least part of story already sketched out and another 4k written but I didn't want to end this submission awkwardly with an unfinished chapter. Will I ever finish it? I have no clue. I don't have the best track record for long stories unfortunately.

Chapter 1

Don’t go South. The old warning kept ringing in his head as he berated himself for not listening to his patron. Hyorinmaru had told him the old stories many times over the years. Drakist wards who had thought themselves brave and too clever to be discovered only to be caught and killed for their foolishness. In all his years, Hitsugaya had never thought he’d end up like them. And yet, not only was he South of the barrier, but he was now on the run from sadistic human dragon hunters.

Don’t go South. He should have turned back the moment he crossed the barrier and felt the magic leave him. The last time he’d been without magic had been so long ago, and he was ill prepared for traveling without it. But venture forward he did. It was just going to be a quick look. A confirmation that the stupid dream was just that. A dream. There was no village with sweet smelling trees the colour of fire. And that voice, a woman’s voice. The dream hadn’t been particularly clear on that part. It could have been the voice of the kind old woman from his earliest memories, it could have been his mother, or it could have been someone else entirely. All he knew for certain was that the voice was female and that she was kind.

Hitsugaya had confided his dreams to his patron. The ancient dragon had told him some dreams do indeed have meaning. But seldom are they as straightforward as showing him a real person or place. Likely, it is a metaphor or a warning of some abstract thing to come. Hitsugaya accepted this logic for a while but as the dream kept coming, it felt less like what the dragon had said, and more like something that actually was real. Hyorinmaru had taught him to trust his instincts. And the call to the South had slowly become hard to ignore. Not even the disorienting effects of the barrier was enough to deter him. In fact, it seemed to make the instinct to follow it stronger until one day, he stepped across the barrier to the South for the first time since he had become a Drakist ward.

What a mistake that had been. 

Hitsugaya fought the urge to collapse as he forced himself to keep walking. The cuts on his bare feet stung, and his palms were still slick with blood. His own blood. Human blood. His hands had long since gone numb but he swore he could still feel the heat from the human’s flesh as he clawed at the hunter’s throat. He could still feel the hunter’s pulse on his finger tips. Hitsugaya shook his head. He had to keep moving while he could. The adrenaline would wear off at some point. He had to get back North if he wanted any chance to survive. Stumbling through the wet grass, he turned his nose to the sky. 

Weak as he was, he could still smell the distinct burning smell that the barrier gave off. it was faint. He hadn’t traveled too far South before he was captured. Which meant that if the scent was faint, they had dragged him farther into human territory than he’d intended. How long had he been held in that cabin? The humans had been smarter than he’d thought they would be and had taken the time to manipulate his sense of time. They’d kept him in the dark so day and night blurred. Hitsugaya had tried to keep time with his injuries. The wound in his abdomen had been one of the first injuries he’d suffered. He wanted to guess it had been two weeks since he crossed the barrier but it could be longer. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for an injury to heal without magic. And with how often the wound kept opening, it made the timeline hard to be accurate.

Hitsugaya tilted his head back and smelled the air once more. Mixed with the scent of the barrier he could smell the heaviness of the sky and a static charge that tickled his nose. A storm was coming. Fast. Quickening his pace, he ducked under branches and stumbled through the most direct path he could find in the dense forest. His feet scrapped against the roots sticking up from the ground, and he grit his teeth and he kept moving, he followed the twisting trees, and ducked under a small low hanging branch, but not low enough. The sharp twigs hanging off scraped against the open wounds on what remained of his wings, the sensation, causing his body to convulse in pain before he fell to his knees in agony. Hitsugaya clawed at the ground, swallowing a scream that wanted to come forth.

The stumps that once were his wings twitched, his shoulders trembling from barely restrained pain as he pressed his forehead to the ground. Pain. Anger. The two were one and the same at that moment. A Drakists wings were a gift from the magic in their blood. And a necessity for surviving in the North. The terrain could be unforgiving with steep mountains and deep ravines. The best way to reach the numerous settlements was by flying. To be wingless was akin to death and Hitsugaya could certainly attest to that. Wings were their greatest asset and also their greatest weakness. Sensitive especially along the bones where the nerve clusters resided; when the hunters had cut into his wings, it had felt like being set on fire and getting electrocuted at the same time. Despite the pain, he counted himself somewhat lucky they hadn’t gotten the chance to cut the roots of the wings from his back. If they had, not even Minazuki, the greatest healing dragon could help him.

Pushing himself up onto shaking legs, he stumbled forward a few steps before his knees gave out. The ground beneath him was loose and uneven, the loss of balance sent him tumbling down into the small dip in the forest. He braced himself as he fell, gladly taking the impact with his head if only to spare his back more pain. He lay there for several minutes, face pressed into the wet ground. He was exhausted. It was clear to him that he wasn’t going to make it to the barrier today. Not with the storm coming. Hopefully it would also keep the hunters off his trail for a bit as well. Sitting up, he looked around for something that could give him shelter. He saw nothing but trees and roots. Grabbing the trunk of a tree, he dug his claws into the bark and hoisted himself up, leaning his weight against it, and pushing himself off to stumble into the next. It was clumsy and slow but it made it easier on his aching legs and kept him moving at least until he found something that could work for shelter.

After moving through the forest like this for what couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, the first drops of rain began to fall. The cold water stung his wings, and had him dig his claws even deeper into the trunk of each tree he touched as he tried to keep traveling through the pain. As more rain started to fall on him, he felt like he was about to vomit from the pain, when he finally found something that was partially suitable for shelter. 

This part of the forest looked like it was likely part of the mountain runoff path. The large dip was wide and the ground a mix of sediment that differed slightly from the rest of the forest. The edges were lined with large stones and a couple of the large boulders were wrapped tightly with the roots of an ancient tree that had grown and wound itself around the rocks. A cluster of roots had punctured the stone, creating a wide opening into the rock itself. It was the best he was likely to find.

Hitsugaya crawled inside, the stone was solid and while the space itself was small and the roof comprised mostly of roots, it was decent shelter and provided enough shelter from the rain. He was none tired and for the first time in a long time, he felt cold but he would not dare risk a fire. Tempting as it might be, a fire would draw attention and if any hunters were tracking him, the smoke would only draw them to his exact location. 

He tucked himself as far in the back of the alcove as possible, finding a mostly dry spot on the ground to lay down. Tucking his arm under his head, he rested on his side, drawing his knees close and allowing himself the moment to finally rest. Just before he let himself sleep, he closed his eyes, reaching his senses out in an attempt to reach his patron. The connection was too faint for him to hear anything, but he hoped that the dragon could at least hear him when he said ”I am alive.”

———

Tosen was dead. Captain Aizen had brought her to the cabin to confer with Tosen regarding the string of disappearances that had occurred in the past month. They suspected it was a Drakist and Tosen had sent a message claiming to have information to support the suspicion. It was meant to be a simple meeting, and so for them to arrive only to find the place covered in blood and Tosen on the ground with his throat ripped out, it called for quick decisive action to find the creature before it could kill again.

Momo had never seen such carnage before. The body was hardly recognisable, covered in viscera, and slashed with monstrous claw marks; she knew Drakists were dangerous but this level of sadistic torture was worse than anything she could have imagined. Captain Aizen had been furious to find one of his best hunters dead. The order had been clear even before he gave it; find the Drakist. And kill it.

Hunters from every town within riding distance had been rallied and sent out to find the Drakist. Captain Aizen had kept Momo in his party of five. This was to be her first real hunt and while she put on a brave face and was excited to see hunters at their best, she also harboured her own fears. She had spent years preparing for this. Learning and training with the best on her travels with Captain Aizen. She wanted, no, needed to prove that she was capable and useful to the party. That the Captain had not wasted his time by teaching her. And this was her chance.

Gin had found the first positive sign of a trail. A series of bloody patches pointed towards the Tobi Forest the density would make it difficult for them to follow on horseback.

“This one thinks it’s clever,” Captain Aizen remarked, pulling sharply on the reins of his large warhorse. The black horse gave a snort, and counted on the ground, eager to continue the chase. “It thinks that we won’t follow on foot. But we will. Not only that, but we’ll cut it off. Gin,” He said, pointing to the smiling silver haired hunter. “You take two others around to the other side of the forest. We’ll cut it off when it tries to leave.”

“As you wish, Captain,” Gin pointed to the other two hunters in their group and the three of them gave the horses a firm kick, sending them galloping East towards the nearest edge of the forest.

Momo frowned, “Won’t that take too long?” She asked, “By the time they get to the Northern end of the forest, it could already be gone. And we can’t very well chase it down. The horses will get hurt if we push them too fast in there.”

Captain Aizen smiled, “We’re not taking the horses,” He said. “We’ll track it on foot. That should give Gin enough time to get in position. Besides, look,” He pointed to the darkening sky. “It’s going to rain. The beast will seek shelter. It will not move until the storm has passed.”

“Can’t it just fly through the storm?”

Captain Aizen shook his head, “If it could fly, don’t you think it would have already? It’s already been traveling on foot. I’d guess Tosen managed to damage the creature’s wings before it killed him. That makes our job that much easier.” He held up a finger giving a gentle warning, “But just because it is easier, do not underestimate these things. They still have claws and teeth and will be even more defensive without the use of their wings.”

Momo twisted the iron protection ring on her finger and squared her shoulders. She could do this. “Yes, sir,” She said, following Captain Aizen’s lead as he dismounted and hitched his horse to one of the trees. They removed their packs from the saddles, arranging what they needed carefully on their person. With crossbows in hand, they entered the Tobi Forest.

Guard my back, as I guard yours. Momo still remembered the day Captain Aizen had saved her all those years ago. The wyvern had not been particularly big, perhaps twice the size of draft horse but as a child, the thing had terrified her. Frozen in fear, she had not been able to move as the wyvern had closed in on her. She would have died if Captain Aizen had not shown up when he had. His fierceness in battle and gentle manner when he spoke to her, had eased her out of her stupor and he’d known exactly what to say to help her. Guard my back, as I guard yours. Even though he knew there was no more danger that day, he’d given her a task to do as he helped her find her way home. Watching out for more danger had given her something to focus on besides the fear and the what-ifs and his praise as they continued walking had been the first steps towards her building her own courage when it came to dragons and Drakists. It was because of him that she was not afraid of monsters. It was because of him that she now dedicated herself to protecting whoever she could from the same monsters and, maybe one day she will help him finally put an end to the dragons. 

A world without dragons. A world without fear. The idea brought a smile to her face as she imagined it. The magic of the land would be available to them as well as the rich land to the North. Overgrown towns could expand, food could be planted in abundance. No longer would people need to worry about food shortages if they could utilise more farming land. Too long have humans been subservient to the will of dragons. And Captain Aizen was the first human to make any headway in uniting the humans against their common foe. It made Momo proud to serve under him. To have even a small part in this moment in history was an honour.

Just as the Captain had said, the storm did arrive. It poured down on them as they walked, the ground slowly becoming a small hazard in itself. The sky was pitch black, illuminated only for a moment when lighting flashed across the sky. Captain Aizen stopped at a tree examining the low hanging branches. Lightly he touched one of the bare twigs, his fingers came away red and he showed it to her. It had been here. Recently. Momo double checked her crossbow, making sure the bolt was in place and the string was taut. She reached down to touch the hilt of her iron dagger, checking that the grip was accessible and the blade could be drawn cleanly.

The Captain raised his first two fingers, flicking them forward twice in a silent signal. Momo tapped her cheek under her right eye, silently indicating that she was ready and watching. He gave a small smile, and led them on. The rain was coming down harder now. Any tracks that had been left in the mud had been washed away, leaving them without a clear direction to travel.

“Shouldn’t we have run into something by now?” Momo asked, nearly having to shout over the rain.

“It’s toying with us,” The Captain said. A roar from the sky had both of them ducking under the trees as they pointed their crossbows up. Momo could not see anything, the rain making her squint with the force, and her wet hair sticking to her forehead and dripping even more water down her face. The rumble that followed did not sound like thunder. Momo looked to her Captain and saw his brown eyes narrowed in deep concentration. another roar and rumble came from somewhere in the sky behind them and they turned, searching the sky for anything. The lightning illuminated a large serpentine shadow for a second before fading into the darkness. “It’s an Oriental,” Captain Aizen whispered, his eyes widening.

“But I thought—“

“Quiet,” He ordered, staying quiet for several moments before turning to her. “This isn’t a normal Drakist,” He said. “If he serves an Oriental, then his magic is incredibly strong even here.” He looked to the sky again. “The dragon is looking for him. Kill the dragon, it’ll make the Drakist vulnerable.”

Momo’s eyes widened. Killing a wyvern like the one she’d seen as a child was one thing. But an Oriental? There were some who claimed they were immortal. Even Captain Aizen said they were nearly invincible.

Captain Aizen took on a strange look on his face, pushing his hair back, he turned to her and reached into his pack. He took out a cloth wrapped around something, pulling the twine knot holding it closed, revealed a glowing orb with symbols carved into the surface. “It’s called the Hōgyoku,” He explained, turning the orb in his hand, showing her the artefact and the runes that seemed to shimmer even in the dark. “I’d spent years searching for a magic that humans can possess. Searched through remnants of ancient texts, and oral histories; Dragons are not the only ones capable of magic. And with this Hōgyoku, I can use magic to kill the Oriental.”

“But, Captain—“

“I need you to take care of the Drakist,” He said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “It will not be as daunting a task as you may think. Once the dragon is dead, the Drakist will not be able to use magic. In fact, it will likely be in excruciating pain. It should be an easy kill.”

Momo hesitated for a moment, but looking into his eyes, pleading for her help, she couldn’t refuse him. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

Captain Aizen smiled, “I know you won’t.”

———

This was looking like the worst storm Momo had seen in years. The wind bit at the exposed skin of her face and hands, and the rain had even managed to seep onto her clothes under the wax hunting coat she wore. She struggled moving forward, the tree roots and mud made it difficult for her to find decent ground to step on and with the added challenge of the darkness of the forest and needing to be vigilant and aware of all of her surroundings, it forced her to move slowly.

A loud rumble startled her into diving against the closest tree. Squatting in the mud, she fumbled with her crossbow, the grip had become slick with rain, and her numb fingers trembled against the leather, slipping out of position too often for her liking. Lightning illuminated the sky in short bursts of white light. She made out some small details about her location and after checking to make sure she was clear, she sighed and stood, ducking under the branches to continue onward. 

Momo continued with her rotation of looking ahead, at the ground, and the sky with practiced precision as she made her way through the dense wood. It had been awhile since she and Captain Aizen had parted ways. Besides the sound of distant cracks of lightning and the rolling rumble of thunder, she hasn’t heard anything that sounded quite like that Oriental dragon’s roar from earlier.

She smiled, imagining the Captain standing over the corpse of the beast. Dead at his hands because of the Hōgyoku he’d shown her. This could be it. The beginning of a major shift on the continent. The first move towards a better future. The fall of the dragons. All that was needed was her part in the plan. Killing a powerless Drakist. If she could do that, then maybe it would be the final push needed to convince other settlements to join forces with Captain Aizen and contribute to his plan for a united human realm.

A snap, squish, splash; the wet mud under her foot gave way as the saturated ground slipped out from under her, taking her with it. The side of the small hill she’d been walking had slid down into the small depression. The tree beside her now stood at a slant with half the roots pulled out of the ground, and the rest weakly held onto what little perch it could to keep the tree rooted.

Momo had ended up on her back in the mud. Sitting up, she fumbled on the ground searching for her crossbow which she’d dropped in the fall. “No, no, no,” She whispered as she dug in the mud in a desperate search. She rolled onto her knees, crying out, as a sharp pain ran up from her ankle to her knee. With a hiss, she rolled back onto her butt, touching her leg gently. There was no pain in her shin but her calf ached and her ankle felt tender through the thick leather of her boot. “Damn,” She sighed. Unarmed and injured. This was not good. For her very first hunt, this was pathetic. Momo reached for her belt, her dagger was still there. She wasn’t completely unarmed but getting close enough to use it would be dangerous. Still, she had to keep going. Captain Aizen was counting on her. She would not fail.

Biting her lip through the pain, she carefully maneuvered herself close to a tree using to help her climb up to her feet. She hissed as she tested weight on her bad foot. It was painful especially when she put her full weight on it but she could push through the pain. With one hand on her dagger, and the other on a tree, she began limping with determination, intent on completing her mission.

Feeling her way along, she touched every tree she could to help with the weight bearing. The bark of every tree felt the same up until it didn’t. her fingers traced five deep gashes cut into the trunk of a large tree. The lighter colour of the sapwood under the bark was visible and squishy. The marks were fresh. Less than a day old. Hobbling to the next, she found similar marks of the same depth and spacing. Momo’s heart quickened. She was close. Drawing her dagger, she held it tightly, looking around for where the creature might be. No tracks in the mud, but the tracks were in the trees. Was it trying to lead her into a trap? She narrowed her eyes and scanned the area. Trap or not, Captain Aizen was bravely risking his life to face a dragon. The least she could do was deal with this weakened Drakist.

Following the trail, she eventually came to the point where it ended. No more trees were marked. She stood tensely in the forest, looking all around for where it could be hiding, waiting to jump her when her guard was let down. She would not give it the chance. Thunder cracked through the sky as a bright flash lit the forest. A shadowy crack in the rocks caught her eye. The Captain had said it would likely find a place to hide. This had to be it.

Momo breathed, warm air onto her hands, shaking out the cold numbness from her finger tips. She had to be ready. “This is it,” She whispered. Standing tall and pushing away from the tree to carefully limp her way directly towards the opening in the rock. At the mouth, she took a step in, her free hand out stretched while her dominant hand held the dagger in a fighting position. She checked the sides of the rock first, to make sure it wasn’t waiting at the entrance for her, but there was nothing. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then she saw it.

Her fingers trembled as she closed in on the Drakist. It was huddled against the back wall lying on its side. Two short bone-like stumps stuck out on its head where its horns once were. Sawed off by the looks of it. Its hair was covered in filth with traces of white roots barely visible. It was dressed in a pair of ruined trousers and a thin shredded shirt both looked as though they might have been a light blue at one point but were now stained with maroon, brown and black.

Her eyes trailed back to its head where she looked for the first time at its face. Her fingers holding the dagger trembled. It looked… human. Its face that of a young man, with no signs of the elongated snout, the animalistic mane, or the monstrous teeth that everyone said Drakists possessed. Were it not for the horns, it could be mistaken for a regular man.

And then she saw its eyes. Eyes as green as an emeralds with a slight glow looked up at her, narrowing for a moment before relaxing. It breathed a slow breath, its mouth opening as it began to speak in smooth timbre that sent a chill down her back.

“Are you here to kill me?” It asked.

———

Chapter 2

———

Momo’s voice stuck in her throat, all she could do was give a weak nod.

It made a rumbling sound as it sighed, its eyes looking past her towards the opening. “It’s too bad it’s raining,” It said. “I would have liked to see the stars one last time.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Momo asked. “After everything you’ve done?”

It gave her a confused expression, “I haven’t done anything.”

“What about the people you killed? The ones you ate.” Her grip tightened on the dagger as she held it high. “Your tricks won’t work on me.”

Its eyes looked at the iron blade, and then to the iron ring on her finger and it smiled, “Iron is for faeries. It does not work on dragons. Besides, dragon magic is elemental. We can’t do those kinds of manipulations. That was always the magic of humans.”

Momo frowned, “No it isn’t. Dragons stole the magics of the land—“

It laughed weakly, shaking its head. “Were we only that powerful, our patrons would have done more than just build the barrier. They would have split the land to keep us safe.” It sighed again, “Why am I even bothering?” It said, seemingly to itself before locking eyes with her once again. “Finish what you came here to do. Just make it quick.” Closing its eyes, it tilted its neck slightly, giving her a clear target.

Momo held the dagger over her head. This is what she was meant to do. She was a hunter. She was meant to kill dragons and Drakists. But... this one did not seem anything like the monsters she had been taught about. It seemed intelligent. It did not mean her harm. But it is just a trick. A ploy to get her to drop her guard. Drakists are liars if they are given the chance to speak. They have magic that can manipulate humans. They kill humans whenever they get the chance. These were facts that she knew. Facts that everyone knew. And yet, something felt so wrong in that moment.

With a frustrated groan, she sheathed her blade. Green eyes stared up at her, surprised. She ignored those glowing eyes and turned away, limping to the entrance she had come in through.

“Why didn’t you…”

Momo grit her teeth at his voice. “I don’t know.” A bad shift of her weight sent a wave of pain through her leg, her body keeling over until she lifted her foot.

“You’re hurt.”

She ignored it even as she heard a rustle as the creature shifted. She just needed the to pain to subside a bit, then she could go and get far away the Drakist. 

“You don’t really mean to go out there.”

The rain was coming down in sheets and heavy winds blew with a force strong enough to make even the trunks of the thickest trees sway. Momo dreaded having to trek back all the way to where her horse was hitched. “I don’t exactly have any other choice now, do I?” She turned back to glare at it. Its eyes were intensely focused on her in a way that made her shiver.

She watched as it tilted its head up, and sniffed at the sky. A crease formed in his brow and his lips pursed in confusion. “This storm is not nearly finished,” it said. “It wouldn’t be safe for you to wander back through the forest alone.”

“Like you actually care.”

It gave a mirthless laugh, the corners of its lips pulled up just enough to reveal a sharp canine. “You’re right. I don’t. Or, at least I shouldn’t,” It said, pursing its lips curiously. “Still, you spared my life. I will not harm you.” It placed a hand over the left side of it’s chest, it’s head inclining, as though showing respect. 

Momo looked between the raging storm outside and the stone shelter that was being offered. Years of training and education had taught her that staying would be a terrible idea and yet, the instincts that she had honed to sense danger, did not seem to have the same reaction. Instead, they sensed the danger looming outside as the greater threat. And she had learned to trust her instincts.

Her hand on the hilt of her dagger, she slowly walked back into the alcove, finding a mostly dry place to sit keeping her distance from the Drakist. She might be staying here, but she wasn’t going to take the chance and let her guard down.

———

The human kept her distance from him, her hand still firmly gripping the dagger at her hip. Hitsugaya was not concerned. So long as they kept things relatively peaceful, there would be no reason they both could not walk out of this place once the storm subsides. A loud crack and a bright white light flashed in from the forest followed by a crack and a tearing sound. Hitsugaya could see the forest clearly from where he sat and watched as the tree that had been struck smoked from the tip of the tallest branch down to the roots. The trunk had erupted from the force of the lighting, its strength giving out before toppling down onto its side.

The human had seen it too, her hand relaxing slightly, and brown eyes wide in having narrowly escaped the same fate as the tree. Hitsugaya turned his attention back to her. She was a tiny thing compared to the other hunter he’d seen at the cabin. She wore the same garb as the hunter, the same long coat, tall boots and belts equipped with tools. But her physical appearance did not match with her chosen profession. Her small frame lacked the physically commanding presence of other hunters and her eyes carried more of a kind and gentle nature. 

“What is your name?” He asked.

Her grip tightened on her dagger again. “Why do you want to know?”

She was so suspicious. Part of him found it amusing and made him curious about what sort of fairy tales the humans had constructed about his kind. “I simply wish to know the name of the human who chose not to kill me.”

She hesitated, her jaw clenched tightly before she whispered a name lowly under her breath. “Momo.”

He nodded, in acknowledgement and placed a hand over his chest. “I am called Hitsugaya. Toshiro Hitsugaya.”

Momo looked out to the storm again as they lapsed into silence. Besides the sound of rain and the occasional crack of thunder, it was quiet for a long while. Hitsugaya did not push for more conversation as she did not seem too keen on speaking with him. He was also quite tired as well. His injuries demanded he rest but the human girl had ignited his curiosity. 

“How long is this storm supposed to go on for?” Momo muttered to herself, clearly frustrated by the intensity of the weather.

He sniffed at the air again, his nose crinkling at the traces of magics that lingered in the sky. “I don’t think it’s an entirely natural storm,” He said. “Some storms that slip through the barrier can last days. It might be some time still until it clears.”

Hitsugaya took in her stiff posture, her shoulders were visibly tense and the knuckles on her hand holding the dagger were white. His brow furrowed, “Do I frighten you?” He asked.

She glanced back at him, her fingers twitching slightly on the blade. “I don’t trust you.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” He said. “You humans aren’t particularly fond of us.”

“I think most would take issue with you and your dragons killing us.”

Hitsugaya tilted his head. “We don’t kill humans.”

“Then explain the murders in Kagarashi, or Sakahone,” She drew her dagger and pointed it at him. “Explain the deaths over the last month in Junrinan.”

“I can’t. I wasn’t there.”

“Junrinan is just North of Tosen’s cabin,” Momo said. “You had to pass through the settlement to get to Tosen in his cabin. Therefore, you were there.”

He shook his head, “If I had passed through there, then it was while I was restrained, unconscious, and blindfolded,” He said. “It was never my intent to come this far South. I was brought here.”

“I don’t…” Momo made a confused sound in her throat, “Who would…”

“I don’t know,” Hitsugaya said. “…You… you humans really think we eat you?” His brow arched, finding the very notion perplexing.

Momo had lowered the dagger, but kept it in her hand, fiddling with it, still seeming to be trying to piece together what he’d just told her. “You mean to say that you… don’t?”

He scoffed and shook his head, “You forget Drakists are born human. Do you not consider cannibalism taboo?”

“Of course—“

“—Then why would we want to eat humans?”

Her lips pursed and she opened and closed her mouth several times in an attempt to come up with a response. “Then… what do you eat?”

Hitsugaya shrugged, “Normal food? There are several who can manipulate the harvest, grow fruits, vegetables, grains and such. We also hunt elk, boar, wild chickens… I don’t imagine it is too different from what you have. Though, I think humans actually need to cook their meats where for us it’s more of a preference. Some like the taste of cooked meat more so than raw.”

The way she looked at him after that was a bit strange. She stared longer than she ever had since arriving and the look of frustration and obvious dislike of him had gone and was replaced with something closer to… mournful.

“How… how long have you been a Drakist?” She asked, after a period of introspection.

He thought about it for a moment before answering. “Fourteen years. I… was ostracised when I was six.” Hitsugaya didn’t like to remember that time. Even before he’d known what he was, his physical characteristics had already marked him as different. Other. He doesn’t remember much about his parents. The memories of them were blurry and disjointed. He recalled the warmth of a house but also the raised voices of a man and a woman. But then there was the old woman who he remembered was really kind. She’d give him sweet treats when she could and unlike the others, she actually would smile at him. But when his Drakist powers had manifested, even that old woman had turned away from him. They all had made it clear he couldn’t stay.

“I… I’m sorry,” Momo said. “I didn’t know it could happen that young.”

He shrugged, brushing off her apology, “It usually doesn’t. But in my case, it all worked out better that way. I found others like me and the place I belong.” Hitsugaya looked outside and thought about home. Felt the call of the eternal winter hidden in the peaks high above the clouds. “My patron and I…” He paused, unsure if he should tell this human anything more about what lies beyond the barrier. Telling her about food was innocent enough, but telling her about the mountain his patron has resided for centuries…

“My patron and I live in the mountains,” He said, “The tallest peak in the North is called Sennen Hyōrō. At sunset, the light reflects off the snow in such a way it looks like the mountains themselves are burning. And at night when all is quiet and the stars shine bright, it’s beautiful. Sometimes, you can even see them dancing.”

“Is that why you wanted to see the stars? When you thought that I was going to…”

He gave a small nod, “I think the stars are probably the only thing we have in common.”

Her eyes narrowed curiously and she shifted her head, looking at the space behind him. She bit her lip, and hummed thoughtfully before speaking quietly, “…if you live in the mountains… then why don’t you have wings?”

———

During the first few months of her training, Momo recalled a book that Captain Aizen had gifted her; The Draconic Anatomical Codex. The book compiled all the known knowledge related to dragons and Drakists in regard to their biological differences to humans and their placement in the Hierarchy of Intelligent Species. In studying the book with the Captain, she’d learned that Drakists will always develop the claws and horns as they are the result of the impure blood while the wings are the physical manifestation of their magic. Wings cannot develop if a Drakist does not have a patron.

Toshiro brought his shoulders up, his eyes downcast as he lightly touched one of his shoulders. “They were taken from me.”

He didn’t elaborate and she wasn’t sure what else to say in that moment. He looked at her, quietly thinking, and gaging her. Toshiro let out a breath and slowly turned around. In the dark she made out the movement of two arm-like structures on his back, and when the lightning flashed, she made out the finer details. White scales mixed with dark stains of crimson and brown. The tips a dark green, a clear sign of infection where the wings abruptly ended. Tattered remains of the thin mesh-like skin that would give him lift hung in such a way that it would be easy to mistake it for part of his tattered shirt. 

‘Taken’ was not the word for what had happened. ‘Amputated’ seemed more appropriate, but even a drunk surgeon would have made a cleaner cut. ‘Butchered’ was an even better word to use to describe it. “Humans did this?” Momo whispered her question, though she already had an idea of the answer.

“That cabin,” He said, turning back to face her.

Tosen. Momo had a hard time piecing together the brutality of Toshiro’s wings with the pragmatism of the wise hunter. He’d always been the kind of man reluctant to use any form of violence. His ambition by hunting was to deter the Drakist and dragons from traveling South. He lobbied for the use of Nikushibuki oils to serve as a repellent to keep them away. For him to be capable of such brutality… it was hard to believe and yet, she did.

A loud screeching sound startled them both as the winds raged outside. Toshiro perked up at the sound, his eyes wide and glowing. “Hyorinmaru,” He whispered.

Momo rolled onto her knees, but her balance faltered, slipping onto her hip when a ripple of pain shot through her leg. Toshiro tore his eyes away from the storm outside.

“I’d forgotten you were hurt,” He said, moving closer to her. She adjusted how she was sitting so that her leg was outstretched and waited for the pain to relax. Toshiro had his head cocked to the side as he looked at her leg and then he touched the top of her boot lightly, frowning.

“Could you remove your boot?” He asked.

Momo blinked, “Why?” He didn’t answer, just nodded at her injured foot. Slowly she removed the boot, being extra careful as she pulled it over the injury.

The joint was red and swollen, and she could see discolouration disappear higher up her leg. Toshiro sat down beside her leg, looking between her eyes and her leg in a way that seemed to ask for permission. Wordlessly, she gave it and felt his cold hands touch her skin. He placed one hand on her ankle and the other glided up her calf, and around the back of her knee, before sliding back down and around to the front of her calf again. It felt strange, cold and then his hands began to glow. Light blue magic surrounded his hands and her leg, and she fought the natural sense of fear and the instinct to run as it poured into her. It started with a light chill that quickly grew into a blizzard that seemed to start inside her leg and radiate out. It felt like her leg was going to break off, it hurt with the sensation of a thousand knives piercing her to the bone but then just as it was becoming unbearable, it stopped.

Her leg felt numb and cold but the pain had stopped. Looking at her foot, the swelling in her joint had gone down and while the skin was pale, it otherwise felt fine. Momo gently rolled her ankle and wiggled her toes, confirming what she thought for herself.”

“You… healed me?”

Toshiro looked at her, and then back outside. His eye closed a moment and a smile appeared on his face. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, he gave a small shrug, “It’s not really healing,” He said. “Healing magics isn’t really my domain. But… water elements have traces of natural healing that can be tapped into. It’s a little harder for me since my magic runs much colder but… I can manage a bit.”

The sky rattled outside, and Momo saw several trees ripped out by their roots from the gust of wind that thundered down and the rain was blown inside their little alcove by an even larger gust, that nearly knocked her backward. A loud roar echoed, and the ground shook as movement outside caught her attention. Momo’s fingers trembled as she clumsily pulled on her boot and watched as Toshiro slowly stood and stumbled his way outside. “Wait!” She called, jumping up to follow.

She froze in the opening as she looked up to see the giant serpentine dragon standing before her. Behind it, the sky had parted, revealing the clear black sky and the shimmer of stars. The storm still raged but it circled around them, not a drop of rain able to touch them. The dragon was a pale blue colour with ice hanging off its massive jagged wings. The dragon had many scars across its body, a hole in its wing, and three large slash marks over one of its blood red eyes. The four long whisker like appendages twitched as it grumbled and turned its head, light seeming to shimmer off the iced over crest at its brow. 

She took a hesitant step back as it lowered its head to her, its booming voice loudly saying something directed at her as it blew an icy mist in her face. Momo drew her dagger, though she knew it was of little use against something this massive.

But then Toshiro stepped between them. Bowing his head, he said something in the dragon’s tongue and after a brief pause, the dragon snorted, and inclined its head, closing its eyes. It spoke again, this time speaking slowly and quietly.

“He says ‘thank you’,” Toshiro translated.

Momo blinked, “Uh, it was… I didn’t…” What exactly was she supposed to say to a dragon? She was at a complete loss but fortunately she was spared having to come up with an answer as the dragon spoke again.

“I need to go,” Toshiro said, turning back to her.

“Right.” She didn’t understand why, but she felt almost sad to see him go. Yet she understood why. She wasn’t the only hunter looking for him. And knowing that Gin had taken his party to cut off the Northern end of the forest, and Captain Aizen looking for the dragon, this was his best chance to go home.

He held out his hand to her and she thought for a second that he meant to part with a friendly handshake, she noticed it was upturned, his palm held out in offering. “Do you want to come?”

[einsatzzz]

ok! webcomic update! previously, i said that i'm considering on making two chapters before i release it - im scratching that idea off. tho i keep jumping back to do some linearts and a few coloring for parts that i'm sure i won't change, i finally also finished the sketch/mapping as a whole for the whole script draft i wrote for chapter 1.

as i kept on mapping and sketching everything out, especially near the end, i realized that the chapter length is easily at least two times the size of what i initially expected of a standard chapter length??? LMAO so i'm technically already working on two chapters worth of story length all along, it's just that since it's chapter 1 that its longer. if i stack these long pages together, the canvas height would at least be around 115K pixels 🤣😭🤣😭

im so extra for this shit, bc this chapter is just me essentially setting everything up (=planting seeds) and getting a grasp on the webcomic creation workflow & most of the canon characters. but i love being extra for my ocs! ueueueue you will understand when you read it.

this will also be the most i've drawn tsuna and reborn(butter this one's for you 🫵), ever. so besides oc withdrawal, i am also having cute girls withdrawal, the only one keeping me alive in these trying times is my girlie kyoko-chan. if you notice her panels are extra well-done...umm...uhhhh....i love cute girls 🫶🥰✨

my alternative is to just add another segment in the end, as some form of preview on what to expect next chapter. it should be no more than another 7K pixels, it's alr so long, this is nothing at this point 🤣

in terms of art improvement, i must say that they really are not kidding when they say if you keep drawing comics your art will improve. i keep noticing things idk how to draw (=i'll need to study how to) and i'm also being forced to draw characters in angles/poses i was too much of a coward to draw before and also! things i didn't give too many shits about to draw before, including mob characters and backgrounds (that i can't 3d my way out of).

honestly, at some point in the future, i should make a custom brush for namichuu student mobs, because goddamn! it's a pain!

it's also nice that i get to also technically do manga panel redraws by doing this! i find that doing redraws of anime screenshots/manga panels is good practice for how effectively im able to eyeball & figure out poses from references.

lastly for the updated estimate of the release! the latest i could finish it if i really take my time would be by christmas (this would be my og deadline if i had planned to release two standard-length chapters). though, i'd release it earlier if I finish earlier, of course.

and im not rlly beating myself up for not making my own personal deadline, i'll just think about it like this "deadlines are a social construct, its not like i'll lose my irl job for not finishing my personal webcomic 🤣🤣🤣" lmaoosjdfhjsf pls im already so depressed the past few days & im isolating, i don't want to add more to it. and having tunnel vision on the grind to make this is actually a good distraction from nasty thoughts. also took a break today from making it, that's why im able to drop by a few ppl's notifs 🫶

[xrlyz]

Hello! Hello! No pressure to respond to this at all but….

I recently (like a month ago and I was going to interact with you but I’m scared of people and I don’t have an ao3 acc 😔) started following your “I Saw Stars” fic and

OHMYSTARS ITS SO GOOOOD

I just finished chapter 20 because I’m procrastinating my studying for my last exam and oeojehqlshvsmsjdgshhsjs my mind is all over the freaking placeeeeeee.

I don’t want to distract you too much and you don’t have to respond but if you want can you describe what you think Jack’s clothing looks like (mainly his armor, but his normal wear also intrigues me) 👀

I love drawing and your fic is giving me so much motivation, but I like to have the original imaginers ideas if they have a specific look or feel in mind

Also if you do want to respond and rant more do you have any specific ideas on how his weapons look? :D

I probably won’t post this stuff on my acc if I do draw it because people I know irl know it and that scares me, but I will find a way to show you!!! >:}

Hijack has hijacked my brain and it is amazing thank you for your fic I love it so muchhhhh

I hope you have an amazing day/night/morning/whatever it is where you are!!!!

If you’re still swamped with exams good luck!!! You’ve got this!!! And if you aren’t I hope you can relax you’ve earned it! 💫💖✨

(Also sorry if you have gone into more detail about the clothing at any point. I have the memory and brain the size of a walnut that’s being fried by chemistry and atomic theory atm…….)

I'm finally getting back to you on this. Hi 👋😅

Okay, so, first of all. THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG. When I first saw this, I squealed and got actually angry that I didn't have the time to respond right away. I'm so glad you're liking my fic so far! I'm SO hyped to see what you're planning!! I'm literally vibrating rn from excitement. ❤️❤️❤️

Anyway, on to the recently growing issue that is Jack's clothes. Istg his outfit is on the FBI's most wanted at this point, and let me tell you why. The reason I avoided describing what Jack was wearing like it was the second coming of the bubonic pluage was because, funnily enough, even I didn't know what Jack was wearing.

Fics with the same or similar trope of Jack being a Dragon Rider have existed before, TROAS is a perfect example of that, so creating an outfit for Jack that didn't feel unoriginal was hard. Thankfully, I took a few hours out of my day today to finally tackle this issue.

Edit: Deciding to put a cut here so people don't have to scroll so far just to get to the rest of my page.

Instead of describing it to you, I figured it'd be easier if I just drew something of my own and then showed you, so that you and any other fan who'd like to do fanart of I Saw Stars can have a reference photo at the least. Obviously, you can alter and change things about my designs. They're far from perfect, and I'd love to see what you can come up with! These are just the things I thought of.

Jack's normal wear:

I figured it'd be cool and also really cute if Jack kept his original hoodie and just slapped some light leather armor on top of it. (Only because Valka forces him to, of course.) As for the staff, *starts sweating* uhm... honestly, I just imagined it being made out of wood. I know nothing about different types of wood or their durabilities, so I'll definitely research that and find an actual material for his staff. For now though, I bestow upon you creative liberty on that fornt. 😅

Jack's dragon riding armor:

This is sadly just a concept sketch and not a full body like the last one. The reason for this is that I genuinely don't know what else to add other than the hood that I gave him. It's hard to make something that's not only white, made of scales, and has been redesigned by like five different authors by now, but that also has to be physically possible.

Note about Jack's character design in both photos that you might find helpful: Jack's primary shape used in Canon is a hexagon (like an actual snowflake). I decided to keep that in his normal attire, but for his armor, I switched his primary shape to a heart, so he matched Artemis. You don't have to do this, but I thought you might like the distinction a bit.

Anyway, thank you so much again! I can't wait to see what you cook up with the motivation my fic has given you!!! Also, I hope your finals go well. Those are always super stressful all the time 😭

Have a great night/day! And to anyone else who sees this, yes, you can draw fanart of my fic and use these as references, but please notify me if you post fanart and give credit to the fic if it's specifically inspired by mine. Not because of, "Oh no! Someone didn't credit me!" But because I adore and appreciate any and all fanart or affection, me and my fic get because it means you guys are enjoying my stuff! I love to see it, and I love to give love back, so tell me if you make stuff! I WANT TO PRAISE YOU 👹👹👹

[missmiseryguts]

GUESS WHO KINDA FINISHED THE CONDUCTOR IDEAS

It's gonna be mostly writing + sketches cause I'm struggling a lil bit on drawing Conductor but MAIN DESIGN W/O COLOR AND A GOOFY DOODLE FINISHED!

I saw a dragon + MU in a prince-like outfit for Act 2 and my brain immediately went "Fantasy??? Fairytales perhaps??" I imagine he was inspired by his grandkids and fairytales he heard growing up as a child! Unfortunately, as he kept going, he became more focused on one-upping Grooves and winning the Annual Bird Movie Awards, and the vibes of his movies changed for the worse unfortunately. :(

He still has an explosive temper, but tries to manage it or at least tone it down in front of the cameras. Unfortunately, if you choose him as the winner, he pulls the same stunt Grooves did in the original. I imagine he even accuses you of rigging the previous Bird Awards via time travel (even though it's your first time there... Idk he's prolly delirious by this point lol)

Also imagine Bow Kid or Hood Kid telling the winning bird about the time travel aspect to the Time Pieces?? Or one of them notifying the losing bird that Hat Kids is in danger?? I'm pretty sure it was hinted that M.U had an effect in the Dead Bird boss fight, but IDK if it's canon or I just remembered a hc.

Also does a bomb still get strapped to Swap!MU in the second phase or is it something else?

(P.S: Lemme know if I'm overstepping a boundary!! I was reading this over and I'm scared that it reads like telling you about the characters in your own AU lol)

HELP POOR MU LOOKS SO SCAREEDDD.. Also I'm so loving this idea what... Conductor making movies and plays based on his grandkids ideas is so cute and the way he LOSES SIGHT OF HIS ORIGINAL VISON??? I saw a headcanon post one time about something like this... I LOVE THAT SO MUCH.

Him keeping his temper would be pretty funny.. especially if he tried to hide it. Grooves is more passive aggressive and cold, I want him to take on some of og conductors traits?? Like his recklessness and apathy towards his workers.. Conductor I can see being very short tempered, but he just does breathing exercises to not yell at anyone HELP. Like MU makes a mistake and he just starts counting to ten before telling her that shes doing great LMAOO

And I wanted Hood and Bow to have a role in this chapter too! In the finale they might be the reason the winning director knows about the timepiece power, but not because they told him.. maybe because they try to steal it, fumble a little, it rewinds time after being dropped, and then the director who saw it happen goes crazy?? Bow realizes they've fucked up, and drags Hood out of there before they die HAHAHAH or something.. in the other acts I was thinking maybe they're in the 'O Romeo O Romeo!' act and they are literally forced to be the villain.. in my og concept I was gonna have Hood forced to act as the damsel in distress because Conductor caught her sneaking around, but then ashfluffys gave me the FUNNIEST IDEA EVER to make the damsel an owl so that idea changed, so she and Bow might play as a villain in that act? I'm rambling now BUT for the DJ grooves levels I was thinking they're in space rush? The act where the spaceship is crashing towards earth! I can see them maybe getting stuck on there trying to find a timepiece and trying to race Mu to the end, sabotaging her, etc, or all that..

ALSO I FUCKING FORGOT ABIUT THE BOMB???? YES HELP OH MY FUCK HAHAHAH.. and for the stage in the fight where the parade is meant to follow you, idk, maybe- the fucking dragon comes back and tries to set you on fire HELP

I really want to work on Grooves' levels now ,,, I've worked on Conductors a lot, and I do have clear visions for Grooves' levels, I just gotta figure him out... Design wise and stuff. I don't normally draw the less humanoid characters, not my forte, but here's a crack at Conductor! I drew your design for him and tried to make up another one!

Mus guitar actually turns INTO a sword, a rapier! The prince costume does that.. I was thinking of a custom "royal medallion" to cue the costume change or something.

You know the whole "losing his creative vision" could actually be a damn good storybook. I don't know what the title would be, but it'd probably be his grandkids telling him a story, him remembering the ones he made as a kid, then he got to writing and producing a small local play for his grandkids and the other kids where he lived, it got the attention of big studios, he got hired at Dead Bird Studio as a director, ran into Grooves and his whole creative vision went down from there... OUUGHSGKHDFKHSHF

Anyways THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING YOUR IDEAS??!!! You guys have no clue how much it means to me. I love hearing all your ideas for my au and working on it as a collaboration with y'all is honestly so much fun.. it rekindles my passion every single time. I don't think giving me ideas will EVER 'cross a boundary', I love hearing all of your concepts !!! I'll try super hard to incorporate all the ones I think fit, and to be honest, all y'alls ideas not only fit my vision but expand upon it and help me think of all the small details I never would have noticed beforehand... THANK YOU SO MUCH. IM INDEBTED TO EVERY SINGLE ONE IF YOU GUYS FOR HELPING ME MAKE THESE CONCEPTS MWWWWWAH 🙏 THIS AU WOULD BE NOTHING WITHOUT ALL OF YOUR SUPPORT

[dailydoseofdragon]

Have you ever wanted to draw something but you fought due to your skill level at the time you decide not to do it

I used to all the time! Honestly it got to the point where I stopped making art entirely for 4 years straight because of it. I don’t know what exactly convinced to pick it back up, probably some combination of a million different versions of the holy shit two cakes post and the no one will ever draw art the way you do post. I think the best you can do is try. Your skill level is never going to improve if you don’t take risk and you might end up paralyzed for four years wondering why you can’t make a ‘perfect’ art piece.

One of my favorite works I have made was actually a rough sketch animatic I put off for months because I just wasn’t good enough in my eyes to make it. I’ll be honest I can’t yet draw humans to save my life but I’m doing my best to learn. It took three weeks of my brain screaming at me and playing the same song over and over before I caved and started drawing. I’m not going to lie I hated it immensely at first. I even stopped working on it for a month or two before forcing myself to continue working on it. But then I finished it and I just kept rewatching it over and over because I made it! I did that?!? Yeah sure it’s not perfect and the human characters are little more then modified stick figures. The beginning was a little iffy because I didn’t really understand how to make animatics. But god I still go back to it and watch it because I honestly never thought I could make something like that. I hope one day to come back to it and see how much I’ve improved to be honest.

I think maybe you should still try even if you don’t think you are ‘good enough’ to make it. How are you ever going to reach the vague notion of good enough if you don’t try at least? You can’t walk a mile without taking a step and all that yknow?

Ha, sorry if this makes no sense I have a lot of feelings on this topic and am currently sporting a killer headache right now. I struggled with the idea of ‘good enough’ ever since I first sat curled up on the couch as a teen learning to draw dragons from wattpad tutorials.

TL:DR I guess-

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - A Muse V

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General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

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21 Relona

“The only birth control I’m interested in is sterilization.”

A choked gasp interrupted her sketching and Neyti frowned from where she knelt in the sunroom. Her back was to the windows (the sun’s glare kept ruining her sketch), and she pushed the sleeves of her dress to her elbows, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“That’s extreme.” She recognized Daria’s voice. It was gentle, and it reminded her of Mummy’s. But Daria didn’t look like Mummy. Mummy had black hair like her, and bright blue eyes. But the exact color of blue was starting to fade. It was harder to remember Mummy’s face.

Neyti pushed the thought aside, instead, appraising her sketch. It was a dragon, like the one on her necklace. Vaeloria.

The female dragon visited her dreams most nights. They had lots of fun together. Vaeloria even let her ride on her back! Well, some nights.

Poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth, Neyti started on the teeth. Vaeloria was nice, even if she looked mean. Her teeth were pointy, like the knives in the kitchen Neyti wasn’t allowed to use, and she liked to gnash them together. Dark green scales elongated her face. They made her even scarier. Neyti loved it.

“What do you use?”

“I can’t use anything. It inhibits my medicine, and I can’t get pregnant, anyway.”

There was an exhausted sigh. “My body only just started acting normal a few years ago. I don’t want to introduce something that messes with my hormones.”

“It wasn’t normal?”

“My period was irregular. And my libido was all out of whack. I don’t want to go through those things again.”

Neyti half-listened to the conversation. She didn’t understand words like “birth control” and “hormones” and “libido.” Really, she didn’t care about the conversation. But she liked listening to her mum and Daria talk. They were finally being friends.

Finishing the scales of Vaeloria’s snout, Neyti set down her stylus, satisfied with her progress. She hoped Mr. Cody would help her frame it. He was good at those things because he had an artist’s eye. Like her. That was what he told her, at least. Mr. Fox had thought it was funny. She didn’t know why. But Mr. Fox thought lots of things were funny. He was weird that way.

That was why she liked Mr. Nova the bestest. He wasn’t funny, but he wasn’t super serious. She liked to watch him use his telescope, and she reallyliked it when he let her use it. She was good at using the telescope, she decided.

Neyti leaned back on her knees and glanced around the room. Mr. Wolffe was reading but he seemed to be having some trouble. He was frowning at his book, and now that she thought about it, she hadn’t heard him turn a page in a while. Maybe he forgot how to read.

No, she told herself. He was too smart for that.

She studied him, the way her mummy taught her to observe people. His eyes were unmoving. His head was tilted to the side. Like he was listening.

Oh! He was an eavesdropper!

Neyti pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

He must have understood things like “birth control” and “hormones” and “libido.” He was smart that way.

Deciding her sketch could wait, Neyti wandered to the couch and plopped onto the seat beside Mr. Wolffe. He arched a thick brow. It looked like a black caterpillar, and she giggled at the realization. His eyes narrowed and then they rolled. She liked it when he did that. He was never mean about it. Not like some of the kids at school when she refused to do her readings aloud.  

Mr. Wolffe closed his book and reached into the cabinet of the small stand beside the couch. He pulled out a picture book she recognized.

“Do you remember where we were?” he asked, opening to the Table of Contents. Neyti scanned the numbers and pointed to chapter sixteen. “Good memory.”

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. Mr. Wolffe’s large arm wrapped around her, and she snuggled into the warmth of his body. He was like a blanket, and he smelled good. Like one of her oldest memories. Back when Mummy was still alive.

“Once upon a time there was a princess,” Mr. Wolffe started.

Neyti stared at the picture on the page, a drawing of a pretty princess with black skin and a pink dress. She liked the princess’s curly hair.

The story wasn’t a fairytale about dragons, but it was still good. She’d ask Mr. Wolffe to retell the story tomorrow. He’d argue they were supposed to read the next chapter. But maybe she could trick him!

Leaning her head against him, she listened to the low rumble of his voice. She yawned.

One day she hoped to be a princess. A princess with a family who lived at home.

She looked toward the living area.

Maybe one day.

Masterlist | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

[mayyonase]

Sketch based off of an AU I saw

Deathbringer chuckled, raspy from the pain.

"I've seen a lot of reactions to being about to die, but I don't think laughing is one of them."

"You're trying to kill me? That can't be right! You've barely managed to get a little spit on my face!"

Glory hissed in response, but the chair the Nightwing held between them assured she'd not hit anything vital.

"Queen Scarlet's treasured assassin and this is all you've done? I must admit I just assumed you were trying to flirt with me!"

"Ex-Queen Sc-" She parsed out the last bit and stopped.

"Right! She had a little accident didn't she? Rainwing Venom? Call it baseless intuition but I don't think something like that happens on accident! What do you think?"

He was fishing, that much was clear. But for what? Regardless, she hid anything he could use deep in her mind.

He stopped circling her, she matched him, "See, if you don't respond then the banter just becomes a monologue; which I can do!"

He gladly started, smiling madly, "So you had to get away from Scarlet pretty quickly! Maybe you thought you could make good with Burn, but after it turned out that you didn't finish off Scarlet as well as you thought you did that bridge... well... It burned."

Don't react.

"Which leads you to your other options, run away forever - somehow I think you aren't doing that. Blaze. Or, you take your bets with a lost princess act in the Sea Kingdom? Make your way onto Blister's side."

Don't.

React.

"Which is why you can't kill me, because you know that'd leave us on the same side! I really do think we'd make quite the duo!"

Don't... react..?

"Unless, Starflight didn't tell you? I really would appreciate at least some expression, by the way. It's only really satisfying to brag about how much I've figure out about you five if you are surprised! And finding all of your names was a LOT more difficult then you'd think!

Starflight, leader of the group, of course he kept you in right? That's why you didn't actually put in all your effort in fighting me! I mean, the only other option is that you were wasting energy on something silly like making sure I can't read your mind!

He told you that we're all liars! Every single one of us, as powerless as ever other dragon! It's not like he couldn't know, even in the one in a million chance that he somehow could read minds unlike every single other NightWing, then he would've realized the game as soon as he met another one of us!

What are the chances that he just hasn't! I'd have to be pretty low, considering exactly where I got my information...

But that just means that little thought experiment was useless, because he told you!"

He was lying, that much was clear. He was just trying to wrench her open so she'd let her thoughts go... she couldn't react. She couldn't.

Even as her breaths lost pace and her heart raced.

"There it is!" He smiled, "Glory, two tips from a professional - only since I heard from a little bird that we may end up working together."

He laughed offhandedly and looked down at some blood on his claws, "The trick to hiding your feelings isn't to be blank, it's to be loud."

His back talons planted themselves on a rock by the cliff side, a rope tied around it.

In an instant she traced the path of it.

"Secondly? Never let someone monologue."

It wrapped around her ankle and pulled her, from the angle she couldn't brace herself. She swung at the other assassin, only to catch on the makeshift shield.

She realized all to late that with her claws occupied she would have no way to catch herself on cliff, and would forced off it.

She could catch herself in air with her wings... but Deathbringer would certainly escape.