#it is kind of concerning how bad my memory has become in the last 2 or so years though. unrelated but kind of related | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crybabycabin · 26 days ago

Text

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the winter soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2 series masterlist

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

check out the series masterlist♡

5K notes · View notes

illbegottenfaith · 6 months ago

Text

sweet?!

you may not be the one dating theodore nott but you'd be damned if you let anyone think of him as sweet (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n - I meant to make a separate post a while back but college has been kicking my ass so 😭 but 300 followers!!! insaneee ily all sooo much mwah I feel so so grateful and also a little weirded out cuz wdym 300 people... (I am SO bad at these can you tell um anyways) also this was inspired by a new girl episode!! I kind of have plans for a part 3 but im still workshopping it so idk yet but !! we'll see :)

tropes/warnings - fluff, slight angst, mattheo not understanding physics (but its not like he had a formal education in the subject so is it rlly his fault??), tw descriptions of injury

word count - 1.5k

taglist - @hzdhrtss @justaproudperson @kandralice @clairesblouse @deenaaa

"You're still coming this afternoon, right?"

You were having lunch in the Great Hall with your best friend Ivy, hours before one of the most entertaining sporting events of the year - an underground Muggle sports day. Every year, a group of students from each house would compete in some arbitrarily chosen muggle sport, with varying levels of success. Casualties and knee-slapping memories (for those standing in the sidelines, such as yourself) were a guarantee.

You nodded. "Are you kidding? Watching the boys wack each other black and blue at some poor attempt at a muggle sport? I wouldn't miss it for the world. I hope it's hockey. It's got sticks, you know." You got an odd, dreamlike look in your eye. "Merlin, I hope it's hockey."

Ivy dug into her Shepherd's pie. "Good. It sounds interesting enough. Plus, Theo's new girlfriend will be there."

You nearly upset your pumpkin juice.

"Girlfriend? When did that happen?"

Something in your voice must have given your true feelings away from the way Ivy squinted at you suspiciously. You pulled a face. It seemed convincing enough.

"It's all very new," Ivy said a tad bit sternly. "They met at Davies' party a while back and, well, they fancied each other, so -"

You snorted.

"What, is he blackmailing her?"

Ivy frowned at you. "Don't snark," she rebuked. "It isn't nice. She's a regular daisy, you'll see."

Yeah. Sure. You piled some more mashed potatoes onto your plate.

"Has anyone checked her for brain damage? Look - I'm not even snarking, I'm genuinely concerned for her wellbeing - "

“I don’t understand how this is supposed to work,” Mattheo was saying as the two of you walked over the makeshift Muggle basketball court someone had fashioned out of one of the disused storerooms in the dungeons. He and the rest of the Slytherin boys were wearing matching fluorescent green mesh vests to distinguish themselves from the Gryffindor team, engaged in some deadly serious discussion. A part of you wondered if you should mention that muggle sports weren’t generally meant to be as fatal as Quidditch.

As usual, Theo looked bored to death by the conversation. "We've been over this a hundred times. You dribble the ball -"

"Yeah, right," Mattheo vehemently said. "Like this thing's coming up if I throw it down. What do you take me for, an idiot?"

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, oddly reminscent of the way you did when you felt a migraine coming on.

"Remember the tennis ball, Matty? The fuzzy, green one?"

"That's different. That thing was tiny, and bouncy. This thing's heavy. It's the size of my head. No, a quaffle. No, a -"

"Then what do you think is going to happen?" Theo interrupted irritably.

“Stick to the ground, obviously. Watch - "

As seasoned as the lot of you had become in anticipating Mattheo's often highly dangerous impulses, this one came entirely out of left field. Theo yanked him back by his vest, but it was too late. He slammed the basketball down and it ricocheted back up almost immediately, punching him right in the nose. Mattheo swore loudly, and the last thing you saw before you looked away was an awful amount of blood.

Even after Enzo took him to the Hospital Wing, once Theo had sufficiently plugged his nose with obscene amounts of tissue, things did not improve for the team. About halfway through the game, an unfortunate scuffle between some of the players left Draco curled up in a ball, grimacing as he clutched his knee. Theo winced, running over to where Draco was doing a rather poor job of concealing his pain.

"Oh, that's so Teddy," Margaret gushed to you, "always stopping by to help anyone in need. Isn't he such a gentleman?"

You nodded stiffly, your slight smile frozen on your face, willing Ivy to hurry back with the snacks and drinks she had left for. After she had introduced the two of you to each other, you decided that Margaret was a perfectly pleasant person, even if she wasn't the type of friend you typically sought out. If anything, you were more confused than ever about what she was doing, hanging around a guy as bitter as Theo.

However, one thing that truly bothered you was the odd remark here or there that revealed her grossly inaccurate perceptions of him, such as this one. You thought back to just last week when you had tripped in front of him on one of the Shifting Staircases, your books tumbling down into the recesses of the stairwell. He had stopped by you, alright. Stopped to point and laugh, that is.

"Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a better boyfriend. He's really sweet," Margaret finished.

Your eyes nearly fell out of your head.

"Sweet?"

Just in time, Ivy hurried over, gently pulling you away with some half-hearted excuse.

"O-kay, I think that's enough bonding for today."

"Sweet," you echoed weakly as you limply allowed yourself to be carted away, the appalled expression still on your face. "She thinks he's sweet." Euch.

But Ivy wasn't paying attention to you anymore. "How bad is it?" she asked, as the two of you neared the cluster around Draco.

"Bad," Ivan replied, gingerly pressing Draco's knee. "He definitely needs to see Madam Pomfrey. No way he'll be able to play any more today, and we're out of reserves, so we're a man short." He turned, motioning to the Gryffindor players scattered across the field that the game was over.

"Damn. I'll take him to the hospital wing, I've been meaning to check on Mattheo too. Meg, you'll help me, won't you?"

With a little difficulty, the three of them limped along once they had pulled Draco's arms over their shoulders. One of the Gryffindor players approached the crowd, picking up on what was happening after a glance at Draco.

"What about the game?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "We'll rematch, you nitwit."

You went back to your seat, trying to figure out what to do with Ivy's refreshments. Once it was clear that the game was over, the last of the players and the scanty audience filtered out of the room.

"What gives?"

You pulled your gaze back to the lone Slytherin player left, in a blood-spotted mesh vest. Your least favourite player. You could slap that on a T-shirt - not that you wanted to cheer for him. Merlin, no. Cheer against him, maybe. You wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy - which, coincidentally, happened to be him. You momentarily abandoned your musings as you returned to the real world, noticing the expectant look on his face.

"Hm?"

Theo spread him arms out and shrugged in a helpless sort of manner.

"I don't get it, L/N. What do you want from me?

You stared at him blankly. "...what are you talking about?"

He scoffed half-heartedly, like he was too upset to put any real heat behind it.

"I have this amazing new girlfriend that everyone loves." He tossed the ball away with a defeated air. "Everyone, except you."

The words stung. You stuck your chin out defiantly.

"Why do you care so much about what I think?"

"Why can't you just be happy for me?

"I just want you to be honest."

Theo's eyebrows shot up. "Honesty? That's what this is about?"

That's what it had always been about, you wanted to say. You sniffed nonchalantly, rearranging the pleats of your skirt.

"I don't think it's fair to Margaret that you're selling her some lie just to -"

"You think I'm lying to her?"

He kept his voice cool, almost offensively neutral. You rolled your eyes. "I know you are."

Theo was quiet after that, as if mulling over what you had said.

"So," he pressed after a moment, slowly walking towards you, forcing you to crane your head up to maintain eye contact, "you think I should be more transparent with her. That is...show her my unpleasant side."

You allowed yourself a brief smile. "Exactly."

"Be more rude to her."

"Yeah."

"Mock her."

You furrowed your brow slightly.

"Erm, sure."

"Insult her."

"I - what?"

"In short," Theo continued, as if you hadn't spoken, "you want me to treat her like I do you."

He tilted his head.

"Why is that? Do you feel...betrothed to me? Or, perhaps, you consider me your boyfriend? Since we're being honest, and all."

In that moment, you decided you never hated Theo more than you did then, with his domineering stances, condescending sneers, and caustically sarcastic remarks. You swallowed hard, your throat almost painfully tight as you felt the traitorous prick of tears behind your eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," you muttered. But he wasn't being entirely ridiculous, was he? It was what made the whole thing all that more upsetting.

If he noticed you were teary-eyed, he didn't comment on it, as if it were disappointing. As if you were yet another disappointment in his book of unfairly high expectations. He straightened with a barely convincing air of nonchalance. If anything, he looked just as upset as you felt.

"Whatever, L/N. See you around."

Part 3

#ahhh I feel like its quite a bit harder for me to write now that college has resumed #but somethings better than nothing i suppose eheh #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott angst

595 notes · View notes

sluggybunny · 5 months ago

Text

posted a buncha rambling about this on my other blog but i want to be very brave and try to post about it here. warning it's very yappy, i'm not in a good headspace and i esp wasn't last night. but i want to talk about it anyway

this month i started a new little project/interactive game type stuff. it started because i was struggling to write cj and I was in the mood for dark fantasy (turns out that's my niche, i just start TYPING AWAY when it's that). it kind of spiraled and now i'm 120k deep

I don’t have a name for this project, I am very bad at naming things. But the premise/setting is a grimdark fantasy esque world. And there’s this type of magic that is actually more like a parasitic disease.

I really love the idea of magic as something that represents mental illness. And writing surrealism, dreams, memory issues, etc is my fave.

Combining it with a dream I had a long time ago of a world where they used children in war, this type of magic can be learned by anyone but they have to “survive” the initial sickness. And children are more resilient to surviving.

Because magic becomes a useful commodity in society (military, industrial, labor) there is an incentive to have a lot of magic users. So you end up with a society exposing children to a dangerous, not well understood phenomenon in order to shape them into something useful. A lot of children die or suffer very severe side effects that permanently alter their mind or body

That’s the setting, though. The main plot is more concerned with other stuff.

I just like world building fantasy stuff.

I wrote two origins the player can pick but one is sort of shelved until I can figure out the family situation. That one is the noble background and has deeply fucked family dynamics and I’m stuck on 1) did I make this too fucked up 2) I want to use character sprites because I’m an artist(tm) but if they’re related to the protag, how do I make it inclusive

The other one is you’re an orphan sent to a nice orphanage that’s really there to produce magic users. This one has the most content for now, since orphan means no family members I gotta worry about. further background customization would include having beef with the church, evil magic... stuff. this is called the scholar origin

Then there's the main story after all the origins (i want the origins to be kind of lengthy so they can deeply effect all the stuff on the main story, since there are lot of choices within those origins to shape your character) and I started writing it in a sort of episodic way or "arcs". The first arc is in the mountains with a necromancer.

I'm trying VERY HARD to not include complicated mechanics, I just looove coding so much. But I did include some exploring and stats/skills that are chosen in the beginning and can later be influenced... can't help it! 🥲

other stuff:

I kinda wrote in-universe misogyny . Maybe it’s wrong of me but I like settings that include that. Again kinda makes it hard for player options... also i know that's not everyone's jam but i'm writing for myself since I have no plans on making a commercial product

In the scholar origin, you get close friend, your mentor, a knight, and a priest. You can choose a variety of interactions with the, dynamics, etc

If you play female, the knight might be creepy to you. Otherwise he’s actually very likable and cool. I thought that could emphasize the reality of those situations If that makes sense (the predators/creeps in people's lives appearing as Just A Chill Guy To Everyone Else) Your childhood friend has potential to be an incel-like guy, a rival, or truly your closest friend depending on the choices. And the mentor is a major character to the main story and his dynamic with the player is variable. I put in so many options and branching stories, that's really what ended up making the word count when I started writing the script lol. Idk how to put a percentage on it but most of the background/origins are done and i'm midway into the first arc.

I haven't designed any visuals yet, I'm super focused on writing. WILD since i am an artist, you'd think that's what i go to first. But I get stuck in my head too much when making A Public Thing and not just my personal ocs so I'm constantly worried about the designs being palatable. I got to 120k now. It's impressive from an output number but i feel like game itself is barely any content... there's just A LOT of player reactivity. that's my fave thing in any rpg and i always crave more, so that was a leading factor in writing.

if you read any of this, i love you lol

I struggle to complete projects sooo bad but the amount i made for this gives me confidence it's going somewhere. also setting limits on myself so i don't add too much rpg elements (I wanna code a combat system sooo bad but that is some difficult work and I want to actually write interactive fiction pls)

ok good bye thanks to anyone who read it. let me know if it interests you, i'm looking for some homies that like this stuff and would be down to discussing it with me because feedback is key with games

also if anyone wants to be tagged when i talk about this let me know. two people showed interest and i got so excited over that hsfhshrh

#>sluggy personal #long rambley post #untitled project tag

25 notes · View notes

jazzmckay · 4 months ago

Text

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

tagged by @broodwoof :> i think ive done this one before but my memory is bad enough that i dont remember my own answers and they might be different because ive posted a lot lately so. here we go

not sure who all has already done this... if you're a writer seeing this and you havent done it yet, do it and tag me 😂

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

116

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,010,049 babeyyy

3) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Truth in Melody (geralt/jaskier) - 1,534 - my contribution to the famous accidental warlord geralt au, with jaskier as a redanian spy in his midst

The World Upside Down (gen) - 1,367 - my first detroit: become human fic, the beginning of a found family saga

Variable Outcome (gen/connor & gavin) - 910 - one of the many, many d:bh Evidence Room Canon Divergence fics out there

left an impression on my heart (scott/stiles) - 869 - one of the teen wolf old guard fics still clinging to relevancy... 😂

Winter Chill and Summer Bloom (connor/gavin) - 732 - one of my dbh magnum opuses, as far as im concerned

4) What fandoms do you write for?

right now, dragon age. in the past? well.

the walking dead should have its own folder but for some reason during that era i wrote exclusively on gdocs idk. the "other" folder contains l4d2, shameless, shadowhunters, sense8, and borderlands.

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yep, comments mean a lot to me so i always take the time to reply. if i don't, it's probably because the person said something that made me uncomfortable which has unfortunately happened a couple times lol.... just "oversharing with a stranger" kind of things

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i have 2 that are basically the same level of hurt/no comfort

Fair Compensation (rk900/perkins) - failed android revolution, perkins being a scumbag

Scoured (anders/hawke) - inquisitor anders is made tranquil

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

im not really sure how to quantify this. im just gonna say this one thats all very light and happy and sweet all the way through. i give even my darkest whump a happy ending, generally, but this one seems like among the most overall fluffy?

Irresistible Gravity (connor/gavin) - 5+1 fic, they keep running into each other in unexpected places as connor figures himself out post-revolution

8) Do you get hate on fics?

i have gotten unsolicited crit before. just deleted it

9) Do you write smut?

yep and i wish i could write more. unfortunately, i struggle

10) Do you write crossovers?

depends on your definition of crossover. i don't think ive written any "the characters from both verses get smooshed into one" before, but ive written "characters from x verse transported into y verse".

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that im aware of

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

yea! one all the way back on fanfic.net lol.... it was a twilight fic. we dont need to talk about it. but more recently:

Wellspring (cole & vivienne) - based on the banter where cole tells vivienne that if templars come for her, he'll kill them. it was translated into russian!

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

yep, loooong time ago, when i was participating in homestuck shipping events where we got on teams for a ship. shout out to the catchat 🐈

since, ive talked about co-writing a couple times but we never made it anywhere lmao

14) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

this is the worst question in existence how very dare you. i wonder what i said last time. i wonder if it was corvo attano/daud from dishonored. i feel like i probably did say them

15) What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

i still want to finish ALL my wips. if i had infinite time and spoons, id still finish everything unless ive changed too much since then, which basically just means stuff that goes all the way back to the teenage years, or if the source has been soured for me too much (hp, overwatch). im not sure which im least likely to finish tho... probably the longfic dbh au stuff

16) What are your writing strengths?

i don't know lol i often get comments on my characterization so probably that! i'd like to think i'm decent at pacing as well, particularly since i've spent a lot of time working on it

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

i struggle the most with fluff, smut and conclusions. i also don't have the spoons for long, complex plots anymore, if im honest, and that really sucks. i get easily overwhelmed when trying to piece it together. hopefully the energy comes back someday

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

there are times when its appropriate but i think it's something to be careful with. first of all: avoiding racist tropes. a character using other languages should have meaning or be realistic, imo, not be quirky or fetishizing. just need to make sure there's a real, grounded reason for it, that it makes sense. people who speak multiple languages irl have a lot to say about what its like.

and then you need to be careful about the clarity of the text. if there's too much and the readers don't understand, it's going to be confusing. don't lock important context behind a language barrier. don't risk frustrating a person into giving up on the story because they cant keep up. and no, putting translations in the notes is not always enough, if it means the reader has to constantly stop reading to check the notes, losing their place or the flow of the scene

19) First fandom you wrote for?

gonna be real with yall. if you count hand-written things that never made it into fandom spaces and werent even written with the understanding that it was fanfic......... angry beavers. yah, the cartoon about the beaver brothers. yes

if we're talking actual intentional fandom activity that made it to the internet, that would be harry potter.

20) Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

the previously mentioned winter chill and summer bloom is certainly up there. i think ill also say my dbh vampire au series:

Vampire AU (a.k.a. gay vampire/hunter shenanigans)

i'm also very fond of my two fics named after lyrics from blackbird by the beatles

into the light of the dark black night (gen) - dbh post-bomb ending fic

take these broken wings and learn to fly (kara/north) - whumpy soulmate au femslash lets go

#tag meme #passed 1mil words only a couple weeks ago and didnt notice until a couple days ago hehe

3 notes · View notes

mc-adarsh · 11 months ago

Text

JOURNEY OF SELF DISCOVERY - update 4 / week 2

Jealousy definitely is overruling most of Adarsh's experiences of being 'nice'. While he feels like he's competent somewhat, he also feels awkward whenever he needs to start a 'regular' conversation.

goals

one person has offered to trim my beard and i think my hair, but i do not know if i can trust her to do this.

there might soon be an option to go to the ship along side alex.

perhaps i am not necessarily violent, perhaps negative emotions simply come easier to me and as a result i lash out. i have hit one person and one tree, but it has only been two weeks, so perhaps i am doing pretty well. i have no idea how often violent people punch people.

findings

i do think i am not straight. perhaps bisexual. but i definitely think of someone's lips far too often.

i am starting to slowly become the last person to learn about my powers, making me feel like perhaps i do not have any. some of the powers seem to be connected to who people are or what they used to do. or depending on what situation they get themselves in. i fear that my lack of memory also signals me as the odd one out to not have a power.

i am very jealous. perhaps more than i like to admit. i thought it was just jealousy of being the only one without a memory, but jealousy comes back whenever i feel like there is something i do not have that others do have. i cannot seem to convince myself that it is not bad that i do not have it, my mind will always return to the feeling. i do not have powers, i do not have memories, i do not have the same type of skills that other people have. i do not feel like i am the type of face that will turn people towards me. i am not kind. i am not a chef or a tv celebrity, nor do i know how to make myself useful. i fear my personality is making it difficult to find my place, and instead of fighting against it, i am quick to resign to the possibility.

i easily believe people's theories. right now i am struggling between what darcy has told me and elijah's idea.

my nose is broken and my vainness is showing.

maybe i am a boxer. or was.

people

advice dude: i did not kill him. but i came close. at least he learnt about his ability through me. at least i do not have a death on my conscious.

alex: i want to stop thinking about him. but also not.

zaid: i do not know if food will bring back my memory but talking about it does feel nice. i do get a feeling that zaid would rather not be forced in my company too often. i do hope i get to taste his food soon.

ms. akhila asthana: i have mommy issues and i do not think she is that much older than me.

darcy: i think i am trying to befriend her. it is a weird sensation. i feel slightly angry in her stead for the people who say she is crazy. while at the same time i do not believe her theory either.

cemre: i do understand a bit more how darcy feels after sharing the tv show theory with cemre.

lindiwe of england: offered to do my beard and hair, looks to be intoxicated, but maybe her power is making her act a bit odd. i think i am concerned she would try to trim my aura and accidentally take off my ear. yet it does not seem to come from a place where i am afraid of bodily harm, but being afraid of putting her in that situation...

nakia: i hope they truly recall who i am some day.

selin: i think i am making up well for my behaviour last time. though i still cannot believe i went picking flowers.

fancy party passenger: i am pretty sure they are famous too. that makes three famous people in a group of thirty, that seems like a high number.

elijah: rambles a lot, but makes veg food. i think he is the type of person who is actually extremely intelligent and i somehow feel like i need to keep him close.

boxer: wants to spar. i feel excited for it.

#the journal #//week 2 #//he still doesn't know he has healing powers #//also after this week he'll probably loose track of the days all together

3 notes · View notes

nihiltism · 1 year ago

Text

oh btw re the oc post i made earlier, additional content 1: i submitted a writing about them for creative writing one time and it was bad dont ask me to share. but i sure did do it.

2: timetravel rules in my verse Do Exist but only if i want them to and in the context of mack and mortys relationship specifically it kindof doesnt matter. theyll always meet one way or another it does not matter which time they meet at theyll catch back up like nothing happened. morp has a godawful memory so there isnt any concerns about "you knowing __ in the future will fuck everything up". the rules are probably stricter with like anyone else though. morty is absolutely not the type of person to try and change the future at all so its fine.

2.5. mack can run into past versions of himself but he tries to avoid them if he can help it nowadays because of one time where he ran into a pre-Domestication Arc I Guess version of him that got bored and really really really wanted to see what would happen if he fought himself and it was Not Fun For Him In The Slightest and he super lost. probably fun for the other him though.

3: morty has a playlist, its really nice and cozy,

3.5: but as i put this down i realize i need to give some context for the last 2 songs so uhhhhh. lore time. Back In The Day i used to be a shovel knight roleplayer but i got 1. really really attached to my interpretation of an incredibly minor character that was almost indecipherable from the canon character and 2. kind of annoyed with the general community (and also how my character was misinterpreted despite them uh. being more canon accurate.). so i kindof just stole the character and made them blue instead. bc it was a good idea i shouldnt give that credit to shovel knight that should go to Me. anyway thats the deep lore morty is a colorswapped gall specteroftorment. i think i have like, 3 mutuals from skt so hi guys.

3.7: this is not the only one of my ocs i colorswapped from a sot character i used to roleplay but the other one has a much more deranged history there.

3.9: remember that the character theyre based on is named gall this will become deeply funny to only me later when i explain their relation to my other oc hero and their questlines with them

#blorbos from my brain #mortyposting #mackposting #veespeaks

2 notes · View notes

kath-artic · 1 year ago

Text

aforementioned talking

was sitting in the shower thinking of things I'd like to say to him and its so funny the way I've become obsessed with the concept of cohesion. like I really read one essay on coherentism like 4 years ago and said "yeah kinda if you account for the fact that moral imperfection is not necessarily evil and also if you account for the fact that most contradictions can be solved by taking a step back because even the most opposing points branch out from the same source." like I was reeeaaallly explaining myself in my head there just to make sure my logic was airtight for no damn reason. anyway one thing I thought was silly (and its something I've realized before but its a realization that kinda faded from the forefront of my mind) was that I started thinking about how to explain that I try not to concern myself with outcomes and that lead me to the example of the situation with my friend wherein I haven't "decided" if I want to still be her friend in the future because my concern in the present is having space away from her--why close a door that may better serve me open and why ask someone in when they may be better off outside and why concern yourself with doing either when there's no one at the door to worry about--and to determine an absolute outcome is to limit myself and then I thought "what if he says 'oh I would've cut her off'" and I thought I'd explain my whole thing about avoiding cruelty because cruelty is the first seed that turned me from being in touch with myself as a woman on account of my not-so-good relationship with my mom growing up and THEN I started giving examples in my head and started reflecting on when I was little and she'd ask what I wanted for dinner and I'd accidentally pick something expensive (I was a kid w no idea how much things cost) and she'd get mad and start yelling at me and then I'd say "I'm sorry I didn't know, I'm fine with anything we can afford" and she'd still get the expensive thing to prove a point. Anyway this final bit is the point I was getting to because its been a while since I've reflected on this memory and like. 1) its why I struggle so much whenever people ask me what I want to eat and they're paying because I'm hyper conscious of the fact that I'm putting them out and I have no concept of how much is too much (like whenever people ask what I want to eat I almost always ask some vague question like "what are the parameters" because I never feel like I have enough information to make an informed choice) 2) its part of why I cant understand what my friend was expecting of me. because whenever I tell someone "no its okay" and they STILL do the thing I initially wanted it feels like a guilt tactic. so why would I read into subtext and not do something I was given permission to do when all my life that has been a tactic used to make me feel horrible.

anyway lol that one other memory is starting to finally fade again I think. it just pisses me off in so many ways that it was ever back to begin with. like she's not really To Blame for it being on my mind, but that situation is what triggered it. like 1) having that one incident where I went catatonic because she brought up the topic my first ex would threaten me with whenever he was raping me at knife point like 9 times in one week compared to her getting upset over something I DIDNT DO because it reminded her of when she was lonely on her birthday in middle school kinda pissed me off 2) if comparing traumas is the name of the game then how's 'having your best friend's abusive boyfriend get into a whole public fight with her over the fact that she's coming to your birthday so she has to leave early and then your first boyfriend sexually assaults you once she's gone' for bad birthdays 3) her telling me that I will never experience the kind of connection I've dedicated my life to finding in her last message just to hurt me 4) the only other time I've ever felt the kind of betrayal she made me feel (and obviously it was on a far greater scale in this latter case) was when I realized what my first ex had been doing to me. all 4 of these things have just been making me so anxious again and I make such a point of not letting the fact that I was raped instill distrust in me. I still believe people to be fundamentally good. but its been hard recently and that's what hurts me even more. I trust the guy I'm seeing. I trust him so much and I want to let myself be close to him, but it's been hard to talk because now there's this specter of cruelty looming over me. I don't want it to affect my ability to speak anymore. I don't want to be haunted by the ghosts of things that cant hurt me anymore

0 notes

astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

Text

How Often They Worry about MC…

For those who don’t know, I have a little dog named Charlie and she is a large portion of my world. There's no need to be alarmed, my dog is fine, but there are days where I hold her and all I can think about is how much I worry about her health down the line… I suppose we often do that for the people we love, particularly the ones who may not last as long as we will. Take that as inspiration if you'd like.

Lucifer

Near constantly.

If you tracked his blood pressure on a grid, you'd see it start to continuously rise about when he decided they were worth having in his life.

Lucifer is the eldest sibling to a whole crew of brothers so he's no stranger to worry. He worried about his brothers when they were young, he worried about them after the Fall, and he still worries about them now (even if he's less open about it).

But a part of him knows that his brothers can handle their own, at least to varying degrees. The MC, though? He's far less sure…

They've proven rather resilient, but also headstrong and reckless. Neither of which are good things to be in a place this dangerous...

If Lucifer isn't careful, he can catch himself staring at a wall or window just wondering where they are and if they're doing alright… If he called them every time he had a passing worry, their inbox would be full by the end each week.

He holds himself back because he doesn't have the time to constantly protect them, but that doesn't stop him from sending a text once or twice a day. They better respond or he'll start (secretly) panicking.

Mammon

He forgets their mortality from time to time, but every time he remembers it hits like a ton of bricks…

Mammon is a pretty "in-the-moment" person. He doesn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the future, but whenever he does the thought of losing MC always comes back to him again and again.

Like. It's gotta happen eventually, right? They're human, humans die, hell they don't even live that long to start with!

The MC can always tell when Mammon's getting worried because he'll get uncharacteristically quiet and pace around or hover by them…

Every little injury or strenuous task will suddenly seem like too much to him as well.

If they need to carry some boxes, he'll carry them all.

If they have to jog to class, he's carrying them.

If they so much as get a papercut, he'll have a heart attack.

It's not very hard to get Mammon out of these funks - he really does want them to reassure him that they're okay - but he's never going to get fully over it…

Not until he can steal whatever top secret immortality formula Solomon must have used anyway… He'll get it off that bastard eventually.

Leviathan

Thinks about it so often he has to actively try not to just to get any peace…

He dodges his fears for MC like a protagonist dodges lasting consequences. Every time he feels one creeping up, he's always got a distraction waiting…

"Hey where's MC at? I hope they didn't fall into the riv-OH HEY CHECK OUT THIS NEW GAME!!"

"What are they doing over there…? That looks hard, what if they bre-WAIT DIDN'T MY FAVORITE VOICE ACTOR JUST RELEASE A NEW PODCAST???"

"What if the MC dies tomorrow and they leave me all alo-DEVIL FIGHT 200! YOU CAN'T BEAT DEVIL FIGHT 200, LET’S BREAK MY HIGH SCORE!!"

Cut him some slack, his psyche cannot handle the idea of losing them on top of everything else he grapples with every day.

If, on the rare occasion, he does let himself fall down that rabbit hole he becomes extra clingy and practically begs MC not to leave his room… like ever. He'd bubble wrap them if he could.

Anytime they get really hurt or really sick he refuses to leave their side even if it means he has to awkwardly sit on the floor. He just needs to be able to glance at them every so often to be sure they're alive… Still breathing?? Phew…

Satan

He worries, preps, rationalizes, then worries again…

For Satan, knowledge is power and every scrap of information he can learn about MC is more power he can use to keep them safe and healthy.

Yes, he will want their medical history. Yes, he's going to need a list of prescriptions. Family members too. And no, you do not get a choice.

He'll read up on as many things as he can - pawn medical journals off of witches and get magical alternatives from Solomon.

The cycle usually goes:

1. He's lying awake at night because he just heard about some terrible bacteria that makes human's skin peel off or something.

2. He does all the research he can on this bacteria, its treatment options, best prevention methods, etc.

3. Gets right about to break out the rubber booties for MC to wear around, then realizes they have a very slim chance of catching said bacteria since it's only native to incredibly remote parts of Indonesia.

4. Feels instant relief that MC will probably not catch flesh-eating bacteria and can finally sleep again…

5. Hears of some other human medical horror from Solomon and starts to worry…

It's a vicious cycle indeed… But at least he's getting a lot of medical training. Soon enough he'll be the Devildom's version of a human vet (which I guess is just a doctor, come to think of it. 🤔)

Asmodeus

Lives so "here-and-now" that he doesn't remember often, but when he does it's always heartbreaking…

Asmo usually tries to worry about things as little as possible. It’s bad for the skin, you know? But when the MC is involved, all of that goes out the window.

Like how a delicate blossom eventually wilts in the snow, the MC is bound to leave them in time… Usually there's supposed to be something beautiful in that kind of tragedy, but perhaps he's just too close to them to find any romance in it.

The thought of their death gives him breakouts and anytime they get hurt or sick he's the first brother to offer them comfort. Every time.

Because he doesn't feel like he's as physically strong as he brothers, he tries to make up for it by minding their health in other ways. Anything to keep his MC strong and beautiful as always!

If Asmo is in a worrying mood, then he may also compensate by trying to take the MC out to a party or some fun event. Why sit around worrying by himself when he could be making memories with them now, right?

Beelzebub

It comes in waves, mostly at night.

When your thoughts throughout the day are mostly, "I wish I wasn't so hungry," it doesn't afford you a lot of time to think about much else.

In a way, it's a good thing since he experiences a lot less stress. But those worries are still there and they mostly plague his dreams…

Beel doesn’t feel hungry when he's sleeping, so a lot of his fears will make themselves known overnight. An injured or dying MC is often in his rotation of nightmares though, of course, he'd rather it not be…

After having one of these dreams, his first instinct is to always make sure the MC is okay. If they're with him, he'll hug them and check their heartbeat. If they're somewhere else, he'll go to them or shoot a text.

He has woken up without realizing his nightmare was all a dream though, and usually it's up to Belphie or MC themselves to console him while he cries… It's so heartbreaking, sweet boy just puts a lot of pressure on himself to be sure they're safe…

When he worries, it's like they're the most beautiful and expensive China set in a room full of bulls and hammers. If he could tape them to his side, he probably would. He gets scared for them that much…

Belphegor

More scared about it than anyone else in the House.

Despite his calm demeanor, Belphie is truly afraid of losing his loved ones beneath the surface… He's already lost one of his most dear siblings before, going through that again may just break him.

Unfortunately, he's also felt just how fragile the MC is firsthand... He's not even the strongest of his brothers, yet he was able to snuff them out so easily… Who's to say someone else won't try?

Like Beel, MC's death is a recurring nightmare for him but he can usually shake off his dreams fairly well, if not change them mid-sleep. More scary is when something is actually wrong with them or they're not feeling well.

Belphie always sets his inner laziness aside for the MC when he can. If they get sick, he'll usually be right along with his family to take care of them - even if he has to skip school to do so (not that he cares about class anyway).

When he's worrying about them, he tries to play it off at first, but soon enough they'll notice him acting overly concerned and losing sleep… Best to calm him down before he starts getting cranky.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons

2K notes · View notes

canary3d-obsessed · 4 years ago

Text

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed, Episode 22 part one

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff) (Previous Post)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Not Quite Like Old Times

We ended the previous episode in daylight, with Lan Wangji putting Wei Wuxian and swordpoint and declaring his undying love lecturing him about his lack of sword skills.

We start this episode in full night, with the two of them sitting on a roof together. Presumably they spent the missing scenes getting dinner in the mess hall, doing some laundry, and definitely not making out. Fic writers, do your thing.

Finally, FINALLY, Lan Wangji has chilled out enough to actually sit and listen to Wei Wuxian, instead of yelling at and/or physically attacking him. The Zoloft is really helping!

Wei Wuxian is indulging in romantic recollections of their first rooftop encounter. Lan Wangji, who has loved him since he first laid eyes on him and who wrote a whole song with an entire music video about their love, featuring that very same rooftop encounter, shuts him down so completely he might as well have whipped out Bichen again.

First he corrects his description of events by pointing out they were fighting, not talking, back then. Then when Wei Wuxian continues in his charming, smiley reminiscing vein, Lan Wangji says "things change, how could they stay the same" with a deep, sad, weariness.

He seems like an old man in this moment, and I feel for him, really, I do. But he's not the one who's carrying the actual essence of death around inside him. Wei Wuxian is being much more generous in this interaction than Lan Wangji is.

Wei Wuxian thanks him for not narkng to Jiang Yanli about the whole talisman/forced suicide/ghost hummer/ghost flaying thing he did back in Yiling. Like there is any way Lan Wangji would ever tell Jiang Yanli, of all people, something like that about Wei Wuxian. He's lying to his own brother to cover for Wei Wuxian, and Wei Wuxian totally doesn't get it.

(more after the cut)

Unfortunately, there's no reason Wei Wuxian SHOULD get it, at this point; Lan Wangji has not communicated anything but disapproval to him since his return, and Wei Wuxian, despite their (apparently temporary) mental linkup in the Turtle cave, is not a mind reader.

Lan Wangji is so hurt here, and Wei Wuxian appears to ignore that, continuing to smile and laugh; he’s still sunny, still happy. Seriously, they are so tonally out of step with each other in this conversation, it's excruciating.

Lan Wangji: I’m feeling good about my tear-holding-back ability Wei Wuxian: do I look more fuckable sitting up? Or leaning back?

But every one of these smiles is an absolute lie. This is Wei Wuxian appeasing an authority figure; baffling with bullshit and skating by on charm. This is not a young man confiding in his soulmate.

Even when the conversation shifts, and they talk seriously about what is going on with him, Wei Wuxian is barely confiding anything. He briefly acknowledges that he was in the Burial Mounds for three months, and shudders at the memory, but Lan Wangji doesn't respond to that other than to look away from his face.

This is almost the last thing Wei Wuxian will ever say to anyone about that experience. He only alludes to it again when Jiang Cheng visits the settlement and talks smack about their corpse turnips. Lan Wangji says he wants to know why Wei Wuxian’s cultivation changed, but he really doesn’t; he just wants to convince him to change it back.

Wei Wuxian explains about using Lan clan techniques to protect his temperament, as well as the flute and talismans, to control the resentful energy. This is a good reminder that Wei Wuxian was never a bad student. He was an outstanding cultivator within the Jiang Clan, and he learned a hell of a lot during his time in Gusu, despite getting expelled for fighting.

His original golden core was stronger than Jiang Cheng's, even though he apparently started cultivating later. Yes, he fell asleep during meditation that one time in Episode 43, but that's not because he's bad at meditating, it's because he was tired from getting railed all night by his boyfriend stabbed in the gut by his nephew.

Lan Wangji eventually manages to ask him a question like an interested fellow human being sharing knowledge, instead of like an authoritarian dick calling him to account.

Side note: I still am flopping around trying to find good-sounding English terms for Chinese philosophical concepts. I kind of like "ghost path" vs "sword path" for the two styles of cultivation - I don't know where I saw that, apologies to the translator. I like "necromancy" for the part where the dead are reanimated and controlled, because we definitely have that in English. But there are many layers of nuance in these conversations that English is not equipped to render in a natural-sounding way.

Lan Wangji tells him, again, that it's dangerous, but this time he does it in a gentler and more poetic way, saying it's like taking grain from a burning fire, and says he's in danger of becoming the novel version of Wei Wuxian a demonic cultivator. Wei Wuxian, also gently and seriously, says he knows.

Then he immediately goes back to his lightest tone and promises, with his three-fingers gesture, that he will not fall into demonic cultivation. This gesture is basically the Wei Wuxian "I am totally fucking lying" salute.

He is totally fucking lying, and he MUST know it. He's baking the Yin tiger amulet every day during his meditation, getting ready to use it against Wen Ruohan, getting ready to take over his army of the dead.

He has the audacity to ask Lan Wangji, "do you believe me?" and Lan Wangji, also totally fucking lying, nods. Their relationship is just as broken right now as it was before their courtyard sparring session.

You can tell it's broken, because after they've reached this apparent place of peace, Wei Wuxian just hops down off the roof and LEAVES Lan Wangji sitting by himself. When has Wei Wuxian ever been like "gotta go!" with Lan Wangji? The last time they were here, he spent the night sleeping on the roof tiles just so he could be near him.

As he leaves, Lan Wanji stands up and says "let me help you." Wei Wuxian is not a fan of that idea, at all, if his expression is any guide.

He agrees, though, and leaves smiling, apparently for real, but maybe just practicing for all the fake smiles in his future.

Hooray for War

In the morning, Nie Mingjue makes an angry speech to the 2 dozen cultivators who apparently make up the army. Extras are expensive, y'all.

The senior cultivators are standing to the right or left of him, with the Lan brothers bracketing the Yunmeng sibs. Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng are both staking their claim to Wei Wuxian, while Lan Xichen is standing in the spot closest to Nie Mingjue; Nie Huaisang is on the opposite side with the Jins.

All of the random cultivators yell a war chant in response to Nie Mingjue's speech, while the senior cultivators are like, we don't have to do that yelling stuff, thank goodness.

Nie Mingjue's war outfit includes metal (ish) epaulets on his shoulders and a totally not-kinky belt featuring multiple rings with nothing attached to them (yet) and an angry demon face right above his junk.

Nie Mingjue says we're going to storm into Nightless city and I'm going to chop off Wen Ruohan's head! By which he means, I'm going to get captured and get my ass beat, and then my murder-babie ex-boyfriend who had this belt specially made for me is going to stab Wen Ruohan in the back while he's distracted. They do say no plan survives contact with the enemy.

Side note: Baxia makes a loud metallic "shnk" noise when NMJ takes it off his back during this speech, even though Baxia does not have a scabbard. You do you, Baxia.

All the senior cultivators file out down the center while everyone else parts to let them pass. Then everybody does the Electric Slide.

Jiang Cheng tells Wei Wuxian they should go ahead of the main force to get some killing in early, but Wei Wuxian just pulls a face and looks down, staying with Lan Wangji.

Jiang Cheng is disappointed, and no doubt takes this as a sign of WWX choosing LWJ over him. But actually, WWX can't fight side-by-side with Jiang Cheng without showing his weakness.

LWJ and WWX exchange one of their unspoken "let's go" eye touches and get ready to ride out together with the main force.

Lan Wangji is still super, super sad. Wei Wuxian is still fake. But something is starting to knit together between them, and once they can hit a battlefield together, it will get a lot stronger.

On A Horse With No Name

Everyone rides out on horses, which will presumably get eaten somewhere along the way, because they appear to travel on foot after this. While Wei Wuxian practices his horseback-flute-twirling, Lan Wangji asks why Wei Wuxian didn't go with the forward force to fight.

Wei Wuxian says that he has a case of the don'wannas, and Lan Wangji snarkily points out that he used to like fighting. Wei Wuxian reacts, just as he did at the end of their sword fight, with embarrassment, and doesn't answer.

Lan Wangji, sweetie. You are really not helping.

At this point, despite their ongoing fighting, Wangxian are clearly together again. Lan Wangji isn't riding with his brother; he's RIGHT next to Wei Wuxian, and will stay close to him through the rest of the campaign.

Nie Huaisang hollers "Wei-Xiong" from the top of the battlements and tells him to take care. Wei-Xiong lifts his flute in acknowledgement while Nie Huaisang looks worried. He doesn't tell Nie Mingjue or Lan Wangji to take care, just Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian is his particular friend, more than Lan Wangji is, but he may also be concerned because he can tell that Wei Wuxian isn't well.

Nie Huaisang hasn't yet developed the deep cynicism that he calls upon in his quest to avenge his brother, but he has always been a voracious collector of information, and he is keenly observant.

Side note: what the fuck is going on with this sculpture? Kudos to the artist. This has beautiful forms, and is weird and disturbing. The main head is wearing a horned skull on its forehead, small ungulates that I hesitate to call “deer” chilling on its horns, and...snakes? biting its ears?

Boring Wen Interlude

Wen Ruohan is waving his hands around. Sigh. This is one of the more boring villain performances ever, and it's not the actor’s fault. They could have given him a sidekick to yell at or something, so we could get more than just hand waving. I’ve given up screen capping any of this; there are more interesting things to look at.

Battle Moves

Jin Zixuan and Jiang Cheng and their forces have an extended fight scene with a bunch of puppet dudes and stuntmen in harnesses.

It's pretty fun to watch. (Fanvid with more over here)

The gist of the fighting scenes is that Wen Ruohan is getting stronger, and Klingons are hard to beat.

Battle Planning

Finally we see a sidekick with Wen Ruohan, although he's blurry so it's hard to tell that he is totally Meng Yao.

The Sunshotters have set up a Battle Camp Playset. It's got chunks of gates and walls that don't connect to anything, like a Duplo set. It's just randomly open for most of the back area so that anyone can walk in.

They've got a cage of hilarious definitely-not-zombies set up, and the rest of the wounded cultivators are lying on the ground.

The main battle trio go chill in Nie Mingjue's incredibly fancy tent. They talk it over and say it's impossible to kill unkillable enemies, "even when we have millions of troops." And by “millions” they mean “dozens.”

Nie Mingjue decides the way to handle it is to kill the leader and everyone else will collapse, because he has watched vampire movies and the last season of Game of Thrones and that's how it works. Watching the last season of Game of Thrones is why he is so angry all the time He says he's going to sneak into Nightless City and assassinate Wen Ruohan.

Okay, first of all, Nie Mingjue can sneak? I don't believe it. Second of all, if that was possible, why didn't he do it as soon as Wen Ruohan attacked his clan?

Nie Mingjue wants to take the biggest risk because he's the commander in chief, which is not how commanding is supposed to work, but okay.

He says if he dies, Zewu Jun will take over. Jiang Cheng starts to protest but Zewu Jun appears as if conjured, and shows them a map that will...dear GOD his hands are beautiful.

It's a helpful map, painted in multiple colors with careful writing on it, so if anyone were to show it to Nie Huaisang he would probably go "oh cool Meng Yao painted that" because anyone who could paint that well probably spent a fair amount of time at it on a regular basis. But, Nie Huaisang isn't here so, nope.

It’s always nice to see Jiang Cheng smile.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Waniji examine some of the puppets to see what's up. It's transmitted by touch, and Lan Wangji says that curing one dude takes three months of spiritual power. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Writing Prompt: Missing scene! How did they get from the fight in the courtyard to the talk on the roof?

Soundtrack: 1. Shine on You Crazy Diamond, by Pink Floyd 2. Electric Boogie, by Marcia Griffiths

#the untamed #the untamed gifs #wangxian #the untamed meta #canary3d-original #my gifs #wordcount 2379 #restless rewatch the untamed

230 notes · View notes

sinshckled · 4 years ago

Text

━━ ╴- AGUST D, D-2 [ 2020 ] ⤷ LYRICAL STARTERS.

collection of various sentence starters from AGUST D’s second mixtape. - translations were taken from doolsetbangtan, w/ occasional help from genius ; - minor edits were made as to accomodate roleplay needs ; - feel free to change pronouns or wording as to best fit your muse !

cw: angst, depression, mentions of violence, alcohol, lots and lots of SWEARING !

━━━━━━━

TRACK ONE. — 저 달 ( Moonlight )

❝ Fuck, I’m just doing it. ❞

❝ In my head, the reality fights with the ideal tirelessly. ❞

❝ My biggest enemy is the anger inside me. ❞

❝ Sometimes I resent god, asking why he made me live a life like this. ❞

❝ Sometimes I ask myself again, ‘if it was possible to go back, would you ?’ Well, I’ll have to think more about that. ❞

❝ One moment I feel like I’ve easily earned what I have, and the next moment I’m compensated for the fucking hard work I’ve done. ❞

❝ But I’m still hungry, would this be karma ? ❞

❝ That moonlight that shines on me at dawn, it’s still the same as then. A lot changed in my life, but that moonlight is still the same. ❞

❝ Sometimes I feel like I’m a genius. Sometimes I feel like I have no talent. ❞

❝ There would be no eternity for anything. ❞

❝ Being called immortal is fucking overwhelming. ❞

❝ But the adjectives they attach to my name feel too much sometimes. ❞

❝ What can I do, I should just keep running. ❞

❝ What can I do, I should just keep hold of things that I’m grasping. ❞

❝ What can I do, I should just pay back what I’ve received. ❞

❝ If you think you’re gonna crash, accelerate even harder, you idiot ! ❞

TRACK TWO. — 대취타 ( Daechwita )

❝ Don’t forget the old days. ❞

❝ Born a slave, risen to a king. ❞

❝ Rags to riches, that’s exactly the way I live. ❞

❝ I’m sorry, but don’t worry about me ; I have lots to lose. ❞

❝ I'm about to dine on what I know is mine. ❞

❝ Not gonna lie, what a shitshow. ❞

❝ I’ve got no pretensions, just kill ’em all. ❞

❝ No exceptions, I watch you fall. ❞

❝ Who’s the king ? Who’s the boss ? ❞

❝ Everyone knows my name. ❞

❝ All shit-talk, they’ve got no game. ❞

❝ Off with their heads, ah ! ❞

❝ This country's too small to hold me in yet. ❞

❝ Who said time is money ? My time is worth more than that. ❞

❝ I'm so thankful that I'm a genius. ❞

❝ If that’s your reason for using drugs, cry me a river — you’ve just got no skills. ❞

❝ I got everything I wanted, I wonder what else I should have to feel satisfied. ❞

❝ Yeah, what's next ? ❞

❝ Here comes my reality check. ❞

❝ I only looked up ; now I want to look down and put my feet on the ground. ❞

❝ Remember my name. ❞

━━━ MORE UNDER THE CUT !

TRACK THREE. — 어떻게 생각해? ( What do you think? )

❝ What do you think ? ❞

❝ Whatever you think, I’m sorry but I don’t fucking care at all. ❞

❝ I’m sorry but I don’t care at all about how mediocre your life is, or about the fact that you can’t escape the shithole after failing. ❞

❝ Thinking that my success has anything to do with your failure… you’re fucking great at being delusional. ❞

❝ Your sense of humor is so so. ❞

❝ The fact that you're fucked is your fault, no-no? ❞

❝ We conquer it all, one by one, like we’ve been doing all this time. ❞

❝ All of you go fuck yourself, huh ! ❞

❝ The brats that boast about their money, you have to wonder how much they could've actually earnt on their own. ❞

❝ Bragging about money looks cute now. ❞

❝ We’ll go serve in the military when the time comes. ❞

❝ I hope all those bastards who tried to get a free ride by selling our names shut their mouths up. ❞

❝ At this point, I don’t have to know. ❞

❝ I don’t fucking care. ❞

❝ While this will be my last gift, this as well is luxury for you. ❞

TRACK FOUR. — 이상하지 않은가 ( Strange ) ft. RM

❝ Everything in dust, do you see ? ❞

❝ Well well well…❞

❝ Everything in lust. ❞

❝ Someone please tell me if life is pain. ❞

❝ If there’s a god, please tell me if life is happiness. ❞

❝ A big system that’s called the world ; They insert conflicts, wars, or survivals. ❞

❝ Capital injects morphine called hope with dream as collateral. ❞

❝ Wealth creates wealth and tests our greed. ❞

❝ In the world, it’s only the two, black and white, that exist. ❞

❝ In the endless zero-sum game, the end is entertaining to watch. ❞

❝ Polarization... the ugliest flower in the world. ❞

❝ It’s been a long while since truth got eaten away by lies. ❞

❝ Who would it be that benefits the most? Who would it be that gets harmed the most ? ❞

❝ The one who isn’t sick in the world that is sick gets treated as a mutant, isn’t it strange ? ❞

❝ The one who has his eyes open in the world that has its eyes closed — now they make him out to be blind, isn’t it strange ? ❞

❝ The one who wants peace, the one who wants a fight — each taking each end of the ideology, isn’t it strange ? ❞

❝ There’s no correct answer, isn’t it strange ? ❞

❝ You think you’ve got taste? Oh, baby, how do you know? ❞

❝ For god’s sake, everything's under control ! ❞

❝ However much money one has, everyone is a slave of this system. ❞

❝ At this point, even you wouldn’t know. ❞

❝ Oh baby, what’s your name? ❞

❝ But still, life goes on, somehow, just like this. ❞

❝ Everyone, in their own chicken coop, says they’re okay. ❞

❝ In the world where a dream has become an option… there’s no correct answer, that’s the answer. ❞

TRACK FIVE. — 점점 어른이 되나봐 ( 28 ), ft. NiiHWA

❝ And yet, would it have been better to not know the world? ❞

❝ Perhaps I’m gradually becoming an adult. ❞

❝ I can’t remember what were the things that I hoped for. ❞

❝ Now I’m scared. ❞

❝ Where did the fragments of my dream go ? ❞

❝ Though I’m breathing, it feels like my heart has broken down. ❞

❝ Yeah, to talk about now, it’s about becoming an adult who finds it only overwhelming to grasp onto a dream. ❞

❝ I thought I’d change when I turned twenty ; I thought I’d change when I graduated. ❞

❝ Sometimes, tears suddenly pour down with no reason. ❞

❝ Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore. ❞

❝ Living, for just one day, without any concerns... for just one day, without any worries. ❞

TRACK SIX. — Burn it, ft. MAX

❝ I see the ashes falling out your window. ❞

❝ There’s someone in the mirror that you don’t know. ❞

❝ And everything was all wrong ; so burn it till it’s all gone. ❞

❝ Let’s go back to the past days, to the times that destroyed me. ❞

❝ After having a taste of success, how am I different from the me of back then ? ❞

❝ Let the old me burn. ❞

❝ I wonder what would remain in the end ? ❞

❝ The weakness, hatred, loathing, and even rage — Them, too, are rather futile. ❞

❝ Be careful of the word ‘beginner’s mindset’, don’t be afraid. ❞

❝ Whether it would become a blazing sun or the ashes left behind after being burnt — always, the choice and decision is yours to make. ❞

❝ I hope you don’t forget that giving up decisively also counts as courage. ❞

TRACK SEVEN. — 사람 (People)

❝ What kind of person am I ? ❞

❝ Am I a good person ? Or a bad person ? ❞

❝ I’m just a person, too. ❞

❝ Everyone would fade away and be forgotten. ❞

❝ People change — like I have. ❞

❝ There’s nothing that lasts forever. ❞

❝ Everything is just a happening passing through.❞

❝ Mm… why so serious ? ❞

❝ If you get hurt, what about it ? ❞

❝ Flow along the way the water flows ; maybe there’s something at the end. ❞

❝ A special life, an ordinary life, each of them on their own. ❞

❝ It’s all good, it’s all good. ❞

❝ Things don’t always go as intended ; Discomfort is something everyone has to withstand. ❞

❝ The repetition of dramatic situations sometimes makes life tiring. ❞

❝ People are like that. ❞

❝ When it’s not there, you wish it was ; when it’s there, you wish it wasn’t. ❞

❝ Who said that humans are the animals of wisdom ? To my eyes, it’s obvious that they are animals of regret. ❞

TRACK EIGHT. — 혼술 ( Honsool )

❝ It’s time that I fully face myself. ❞

❝ After finishing a shower, I detoxify myself with alcohol. ❞

❝ Perhaps it’s the alcohol that puts a period at the end of the day that is blurry in my memory. ❞

❝ I’ll just worry about tomorrow’s work tomorrow, fuck I don’t care. ❞

❝ I don’t really reach for snacks because I feel like I’d throw up if I did. ❞

❝ Since it’s getting to my head, let’s be honest about my life. ❞

❝ Oh yeah, money, fame, wealth, trophies and stadiums — sometimes I’d get scared of them. ❞

❝ I thought I’d party every day when I become a superstar, but the ideal is slapping the reality in the back of its head. ❞

❝ Well, it doesn’t matter anyway ; Tomorrow will come and go again. ❞

❝ I, who’s like this, and you, who’s like that… we just endure through the day, I guess. ❞

TRACK NINE. — Interlude : Set me free

❝ Set me free, knowing that it won’t go the way I want. ❞

❝ Set me free, knowing that it’s not what I want. ❞

❝ Set me free, I’m floating freely in the void. ❞

❝ Set me free, these days, I feel melancholy for no obvious reason. ❞

❝ One day, I crawl on the floor ; On another day, I fly high in the sky. ❞

TRACK TEN. — 어땠을까 ( Dear my friend ), ft. JW of NELL

❝ Still, as ever, I miss you, and I miss you. ❞

❝ Still, as ever, the memories of us together circle around me. ❞

❝ Maybe, if I had held you back then… no, if I had stopped you back then… ❞

❝ Would we have remained friends ? What would have it been like ? ❞

❝ Dear my friend, how are you doing ? ❞

❝ I, well, am doing well, as you probably know, yeah. ❞

❝ Dear my friend, I’ll be honest. I still fucking hate you. ❞

❝ I still remember the old days, when we were together. ❞

❝ “With the two of us, even the world is nothing to be afraid of” ; We used to say that, and now we walk on completely different paths, damn. ❞

❝ We, who had big dreams, were young, we were only twenty. ❞

❝ Would it be that you’ve changed, or was it me ? ❞

❝ I hate this flowing time, I guess it’s us who’ ve changed. ❞

❝ Hey, I hate you. Hey, I don't like you — Hey, even as I say these words, I miss you. ❞

❝ When I saw you for the first time in a while, you had become a completely different person. ❞

❝ There was no way to bring you back, and you became a monster.❞

❝ The you I used to know is gone, and the me you used to know is gone. ❞

❝ I know that it’s not just because of time that we’ve changed. ❞

#rp memes #rp starters #sentence starters #lyric starters #agust d #suga #bts #rp prompts #roleplay memes #roleplay prompts #✦ ʃ — out of stars ; ◜ooc.◞ * ⋆#✦ ʃ — ◜memes.◞ * ⋆#✦ ʃ — ◜original.◞ * ⋆

81 notes · View notes

obx-adventures · 5 years ago

Text

The Story

Summary: You and JJ had a moment and he blew it. Now you’re dating someone new but JJ thinks the new guy isn’t what he seems.

----

“John B! JB! Are you home?” I run up the stairs to the Chateau’s porch and barge in without knocking. When I don’t see my best friend in the living room, I run into his room, only to find it empty. I growl in frustration and run back outside to see if the HMS Pogue is there.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” I jump and clutch my heart as I spin around to the new voice.

“JJ?” His frame is still hidden in the shadow of the porch but he’s the only other person who would be here. “Where’s John B?”

“He’s with Sarah.” JJ looks concerned as I walk back to the porch. “What’s going on?”

“Ughh, shit,” I grumble as I throw myself onto the porch’s couch.

“Is everything ok?” Even with my head resting on the back of the couch and my eyes closed, I can hear the worry in his voice.

“Yea, I just needed to talk to JB.”

“Is it something you can talk to me about?” I lift my head up, peak open my eyes, and study the disheveled blonde that is suddenly sitting next me.

“Well… I guess I don’t have much choice.”

“Ouch…” I cringe at my lack of tact and feel guilty when I see the genuine pain flash across his features. “Look, I know we aren’t as close as we used to be but you can still talk to me.”

“Sorry, JJ. I didn’t mean it like that.” I tentatively reach out to pat his hand but chicken out and let my hand fall.

“Yea you did but it’s alright.” JJ shakes his head a little as if he’s trying to forget a bad memory. Before I can try to comfort him, he puts on a false smile and steers us back to the topic at hand. “What’s on your mind?”

“You know that new server at The Wreck? Tom? Well, he asked me out.” JJ has to lean closer to me to hear everything I say since my voice drops almost to a whisper as I realize how awkward this is for us.

“Oh… what does that have to with JB?”

“I wanted to see what he thought about it.”

“You ask JB for his opinion before you go out with someone?” JJ knows that John B and I are really close but he didn’t think John B was so involved in my love life.

“Yea… ever since the debacle between us…” I let my voice trail off completely and I wish I could disappear right here and now.

“Oh…” JJ’s hand goes to the back of his neck and he averts his eyes. I’ve known JJ for almost as long as I’ve known JB and I’ve never seen him look so ashamed. Is he really this embarrassed by what happened or does he feel bad? Now isn’t the time to get into this though so I decide to diffuse the tension.

“JJ, it’s ok.” This time I actually let myself grab his hand and he freezes in place. “We’re ok now. I just didn’t think through my decisions with you, so I try to talk it out with him beforehand to make sure I’m being…”

“Smart?” JJ interjects when I can’t find a diplomatic way to finish my thought.

“Yea… I’m sorry, JJ.” I offer him a half smile and hope he understands.

“Don’t be.” JJ rests his hand on top of mine and gives me a small squeeze to reassure me. He releases my hand quickly and I pull my hand back, a little bit of awkwardness still in the air. “So, do you like Tom?”

“I mean I don’t know him that well, but I think so. He’s a kook so that made me a little nervous but Kie knows his family and says they are good people.”

“If he’s a kook, why is working at The Wreck?”

“His parents don’t want him to be a spoiled asshole like Rafe and Topper. So that’s a good sign, right?”

“Sure.” JJ’s eyes screw up in concentration and I let him think for a moment. “When he asked you out, did it seem like he assumed you would say yes?”

“Uh, no. He was pretty nervous.”

“That’s good, at least he doesn’t have a big ego like most kooks. Did you like him before he asked you out?”

“What do you mean?” I can’t tell if JJ’s prying or trying to be helpful, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, have you been hoping he would ask you out?”

“Uh, I didn’t really think about. Why?”

“Then I guess you need to ask yourself if you want to go out with him because you like him or because you like that he wants to go out with you.”

“That’s actually pretty insightful, J…”

“No need to act so surprised.” For the first time since my arrival, he gives me real JJ smile and I can’t help but smile back at him. “So what are you going to do?”

“I think I’m going to say yes and see how the date goes. Thanks, JJ.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, something I haven’t done since everything happened between us. He seems momentarily surprised but pulls me into a hug on instinct. I stay in his arms for a moment but pull myself away before my emotions get the best of me.

I’m glad that he and I becoming more comfortable around each other again, but I still have my guard up. I can’t let myself forget that he broke my heart.

----

It’s been three months since Tom and I went on our first date. JJ was right that I only liked Tom initially because he wanted to go out with me. But, that changed quickly as I got to know him. He’s smart and kind, driven and focused, and treats me like a princess. He also gets along with the Pogues. The first meeting at the Boneyard was a little rough but Kie scolded all the boys before inviting him back for day out on the marsh. All the guys could see how happy I was with him and decided to give him a real chance.

Our three-month anniversary just so happened to be on Pope’s birthday, so I told Tom that we needed to spend some time at the Chateau before we went out for dinner. I could tell everyone was already pretty drunk when we arrived, but I missed any signs that something was wrong with JJ until it was too late. If only I had stayed outside with everyone instead of running into the house to get a sweater.

“Hey, Y/N…” I jump and clutch my chest in surprise.

“Shit, JJ. You scared the hell out of me!”

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s ok.” I move closer to him and try to make out the expression on his face. “Why are you sitting in the dark by yourself?”

“I was just thinking.”

“Dude, it’s Pope’s birthday. Stop being such a downer and come party with us before I have to go.”

“Y/N, I need to talk to you…” He reaches out and grabs my hand, stopping me before I can get back to the door. I stop and study his face before sitting down next to him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I place a hand on his shoulder.

“Look, I’m the last person who should be talking to you about this, but I can’t let this go on any longer…”

“What’s going on, J?”

“You know how I cut the Cameron’s grass?” I nod and he continues. “Well, I saw Tom there this morning.”

“What? Why? He’s not friends with Rafe.” Tom has told me multiple times how Rafe is a dick who gives all kooks a bad name.

“That’s not what it looked like. They were smoking pot and laughing like they know each other.”

“Tom doesn’t smoke, JJ.” I tease him all the time about how it could help him relax.

“I’m telling you, he was there.” JJ shakes my hand from his shoulder and stands up to pace in front of the couch. “And they were talking about you. I heard Rafe ask when Tom was going to close with you. Tom said tonight’s the night. And Rafe said ‘well it better be or the bet drops down to $50.’ Tom laughed and told him not to worry and he would have you screaming his name before the midnight deadline.”

“What the fuck, JJ?!” The full weight of what he just told me hits me like a ton of bricks.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry…” He sits next to me and places his hand over mine, trying to comfort me.

“No!” I forcefully pull my hand back and stand up to get away from him. “Look, I know you’ve never liked Tom, but you can’t just make something like this up! It’s cruel!”

“I’m not making this up, Y/N!” JJ pulls on his hair in frustration but tries to settle himself down to talk to me. “I swear, he was there, and I heard them say all that shit.”

“Fuck off, JJ!” I push away from him and storm out.

“Wait, Y/N!” JJ follows me outside and tries to catch my arm before I get down the porch stairs. “Please just listen to me!”

“Go to hell! I can’t believe you!”

“Whoa, what’s going on?” JB asks, looking between his two best friends.

“It doesn’t matter.” I look around for my boyfriend and gather up my stuff. “Tom, let’s go.”

“What happened?” John B and Tom ask at the same time.

“Y/N, wait!” JJ shouts over them as I walk to Tom’s car.

“JJ, stay the fuck away from me.” I tell him as I get into the car without looking back.

It takes every ounce of my strength to keep myself from crying. Tom quietly climbs in, starts the car, and tries to catch my eyes before he pulls out onto the road.

----

After dinner, we go back to Tom’s house and he leads me up to his room. I’ve been quiet since we left the Chateau, trying to understand why JJ would say all those things about my boyfriend.

“Y/N, can we try to get past whatever happened tonight with you and JJ and try to enjoy our three-month anniversary?” Tom asks as we walk up his stairs, pulling me from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry…”

“No need to apologize, I just don’t want you to miss my surprise for you.” Tom opens his bedroom door to reveal fairy lights and soft music. I gasp as I take in the ambience he created. “Do you like it?”

“Tom, it’s wonderful!” He grabs my hand and pulls me into the room. “You didn’t have to do all of this for me.”

“I just wanted everything to be perfect for tonight.” While I love the sentiment, I can’t help thinking about what JJ told me.

Before I can respond, Tom pulls me in for a kiss. His hands settle on my waist, but his fingers find my bare skin under the hem of my top right away. He deepens the kiss and my head starts spinning. Tom and I have made out before but his kisses are more desperate this time.

We’re interrupted by my phone ringing. I see that it’s JB and silence it. As I put my phone down, I see that I have 2 missed calls from Kie, 3 from Sarah, and 2 from John B. I also have 35 unread text messages.

“Whoa, something is going on.” Before I can check my messages, Tom takes my phone out of my hand and puts it in his back pocket.

“Come on, baby. Just focus on us tonight.” My eyebrows knit in confusion and I study his face. Tom has never taken my phone from me before.

“Tom, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just want you to pay attention to me tonight.”

“I am but there is clearly a problem because all my friends are calling and texting me. Give me my phone, Tom.”

“Give me a kiss.” He pulls me into his chest and crashes his lips to mine.

When I try to push him back, he holds me tighter. I finally have to bite his lip hard to get him to back up.

“Tom, what the hell is going on with you?” Then realization hits me. JJ was right. “Do you think we’re going to have sex tonight?”

“Well, it has been three months.”

“So what? Why are you rushing this?”

“I’m not rushing anything. You’re acting crazy.” He tries to bring me back in for another kiss but I turn my head away from him.

“If we have sex tonight, are you going to split your winnings with me?” I ask to see how he responds.

“What? I… uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Y/N.” Way wrong answer.

“Fuck you, Tom. Give me phone so I can leave.”

“No, just hear me out.”

“Give me my damn phone. Now!”

“No! Just fucking listen to me!”

I storm out of his house without my phone, too disgusted and embarrassed to look at him for another minute. It started to rain while we were inside, but I refuse to ask him for a ride home. Instead, I start walking towards the Chateau, too angry and humiliated to care how cold the rain is.

When I arrive at JB’s, I deflate when I see the Twinkie gone. But I figure he’ll be back soon and let myself inside.

“Y/N?” I jump again at his voice.

“Fuck, JJ. You have to stop scaring the shit out of me.”

“What are you doing here? Did you walk?” JJ’s voice is full of concern and he approaches me like a cornered animal.

“Yes. Where is everyone?” I can’t meet his gaze, so I look around the house again, even though I know it’s empty.

“They went looking for you.” He tentatively touches my chin to get me to look at him. “Why didn’t you call for a ride?”

“Tom has my phone.” I can’t handle the emotion in his eyes, so I pull away and start squeezing the rain out of my hair. “Why are they looking for me?”

“After you left, I told them what I told you. Sarah went to confront Rafe and he admitted to the bet. Everyone tried to call you, but you didn’t answer so they went to find you. Kie remembered where you guys were going to dinner, so they were starting there. Why does Tom have your phone?”

“He took it from me when John B called and wouldn’t give it back before I left.”

“Why did you leave?” JJ asks quietly.

“C’mon, JJ, you know why.” I finally meet his eyes and stare at him defiantly. “Go ahead and gloat.”

“No, I mean what happened to make you believe me?”

“He was really… single-minded once we got back to his house.” JJ anxiously looks me over, trying to find any sign of Tom’s aggression. “Then he wouldn’t let me call JB and tried to guilt me into having sex with him.”

“Are you ok?” His voice is unbelievably gentle as he cups my cheeks.

“Not even a little bit. But he didn’t physically hurt me if that’s what you were asking.”

“I’m sorry.” JJ grabs a towel and wraps me up before pulling me in for a hug.

“No, I’m sorry for not believing you.” I allow myself to lean into JJ for support as tears stream down my face. I kept my composure on the way over here, focusing intently on my rage, but his kindness after how horribly I treated him earlier is enough to finally make me break down.

We finally pull apart when JJ’s phone rings. He sees it John B and tells him that I’m there and ok but Tom has my phone. I excuse myself to get cleaned off in the bathroom. After seeing how terrible I look, I decide to take a shower. My pity party is interrupted by a soft knock.

“Y/N, it’s John B. Can I come in?”

“JB, I just need some time. I know you mean well but I just need to be alone for a little bit.”

“Ok, take your time. I’m going to bed, but you can wake me up if you need anything.”

After drying off, I realize I don’t have any clean clothes to put on. I peek my head out and call softly for JJ, hoping he didn’t go to bed when JB did.

“Yea?”

“Can you get me some dry clothes?”

“Sure, give me a minute.”

After he hands me some of his clean clothes, I close the door to get dressed. I thought he went back to what he was doing before I called for him, but I hear him softly call my name from the other side of the door.

“Uh, yea?”

“Umm… you can sleep in my room tonight. I’ll take the couch.” I open the door as he finishes his offer and get the distinct impression that this isn’t what he wanted to tell me.

“Ok… you ok, JJ?”

“Yea… I’m just going to head to bed.” He turns away from me quickly and throws himself down on the couch with his arm over his eyes.

“Ok, night…” As I climb into his bed, his smell overwhelms me, and I’m transported to a night six months ago.

“JJ, I think I’m in love with you.” His mouth stills on my neck and he moves back to look me in the eyes.

We are both a little drunk from the day on the marsh and the party but I can’t deny that I’ve been hoping this would happen for a while.

“Y/N…” JJ’s eyes show how confused he is, so I give him a moment to think. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before moving to my side. “I think we should stop.”

“What? JJ, I don’t want to stop.” I try to kiss him again, but he gets out of bed and starts putting his clothes back on.

“You should go,” he says quietly, refusing to make eye contact with me.

I feel my eyes glazing over with tears as I try to put my clothes back on. JJ leaves me crying in his room. Why couldn’t I just keep my damn mouth shut?

----

“So Y/N, I need to tell you something.” I look over at Kie and frown at the worry in her voice.

“I saw Tom today.” I close my eyes in relief that I wasn’t working the lunch shift. Tom quit after everything happened with us and I haven’t seen him in almost a month. “He asked me to have you call him.”

“Did you tell that asshole that he can suck a dick?” John B yells over the waves.

“No, JB. I told him I would tell her.” Kie looks back at me and shrugs her shoulders. “He looked pretty upset. Maybe he realizes how much he fucked up?”

“So you think she should call him?” JJ asks, anger seething off him.

“No, JJ. I think she should make her own decision. I’m just telling her what he said and how he looked.”

“Kie! Come on! After what he did to her?”

“I still talked to you after what you did to her!” Kie yells.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Pope shouts as he holds out his arms. “Let’s all take a deep breath.”

The rest of the ride to the marsh is silent and tense. JJ moves to the back of the boat and sits with his head in his hands. Once we get to our swimming spot, I let everyone else jump into the water before I go over to talk to him.

“J, you ok?” I nudge his knee with mine to try to get him to look at me.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He finally looks up at me and I see tears streaming down on his face. “Oh, J. Why are you crying?”

“Because Kie’s right. What Tom did was fucked but I’m no better.”

“JJ, she’s not right,” I say with a sigh. “Those are two very different situations. Tom dated me for three months as part of a bet. He tried to get me to have sex with him so he could win money from Rafe fucking Cameron. You… you didn’t do that.”

“No, I just acted like a pussy and shut you out instead of talking to you.”

“What are you talking about?” For the first time, I’m wondering if there is something I didn’t understand about the night JJ and I almost had sex.

“That night, when you said how you felt about me, I didn’t say anything. I just shut down and made you leave.”

“Look, J, I was pissed at you for a long time but then I realized I was just embarrassed and hurt. We were drunk and I jumped about a million steps and told you I love you when we had just kissed for the first time like 20 minutes before that. That would have freaked out anyone. Did you handle it in the best way? No, not even a little bit. But you weren’t fully at fault either.”

“Y/N… I wanted to –” But he’s cut off from explaining further by John B yelling for him.

“JJ, stop being a baby and come swim with us! Kie’s sorry for crossing the line. You’re sorry for being a dick. It’s over.”

“JB, hold on.” I yell back at him, desperate to find out what JJ was about to tell me.

“No, Y/N, JB’s right. Let’s go swim.” He gives me a fake smile and moves to the front of the boat before I can ask him.

What the hell was that?

----

“Dude, let’s go!” I’m tapping my foot while I wait for JJ to finish getting changed.

“Relax!” he yells to me from his room. “Why didn’t you just go to the Boneyard with the others instead of staying here to harass me?”

“You begged me to wait for you, you jackass. Now hurry up!”

“I’m ready, I’m ready…” I grip JJ’s hand and drag him outside. “Why are you in such a hurry? You normally aren’t this jacked for a kegger.”

“I’m just ready to shake off the residual Tom energy.”

“I thought you were doing better…”

“I am and now I want to celebrate. Just want to get back out there, you know?”

I look back when JJ doesn’t respond to me and notice him looking at his feet. His body language is reminding me of how he was on the boat a couple days ago but I can’t really figure out why.

“J, you good?” I ask tentatively.

“What?” His head pops up as if just realizing I’m still there. “Oh yea, I’m totally good.”

“You are so full of shit.” I say with a nervous laugh.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know… you look… sad?”

“I’m fine. Let’s go get you back out there.” JJ throws his arm over my shoulder and leads me the rest of the way to the Boneyard with both of us lost in our heads.

When we get to party, we go straight over to our friends by the keg. Before I can finish saying hello to them, Kie hands me a cup and pulls me out to the dance area. She holds on to my free hand and spins me around to the music. Within minutes, we’re laughing non-stop and dancing like idiots.

After a couple of songs, I feel a warm set of hands settle on my waist. I spin around, thinking one of the guys has joined us, only to find Tom’s smug face.

“Get your hands off of me!” I shout as I pull out of his reach. He quickly follows me and grasps my shoulders harshly.

“Y/N, I just want to talk. Please.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit about whatever you have to say. Leave me alone.” I turn my head to look for Kie and see that she’s already run over towards the guys. “Look, Kie went to get JB and JJ. You should go before they get over here.”

“Fuck them. You’re the person I came to talk to. Just hear me out.”

“There is nothing you can say that will make what you did ok. Go away!”

As the last word is coming out of my mouth, I feel a strong set of arms wrap around me from behind and pull me away. Then a tall blur comes from the left and punches Tom in the face.

“Shh, it’s ok…” I freeze for a moment as I realize that JJ is the person holding me instead of the one throwing the punches. “John B has got this, let’s get you out of here.”

“JJ?” I search his face while he looks at me tenderly. “I thought you’d be the one throwing punches.”

“No, Y/N. You’re more important. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I’m stunned into compliance and walk with him to the edge of the party. I spare a glance back at the fight between JB and Pope and Tom and Rafe and stop moving. When JJ realizes I’ve stopped, he follows my line of sight back and again tries to move me away.

“JJ, what the hell! Why aren’t you helping them?! You know that Rafe probably has Topper and Kelce nearby!”

“Listen to me.” He places both hands gently on my cheeks, demanding my full attention. “JB and I made a deal this afternoon in case this happened. It’s my job to get you back to the Chateau, JB will take care of the rest.”

“How did John B talk you into that?” I ask as his hands drop.

“What do you mean?”

“How did he convince you to be on babysitting duty?”

“He didn’t. I volunteered.” JJ mumbles the last part as he stares at his feet and rubs the back of his neck.

“Why?” I lift JJ’s face with a gentle finger under his chin.

“I told you, you’re more important.”

“I don’t understand…” I search his face for answers but can only find confliction in his eyes. JJ never turns down a chance to fight Kooks, especially one that has treated one of his friends like shit.

“I’ll try to explain better when we get back to the Chateau.” He puts a reassuring hand on the small of my back and guides me away from the party.

Throughout the walk back to the Chateau, I am lost in my own head. Why would JJ babysit me instead of punching out Tom? Why would he leave John B and Pope when he knew they were about to be outnumbered? What emotion did I see flit over his eyes when he told me I’m more important?

“Whoa, watch your step,” JJ warns as I almost trip up the porch stairs. I didn’t even realize we were already back at John B’s.

Once we get inside, JJ immediately gets a couple of beers from the fridge. He taps my hand with mine since I’m still not paying attention.

“Are you ok?” he asks me cautiously.

“Uh… yea. I’m just really confused.”

“Why? What did he say to you?” JJ’s voice full of concern again.

“Not about Tom. I don’t give a shit what he says. I’m confused by you.”

“Why?” JJ looks at me with genuine curiosity.

“Well, I’m trying to put the jigjaw pieces together but I think I’m missing some.”

“Huh?”

“I’m missing information.” When he still looks confused, I roll my eyes and be as direct as possible. “You haven’t been open with me.”

“I’m an open book, Y/N. Ask whatever you want. But… make sure you want to know the answer.”

“Ok, that’s not cryptic at all,” I say sarcastically. “I guess let’s go back to the other day on the marsh. It seemed like you were trying to tell me something about the night we almost had sex.”

“Oh, we’re just jumping right into, huh?” I can’t help but smile at his obvious nervousness.

“You told me I could ask whatever I wanted.”

“I know… let me figure out the best way to explain it…”

“JJ, just be honest. Don’t worry about saying it right.”

“That night, do you remember what led us back to my room?”

“Uh, yea… we were dancing and a slow song came on.” I pause for a second and then add. “I told you that it reminded me of you and then you kissed me.”

“Do you remember the song?”

“It was an old one by Brandi Carlisle. Uh, The Story?”

“Yea... do you remember what you said when I asked why?” I can’t help but feel like a participant on a quiz show with all of his questions.

“Because your mom used to sing it to you.” I look at my hands, knowing his mom is a difficult topic for him.

“You’re the only person who knows that about me.”

“Really?”

“Yea, my dad doesn’t even know that. She would only sing it when he wasn’t around.” That makes sense with everything I know about their marriage, but I’m really confused about what this has to do with anything.

“Well, I’m honored that you told me, J. But I don’t understand how that gets us here…”

“In that moment, I realized that you know me better than anyone else in the world and… and you still stick around. My mom used to tell me that the point of the song was finding someone who knows all of you, the good and the bad, and wanting to share every part of your life with that person because they give it meaning. You give my life meaning.”

“JJ…” I’m overwhelmed by his openness. I never would have anticipated him being so honest about something so personal.

“No, let me finish.” I nod at him but take his hand in mine. “Kissing you was something I wanted to do since 5th grade. So, I leaned in and kissed you without thinking about what I was risking. Then things escalated and we ended up back here. It was like my dreams were coming true. When you told me you loved me, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I didn’t think it was possible that you would ever feel that way about me. Maybe you were too drunk or confused, I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t risk you telling me later that you didn’t mean it. So… I did what I do best and shut down.”

“JJ, I meant it.”

“I realized that a couple days later when you wouldn’t come over.” His sadness is written across his face as he explains further. “At first I thought you were just embarrassed but then JB punched me in the face and yelled at me about breaking your heart.”

“He did what?!” When John B convinced me to tell him what happened, I specifically made him promise not to address it with JJ.

“It’s ok, I deserved it. Normally when I self-destruct, I’m the only one who gets hurt. But this time, I hurt the person I love too.”

“The person you what?” I shake my head a little in disbelief.

“The person I love. I didn’t just want to kiss you because you’re smoking hot, even though you are. But because I’m in love with you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you found out I was heartbroken?”

“Well I already hurt you, I didn’t think you’d still feel that way anymore.”

“So all this time, you’ve been in love with me?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice, causing him to look at me apologetically.

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since John B’s 12th birthday party. Don’t laugh!” The giggle slips out on it’s own and I quickly cover my mouth.

“I’m sorry, J. But why that specific day?”

“That was the year when we all got into a huge cake fight, remember?” I nod and he offers me a shy smile. “Well, you snuck up behind me, jumped on my back, and smashed a handful of cake in my face. I grabbed your arms and pulled you off me and had to hold you up because you were laughing so hard. You got the hiccups and tears were running down your face and I remember thinking that I want to make you laugh like that forever.”

“You’re such a softie…” I whisper as I poke his side.

“Shut up…”

“No, it’s true. You’re a big softie. Why are you finally telling me now?”

“I guess I feel like I can now that you don’t love me anymore. I don’t need to worry about breaking your heart again.”

“Wha –” I’m cut off by a crash out on the porch, causing both of us to jump up.

“Hey, can one of you guys get the door for us?” Kie screams through the window.

JJ rushes to help Kie and I gasp when I see John B’s bloodied face. Pope has a swollen eye and a nose bleed but otherwise looks ok.

“JB! Oh my God, are you ok?”

“I’m fine, Y/N. Just a few cuts from Rafe’s stupid rings. Kie, you don’t need to hold me up, I can walk.” Kie ignores John B and guides him over to the couch while I run into the kitchen for some ice and paper towels.

Over the next hour, we clean up Pope and John B while they tell us about how Tom and Rafe called over Topper and Kelce (like I predicted). A few other pogues jumped in to help when they noticed JJ wasn’t there. The whole fight only lasted a couple minutes but it ended the party so they had to clean up before they came back to the house. Soon, Kie offers to drive Pope home and JB decides to head to bed, leaving me and JJ alone again.

“Are you staying here tonight or do you want me to drive you home?” JJ asks softly.

“Uh, I’ll stay here.” I hate the awkwardness between us right now.

“Ok, night.” He turns around quickly and goes into his room before I can say anything else.

After tossing and turning on the couch for a couple hours, I decide that I’m not going to be able to sleep until I talk to JJ. I jump up and tiptoe quietly into his room. Instead of knocking, I just let myself in and am surprised when I find him looking back at me.

“Y/N? What are you doing in here?”

“I couldn’t sleep…”

“Is everything ok?”

“No.”

“Oh… do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes… JJ, I need you to know someth –” Before I can finish my thought, JJ cuts me off.

“No, Y/N, listen. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I hope you know that I don’t expect –”

“Shut up, JJ.” I cover his mouth with my hand to get him to stop talking. “I need you to know that I’m still in love with you… I never stopped loving you.”

I slowly remove my hand from his mouth and study his face. At first, I’m not sure that he believes me but then he breaks into a brilliant smile. He pulls me close and kisses me fiercely. He puts every ounce of emotion into the kiss and I need to pull back sooner than I’d like to take a breath.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, you didn’t respond that great the first time.”

“But you were with Tom…”

“Yea, I thought dating someone else would help me get over you.” I tell him with a shrug.

“We’re both idiots,” he says as he pulls me in for another kiss. “But, God, I love you.”

194 notes · View notes

archaxwii · 4 years ago

Text

A Safe Place to Stay

Warnings: This story contains safe, soft, consensual, non-sexual vore. As well as g/t content. If you do not like any of that please do not read.

This is the part 2 to my first Skephalo vore fic. Sorry for how long this took to come out, I originally meant for this to be out like 2 weeks after the first one but life got really busy and my motivation has been completely shot, but hey it's here now so pog. —

Skeppy was having a bit of a rough day today. He'd come back from his bi-weekly therapy visit from Puffy, and he clearly wasn't handling the old memories being brought up too well.

Bad had been working on cleaning and rearranging the mansion a bit when Skeppy came up behind him, deciding to leap on his back and cling to him like a heavy, diamond sloth. Luckily he was in his smaller form or Bad would have fallen face first on the floor... he still would've appreciated a bit more of a warning because if he hadn't realized it was Skeppy on him he would have grabbed him and flung him straight into the nearest wall.

Bad really wanted to be upset with Skeppy, but it was very clear that he was actually distressed and Bad didn't want to make him any more miserable.

So now he was currently sitting on their shared bed with a tiny Skeppy lying on his chest.

For a moment Bad almost thought Skeppy had fallen asleep, since they were having a rare moment of silence as he gently pet (pat? petted?) his head similar to how you would soothe a cat. He wouldn't have minded if they just stayed like this for the rest of the day, but Bad did still have things he wanted to do today.

"Are you ever gonna let me get up, Skep?" He gently asked, not stopping his petting.

Skeppy was silent for a moment before attempting to bury his head furthering into Bad's chest, whining," Nooo, stay and cuddle with me please..." Bad couldn't tell how serious Skeppy was being, but it hurt to hear nonetheless.

"But Skeppy, I have stuff I need to do today! I have a meeting with Ant and Ponk soon, and we need food, you wanna be able to eat tomorrow right?" He was mostly teasing, but he'd hate to have to do it all tomorrow.

Skeppy's only response was another drawn out whine.

" Hmm, do you want me to carry you on my shoulders like I used to do with Sapnap when he was a kid?" He offered, trying to come up with a compromise.

Skeppy shook his head." Don't wanna be outside right now. It's too much." He mumbled.

Bad sighed. Maybe he should just take the day off...he hated leaving Skeppy like this.

They sat in silence for another minute while Bad thought. He did have one idea, but he wasn't sure Skeppy would like it.

Bad let out another contemplative "hmm"."...There is something I can do, so I can still do my errands, I'm not too sure you'd like it, though." He tentatively proposed.

Skeppy shifted a little to look up at him." Mm? What's that?" He said tiredly.

Bad gave him a small grin." You're kind of sitting on top of it." He hinted.

For a few moments Skeppy only stared at him with confusion, before it finally sunk in what he had said.

It had become very routine for Skeppy to eat Bad after they'd both had a tiring day. It happened at least once or twice a week now, but so far Bad had never been the one to eat Skeppy, maybe now he finally could.

Skeppy gazed at him nervously, moving to sit on his knees to look at him better." I- I don't know Bad, we've never done that before." He rubbed his arms anxiously.

Bad smiled at him reassuringly, softly holding Skeppy's hands in his." I know we haven't, but you know it's safe! You've done it to me dozens of times by now, I promise it'll make you feel better! And if it doesn't, I can always bring you back up and we can try something else." He explained calmly.

Skeppy fidgeted a bit. He knew it was safe, and he knew how much Bad enjoyed it, but it still made him nervous to think about being eaten alive.

Instead of giving an answer, he shifted down, pressing an ear against Bad's stomach, probably flustering the heck out of the poor demon. He closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like inside.

He thought of all the times Bad had told him about how warm it was, how safe he felt. He had described it as though he felt nothing could hurt him. Warm. Safe. Surrounded by his best friend.

It sounded like exactly what he wanted.

On any other day he probably would have said no, but he was so tired, reliving those memories had left him completely drained, he wanted to be with Bad so desperately.

Skeppy let out a long, drawn out sigh.

"Sure...you can...eat me..." He hated every word of that sentence but he couldn’t deny the hopeful, happy grin Bad gave him.

Bad's tail thumped rapidly against the bed like a dog’s." Thank you so much, Skeppy! I promise if you are scared or don't want to do it anymore at all I will immediately stop, ok?" He affirmed.

Skeppy nodded slowly, not making eye contact.

"Is it ok if I pick you up?" Bad inquired softly.

Skeppy nodded once again, he wasn't sure he could speak anyway.

Bad slowly lifted Skeppy up to his mouth." I'm gonna have to lick you and stuff so you don't get hurt on the way down, ok?" Skeppy simply nodded again, just wanting to get it over with.

Bad carefully placed Skeppy into his mouth, carefully avoiding the sharp teeth. He had a shockingly sour but sweet taste, like that fake blue raspberry flavor. It took Bad a moment to adjust to, but his mouth was flooded with saliva.

Skeppy froze as Bad covered him in short, rapid licks, coating him in layers of thick saliva. He decided it was incredibly disgusting. Although he did have to admit it was pleasantly warm, like suddenly been dropped into a hot bath, he couldn't imagine what it felt like the deeper he went.

The demon was clearly enjoying himself, he drew Skeppy in a little further, leaving him no choice but to stare down the dark tunnel of Bad's throat. It didn't last long, though, as Bad's mouth shut with a click behind him.

Skeppy squirmed as he was left in darkness, not sure if it was worse or better than seeing the full picture.

The licking gradually halted and Bad, unable to really speak, gave him a questioning hum. Asking if Skeppy was ready to be eaten.

Well, Skeppy didn't think he'd really ever be ready, the real question was," Does he trust Bad?"

I mean, was that even a question?

He reluctantly gave the roof of Bad's mouth a pat and he was swiftly swallowed down.

He was concerned that the heavy, crushing sensations that pulsed across his whole body were going to break something, before he remembered that Bad was much squishier than he was and had yet to be hurt by all the times Skeppy had eaten him.

As he was dragged down deeper he slid past Bad's loud and thunderous heart, making his head spin. Maybe he should've gone feet first...

After a few more swallows and seconds that felt like an eternity, Skeppy spilled into a slightly larger more open area.

He laid still for a couple moments to recover, which was apparently too long for Bad as he nervously asked," Are you alright, Skeppy?"

"Yea...I'm alright, just give me a sec." Skeppy breathily replied.

" Oh no, I didn't hurt you did I?" Bad anxiously pressed a hand to his stomach.

"No, no, you're fine, I just...wasn't expecting all that, I'm alright, I promise." Skeppy said hastily to not worry Bad anymore.

Bad visibly relaxed, and started rubbing slow circles into his stomach.

Skeppy was quick to move over to where Bad's hand was and lean against it.

The comforting sensation was enough to clear his head a bit and make him realize where exactly he was right now. He was in Bad's stomach. That was so weird. But...he wasn't sure he could bring himself to hate it.

It was almost too warm, and Skeppy grimaced at the thought of having to clean out the slick slime that he and his clothes were coated in. It was loud too, Skeppy could still hear the hammering of Bad's heart and the deep breaths the demon took, and if he listened closer he could hear the rest of Bad's body toiling away as well.

But...he didn't hate it, it all served to remind him that he was with Bad. At the very core of his being where no one could hurt him. Within his very best friend who he loved so dearly. Bad was protecting him with his whole being, and Skeppy trusted him to do so.

"Are you ok?" Bad gently asked, trying to casually lean back into his bed and not freak out over Skeppy's complete trust in him.

Skeppy didn't verbally respond, but instead decided to turn around and start rubbing the walls of the stomach like Bad would do for him.

Bad stiffened before all but melting from Skeppy touch, he'd never gotten to experience this from the outside before and he wasn't prepared at all for how it would feel.

Bad's eyes slipped closed and he couldn't stop the raspy purring that emitted from his throat.

Skeppy almost stopped as the chamber vibrated lightly from a seemingly unknown source, before he remembered this was the sound Bad would sometimes make when he felt clingy and they cuddled together in bed. He only did it when he felt really happy and comfortable.

Skeppy smiled at being able to elicit this rare happiness from Bad, and practically doubled his efforts.

Eventually they both tired out and decided it was time for bed. Skeppy lied down, pressing himself against the stomach walls, not caring about the extra layer of slime that coated him, and Bad continued to lie on his back, but protectively wrapping both of his arms around his belly.

They exchanged their good nights and drifted into sleep, Skeppy feeling warm and safe at last, and Bad feeling content and happy to protect Skeppy.

#tw vore #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #soft vore #safe vore #ember's writing #g/t Bad #g/t Skeppy #Apologies for the generic title it is Late and I am Tired

96 notes · View notes

monsoonblooms12 · 4 years ago

Text

Bittersweet (Ethan Ramsey x f!MC)

Summary: OH Book 1 Chapter 4 written from Dolores Hudson's POV

A/N: I really wanted to do this because Dolores is such an amazing person and this chapter is one of my favourites in the entire OH series. This picks up from the office fire and ends at Dolores's death.

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

If you enjoyed the story, please like it, leave a comment or reblog. Your feedback keeps me going🤍

Characters: Dolores Hudson, Ethan Ramsey, f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Pooja Sharma (f!MC)

Word Count: around 2.8 K

Rating: General

Category: Fluff then Angst

Disclaimer: PB owns most of the characters and some of the dialogues. I only own my MC.

Triggers: Complications in pregnancy, Few Curse Words, Character Death

Prompts: @choicesaprilchallenge2021 Day 23: Classic/Classical

Other Works

Clickety-clack!

Dolores's fingers danced on the keyboards in a swift motion as she strived to complete this last email and get home and have a sleep that she missed yesterday due to late-night cravings.

Around her, a chaos of whispers spread as her colleagues engaged in mindless chitter-chatter of the last hour before the end of the office day.

A few nudges of Hey, Dolores! and its variants reached her, but she steered past them, focusing completely on her work.

Just one more line anndd,

Done!

She hit the send and the ping of the 'sent' notification calmed her overworked nerves.

Come on, Lil tadpole, let's file these papers, get ice cream and go home.

She fondly rubbed her belly. 26 weeks in and yet the fact that she was going to become Mamma Froggy was overwhelming and exciting.

She got the prints and in a hurry, nearly got a paper cut.

Careful there! She cajoled herself and started filing those messy sheets of her hard work of the day.

She was almost done just as-

Waaahhh!

The blazing sound, very much like a siren's, reached all of them, leading to the eruption of panicked commotion between all of them.

They had been run through the fire drill so many times that they didn't need to be told that it was a fire alarm.

Dolores left all her possessions, carrying only her bag with the stuffed froggy she had bought for her baby and tried to run.

But being pregnant doesn't make it very easy. Even more, if there was a fucking fire at the place.

People went haywire. Very few cared about the fact that she was carrying a baby, and they should have the minimum decency to help. Most would selfishly try to save themselves, not giving a damn about anyone.

Dolores tried to pave a way for reaching the elevator. It was nearly impossible for her to get down the stairwell in time to save herself from the hazardous situation. She could see that most of the people had already evacuated.

Why was the fire department not here yet?

The fire was ablaze, surroundings hot, and amidst all, Dolores walked slowly, worried only about her little tadpole and not herself.

She pressed the buttons of the elevator. Waited. But nothing budged.

Fuck it!

Smoke engulfed her and she felt suffocated. All through the light-headedness, she could faintly hear, the siren of the ambulance. She hoped someone would save her from this fiery hell.

But there was no one to help her. No one around. The building burnt and if she did not think of something quickly, she would burn with it as well.

Not viewing any other options, she screamed with as much strength she could garner. Once, Twice, Thrice.

The next actions happened quicker than the blink of an eye. She saw a handsome EMT rush towards her. Even though she was already in a blazing environment, she couldn't stop the he's hot reflex of her brain cells. He came to her and reassured her that he would be able to save her and her baby, picked her up, and slowly, yet swiftly, got out of there.

Just like a superhero.

She thought of telling this story of Super-Man coming to save him and his Mama to her baby and the thought made her giggle.

Her head was light, and she felt choked, but her mind would keep going to the little angel of her womb, worrying only for him.

The last she remembers was reaching the ambulance and coughing vigorously. She couldn't breathe normally. She tried and failed miserably. A slow sensation of blacking out and after that, everything blank.

After who knows how long, Dolores feels the glare of white lights around her giving her eyes a painful competition to open up. She squints, tiredness spreading through her body. From office work or the life-threatening experience? She does not know.

She slowly, very slowly, tries to sit up, her hand on her belly, tenderly stroking it, as if to let the child know that his Mamma would not let any harm come to him. Nurses check in on her, one of them replacing the oxygen mask with a nose tube, and she felt a bit more relaxed.

As she was taking in the surroundings, she realized,

Edenbrook!

Coming back here after so many years brought back many memories. The first time she came here. Oh, how panicked she was! She was getting jitters but that calm and brilliant doctor took care of her, not only inside the hospital but also outside it.

Dr Ethan Ramsey.

He still worked here, he had told her in his last email. I need to meet him! She thought.

When was the last time they had met? In that coffee shop last year, right? It had been long.

She traced the name she had thought for her tadpole over and over again on her belly as if to make him memorize it before coming here to her, and looked around.

There was a minimum difference between the room she had been kept in the first time and the one in which she was now, but the time gap made her feel everything was new.

All of a sudden the door swayed, letting in a young doctor and,

Ethan!

She was genuinely excited about seeing him. Of all the possibilities, she hadn't really considered the fact that he would be coming to treat her. He has important cases to take care of than petty smoke inhalation, right?

A frown appears on his forehead. "What did you get yourself into this time, Dolores?"

His stern tone is the tough layer of a walnut, which hid his soft corner, the concerned heart. She smiled at the realization.

She quickly filled him in with all the details. The fire. The hot superman. The baby. Everything.

She finds the young doctor's surprise about Ethan having friends amusing. The look of surprise she had on her face was priceless.

But when the doctor asked her,

"Was Dr Ramsey always so mean?" she guards her mouth using her hand, "And so handsome?"

It was Dolores's turn to be shocked. She knew just how much Ethan hated interns. He used to whine about how stupid they were all the time to her, online & offline. And here was this intern, having enough courage to ask her such a question in front of him.

Impressive!

"This man's definitely got grouchier than before, but even then he had an edge"

"And as for handsome, I think he has aged like a fine wine" Dolores winked and Ethan fumbled for words.

When he got his tone back, it was strict.

No matter what anyone else thought, Dolores knew the real Ethan. The one without his rough and tough exterior and mean demeanour.

And that Ethan, if he ever came out, would make everyone fall in love with him.

As the doctors mumbled between themselves, she looked around, searching for something.

Umm Hmm. She couldn't see it.

"Excuse me Doctor Sharma" Both of them turned to look at her. "I remember having my bad when the hunk brought me out. Did they bring it here?" She asks, anxiety on its borderline, ready to burst out.

She needed it. Very Much.

Dr Sharma looks around for a bit, carefully conscious eyes trained to spot abnormalities. Her eyes, soon enough, fall on the side table of the bed and she picks the purse up and hands it over to Dolores.

Another frantic search follows. She turns all the contents up and down, her happy demeanour replaced with a visible frown.

It's not here, she says, evidently panicked.

A sadness spreads on her face.

"I must have dropped it in the office" She is on the verge of crying.

Dr Sharma places a kind hand on her shoulder. What Happened? Her questioning eyes wordlessly ask.

Dolores sighs, "It probably sounds stupid but I saw this adorable little frog on my lunch break and had to get it for my little tadpole."

"My parents are gone and the father's not in the picture." She adoringly places a hand on her swollen belly, "I just want everything to be perfect for him."

Dr Sharma gives her shoulder a gentle push of reassurance, and adds, "It's not stupid Dolores, absolutely not. I feel like you're going to be a great mom."

Her words make Dolores smile despite the upsetting circumstances, "Thank You. I- I just wished I hadn't lost it."

She stays lost in the thoughts and daydreams of her little tadpole playing with his first gift, growing ever more upset with every passing second.

"I and Dr Ramsey will find it for you!" Dr Sharma's excited tone jolts her out of her thoughts.

She is surprised first and slowly a smile appears, "Really Ethan? You would do that for me?"

He hesitates.

"Erm- Yes, sure." He fumbles.

"Dr Sharma, let's get this urine sample to the lab first. I will meet you in the lot in ten minutes."

Relieved and Happy, Dolores exclaims, "I am 26 weeks pregnant, Ethan. Not gonna take 10 minutes to make me pee!"

And in 15 minutes, they take her urine sample away and bid adieu with a promise of bringing her token of love for her tadpole back.

She was extremely grateful for Dr Sharma. She doubted if Ethan had given in the first time if it had not been her taking initiative.

Wait a Minute.

Ethan Ramsey listened to an intern? That too, in the first time itself? The observation blew her mind.

She recounted the time he had called her to his home to give a dinner treat. Lovely memories of a different face of the man came to her mind like the waves reaching the shore, one after the other.

"Mmm... Ethan, this is delicious!" Dolores found herself falling deeply in love with this masterpiece of Georgian stuffed chicken.

"Thank You, but it wouldn't have got done without your help" Ethan was never the type to take credit. Boast, Huh? What's that?

That's what she liked the most about him. A fine, handsome man, talented without bounds, a successful doctor having shitloads of money and a chef. He was a complete package and yet seemed to be subtly unaware of it.

They chatted about everything from opera to music to their first meet. It was a jolly time.

That is, until, the conversation landed on romance.

"So, seeing anyone?"

"No, not currently." He blushes a bit.

"Imagine" Dolores leans back on her chair, stretching her legs, "if, I said if, you fell in love with," she pauses to look at his curious face, "an intern?"

"Impossible."

It came even before she had finished the word. Dolores was amused.

"Just imagine!"

"I don't want to waste time imagining something as implausible as that. Can we talk about something else please?"

And here he was today, listening to an intern, a different demeanour than usual. Not that it was love, yet, but there was something.

Was he impressed by her?

He talked differently, listened patiently to the young doctor. That Ethan Ramsey who would not stand with an intern for 5 minutes, listened to one?

Anyone who knew him would laugh off the fact and say it was a joke.

Dolores made sure that if it happens, the falling in love with an intern, she will not let Ethan see the end of it. Teasing him to annoyance, yes that's what she would do.

She turned on some soft classical music on her phone, spreading an instant calm and dozed off for a while...

She gets up with a start on the sound of the door opening. She rubs her eyes to get a better view of the people in front of her.

It was Ethan and Dr Sharma!

She looked at them and yes! there it was, her tadpole's froggy.

She was overjoyed.

"You got it!" Dolores breaks into a grin as the sterilized frog is given to her.

"Happy now?" Ethan asks, the faintest glimmer of happiness in his eyes.

"Yes, very, very, much! Thank you so much, Ethan."

She pulls Dr Sharma into a small hug, "You too Dr Sharma, thank you!"

"Of course, Dolores." The young woman's beautiful face gleams at her, "and you can call me Pooja."

After few minutes of chit chat, Pooja leaves to get Dolores's reports.

"Switch on the TV Ethan, it's boring to sit here and do nothing."

"You know you can do better things than watching stupid TV shows?"

"I am doing it because I want to. The least who can do is help me." She shrugs.

"Fine, fine."

After going on a roundabout tour of the various broadcasted shows, they settled to watch a comedy.

Soon Ethan's stoicism got lost in the wilds and he started laughing along with her.

All the while Dolores held the Froggy affectionately to her tummy, to her little tadpole, as if to show it to him and ask if he likes it.

Amidst all the laughs, the medical reports are completely forgotten until there's a soft knock on the door and Ethan looks at someone from the corner of his eye and go out to meet them.

Still, she remains blissfully unaware of her health conditions and basks in the moments of delight she gets alone with her tadpole.

Her eyes remain glued to the TV screen until the doctors come in and from the morbid faces they wore, she knew that the reports were anything but good.

She switches off the TV.

"What is it? Ethan?"

Pooja steps forward, "I want you not to worry, Dolores."

She feels a mild panic attack bursting inside her, "T-That's what people say when there is something to be worried about. Is my tadpole okay?"

Pooja sighs, "Have you heard of preeclampsia? It's a disease affecting one out of ten pregnant women. In most cases, it is manageable, if monitored properly. But in your case-"

She pauses. And Dolores knows that whatever's coming will not be hopeful.

"It's serious."

Dolores quickly asks, "How serious?"

Not too much. Not too much. Please, god, not too much. She crosses her fingers.

"The blood flow to the placenta is slowing. It could deprive your baby of vital nutrients and oxygen."

With his morbid mask matching his melancholy tone, Ethan says, "Your baby is at risk."

Shit.

"B-But I can still feel the baby kicking!" She urges them to come and feel for themselves.

"Dolores it just means the delivery needs to be done early."

"Impossible." Dolores remarks with a deadly determination. "It's too soon."

"Babies delivered at 26 weeks have a good chance of survival." Dr Sharma tries to convince her.

"A-A chance?"

She is not going to play a game of chances with her beloved tadpole, her little jewel.

They keep convincing her.

"Yes he'll have to spend some time in the N.I.C.U and there are chances of post-birth complications-"

"And some don't make it at all. Is my baby is in danger now?" She asks with a motherly force.

"No, not immediately. But-" Ethan is on his tracks to convince her again.

"Then my little tadpole is staying put."

"Dolores—"

"No, Ethan! Just...give me some time! As long as you can give me. Please" It is a request from her heart, and she is on the verge of tears.

"I give you tonight. To come back to your senses."

When they leave, Dolores cries, caressing her belly, her little tadpole in there. She cannot take a risk with his goddamn life, never ever.

Tears roll down her cheeks and she holds the stuffed frog even tighter to herself, praying to god for his magical abilities and to save her baby.

Please.

She fell asleep while crying. When she wakes up, she finds a few unknown nurses and doctors standing there.

She tries to speak but cannot form words. Her head feels light, just like it did in the office building. She could not sense anything, swallowing was trouble.

She makes random sounds and the people come rushing to her, just as her body breaks into violent convulsions.

"We need to take her to the surgery, QUICK!"

They call for a code blue and everything that happens following that is a haze to her.

They are rushing her to the surgery. Her body shakes vigorously, and she can feel that she doesn't have much time left.

She holds the doctor's hand who was rushing her to the O.R.

"N-nam-me him-m E-Ethan."

And with that, she slowly spirals down the realm of unconsciousness, the last thought to ever strike her mind was,

Little tadpole, mamma loves you. You will be okay. Mamma will always be there with you, for you.

And with that her breath leaves her body, the last tear dropping on the O.R. bed.

As Ethan Hudson sees the light of his new life, Dolores passes away into the darkness.

I love you little tadpole.

PS: Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day ahead! Love, Manamee🤍.

Tags (Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed!): @bbrandy2002 @whimsicallywayward15 @ohramsey @natureblooms24 @nervoussaladsludgeopera @trrfanaddict @hopelessromanticmonie @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey @lovablegranny @bellcat2010 @gkittylove99 @kingliam2019 @starrystarrytrouble @3riche @chetachisblog @zoehanji @withbeautyandrage @drariellevalentine @mvalentine @aestheticartsx @angela8754 @schnitzelbutterfingers @ao719 @choicesstan1 @neotericthemis @nikki-2406 @anotherbeingsworld @maurine07 @sophxwithers @twinkleallnight @choicesaddict5 @gardeningourmet @mysticaurathings @jessiembruno @stygianflood @aleynareads @mercury84choices @udishaman @jamespotterthefirst

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @choicesbookclub

87 notes · View notes