#the point of these is for someone to take it and run with a fully fledged fic though

[luvseisagi]

—s. across the wrong universe.

chapter 15. canon event ii: the fall.

(🕷️) smau + narrated ch.

content. cussing. angst.

you were never supposed to take that many coffees.

five americanos —not even your usual sweet coffee order. no water. no food. just caffeine buzzing through your bloodstream like a countdown you hadn’t even realized had started. 

you had just had an exam, and since you’ve been anxious for the last two weeks, you linked unease to the exhaustion after the test. so when your friends tell you they want to go to this new restaurant in manhattan, you accept without thinking much. you’ll be fine once you sit and have a sip of water.

but you’ve walked just a few blocks to get the subway, and now you’re not fine.

you’re surrounded by the boys—chigiri, nagi, reo, and rin, walking beside you, everyone talking about something and nothing and laughing about a joke you didn’t catch. your mind is fraying. your hands feel cold despite the sun, and everything around you is too bright, too loud, too much. when you enter the platform, it gets even worse.

the heat is stifling, the fabric of your sweatshirt itches against your arms, but your whole body feels frozen. your mouth is dry and pasty from dehydration, and the aftertaste of coffee in your tongue is making you want to throw up. you take uneven steps, trying to keep up with chigiri next to you, but there are too many people and suddenly you can't see anyone —the faces blur together. the colors blend. thousands of black dots invade your entire vision— and the voices feel distant, as if someone had put you in a glass jar.

you don’t say anything, and no one notices when you suddenly stop in the middle of the platform. you no longer see chigiri's red hair, reo's back, nagi's figure, or rin's shadow —just a large mass of colors that suddenly merges into black. 

and you don’t even stumble because of someone else. your legs suddenly forget how to walk, and they falter.

no one sees it when your foot misses the edge of the platform, and no one sees it before you fall —you’re already unconscious, so your body is a dead weigh as it disappears. there are no screams, no cries. just the edge of a dream unraveling before anyone can notice it was even there.

rin’s the first to realize it —the space behind him suddenly feels too empty. he’s been listening to reo complain about his father’s unannounced trips the whole way, so he hasn’t been able to talk to you yet, but he’s been conscious of your presence at his back the whole time. and now, suddenly, he doesn’t feel it anymore.

he glances to the left, says your name softly. then again —asking. then pleading. once. twice. he turns fully and you’re not there.

his stomach drops. he doesn’t even able to warn the others —panic takes hold of him just like it did three days ago.

and then it happens.

a scream from the other end of the station, near the entrance —sharp, piercing, terrified. an old woman, he realizes as he turns to her, her hand trembling as she points.

“there’s a girl on the tracks! someone save her!”

rin’s world stops.

people freeze, someone gasps, there are already phones in hands, recording. reo —or maybe chigiri— calls out to rin as he starts walking, running, away from them —but his voice is drowned out by the sudden sound of the train approaching, building up like a drumbeat in rin’s ears. it’s too fast, it’s too close. he can’t think —he just races.

and, waiting in the other platform, so does isagi —he hasn’t even received bachira’s signal yet, but he can’t help it. his body acts before his brain does.

they both move at the same time —like something ancient has snapped awake in their chests. unwitting like instinct, innate like survival, raw like terror.

rin reaches first, and isagi gets there just half a second later. 

it's an unnatural quickness, a reaction time impossible for a normal human, much less two. but the public’s shock is enough to make it look logical—two boys jumping in to save a girl, just in time.

once sitting on the floor of the platform, a circle of people around him, rin pulls you up. his arms wrap around you before your body even fully registers in his vision—he holds you like something sacred. something already slipping away. 

when he caresses your cheek softly, your skin is cold —your lips dry, your pulse faint.

but you are real. and you are there.

the train roars past you, and people are already talking and passing by —a miserable, insignificant moment that someone will upload to social media later. but it practically gives the two boys sitting next to you a heart attack.

isagi is beside you, shaking, voice broken as he dials emergency services. he’s already pulling a bottle of water from someone’s bag, thanking them for their help —scanning the platform with his eyes. he finds bachira at the far end, too far to be the one who pushed you.

he looks at your face —eyes closed, expression relaxed, as if you were finally getting the nap you’ve been needing for days.

isagi swallows, throat dry —the fear of losing you, upon seeing your inert body on the tracks, tore at his insides, but seeing you peacefully lying in rin's arms is even worse.

because isagi isn’t the one who saved you. because he isn’t the one who gets to hold you. because he can't be the one caressing your cheek, feeling your skin beneath his fingers, waiting for you to wake up and see him first.

but he has no right to ask for that, either.

so he chooses to be the logical one, pushing down every messy thought into a corner of his mind. he’s so calm it feels automatic —the kind of calm born from fear so sharp it crystallizes into action. he has to act now. he can break later.

on the other side, rin still has you in his arms, but he can’t move —he’s kneeling on the ground, cradling you, the hand on your cheek now gripping your fingers so tightly it must hurt. he just stares down at your face. 

you’re pale, slack, unconscious —you don’t look like you’re sleeping at all to him. you always have this little frown on your face when you sleep, but now you look peaceful. too peaceful, maybe. enough to terrify him.

for a moment, he thinks he’s too late —he truly believes he’s lost you forever. 

he hears nothing but silence until your lashes flutter, your chest catches a breath, and your lips part slightly —and the sound of his heart beating so fast rises on his ears and snaps him out of the shock.

still, it’s isagi who quickly pours water into your mouth. who finds a protein bar —and when you take a bite, he lets out a breathless laugh and says, “you scared the shit out of me.”

and you thank him, voice low, raspy and cracked. you accept his help, take his hand when he helps you sit up and lean against the wall. he confirms he’s already called an ambulance when you say your head hurts and you don’t remember anything since you entered the subway.

but when everything calms and you start feeling a little bit better, it’s rin you look for.

your eyes find his —blurry and dazed— and your arms go around his shoulders without hesitation.

he forgets to breathe when you start crying, realizing you could have just died. rin lets you cling to him and tremble in his arms —and he holds you like he’ll never let go again.

both isagi and rin give you a few minutes to collect yourself, then help you walk up the stairs. chigiri, reo and nagi are there too, and they don’t let go of your side when the ambulance arrives and professionals check you.

they say you’re fine —caffeine, dehydration and lack of food caused your fainting. no bruises. just go home, eat, rest.

so rin grabs your hand and waits while chigiri calls kunigami to pick you up. he doesn’t say a word the entire ride. doesn’t blink. just keeps his fingers tightly tangled with yours like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

once you’re home, he doesn’t even thank chigiri or kunigami —just takes you inside, gets you water, makes you sit on the couch with the cat, and starts cooking whatever he can find in the fridge.

there are no words between you, no complaints. just a silence so raw it would feel like glass shattering if it broke.

and later, when he sits with you in the sofa, some program playing on the tv, he grabs your hand again. and you don’t say anything —just let him hold you. feel your fingertips on his skin.

for a moment—just one single, devastating moment—he thought he’d lost you. and he doesn’t know how to live in a world where that could ever happen.

chapter 14. ✦ masterlist. ✦ chapter 16.

author's note. i hope everythings understandable and makes sense because i didnt proofread this, also if u think this is bad! there's even worse! sorry

tags (closed) ౨ৎ @levihanmyotp @inojuuy @blu3-l0v3r @rohfulike @inosukehana @cruziival72 @kuromixheartzzz @koko-77 @kurona-theshark @yoichiin @elliehenry24 @kuronarnze @sugarcor3 @ranzess @lovingmayday @vinzcoke @soph1sticatedly @l0v3ly-st4rs @milkteeboba @ilovewonyo @mivqko @beepbopzlorp @thatmf-jay @angelhqlo1111 @jnkosstuff @ssngkk @c4ttheart @risagichi @neeeooon @emicatz @chokifandom @n0tbelle @veyyluvezcats @saekisserfr @scoosh4you @ihsoti @nana7nana777 @sillymil @tnt-kokoo @miss-aesthetic-13 .ᐟ

﹫luvseisagi, june 2025.

[fairestwriting]

Jamil Viper and Floyd Leech with a AuDHD!reader that's always wearing headphones in public areas (even if they're off) because the noise of multiple people talking distracts and bothers them and they think it's annoying/stressful? Bonus if they still take off their headphones when he talks to show they're actively listening to him.

i hope this is okay!! you didn't specify on whether you wanted platonic or romantic so i made it ambiguous :]

𐙚 Floyd Leech

It might be one of the first things you two talk about. Someone wearing headphones isn’t anything crazy, sure, but it’s still unusual, so it catches his eye. You’re always wearing them when he catches sight of you in the hallways. He assumes they’re just regular headphones, and you’re just listening to music… And as time passes, he starts getting more and more curious about what music that might be.

One day, whether you’re complete strangers or friendly acquaintances, Floyd just walks up to you and asks, ”Shrimpy, what’re you listening to?” while looking at you with those big curious eyes. He’s wondered about it a decent amount already, probably placed bets on a wide variety of musical genres — Now he just needs to know if any of them were right.

When you take them off, letting the headphones rest on your neck as you tell him that actually, you’re not listening to anything, it seems like his eyes get even bigger. It’s just noise canceling, because the hallways get really loud, you explain. Floyd hums, tilting his head a little. It’s not what he was expecting at all, but he finds it completely reasonable. Yeah, the hallways do get really loud. He didn’t realize it was possible to, in a way, opt out of it like that. Most of his previous ideas just involved an exhausting amount of magic.

Floyd is a little bummed you’re not listening to any music though. The bets he was coming up with were getting pretty fun, so he’ll still demand you tell him about what you listen to. Then after that’s out of the way, he just doesn’t mind the presence of the headphones at all. Whether you have them on or not, he’ll still bug you if he feels like it, them being there never registered as you ignoring him anyway.

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Jamil kind of side eyes it at first, not because it’s his personal opinion on it or anything, but just because of the impression it gives off. Most people would find it kind of rude, wouldn’t they? It might seem like you’re not paying attention to them while they talk.

When you two actually talk to each other, though, he never runs into that problem, so it becomes a non-issue. You can hear and reply to him just fine, it turns out, and you’re always polite too, that’s more than good enough for Jamil. Sometimes you even take off the headphones, though he doesn’t mind it if you’re “listening to music” while you two talk, since it clearly doesn’t stop you from paying attention.

He does remain aware of how others might perceive it, though. Mostly because as you get closer, he doesn’t want people to misunderstand you— He never points it out because he doesn’t want to be rude. Until a certain day where you have to deliver something to a teacher comes, and your headphones are on, so he says ”It might be a good idea to take them off before you go. You know how the professors are.” You smile and tell him not to worry, you just wear them when it’s too crowded and loud around you, and that’s when he realizes what they actually are.

At that point, Jamil's already gotten used to seeing you with the headphones. He never thought you might have a specific reason for why you wear them so often, and knowing it now doesn't really change much of anything. Maybe he'll indulge his curiosity about it if he feels you two are close enough, but it'll really just be about curiosity. He may not fully understand why you find the noise so overwhelming, but it's not like that's going to make him think of you as a totally different person.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[bitchfitch]

Tahir had known there was more to a mortal life than prayer, study, and his seat between the giant golden statue of Daeodon's hooves, but he hadn't been prepared for How much more there was.

There was work (real work that had you on your feet all day bustling and moving instead of sitting and letting strangers touch you while they prayed to a dead man) and there was the songs sung while doing the washing up (He found out he was an awful singer), and there was playing in the mud with the the children (They loved to run circles around their caretakers and he loved chasing and being chased by shrieky joyful little things) and there was food and drink and dancing and and and and.

Adjusting to life as a mortal man had had its challenges, but every single one had been worth it. He feels he hasn't stopped smiling since the dragon god carried him here to village furthest from the only one he had ever known.

He had suspected for most of his life that Daeodon did not listen to the prayers he spoke, but still, the night before his first festival as an attendee instead of an attraction he knelt to pray and give the dragon his thanks.

"Your storms, I did not end, nor did you my life.

We met and failed one and another and the people of this forest.

Yet I know only gratitude, because alive and under your rain I have found more warmth than the near sun ever provided.

May you be reunited with your Sun so you may know warmth again too."

The day of the festival the friends he'd made in his short months here looped him into their routine of sharing clothes and doing up one and another's hair. The festival they were to attend was a celebration of the beauty the forest knew before it's drowning and the new beauty found in the never ending rain and what beauty would come once it ceased, as such it was tradition to dress the part.

He distributed the fine jewelry Daeodon had given him for he had never had to sell it, and in turn they wove delicate adornments out of the silk from long plant leaves across his hands and horns. And when they were done they said he must outshine the beauty of even their dearly departed god.

For the first time in his life, he was not a failing to be Tahir of the Second Sun, but surpassing him.

The giddiness carried him well and merrily through the ceremony he had once dreaded, a statue effigy to The Second Sun's beauty was used in this village instead of a miserable man fighting back tears. The memories couldn't halt him, nor could the night dwindling. His friends parted, some going to bed in their shared home, some following lovers old and new to continue the celebrations in more private ways, some simply wandering to other parts of the party until he was alone in a sea of revelry.

It didn't take long for a stranger to approach. He was an older man with hair like the storm clouds above the woven and waxed awning. He walked on a crutch of white wood and had tusks so long their points made dimples against his cheeks. On a night like tonight, he was beautiful, as was everyone around them.

"Fine thing," he had greeted, bowing his head low to show off the impressive length his horns had grown in his many years, "Have you the desire to share a dance?"

Tahir had danced plenty, as his predecessor had loved it more than anything so he had been taught it in every form, but he had not known the true joy of it until he had come here and had not indulged half as fully as he had tonight, but, he had never danced with another. His husband-to-be was a great and mighty dragon after all, someone to be danced for instead of with.

"I've never done so," he had admitted to the man.

"I move slowly now so you will have time to learn."

and they danced. The man taught him every step he needed to know and moved with him like they had done this a thousand times before. When they tired they slowed and held one and another through the rest. The man's hands never left him, nor did his eyes. Tahir was much the same with him in turn. The raucous crowd narrowed to just the two of them.

Tahir of the Rising Sun had been promised to a dragon before he was even born. Never had he even thought to look to another for this kind of connection or lingering touch.

The man said such sweet and beautiful things to him in the moments the music quieted. Promised him things he'd never gotten to have. It seemed like he knew exactly what to say to lure Tahir away from the party and to a secluded corner of their own. and together they made their own beauty and music until they were both too exhausted to continue.

"Return to my home with me," Tahir had asked of him. "My friends will have found their own darlings to warm their sleep with. Another in our room will be welcomed."

The man had kissed him again and then denied him. "I am not of this village and must return to my own home. Stay where it is warm, and may we find one and another again soon."

Tahir had not even noticed the rain had stopped until it began again.

Over the next months the festivals came quicker and quicker as with them came relief from the rain. The sun stayed shrouded but for the first time in many lifetimes it's warmth touched the forest again and again.

At each celebration Tahir found the man, Vendaval, amongst the crowd if he didn't find Tahir first. They'd dance and drink and celebrate the warmth in each other's embrace. During the quiet moments they'd talk and Vendaval would not pry about Tahir's life before this village, and in turn Tahir would allow him privacy about where he went when the rains returned.

It made Tahir's heart ache to think of the old man braving the cold alone, so still at the end of their every night together he asked Vendaval come home with him, and every time he would be rejected with a sweet kiss and words of reassurance.

The storms abated with every festival until the one that they didn't.

The priests that had raised Tahir had come to town. Those of this village said they visited for no other reason than to see how the people here worshipped the god of the Storm and his Sun.

Tahir knew better than to believe it. He stayed home, claimed a stomach ache and hid away from the windows the entire night. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to be returned to that awful life of being an object instead of a person.

He hid but Vendaval found him regardless. He stayed with Tahir, not asking what burdened him but comforting him all the same as he knew Tahir would not answer him.

The storm raged harder and harder as the night drew deeper. The Near Sun being suffocated by the clouds until their rain turned to cutting sleet.

Vendaval kept him warm through it and greeted his friends kindly as they returned from the failure of a festival.

It was one of them who suggested, as a joke, that the Storm God was angry Tahir did not dance that night. He was the most beautiful in their village, after all, and the Storm did love beautiful things.

Vendaval, the only person who spoke his hatred of the dragon as openly as Tahir, had raised his voice at them for daring imply this was Tahir's fault. The fickle thing had probably decided to continue the rains because the priests were not in their proper place or some other nonsense. Tahir had hugged him closer after that.

The priests stayed in town long after the festival. Tahir continued to act sick. Vendaval returned time and time again with "treatment" from the woods. The thick sap he brought made Tahir's throat itch and his voice scratch as though he truly were ill. The next festival came and went without the rain ceasing and the priests finally made their declaration the day after it.

Tahir of the Second Sun had returned and he hid in this village to test the people of it. The priests tell them all that the rains had only stopped for them. That the wider forest had drowned just as much as it always had as this village was the most distant and secluded.

Would the people of the village be selfless like their kind Tahir of the Second Sun, and return him so that he may gift his warmth to the whole forest? Or would they selfishly guard him away so they could know his warmth in full instead of only in peripheral like their ancestors had?

His friends had looked to him after one returned to repeat the announcement.

A beautiful man with a hidden past had turned up in their village right before the rains stopped. He hadn't even shed his name.

He told them the truth then and there. He was not That Tahir. The priests Lied. He had no power over the sun, no warmth to give. He begged they keep silent, that they allow him to hide for he would rather walk out into the sunless desert to freeze than ever again see the temple they shall take him to.

Vendaval at his side warned there would be consequences. The dragon had never welcomed a false bride. He wouldn't start now.

Still, days later the priests came to his door while his friends worked and Vendaval was away.

They tore him from his new home, his screaming was ignored. He begged and pleaded and they heard every word but cared not. Tahir called for Vendaval for he had no one else, and he did not come for he was a mere man.

He was bound and put in the palanquin that had been his cage many times before and his resolve broke. He called for Daeodon. Screamed a prayer Tahir had no hope would be heard.

and with his final word lightning struck. The priest who had raised him laid burnt and dead. The ground shook as lightning struck again and again until the cage was dropped and he was pulled from it not by a mighty beast but by the arms of an old man.

Vendaval was scared, but he guided Tahir and together they ran from that village and into the forest beyond. The storm thickening with every step until Tahir knew he would never find his way through it without Vendaval dragging him along.

Though he knew the clearing as soon as they stepped into it.

The near sun hung low above its center, the storm spiraling from it.

Tahir dug his hooves into the mud to slow Vendaval until they stopped. He begged the man flee. They had drawn too near to the Great Dragon's den and Vendaval would be killed for the sin.

Through his panic and tears he admitted the twin truths that the dragon had spared him once already, and that he loved Vendaval. He feared nothing more than his betrothed becoming jealous of another touching something he felt belonged to the dead man at the den's center.

And Vendaval there under the raging storm looked to Tahir and told him that he loved him too. And he embraced Tahir and to him he told the rest of his truths.

That he had not loved in so so long. That he had known only storming grief before Tahir found him that first time in this clearing.

Tahir shoved away from him and in the place of that man he loved was the beast he had thought he had escaped.

Daeodon bowed his head, his horns the same shape as Vendaval's, his mane the same color. He begged Tahir forgive him this transgression.

He had gone to that festival those months ago out of curiosity of how the bitter Rising Sun was doing, only to see his Sun. His Tahir, the man he had married and lost lifetimes ago, dancing and smiling and alive once more. He hadn't been able to stop himself pretending that night. Nor many after it.

But he swears! Oh how he swears that he stopped seeing the lost Sun and instead saw the Sunrise. The end of his endless storming night.

That was why Vendaval refused to sleep at Tahir's side. Because Daeodon knew his spells would slip and Tahir wouldn't wake beside a faun.

Tahir screams his fury. He was happy. He had found a life worth living - Why did Daeodon need to take that from him by making himself a part of it? Was stealing his youth not enough? Did he have to have Tahir's joy too?

Daeodon bowed low, tucking his chin against the mud at Tahir's feet as he let his Sunrise berate him and insult him until his breath ran out and all he could do was cry.

The priests knew Tahir of the Rising Sun yet lived. Word would spread of Daeodon killing for him and he would be welcomed nowhere in the forest.

The man Tahir loved wasn't even real.

The rain washed the tears from his face as soon as they fell as he collapsed to sit beside the monster who ruined his life once more. And for the second time in that clearing he asked one thing of the Great God of the Storm.

"Have mercy, and kill me."

Once upon a time their forest home suffered an endless night. Their great dragon god was punishing them for the theft of something precious to him. No lavish festival nor offering of rich drink or hearty food would water his fury.

The fauns of then thought their home would be lost to his darkness forever, only for one of their to offer himself as tribute.

Tahir, a young shrine attendant, walked into the forest beyond their home to meet the dragon at the entrance of his den. He said to the dragon "If my people's gold and my temple's joy is not enough to sate you, then may my flesh be your cure. My people repent for the crime done to you, but they know not how to repay it. Punish me, kill me, in their stead."

He bowed his head and waited for death. No sweat on his brow nor did his heart race, for Tahir was kind and loved nothing more than his people and the god they worshipped. His death would be just. His life given more purpose than any could have dreamt of for themselves.

The dragon looked at the selfless young man who's beauty and love and kindness were without compare, and he said "I will have you, not as a feast, but as my only equal." for he had fallen deeply in love at the first sight of the man and wanted not his death, but his hand in eternal marriage.

The dragon gave the sun to Tahir, as he was the brightest and warmest source of joy in their forest. It was only right that he be who decided when it should shine. It was a power Tahir never once misused for he loved his people and wanted nothing more than to see them thrive.

The two ruled together for a time, the common man that was Tahir was transformed by the people's worship of him. His kindness grew, his blessings brought love and joy and bountiful families. His husband's adoration of him turned the once ferocious and fickle dragon into an equally doting and benevolent god. Their forest was warm with their love, the trees heavy with fruit made sweet by their joy, the frigid desert beyond their home kept distant by their devotion to each other and to their people.

Though tragedy loomed as such peace could not last when mortal hands carried out deeds best left to the gods.

The prize stolen from the great dragon's hoard was a sword forged by his own kin. It's blade made to slice deep through draconic flesh. It's purpose was always to be his death when he grew tired of the immortality he was born into. A gift to him from peers who had long chosen their own blades over another day.

The priests, the foolish, idiot, priests of yore had stolen the blade with intent to make their god a thing of the past. The dragon was temperamental and cruel when Tahir could not calm his raging storms. How long until their kind, golden god would be victim to the beast? Tahir who loved them all without question would protect them as their king better than he ever could as their dragon god's mate.

They believed in their heart of hearts, that to save themselves, they must liberate their sun from the dragon's clutches.

One struck out from their village on the first evening of truest winter, through their home and to the great dragon's den. At its center the priest found him slumbering in his bed.

Their sun, Tahir, at his side. He begged for his husband's life but the priest was deaf to his pleads. Tahir didn't know what was best for them all, the priest thought as he lunged.

The blade cut deep into softest flesh. Tahir, kind and beautiful, had put himself between the priest and his love. His pained sob was what finally woke the beast from its truest winter sleep.

The priest escaped as the dragon chose to remain by his dying lovers side to the very end. For the dragon never cared about the fauns or their priests, only for their worship, and only then until he had found warmth so much deeper in the embrace of selfless, kind Tahir.

It is said that with Tahir's dying breaths he made his love promise him that he would not snuff the sun again.

Their people so beloved by him were foolish, but they did not deserve such punishment. He was always the one meant to suffer for them, not the one they were to suffer for.

The dragon agreed, and held kind Tahir until his warmth was gone from the forest he had adored so deeply.

Tahir's sun, the one that sat near and gave their home joyful warmth even when the distant sun set behind the horizon for months at a time, dimmed and shone as it always had under his care. The dragon, fickle as he was, would never betray a promise made to his husband.

Though, the fauns of the forest never saw it's glow again. The storms brewed with Tahir's dying breaths. The dragon cloaked his sun in thick storm clouds to selfishly hide it's light. He would not snuff it, but his sun, Tahir, had been taken from him, and he would not let another know the sun's warmth until his own was returned.

The storms had raged across the whole forest ever since.

Tahir knew the legend well. It was his story after all.

The thick mud sucked his aching legs down with every step, the heavy rain beat against his back, the winds tangled his loose and wild hair about his wedding dress's skirts. The ice of the storm was beat out by his burning fury.

The Distant Sun would soon rise for the first time in months. It's meager light wouldn't cut through the storm or the twisted boughs of the trees, but it's return was chosen to be the symbol of his union to the monster at the heart of this forest.

Tahir was dead. He had been for so long that not a single soul remembered what the Near Sun felt like.

Tahir was new and alive. A supposed reincarnation meant to be given as offering and apology to the Great Dragon.

He marched onward, the sword that killed the Sun gripped in his hands. It's heavy blade dragged in the soil. His shoulders burned from the effort of pulling it's massive weight.

The dragon had slayed each and every one of the brides sent to replace his Sun. Their bodies desecrated by his carnivorous teeth before their remains were dropped at the feet of Tahir's shrine. The blood still stained the grout when Tahir of the Rising Sun was raised into being their god.

He remembered asking the priests about the stains when he was just a boy. They said they were a sign of his husband's love for him. That the other brides were given to him as offerings so their blood may make him strong for his duty at his husband's side.

The clearing around the dragons den yawned before him, the eye of the storm a thick splotch of suffocated light as the concealed sun struggled to shine through the whirlpool clouds.

He would not be another rejected bride.

"Daeodon!" he called his husband's true name. He'd been hip height when the word was whispered into his ear for the first time. His hair had been braided with flowers, the barely there nubs of his horns painted, his robes decorated in so many beads he had trouble standing under their weight, before he was left in the dragon's shrine alone for a week of isolated prayer.

He called the name again, his mouth still open to demand the beast face him when the storm above ruptured.

The earth shook with the thunder of the great dragon god's landing. His mighty wings blotted the hidden sun's meager light. his tusks and horns glowed with lightning, his very breath fogged the rain saturated air with light.

His eyes, pinpricks of silver against the thick black hide of his mighty countenance, landed on Tahir and the storm froze. It's howling winds stilling like they're been caught by their necks. The constant rumble of rain went silent.

"Tahir -" His voice sounded like a bass drum. It was felt more than heard. His head lowered, his wings folded, he took a step forward and on his animal face there was hope. "My Sunlight -"

Tahir had had his everyday decided for him from the moment he was born. His every second accounted for so that he may perfectly fill a dead man's place in a monster's bed. He had never known hope.

He swung the blade. The beast recoiled as a gash of dripping crimson cracked the side of his face.

"Speak that name again!" Tahir demanded, his throat already raw from screaming "See if your prayers are what will make him stop his rotting!"

He had never so much as twirled a staff, but his rage proved to be equal to any amount strength built through action. Again the sword cut the air between them. Again the idiot beast recoiled instead of ran. Those animal eyes filled with shock as though he had never once thought the man who preyed his hatred of him every morning would dare raise a weapon instead of just accepting his death.

The blade was heavier than anything he had ever been allowed to attempt to carry. It's tip failed to raise when Tahir tried once more to cut through the monsters neck. His every muscle burned. The weight of it pulled him to his knees in the disgusting mud.

Daeodon stepped to pin the sword that would be his death into the soil. His thick hoof bleeding where it cut into him as he leaned to close the space between them. His marred snout twisted in a snarl.

"What kind of beast are you?" he growled before finally charging.

The breath was beat from Tahir's chest, Daeodon's thick nose colliding with his ribs as the monster ripped him from the earth with nothing but the strength of his stout neck. His tusks pressed into Tahir's sides, panic made him scramble to dig his dulled nails into the wounds across Daeodon's face only for his efforts to be ignored like a fly on an elephants back in the seconds it took for Daeodon to pick a tree to charge.

Tahir had never felt the thorns of the plants that grew within the gardens dedicated to him. He felt the agony of his back colliding with the trunk of an ancient tree. It shocked through him. His every bone shook in its place as his ribs threatened to crack under the impact. His abdomen screamed with what would be dark bruising. His life saved from being crushed out of him only by merit of the monster's tusks becoming ensnared in the twisting wood. Daeodon thrashed to get free, his teeth grinding deep against the soft of Tahir's gut.

"Your tears will not work- What Are you!?" He demanded. He kicked at the tree, uncaring if he caught one of Tahir's legs beneath his hooves. "How Dare you use his face- How dare you cry with his voice."

Finally he ripped free, leaving Tahir to collapse once more. He couldn't breathe through his sobbing. He had wanted to die valorous, but he hadn't wanted this agony to accompany it. He could barely stand laying in the mud, his every inch ached like his bones would be ripping through his skin if he dared to look.

"Stop!" Daeodon demanded his hoof coming down close enough to Tahir's head for it to catch and yank in his hair.

He didn't mean to scream, he didn't know what else to do when all that came was more and more pain.

"I said Stop. Stop. Whatever prize you came her for you may have it just stop-" he tried to nose at Tahir's side, an animal attempt at defusing a situation neither of them were equipped to handle, only to react to Tahir flinching away from him in fear like it was another sword swing. "Please stop. I can't stand that sound. Cry with anyone else's voice. Please."

"I only have the one voice!" Tahir screamed at him, his fading strength being put into shoving away from the beast.

"It's not your voice-" he was shut up by a weak kick at his jaw, as though it had had a fraction of the force behind it that Daeodon had used to bodily throw him. "Please, just stop-"

He nuzzled Tahir's side where the bruising was already darkest. The press was agony, Tahir grabbed him by his tusks as he attempted escape only for one of those mighty hooves to come to pin his legs.

"Hold still, just hold still, please let me heal you. You know I can't stand the sound of your crying." Daeodon's might wavered in his tone, like he too was on the verge of collapse from their one sided battle.

"Just fucking kill me-"

"No. No. Tahir, never. Please just be quiet." he groveled like he didn't know who he was talking to anymore. "Please it will be all alright. You will be ok. Please just stop crying.

Tahir's response was lost to the bright shock that erupted through his chest. His battle for consciousness being lost along side it.

[zazaiafe2]

Hello to you, first off, thank you for explaining in so much detail ,it’s super helpful, really. I know how disheartening it feels to try for so long and still see no results, but please don’t see that as failure. it just means there’s space to adjust.Many others people are on the same case as you. Seniority of someone who known about shifting, does not mean that the person will shift more easily.

These are the statistics on people who have never shifted

from what you shared, here’s what jumps out at me, and what i’d suggest you could explore:

1)You might be too comfortable = too stable brainwaves

the way you described it (deep breathing, body scan, gentle thoughts, then drifting) actually sounds like you’re going straight from calm alpha into sleep without crossing the “bridge” of theta. you basically reassure yourself, but then fade out.

if you can, experiment with a theta-range audio or guided hypnosis designed for “lucid awareness” so you keep a spark of consciousness as you drift off. think: deep calm but still aware.

2) your “detachment” might be passive

letting go is important, but if you let go too much, you just black out into normal sleep. you want to let go of resistance,but not your anchor to awareness.

try picking a small focus point, like a word, a symbol, or even a tiny visual you loop in your mind. let the rest detach, but lightly hold on to that anchor as you drift off. it’s a mini tether for your lucidity.

One thing I notice is that even though you try to let go, you still seem to watch the process, checking softly if it’s working, if you’re calm enough, if it will happen. That’s totally human, but it creates a subtle self-checking loop that keeps you anchored in your CR. Think of it like babysitting a cake in the oven: if you keep opening the door to check, it never bakes right. Try to trust the method enough to let it run on autopilot, even if it feels uncertain, and avoid tracking “Is it working yet?” from moment to moment

3)you may be missing the hypnagogic “gateway”

right before sleep fully takes over, there is usually a phase of random images, floaty sensations, weird sounds (the hypnagogic state). that is a golden opportunity.

next time you feel those weird images or body waves, don’t ignore them. stay curious, stabilize them, and use them as a portal. that’s a doorway.

4)you are trusting, but maybe only intellectually

saying “all is well, trust” is great, but if under the surface you still doubt, your subconscious might not fully accept it. feelings beat words,Shifting is more intuitive, try to make it deeper inside yourself, not just in your head but in your state and your body.

really allow yourself to feel the gratitude, the calm, the sense of “I’m already there” like it’s happening now. think less convincing and more embodying, for that you can do self-hypnosis.

5)try a pattern break

after repeating the same routine for 10 months, your brain might have built a strong association: “this is bedtime.” no surprise = no breakthrough.

🌙 switch things up. change method, change script, change music, or try WBTB (wake back to bed). fresh novelty wakes up new neural pathways.

quick recap for you, no hidden ingredients:

-deepen theta consciously

-hold a tiny anchor to stay aware

-explore hypnagogic states

-actually feel the DR as real now

-Do things more instinctively

-break your current autopilot pattern

Happy shifting

[sunarots]

guys my age ━━━ sakusa kiyoomi

22. do you… ♡

"The game's finished," Akaashi warns, checking his phone's notifications. "Jackals won. I need to go in and see Koutarou. Do you want to wait here, or come with me?"

Without saying anything, you double check your appearance in the mirror before climbing out of his car. You tuck your phone into your back pocket, trudging alongside Akaashi. "I'm sorry I made you miss the game," you whisper, keeping your head down as you re-enter the arena.

He shakes his head despite you being unable to see, eyebrows knitted together. "Don't be sorry. You would've felt worse standing where everyone can see you."

Part of you wants to laugh at yourself, the position you're in. One year ago, you'd be repelled if a one night stand left you his number with a smiley face. If only you could see yourself now, ugly crying in someone you barely know's car over a fake boyfriend... Past you would be so ashamed of present you. And yet, you don't hate it. The crying part you could do without, but your feelings for Sakusa? You wouldn't change that for anything. Maybe at the end of the contract, you'll be able to hold a steady relationship with someone.

"Keiji! Y/n!"

You lift your head, eyes resting on the man running over to the pair of you. Both hands in the air, you and Akaashi lifting your arms for a high ten. You let them drop to your sides as Bokuto engulfs Keiji in a hug, rambling about how he scored the winning point. Your gaze drifts, taking in all the faces of the team wandering towards the changing rooms. With no sign of Sakusa, your heart begins to drop.

"Omi-san's having a shower. He said to wait out here for him," Bokuto announces as he struts past, walking for one himself. He swings the door open and his voice raises, excitedly yelling to his changing teammates.

"Do you want me to wait with you?"

You're quick to shake your head in response, waving a hand in dismissal. "No, I'm okay. I'll take a seat and wait." You smile as a goodbye to Akaashi, before turning your full attention on finding somewhere to sit. Thankfully, there's a bench just to the side of the door that you perch yourself on in wait.

Every couple minutes someone exits the changing room, until you've said goodbye to everyone except one. You wait an extra ten minutes, the amount of time it takes for the arena to become near empty.

With a heavy sigh and after a long debate, you rise onto your feet and knock on the door to the changing room. You call out for Sakusa and get no response, shaking your head in frustration and shoving the door open. "Kiyoomi? Are you actually in here?" You can hear a shower coming from afar, having an internal debate whether or not you should step fully inside. "I'm coming in!"

You take a few cautious steps forward and peer around the corner, relieved to see that only one bag remained: Sakusa's. You call his name a couple times, slowly approaching the running shower. No one stands beneath it as far as you can see, and your anxiety kicks in. Has he passed out again? Did he slip and fall?

"If you're in the shower, please put your penis away." You take a final step forward, letting your eyes fall upon him.

Sakusa sits on the floor of the shower with his legs hugged to his chest, staring down at the floor. He still wears his shorts but has removed his jersey, flashing his toned arms to you. He doesn't react to the water dripping down his face or the irritating feeling of the shorts around his waist.

"Kiyoomi, what's wrong?" You kneel before him, getting as close as possible whilst avoiding getting damp from the water. "I know this is a shower, but the floor will be filthy."

He lets out a soft chuckle, gaze staying firm on the floor. "Don't remind me."

You hesitate before riding to your feet, reaching through the water and turning the water off. "What happened?"

"I can't believe I messed up," he whispers, almost missed by you.

"Messed up?" He nods, lifting his eyes to meet yours. "How did you mess up? You passed out. These things happen. It might even happen again, but hopefully it doesn't because that was scary to see."

Sakusa tries to read your expression, rests his chin on his knees. "Have you been crying?" Feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks, you hum in response. With a sigh, Sakusa mumbles an apology. "I didn't think about how you felt."

"No, you didn't." Your attempt to make him laugh fails, but you can see a smile trying to creep through the concern. "Now, are you going to actually take a shower? Or are we going to keep sitting in the filth?"

This time, Sakusa lets out a soft laugh. "I'm going to shower. Your shirts wet, I have one in my bag you can wear."

You begin to walk over to where his bag is sat on a bench, calling his name before he can put the water back on. "Can I wear your jersey?"

Sakusa stops with his hand on the shower handle, leaning out to take a look and see if you're being serious. "You want to wear my sweaty jersey?" He watches you try to bite back a smile, his face contorting in disgust. "Oh my god. It's filthy."

"And? It's your jersey," you repeat, picking it up from where he left it. "Can I?"

He scrunches his nose and shakes his head. "You're really weird." Watching you laugh at his reaction, Sakusa hesitates before returning to the shower. He calls your name, grabbing your attention once more. "Do you..."

You straighten up, feeling your amusement subside and anxiety return. The few seconds drag on, feeling as though time was passing through you. Your grip on his jersey tightens, knuckles turning white.

"Never mind."

masterlist. previous | next

summary. sakusa kiyoomi, middle blocker for the famous msby black jackals, is known for his clean reputation, never drawing attention to himself through scandals. ever since joining the jackals, he's kept himself out of the headlines unless over something good. that is until he drinks a little too much and finds himself in the news for going home with someone he doesn't know.

taglist (49/50). @kawoala @kozu-chan @mayyhaps @jayathelostdragon @vi0let-writes @lavender-pink-socks @kodzumicyy @alcyneus @fi-chanwrites @mdmraz @uhsakusa @sophiahearttss @jnfectedz @ascebel @glads-stuff @freakypickle @anonymity-222 @aldebrana @shozuken @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @followingmysunsposts @v3nusplanetofluv @wakashudou @sexylexy12 @nanasrkives @cloudtato @yuminako @soobinsbreadscrumbs @lover-no-lover61 @bloodb3nders @meikstv @sugacor3 @darling-eos @iheartamora @xerophyides @xiaoquanquans @oneanabillion @kitasricefarm @pookalicious-hq @idexmids @hantas-left-elbow @mo072806 @satanscornchip @faesix @lerrainesstuff @i7ghoul @goonforgeto @moonshoon @neuviloved

[alexanderlightweight]

Its wednesday my people....

Here is a prompt for you if you feel so inclined.

In the AU where Imogen makes jace the HOTI could we have jace fucking it up big time to the point he gets demoted again and when the clave investigates why he was given the NYI Imogen gets sacked or something? I just have an image in my head of the clave begging Alec to take control again and he just keeps living his best life with his Magnus.

Thanks my friend.

P.S. everytime i get notifications that you posted i just speed to my apps looking for it so i can hoard it like the squirrel from Ice Age LMAO

it has been a bit but finally am getting to this! here is the last bit

<3 that poor squirrel. i hated how the poor squirrel never really got their acorn to safety because things just kept happening. so i hope you have better luck!! and i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

guided by my unchained heart

Alec finds himself at a loss, because of all things, he didn’t expect a miserable looking vampire to be on his doorstep.

“Why are you here?”

“Wow you really are living here.”

Alec blinks, because that is not an answer to his question.

“Oh, uh. Izzy asked me to? But also because someone else asked her? I don’t remember the name and Izzy didn’t repeat it. Just that I should—”

“Wait.” Alec interrupts the vampire with one palm up and rubs his face with his other hand.

Alec did not need to deal with this.

In fact, he is distinctly not dealing with this.

It’s with a memorized sequence of taps that he activates the record player and he pours himself what he knows isn’t an actually martini but sure as hell looks like one.  It also tastes like one. In that it tastes vile and mostly of the same way the sterilizing alcohol in Izzy’s lab smelled.

At the same time as he’s getting double vision from the fumes of his drink, he pens a quick fire message to Magnus.

The pillar of demon flame that parts the room with a curtain as Magnus steps through a portal before the sparks of message have fully ebbed fills Alec with relief.

Perhaps it was a little over the top to send a fire message that simply said help. However Alec is not emotionally prepared for this and therefore, he’s not going to handle it. Magnus promised him and Alec is holding him to it.

“Deal with it, please.”

Alec knows he sounds dismissive but this particular vampire means the Institute and his family and both are a stress he is not yet willing to deal with.  Alec’s rage runs cold and yet it broke.  The fury inside him is an avalanche waiting to be unleashed and bury everything in its path.  No less destructive that a wildfire or a flame vortex for all that it differs.

Magnus presses a kiss to his cheek as he passes, lips warm and possessive and the fire smolders and wanes but doesn’t completely wane as he steps closer to Simon.

—

“Who sent you.”

“Uh, does that matter more than why I’m here?”  Simon feels strangely out of place and its not even because he just had to talk directly to Alec Lightwood who happened to be wearing a chain? An ankle bracelet? A sparkly magical ankle monitor with leash?

Simon’s not sure what it is and it’s not something he was expecting but Alec is clearly more than fine since he just somehow reverse summoned Magnus Bane with metal stick and is ordering him around.

“Of course it does.” Magnus eyes him like a hungry wolf eyes a poor little newly turned vampire and then his eyes turn to the golden gaze of a predator, slitted pupils and all.

Simon nearly hyperventilates before remembering he doesn’t need to breathe, but he also wants to stay alive and unbreathing and Magnus feels decidedly more threatening than even Mr. Grouchy over there.

“Izzy asked me to come as a favor. She said your door would be more open to me than to her, which is weird. Because Alec’s living here right now, right? And why wouldn’t Izzy or Jace be allow—” Simon cuts himself off because in the background Alec has finished his drink and instead of pouring a second one, he looks like he’s trying to figure out how to best use it as a weapon.

Probably against Simon.

Magnus doesn’t look like he needs a weapon.  His gaze is strong enough and displeased enough that Simon can feel it slowly stall his senses until his body stutters without permission. 

“Alexander isn’t taking social or work calls, at the moment. He’s on something of a—” Magnus’ eyes glow like the lure of an angler fish and his mouth opens in a smile just as sharp as their maw. “Well, I suppose you could call it a sabbatical from life. Since he’s already retired.”

Simon feels as if he’s missing some very important information and is suddenly a lot more hesitant to continue asking questions.  Especially when Magnus looks so very dangerous and Alec… Alec is no longer in view. The sudden beating of his heart is a forced instinct and Simon barely manages to stammer out a goodbye and then he’s gone.

—

The door slams on Simon’s way out as he leaves and Magnus watches him go only until the wards shift around his absence. Then he hunts down Alexander.

It’s always easy to find him, the platinum tether that binds him via magic rather than mere physics ensure that Magnus will never have to wonder where his boy is. 

He finds Alexander in one of the library, sitting on the circular window-seat and drinking something with a grimace while he watches the people of New York with empty eyes.

“You don’t even like that.” Magnus means to scold but it comes out in a soft, exasperated sigh and he snaps his fingers, switching it out for something that won’t traumatize Alexander’s taste-buds.

Alexander sends him a dark scowl and Magnus raises a brow.  Sometimes he will admit, he lets Alexander get away with quite a bit, however he’s not in the mood to end up listening to Alexander complain about how disgusting Magnus’ liquor is later. Especially when Alexander only finds it disgusting because he doesn’t know how to mix drinks.

At all.

It’s only the fact that most alcohol tastes terrible to him that he remains oblivious to this rather important information.  Something Magnus has willfully kept from him, despite suffering some rather vile — if not potently strong — drinks. Because Alexander is adorable when he is making drinks and thinks he’s succeeded.  Also, eventually his boy is going to make a drink for Ragnor and Magnus will be there to enjoy the trauma of it.

The scowl melts the minute Alexander takes a sip, as if the tart and sweet drink have momentarily wiped away the complications of his night.

“Izzy sent him. The Clave through her, though nothing signed just yet. It’s still at the level of a favor, not a commission, not that he knows he’s being used. Still, he’s gone and I’ll ensure he won’t return but they’re moving already.” Magnus doesn’t like the fact that official movement is beginning to be made.  It’s only been three months, he thought he’d have longer before he needed to ensure Alexander properly tied to him.

Not just bound by physical and metaphorical chains.

“Then we’ll need to move faster. The magic is almost ready, isn’t it?”

The way Alexander cocks his head, nothing but steadfast faith, truth and expectation in his gaze has Magnus’ magic surging with delight.  The confidence in him, it’s empowering and the best thing is, Alexander is right to trust Magnus.

“I can have it ready tonight.” Magnus promises and he can, especially when he and Alexander have been feeding the ritual with magic every chance they’ve had for three uninterrupted months.

AN:

Alec is actually begging not ordering. Simon is just clueless to their context. Magnus is aware and hates the fact that Alec is feeling vulnerable in their own home. Alec opened the door because the ward signified it was a familiar downworlder and at the beginning he did handle a few pickups for magnus. This is BEFORE the clave makes the mistake of trying to steal alec back from magnus who clearly ‘kidnapped him’. Because no one wants to admit alec resigned.

simon is trying so hard 'not to think about it' (it benig the chain)

alec is trying very hard not to implode. he angy.

magnus just wants to have his alexander is peace, thank you very much. he wanted to do this consort courtship properly and they're still having to rush. he is displeased.

alec went off to try not to panic by himself until magnus could come cuddle him. because he's like 'don't kill the messenger... it would send a message... okay but would it send the right message?' and he knows he's not in the right mindframe to be making choices like that. plus, magnus promised to handle things if alec trusted to leave them to him.

he's letting go and trusting magnus to handle it. he's just also now zoning out. he does not actually people watch, for him it's like watching a line of ants not because the ants are interesting but because they are moving and caught his eye

[conelluwrites]

Don't think this is weird, but Thanos acting like a baby and reader cares for him or something?

Warnings: Drug use, reader is referred to as "you" rather than using pronouns, tried to not go heavy into age regression in case that's not what you were looking for

Other: No smut, sorry if you were wanting age regression (which I'm fine doing WITHOUT smut. We all got things we like reading, no sweat. Like I have in my intro post, I have super low limits on what I will/won't write). If you preferred age regression and want a full fic rather than this, don't feel bad about reaching out, I'll do it. He looks so fucking adorable in this gif, I'm dying!! Pretty disjointed and short, sorry :((

Requests open!

Thanos is no stranger to drugs and you're no stranger to seeing the after effects of his drug use. Usually it's just him staring off into space, acting more eccentric, and thinking he's got the best ideas for a new bars that'll totally get him back on the charts that he totally won't forget this time.

But this is a first, the way he acts is almost concerning. Not concerning enough for you to seek outside help of course, but enough for you quirk an eyebrow and tap his face with a 'hey, you good, bro?' When he gives a nod and taps your cheeks in response, you can't help but roll your eyes. He's surely just fucking with you then, right?

Fuck no... He's just... This newest drug he was hyping up has him acting younger than his ass is. Not in a teenage way (thank God, you hate the idea of dealing with teen Thanos). He's speaking in shorter, slightly disconnected sentences. Nothing worrying, he's not overdosing or having a stroke or some dumb shit. The way he points to what he wants and makes a noise instead of just using his damn words to tell you. And of course the way he clings to you like a fucking baby.

"Get the fuck offa me, dumbass."

"Nuh-uh. 'm not a dumbass."

Well there's that, you can't argue with someone who's practically laying on you and putting all of his weight on you. You try to shove him off, but he just whines and clings harder to you. He buries his face in your neck, not in a way to try and tempt you or seduce you, but more like he's seeking comfort.

--

"Feed me."

"Hell no, Thanos. You're a grown man."

"Please?"

Fuck the way he says please like he's so damn helpless, so dependent on you... You sigh and roll your eyes, shoving him away from you as you go to grab some random food from the kitchen. It's not much, just some crackers, you're overdue for a grocery trip so he just has to deal with it. You feed him slowly, his eyes blinking slowly at you as you let him nibble at the dry crackers and then tap his chin so he leans his head back slightly for water.

If it weren't so time consuming, it would be adorable. The way he places his hands on your legs in a way that he rarely does, it's not to tease you, it's just to remind himself that you're here for him. You want to rush him, want to tell him to hurry the fuck up, but you don't. You can't. Not when he's like this.

--

"Hold me? I'm sleepy."

"..."

"Please?"

You roll your eyes and stand up, holding out a hand for him to take so you could lead him to his shitty bed. He takes your hand gently and it takes all of your strength to not recoil at his clammy hands. His room is a wreck, you kick through clothes on the floor and get into his bed, tugging on his hand to drag him down with you. You lie on your back, staring up at his ceiling as he grins and gets almost fully on top of you. His face in your neck, a arm and leg over your body.

"Comfortable?"

"Mhm. Thanks."

Thanks? Fuck, you think you might kinda prefer him like this- even if it means he's more needy. You don't say anything in response, just sigh and put an arm over his and run your fingers through his hair. It doesn't take long for his breathing to even out and for him to snore.

You know when he wakes up and the haze of the drug wears off, he'll have some dumb shit to say about getting you in bed with him, but for now it's enough to be with him like this.

[monayen]

Hope ur having a good day/night ^-^ would love to see Nyon dating head cannons, you wrote him so sweet in ur last fic!! I feel like he’d lowkey be a yandere

Dating headcannons | Nyon

➷ paring - Nyon x Gn!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷cws - hes ur weed smoking girlfriend, kinda creepy behavior, pillow humping, oral

a/n - if you have been apart of the monayen nation for a while now then you know how long ive been putting this off. sorry again my dear love nyon, you do not deserve this,, okay enough roleplay but seriously sorry for the wait on this. sebastian is next for dating hcs

Incredibly reserved at first, you’d almost think he didn't really like you

Wouldn't hold your hand or look at you for longer than a couple seconds before turning beat red and walking away

He’s so used to being beneath someone in the pecking order that he kind of just… defaults to letting you take the lead. Probably functions best that way.

Expect to be the one to initiate most romantic things at first

Despite that, he doesn't like to take things slow. A bit contradictory… but he’ll genuinely get his feelings hurt if you give him too much space

So make him hold your hand and spend time with you. It's for the best

Does get more comfortable with time. Luther likes to say you cracked his shell :-)

You’re one of the only people he can fully relax around. You're able to bring him a kind of peace he never really knew he could have

He doesn’t outwardly seek affection, but he soaks it up when you give it. If you play with his hair, rub his back, or just hold onto him, he’ll turn into puddy in your hands. If you stop, he’ll look at you with the absolute saddest eyes until you continue

Listener boyfriend! Listener boyfriend! Could sit for hoursss and just listen to you

You might think that he isn’t, since he isn't the best for input, but he really is. He's shocked you with remembering little details that you’ve mentioned in passing ages ago

Even if you aren't a big talker, he’ll still listen. Nyon likes to lay his head on chest and listen to your breathing, your heartbeat, your inner workings

You're his favorite person (besides Master), so his entire existence centers around you in a way that’s both endearing and a little obsessively creepy

Not in a dangerous way — Nyon wouldn’t dream of hurting you, but in a way where you can tell that you mean everything and too much to him

Again, not very good at saying it outright, but it’s in the way he lingers near you, the way his long fingers wrap around your wrists, and the way he's constantly is staring at you every time you're around

You might wake up in the middle of the night to find him just sitting there, watching you sleep, completely silent

You’ve caught him doing this multiple times, even if you both fell asleep together. He’ll wake up way earlier than you just to see the way you stir and breathe.

More than willing to give up space in his (and Nyen’s) room just to have you around. The space is cramped, the air always smells faintly like smoke and vinegar but Nyon helps you get comfortable

The mattress is a tight fit for two people — three, if Nyen decides to come sit at the edge and wordlessly intimidate

But Nyon doesn’t mind, he wants to be cramped if it means being close to you. Legs tangled together, his face buried in your shoulder, breathing in your scent

HUGE pillow humper too 

Full on biting the sheets and rolling his hips, eyes shut tight as he fucks into the soft cotton, pretending it’s your skin he’s dragging himself against. Bonus points if it smells like you 

The kind of guy who would 100% steal your hairbrush and run his tongue along the bristles. Or hide away a neatly folded tissue you once used. He can get off to almost anything, as long as it reminds him of you

Nyon used to get painfully embarrassed whenever things got even remotely romantic in front of Nyen

One time, you kissed his cheek and Nyen muttered something mean under his breath. Nyon went scarlet, pulling back to stand in a corner as if he did something wrong

He cares less now because Luther has expressed that likes the relationship, and Nyen won't do anything to go against that. Nyon also finds a tiny bit of smug joy in having a partner to show off, not that he’d ever admit it.

Not very good at planning dates

The first few times he does try to take you out, it doesn’t even feel like one. He’ll invite you to go “look at this spot on the wall” or ask if you “want to come with him to the pharmacy.” 

Content enough to just be close to you, even if it's just sitting on a bench outside the gas station

If they do get planned properly, the movies are enjoyable! Would prefer to watch them at home with you, but doesn't mind to splurge on overpriced tickets and too-buttery popcorn for you 

He also likes to go on walks with you. His favorites are the cemetery and a hidden path behind the Ivory house. Likes the quietness of them, and not to be edgy… but a corpse or two around means spirits get to witness the absolute romance that is him staring at the ground while you hold his hand

Would prefer a partner who smokes weed since he's a frequent user. Absolutely willing to share his stash and waste hours laying about high with you

It's alright if you don't but you definitely have to be okay with him doing it. Might try to convince you to smoke every so often, but isn't super annoying about it 

50/50 chance of his behavior when he's stoned. Either somehow more nonverbal or a lot more open. Maybe it depends on the strain? Who knows

The latter is more likely if you both are high, and more open leads to more horny. He can get surprisingly a bit witty and daring when he's under the influence

Nyon’s voice gets a bit lower and smoother, his red, lidded eyes have their pupils blown out, and you can make out the ghost of a smile when he curls up closer to you, erection pressed against your side

Absolute fucking MUNCH. Doesn't even have to be high (as we all know) for him to get down between your legs. You might have to tear him away once he gets going

Who knew someone so quiet could whimper and whine so much?

His face gets so red and sweaty that you worry he might pass out, but don't worry, this guy can last a longgg time. At his absolute loudest when he's balls deep in you ;-)

The kind to bury his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering, breath hot against your skin as he whispers “please” over and over like a prayer

And again, while he would prefer a more dominant partner to take the lead, he doesn’t have much of an issue if you guys were more equal in the sense. Just probably doesn't have the heart to be demanding and controlling over anyone, let alone someone he loves

Tech savvy, so he’s managed to fill the family computer’s storage with things about you

Saved bookmarks about things you like, pirates of your favorite movies, an album filled with pictures of you, even had you pick out the screen saver 

Unintentionally romantic with things like that, maybe he doesn't realize when he's being off putting or creepy… but he's always thinking about you, and that's pretty sweet <3

[friendlyrandomperson]

Nice to meet you again.

Part thirty two!

For the next week, they fall into a comfortable routine, day by day, hour by hour, line by line. Frank glides through the scenes as easily as he explains the lives of any butterfly one can name. Eddie?

Oh, Eddie.

“Well, it’s clearly stage fright!”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve run through your lines perfectly fine when we practice one-on-one, but as soon as someone else walks in, you freeze up and stumble over your words—“

Frank glances down and points at Eddie’s heels, a large contrast from the mailman’s current attire; a collared white t-shirt and blue pants, almost a more informal version of his uniform.

“And your feet. Do you think a change of setting will help you?”

Eddie places his hands on his hips, looking down at his feet as he taps his upper hip in a steady beat. “If I’m bein’ honest with ya, Frank, I do, I just don’t think it’d be mighty convenient for ya.”

The smaller man’s shoulders shake as he covers his mouth, restrained giggles in his throat.

“Eddie, Dear, if a different location will make practicing easier I will manage, wherever you want to go.”

Eddie nods, glancing from his feet to his stage partner’s eyes. “You mind if we take this to the Post Office?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room provides a small sense of familiarity and comfort for the two nervous men. Eddie leans on the desk as Frank sits on the bed.

A deep sigh leaves the mailman.

“I left mah script.”

“I left mine as well.”

Frank adjusts his bowtie as he continues.

“We need to practice but we can’t just go to back Sally’s house so late at night… it took us long enough to grab our things and come here.”

“Well…” Eddie stands up, turning around and rubbing his neck.

“We don’t need a script ta practice, ya know. We’ve only got the last scene left ta do.”

Frank’s eyes widen in surprise. He is not suggesting they… no, it can’t be, he would not have accepted it that easily.

“Un- Unless you don’t wanna, that’s alright too!”

“No, no I do, if you want to.”

“I do- well, I uhm- I’d like ta- no that sounds worse- uhm…”

“I know what you mean, Eddie, uhm… it is the only scene we haven’t gotten around to,” Frank stands, taking a few hesitant steps forward, taking Eddie’s hands in his own. “I suppose we must.”

Eddie nods nervously, furrowing his brows as he tries to recall his line.

“You remember yer line?”

“I do, do you remember yours?”

“I do.”

Their shoulders lower, their grips tighten.

“I find I have no other choice.”

“Without you, I’ll nevah be the same, my brave knight.”

“You have slain my doubt, just as I have slain a dragon for you. Which is why I must leave you.”

“Then please, do not leave me without a kiss.”

“If you shall permit me, I will place one upon your lips.”

Their hands unlock, finding their places on the other’s body as their hearts pound in their ears, their faces burning.

Their lips press together gently, Eddie’s left hand on the lower part of Frank’s back, his right hand on the back of his head. Frank slides his hands from Eddie’s shoulders up, looping his arms around his shoulders and holding his own hand behind the mailman’s back. Frank can’t help but lean into the kiss just a little more, pulling Eddie in slightly. He tastes like bitter coffee, but the kiss feels sweet. Their lips open slightly, preventing their tongues from leaving their mouths, but enough to allow the kiss to deepen as Eddie lightly pushes Frank’s head towards himself, allowing his fingers to run through the deep, inky black hair. Their lips contrast greatly, dry against soft, yet they balance each other out.

“What am I doing?”

Both men freeze up at the thought, tangled together in a loving, romantic embrace meant for their roles, not themselves. They pull back at the same time, faces burning, minds racing, and their breath shallow, yet they never fully let go.

“I… goodness, I don’t know what came over me, I’m so sorry Frank.”

“No, it is my fault, I apologize.”

This is not just nerves about the play. No. This is not just not being able to deal with romantic scenes.

Frank sighs, unwrapping his arms from around Eddie and placing his hands on the man’s broad chest, pushing him away gently. Tension fills the room as Frank gathers his things to leave, the faint warmth of Eddie’s lips and arms reminding Frank of everything that will never be.

“See ya tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

The bell above the Post Office door softly chimes with Frank’s departure.

[nick-thecreator]

I've already reblogged this, but this is one hell of a ship Screw the crack-ship angle, this could be a legit ship lmao

This would probably take place in a BOS run

It starts with questions, Piper wanting to know more about The Brotherhood's sudden appearance. First with Paladin Danse, who was more than happy to talk about The Brotherhood... To a point, which was the point that made her dig deeper. Then when they fully show up, she uses her spot with Sole to snoop around The Prydwen, starting with whoever Sole interacted with, slipping in questions whenever she saw an opening. Most of them just kept their professionalism, brushing off the questions or keeping in mind "Diamond City's Snoop" for a possible risk. The only exception, even if slightly, is Arthur.

He does perform the action of brushing her questions off, keeping his Elder image up, but her questions did fascinate him, even if just in a hypothetical of actually answering them. This eventually turns into a small hobby of keeping up with Sole's ins and outs purely to see what Piper is trying to get more insight on what the BOS is doing. It's amusing at first, watching her attempts become more and more convoluted over time, and even indulges in a piece she wrote that she left at the building site at the airport while the transporter is being built. This fascination in her work slowly turns into accidental snooping in general, noticing smaller details about her every time she shows up. She's probably much different compared to any other woman "his level" in The Brotherhood, and her antics, personality, and her bravery to not back down in the face of pushback were all a breath of fresh air. It isn't long till the very socially deprived Elder is catching something for her.

For the most part, everything he does is at a distance, not only for professionalism's sake, but also because of the more pressing matters at hand. It isn't until the fall of The Institute that his developing feelings end of at the forefront of his mind. He tries to logic his way out of it for a while, the issue of bringing someone like her into The Brotherhood, the expectation placed onto her, the western council's approval of a Non-BOS member, even just stuff about himself that he doubts, even to the best of his training, but nothing seems to drive them off.

Now, this could either be just one-sided pain, the pain of seeing someone who could be perfect, but it's just the wrong place and time, and will remain that way forever... Or, with Sole being a Sentinel at that point, creating a plan for Arthur try his luck with Piper w/o the interference of The BOS, some double life shenanigans.

Dumb drama ensues lmfao

I could also see some crazy hurt/comfort from this-

Really wanna know a tragic crack ship of mine? Piper and Maxson. Look- I know it’s wack. It really is but imagine it yall- maybe it starts more of a Piper tagging along with sole to the Prydwen and can’t help but ask the elder of the brotherhood some rather ballsy questions? Arthur isn’t really used to that and is annoyed, sure, but also likes the prospective challenge.

[inquirenorth]

.

[symbiomancy]

mirror —ghost

—summary: The summer heat has you slipping between sleep and reality. Something not-so corporeal helps you cool off.

—warnings: ghost x human, monsterfucking, piv sex, mirror sex (technically), creampie, dubcon/somnophilia.

—word count: 1,3k

—a/n: no thoughts just horny. also on AO3

The best thing about living alone, you’ve come to realize, is the privacy. You’re free to do whatever: take your time in the bathroom in the morning or whenever you want, spend an eternity soaking in the claw-footed tub this house came with, walk around your home in the skimpiest clothing imaginable (not only does it help to beat the summer heat, it also (technically) leaves you less laundry to do), splay out on your king-sized bed in a starfish position, limbs akimbo, drag the full-length mirror in your bedroom in front of your bed and stare at the way any dildos you own get swallowed up by your greedy cunt.

No point in wondering why the last owner was in such a rush to get rid of it; so much so that he accepted well below market price for a freshly renovated, fully-furnished house with a moderate backyard in a relatively safe neighborhood.

The longer this heatwave lasts, the skimpier your clothes get. There’s barely any fabric to cling to your constantly sweat-slick skin by this point, just a tiny skirt hiked so far up your bare skin touches the wooden chairs when you sit and a shirt that’s more spaghetti straps than torso. The huge, double-door fridge is a reprieve, cool air billowing out and caressing your heated skin. It almost feels like a genuine caress, like someone’s cool hands sliding down your body.

Seriously, you need to get out of the house and meet people instead of fantasizing about the cool touch of your fridge. But the outside is infinitely hotter than the inside.

You kick the bedsheet away from your body, grumbling at the lingering day heat. You’d stripped the sheet from the duvet the moment spring chill had plunged into summer heat and stuffed the latter into the closet until fall. Even then, you tend to wake up without the sheet in the morning, finding it crumbled on the floor. Yesterday was another sweltering day. It has left the air stuffy and the fans only push the warm, stale heat around without providing any relief. You unplug them in a fit of frustration and cringe at the feeling of moisture when you lay against your pillow again.

Sleep doesn’t completely evade you but you’re not fully asleep, either. You think so, at least. There are moments of brief blackouts, where you open your eyes and turn to look at the time only to find not even an hour has passed. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Then, there are the hands on your body. Caressing, petting, groping. They’ve been there for some time now, just touching, feeling. They’re not cold, just cool enough to feel pleasant against your heated skin and inject some relief into your sluggish thoughts of sun and heat. A sigh escapes your lips at the sensation. Fingertips trance the expanse of your skin, draw constellations between your moles and freckles. The other hand moves to rest on your breast. It kneads the soft flesh, gently pinches your nipple between its fingers, runs a thumb over it.

You inhale sharply, heart thrumming in your chest, pressing your thighs together. It does little to quell the desire for friction, or touch. The hand tracing its fingertips down your body reaches your hip, then skirts across your flesh to rest on the inside of your thigh. You blink languidly; the heat is stifling, your head feels thick.

Cool fingers dip between your legs, press against your clit like — like they’re what? Testing the waters. You stifle the half-baked moan in the back of your throat.

The hands leave you all at once and you croak out a sound that doesn’t even sound like you, desperate and needy. They’re back not even a moment later, though, heavy on your hips as if they’re trying to guide you. You reach for a pillow and prop it under yourself. It’s a nice dream, you don’t need it to end because it forces you into an uncomfortable position that drives home the realization that it’s a dream. Because then you’ll wake up, alone again.

Something thick and heavy rests on your pelvis. Maybe this makes you a bad sex partner in this brief dream but you don’t want to reach out and touch it, guide it. If it’s your dream, your partner should know the where and how. The cool hands planted firmly on your hips pull you forward just slightly and the weight from your pelvis disappears. It rests against your entrance, but doesn’t push forward just yet. One hand leaves you and the tip of its cock drags through your slick folds, bumps against your clit.

“Please,” you croak, staring at the ceiling. Your throat is dry.

The stranger’s cock angles itself against your entrance and pushes in carefully. You take a slow, deep breath in, try to relax around the pleasant intrusion. The hands — under your knees now, guiding your legs apart. A body presses against your thighs. Whoever it is, stops, pauses for a moment. You clench around the cock buried in your cunt. A cold, shuddering breath hits you. Goosebumps rise on your skin. The hands push your knees further apart until there’s an ache in your muscles, and then they depart, one finding a spot on your waist, the other your breast.

It moves, then. The cock nestled deep within you sharply pulls back and thrusts in again. You scramble for anchor, to grab onto something but all you come up with is sheet that tugs loose. Their pace is dizzying, thighs slapping against yours, cock plunging into your wet cunt. The sound is so wet and lewd and goddamned loud in the still silence of your home. You go to stifle the half-moan half-groan in your throat but— wait, it’s your house, your dream, who gives a fuck about the neighbors? The cock in your cunt pulls nearly all the way out and thrusts in again and hits that spot, so good, dragging against your slick walls and you swear you feel every groove and dip, every goddamn vein. Your moan slips out involuntarily, and whoever it is here with you, seems invigorated.

The hand on your breast leaves, a forearm rests around your thigh, pulling it up and — fuck, their cock drives in so incredibly deep you nearly choke on your own spit. You scramble upwards, resting your weight on your elbows to look at your partner —

There’s no one there. Your bedroom is empty. But there’s a hand on your torso, cool fingers digging into your flesh and a forearm supporting your thigh and the shape of someone’s shoulder against your Achilles’ tendon. There’s a cock plunging into your cunt and you hear someone’s labored breathing.

The full-length mirror skids across the laminated floor and stops in front of your bed. Something invisible is thrusting into your pussy, gaping back at you in the reflection. Your face burns — your whole body burns. You can’t look away from the debauchery staring back at you. Whoever — whatever — it is, thrusts harshly, cold hands pulling you against their body. Your thighs are wet and sticky, slamming against theirs, your hole gaping back at you, being abused by something you can’t see. It sends you hurtling over the edge.

You come around the phantom cock with something reminiscent of a shriek and a moan and terror and pleasure all combined. Your cunt clenches around the thing your muscles sore and sweat beading on your skin. The cock plunges into you again and again and again and you blink back the tears and the fear and the overwhelming pleasure. The fingers on your body dig into your flesh and the cock nestled in you buries deep, thighs pressing against your own, and spills. It’s so warm, so pleasant. The mirror skids closer, right until it touches the edge of the bed.

Your cunt is forced wide open. Stuffed. The pearlescent cum coats your walls, oozes out from inside you, dribbles onto your bedsheets. The cock in you stays there but the body moves.

A small fogged patch, like warm breath, appears on the mirror, and then, letters.

Hi :)

Oh. So that's why this place was so cheap.

banners by @/cafekitsune

[weaselle]

it was too much i had to make my own post

line cook here. ACCURATE

if you don't get the hate, here's what you don't understand.

it takes up to 2 hours to close down the kitchen.

The last 60-90 minutes before closing time you do almost no cooking because the restaurant doesn't have many people in it and you've already cooked most of their diners.

So if someone walks in during, like, the last hour, the cook is in the middle of an industrial deep clean of the kitchen.

(these numbers can vary quite a bit from place to place but i have worked several restaurants with these actual times and the concept remains the same)

Say the place closes at 10. If you wait til the restaurant is already closed to start all your cleaning duties, you'll be there until at least midnight.

More than that your boss knows that on an average night you can start your clean up as soon as the last rush ends and get out of there around 10:45, even 10:15 on a slow night if you get lucky. That means there are plenty of restaurants where if you do take until midnight the manager is going to come up to you at some point that week and ask you what went wrong that night, and you'd better have an answer.

So this example restaurant closes at 10 pm. The dinner rush ends around 8:30, and shortly after that the cook is going to start getting every single dish possible over to the dishwasher because the dishwasher always gets hit hard and late, and the machine runs for 2 full minutes and only holds so many dishes, so the way that works out is if you wait an extra 30 minutes to give the dishwasher all your stuff it can mean adding like 60 minutes to the end of his shift. And you're gonna KEEP finding shit to send to the dishpit right up until you leave probably.

all these little square and rectangle containers in this cold table have to be pulled out and changed over into new containers, replaced by new full ones, or in some cases filled from larger containers in the back, which can result in even more empty containers to send to the dishwasher.

while it's all pulled apart to do this, you have to clean up all the spilled food and sauce and juices and stuff from the joints and ledges and shelves and drip trays

Once you get your line changed over in this way, and fully stocked, anytime someone orders something that makes use of a bunch of that stuff, you have to restock and re-clean it some. It might already be covered in plastic. Some of it might already be stuck in the back to make room to take apart your cutting board counter to clean. To cook a dish isn't TOO much of a problem at this point, but you're really hoping for zero orders because you still have so much other cleaning to do.

Meanwhile the salad bar and appetizer section and server station and everybody are all doing the same thing. Even the bartenders are stocking olives and lemons and sending back whisks and stir spoons and shakers and empty 4quart storage containers that used to hold the back-up lemons and olives and things. Every section is dumping their must-be-cleaneds to the dishpit as fast as possible because early and fast is the only thing they can do to to help that dishpit not absolutely drown into overtime.

The poor dishwasher is always the last to clock out, soaking wet and exhausted.

Around this time you probably scrub the flat top, which has turned black from cooked on grease and is still about 500 degrees. Line cooks are divided in opinion on water-based or oil based cleaning methods for this, but they all involve scrubbing with (usually) a brick of pumice stone using every ounce of your strength while you try not to burn yourself

you scrub it from fully blackened to gleaming silver and now if somebody orders something that needs the flat top to cook, you can either fuck up your cleaning job or fake it in a couple frying pans and pass that tiny fuck you down to your dishwasher (who usually understands, especially if you help them take the garbage out or clean your own floor drain later)

If there's deep fried stuff on the menu then the fryers have to be cleaned out, which includes straining the oil out into enormous and super-heavy pots full of oil so hot that if you spill on yourself then it's probably a hospital visit and if you slip and fall face first into it it'll be the last thing you ever do.

Then you gotta scrub out the fryer. Like you gotta take the (hot) screen out and reach your arm down into the weird rounded pipes and curved areas (so hot, burn you if you brush against them hot) and scrub off whatever is down there

Depending on your kitchen you might have to do up to four of these. Then you'll have to pour the (dangerously hot) oil back in

oh, and if you didn't dry the pipes and get ALL the water out of the trap and tank?

water reacts with hot oil in a sort of mentos and coke way that can send a tidal wave of oil past the open flame of the pilot light ...HUGE dangerous mess and/or burn down the kitchen if the oil lights up.

Unless! If the oil has been used too hard and needs to be changed, it's time to carry those open topped super heavy pots full of will-kill-you-hot oil and dump them in the barrel outside by the dumpsters so you can put room temp fresh oil in the fryers. whew!

The clean up is not just some light wiping down that can be easily interrupted, is what i'm saying.

You might have to do some kind of walk-in duty (moving around 50lb cases of lettuce and 50lb bags of onions to get to the stacks of five gallon buckets full of salad dressings and sauces to move so you can reach the giant metal pots and bus tubs full of prep and get it all organized and make sure it's all labeled and i have to stop now i'm having flashbacks)

THE POINT IS

by 15 or however many minutes to close, the line cook is doing an intense deep clean and probably has the whole stove taken apart to detail.

For some industrial stoves this means lifting off large cast iron plates that weigh like 20 lbs each and are still quite hot. Whatever metal burners are on there, you gotta take off and clean, you can see here the lines that indicate the large thick cast iron rectangles that sit on top of the burners to allow heavy pots to rest on. Those five (each has one front burner hole and one back burner hole, see?) have to be lifted off and cleaned with soap and a wire brush usually, and then the underneath area also has to be cleaned because a lot of shit falls through the burner holes on a busy night.

if you didn't do it when you did the flat top you have to do the grease trap (which can be like a full five minutes and is always disgusting).. You gotta clean out all the little gas jets in each burner with a wire or something so the burners all flame evenly, and sometimes you have to remove some of the natural gas piping that connects the burners to access where you have to clean.

you gotta clean out the bottom of the oven and the wire racks, and, oh gods, you gotta take down the filter vents from the hood fans above the stove.

See all the lined parts along the top of the wall?

those are hood vents, and as they pull air up they also pull a lot of grease and they have to be taken down and cleaned, then you gotta climb up there and scrub where they go before you put them back...

And then there's the mopping and floor drains and...

Anyway, that's what the line cook is doing when you walk in fifteen minutes before closing and order something that needs to be cooked on that stove. They are doing an entire industrial cleaning of a professional kitchen.

In some restaurants maybe one or two of these jobs will be every other night or even only twice a week, but in many, possibly most kitchens, ALL of these things happen EVERY night. You don't want to leave any food mess that might attract insects or rodents for one thing, so a really good kitchen is as close to brand new as you can get it every night.

IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ORDER SOMETHING ANYWAY, HERE IS WHAT TO DO

open with an apology and ask the server to go ask what the cook would prefer you to order.

Any good server will already know what the cook is hoping for and what will make their line cook go into the walk in and scream. If it's significantly less than an hour to close and they say some variant of "oh anything is fine" they are either telling the lie their boss wants them to say, or they actually do not know what their line cook wants, and you can either use human connection and a conspiratorial just-between-us tone to get them to drop the customer-is-always-right act, or get them to actually go ask the cook.

It might be as specific as "the lasagna is easiest on the kitchen" or it might be a simple guideline like "nothing that requires the flat top" or "any of the sautés are easy" but a good line cook will probably have a system for if they have to make a couple of the most popular items after they start their close, so the answer is likely to include something most people like and you should be good to order that.

but for the love of all that's holy, please only do so at great need. Leave that last 30-60 minutes to the truly desperate and the crew's duties.

[mx-paint]

the main problem with the whole "dc has a harley problem" isn't the statement itself - (imo, it's completely right, especially in how each one portrays her and her actions in each universe) - but the way it's delivered.

[afloweroutofstone]

The Trump administration accidentally included the conservative editor of The Atlantic in a group chat where they were discussing, in great detail, the US bombing campaign in Yemen

In all, 18 individuals were listed as members of this group, including various National Security Council officials; Steve Witkoff, President Trump’s Middle East and Ukraine negotiator; Susie Wiles, the White House chief of staff; and someone identified only as “S M,” which I took to stand for Stephen Miller. I appeared on my own screen only as “JG.”

...I had very strong doubts that this text group was real, because I could not believe that the national-security leadership of the United States would communicate on Signal about imminent war plans. I also could not believe that the national security adviser to the president would be so reckless as to include the editor in chief of The Atlantic in such discussions with senior U.S. officials, up to and including the vice president...

At this point, a fascinating policy discussion commenced. The account labeled “JD Vance” responded at 8:16: “Team, I am out for the day doing an economic event in Michigan. But I think we are making a mistake.” (Vance was indeed in Michigan that day.) The Vance account goes on to state, “3 percent of US trade runs through the suez. 40 percent of European trade does. There is a real risk that the public doesn’t understand this or why it’s necessary. The strongest reason to do this is, as POTUS said, to send a message.”

The Vance account then goes on to make a noteworthy statement, considering that the vice president has not deviated publicly from Trump’s position on virtually any issue. “I am not sure the president is aware how inconsistent this is with his message on Europe right now. There’s a further risk that we see a moderate to severe spike in oil prices. I am willing to support the consensus of the team and keep these concerns to myself. But there is a strong argument for delaying this a month, doing the messaging work on why this matters, seeing where the economy is, etc.”...

At 8:27, a message arrived from the “Pete Hegseth” account. “VP: I understand your concerns – and fully support you raising w/ POTUS. Important considerations, most of which are tough to know how they play out (economy, Ukraine peace, Gaza, etc). I think messaging is going to be tough no matter what – nobody knows who the Houthis are – which is why we would need to stay focused on: 1) Biden failed & 2) Iran funded.”

The Hegseth message goes on to state, “Waiting a few weeks or a month does not fundamentally change the calculus. 2 immediate risks on waiting: 1) this leaks, and we look indecisive; 2) Israel takes an action first – or Gaza cease fire falls apart – and we don’t get to start this on our own terms. We can manage both. We are prepared to execute, and if I had final go or no go vote, I believe we should. This [is] not about the Houthis. I see it as two things: 1) Restoring Freedom of Navigation, a core national interest; and 2) Reestablish deterrence, which Biden cratered. But, we can easily pause. And if we do, I will do all we can to enforce 100% OPSEC”—operations security. “I welcome other thoughts.”...

The account identified as “JD Vance” addressed a message at 8:45 to @Pete Hegseth: “if you think we should do it let’s go. I just hate bailing Europe out again.” (The administration has argued that America’s European allies benefit economically from the U.S. Navy’s protection of international shipping lanes.)

It was the next morning, Saturday, March 15, when this story became truly bizarre.

At 11:44 a.m., the account labeled “Pete Hegseth” posted in Signal a “TEAM UPDATE.” I will not quote from this update, or from certain other subsequent texts. The information contained in them, if they had been read by an adversary of the United States, could conceivably have been used to harm American military and intelligence personnel, particularly in the broader Middle East, Central Command’s area of responsibility. What I will say, in order to illustrate the shocking recklessness of this Signal conversation, is that the Hegseth post contained operational details of forthcoming strikes on Yemen, including information about targets, weapons the U.S. would be deploying, and attack sequencing.

The only person to reply to the update from Hegseth was the person identified as the vice president. “I will say a prayer for victory,” Vance wrote. (Two other users subsequently added prayer emoji.)

According to the lengthy Hegseth text, the first detonations in Yemen would be felt two hours hence, at 1:45 p.m. eastern time. So I waited in my car in a supermarket parking lot. If this Signal chat was real, I reasoned, Houthi targets would soon be bombed. At about 1:55, I checked X and searched Yemen. Explosions were then being heard across Sanaa, the capital city.

[fawniswriting]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky becomes determined to take care of you.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warning(s): CEO!husband!bucky x wife!reader. protective!bucky. no use of y/n. use of nicknames sweetheart and angel. established (secret) relationship. reader is a damsel in distress. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE" 🗣🗣🗣 trope. public humiliation. physical violence (reader is manhandled - not by bucky). hurt/comfort. angst, fluff, smut (holy trifecta) (18+ mdni!!!). vaginal fingering. lots of praising. bucky is Scary™ and only soft for reader.

Author's Note: GUYS HI I'M ALIVE 👋🏼 so sorry for being MIA. work has been kicking my ass. I've literally been skipping lunch and working through weekends bcs of how crazy it is (yeah I know it's bad). but other than that, I've also been having the worst case of writer's block ever. I have three fics in my draft that I kept deleting and rewriting because none of them turned out good enough. this is the only half decent thing I managed to produce. not fully happy with this bcs I wanted to spend more time on it, but I've also been itching to put out something for you guys, so pls bear with me 😔 hopefully you'll still like it 🧡 don't forget to comment/like/reblog 💕

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

As soon as you step through the rotating doors, a relieved breath escapes your chest. 

The rain continues to patter outside, merciless in their mission to soak everyone who dares to leave the comfort of their home. Your wet hoodie clings to you like second skin; your cotton skirt dripping on the marble floors below. The back of your neck scorches as you notice a few sharp glances sliding your way. 

This is so not how you thought this day was going to go.

A quick coffee run with the girls had been the plan. The only plan. A chance to catch up with Wanda and Natasha amidst the unpredictability of everyone’s hectic schedules. Everything was going well. Up until the point you left the coffee shop, started the trek back towards the subway station, and realized something.

Your wallet was missing.

Not misplaced.

Not forgotten.

But actually missing.

You spent the next couple of hours retracing your steps—going back to the coffee shop, peering under evey chair and table, even asking the clueless barista if anyone had turned it in—but nothing. You even emptied your tote bag in the middle of the sidewalk at one point. Confirming that the wallet was, in fact, gone. To make matters worse, your phone had also died somewhere between Wanda showing you her latest painting project and Natasha's crude remarks about your sex life. In that raging desperation, you made a decision to resort to one last dramatic measure.

Bucky's office.

Inside your drenched sneakers, your toes curl. It’s silly for someone to feel this nervous about visiting their husband's place of work. But when the husband in question is none other than James Buchanan Barnes—CEO and founder of Barnes & Co.—you suppose the churning in your gut is somewhat justified. Especially when the prospect of visiting his office, impromptuly and without the dark cover of night, feels like crossing a threshold you've been avoiding for far too long.

You and Bucky have been together for over two years, married for one short, whirlwind month. The news of your wedding broke across the country like a hailstorm. Stirring a media frenzy and a nationwide intrigue revolving one question in particular.

Who is the woman that managed to conquer the heart of one of America's most eligible bachelors?

You've always dreaded the attention that comes with being Bucky's partner, hence why you asked to keep your identity a secret at the start of your relationship. And Bucky—despite having his reservations about not being able to love you loudly in front of the whole world—had agreed, but not before promising you that his world was yours to enter whenever you pleased.

You just never thought that the entrance would happen today.

The dribbles of rain have gathered into a puddle under your feet. You squirm as more eyes begin scrutinizing you as if you're a ketchup stain in their otherwise polished world of Rolexes and Armani-clad egos. Taking a deep breath, you will the thumping in your chest to abate, forcing your chin up as you stalk towards the front desk across the lobby.

The two receptionists are conversing among themselves when you approach, huddled over a phone on the desk. You’re about to open your mouth when the mention of a familiar name stops you dead in tracks.

“Bet she's just a ditzy arm candy,” one of them remarks. “I won’t be surprised if he found her at a yacht party.”

The other gasps scandalously, pausing mid-way of applying her dark red lipstick. “You think she's an escort?”

“I don’t think. I know.” The first one smirks. “But then again, a guy who looks like that? With that kind of money? Hell, he could probably get with any woman in the world.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'd gladly get on my knees and be the sidepiece if Bucky Barnes asked me.”

The two receptionists snicker.

A few paces away, you're standing with hands curled into fists, commanding the red hot emotion in your chest to dissipate before you do something you might regret.

Instead, you clear your throat.

Two pairs of eyes look up, and the moment they catch sight of you—teeth chattering and skirt trickling with mud—their expressions twist into something unpleasant. Dismissive. Judgemental in a way that causes your skin to crawl and your ears to ring.

“Can I help you?” asks the one with the red lipstick.

“Hi. Yes, please. I, uh—” you shift on your feet, “—I'm here to see Mr. Barnes.”

“He's in a meeting,” she replies, already tapping something on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but—”

“You need an appointment to see Mr. Barnes.” She smiles, so sickly sweet as she drags her eyes from your head to your toe. “I can't let you in. Sorry.”

“Okay. But I'm actually—”

“She said you can't go up, Ma’am,” the other receptionist interjects.

“If you could just call his office and tell them—”

“Mr. Barnes doesn't receive walk-ins,” says Red Lipstick, her gaze acrid when it lands on you. “Especially not from… strangers.”

You grit your teeth. “I'm his wife.”

The other receptionist snorts.

It takes everything in your power not to snap right then and there.

“Look,” you sigh, tugging at the hem of your drenched hoodie, “can I at least borrow a phone, then? Just to call his secretary?”

Red Lipstick sneers. “We're not a public phone booth.”

Next to her, the other receptionist doesn't even attempt to hide her smug smile. There is an ache prickling in the back of your eyes. You're soaked, freezing, and exhausted, and the last thing you need is to defend your identity in front of two people who seem to have resolved their judgement upon seeing your appearance. All you want to do right now is to get home, curl up in bed, and forget that this whole day ever happened in the first place.

“Fine,” you mutter, exhaling a stuttering breath, “I'll just wait then.”

You head towards the seating area several feet away, the leather squeaking the moment you sink down. Red Lipstick whispers something to her friend before picking up the desk phone.

Two minutes later, security shows up.

Chill licks up your spine as you watch the man in the uniform talking to the receptionist from earlier, the latter throwing daggers in your direction without bothering subtlety. You move your tote bag to your lap—as though the material can shield you from the impending confrontation—and clutch the canvas in a death grip when the security starts marching towards you.

“Ma'am.” The large man, all muscles and ear-piece, towers over you. “I need to ask you to leave the premises.”

You close your eyes.

This can't be happening.

“I'm not doing anything wrong.”

“You're causing a disruption.”

“Disruption?” you seethe, your voice shakier than you would like it to be. “I'm only sitting.”

“Please, Ma'am—”

“I'm just waiting for my husband, alright?” Your voice cracks. “Just—just please… give me five minutes. I'll just wait for his meeting to be over and—”

You don't get to finish your sentence.

Before you can fully process what is happening, the security guard has stomped forward, plunging his claws around your forearm, and jerks you up to your feet. You yelp as he begins to try and drag you away, scrambling to peel his vicious grip.

“Hey! What are you—? Let me go!”

“You need to stop resisting, Ma'am.”

“I'm not! Please, just… just let me go, you're hurting me!”

All around you, people have paused and begun watching. Businessmen halt mid-call. Women with perfect sleek buns turn their heads to lour at the sudden commotion. You're half certain that someone in the crowd has even pulled out a phone to record the whole thing. 

And yet, none of them steps forward to help.

Shame creeps up your neck, burning in tandem with the ache that now travels through your arm. Your sneakers screech against the marble floors as the security heaves you across the lobby, unperturbed by your whines of pain and your desperate pleas. 

No one seems to care.

That is until a voice breaks through your choked cries.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The crowd falls into a sudden hush, panting like the Red Sea to reveal the figure standing in front of the closing elevator doors.

Bucky Barnes.

His suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened from the tumult of the day. You can almost picture him tugging repeatedly at that piece of fabric as he sits in one of his tediously long meetings—the same tie that you bought for him several months prior. His steel-blue eyes scan the surroundings, flicking from the mass of foreign faces standing in his lobby to the scene that has seemingly rendered everyone frozen on their spot. His gaze lands on you—dripping, scared, and on the verge of crying—and immediately zeroes in on the security guard's iron grip around your forearm.

Bucky steps forward.

And something inside of him snaps.

"Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife."

The meeting is running long.

Too long.

Bucky keeps glancing at the clock above the screen monitor, counting down the minutes until the longer hand strikes twelve. He barely hears the pitch being presented. Not when his mind isn't even present in the room. His phone sits face-down on the table, buzzing occasionally with email notifications, meeting reminders, missed phone calls, but not from the one person who matters the most.

You.

He sighs quietly.

When the final slide clicks off and the lights turn on again, Bucky doesn't waste time standing to his feet. “Good work,”  he says, already halfway out of the door. “We'll review the proposal and follow up. That's all.”

He doesn’t even give his team a chance to respond.

The hallway is deserted as he walks past. Bucky enters his office and shuts the door behind him, checking his phone to see the last four messages he has sent to you.

[08.28 AM] Have fun with Wanda and Nat. I'll see you tonight, angel ❤️

[11.47 AM] Still with the girls, sweetheart?

[12.04 PM] Let me know once you're home

[01.58 PM] Angel?

His jaw clenches.

Bucky presses the call button and brings the device to his ear, cursing when the line goes straight to voicemail. You never do this—leave his messages hanging for hours like this. You always answer—with a text or a phone call, sometimes with a single emoji response when you're too busy or too tired to form a proper one. A total silence is unheard of, and Bucky knows that this can mean one of two things.

Either your phone is dead… or something is wrong.

Bucky’s gut plummets.

He hits another number on his phone, his driver instantly answering on the second ring.

“Bring the car to the front,” Bucky orders. “I'm heading home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky moves in quick lightning. Gathering his things and shoving important documents into his briefcase. He leaves the office and stops by his secretary's desk, who shoots out of her seat immediately upon seeing him.

“Cancel everything else for today. I'm going home.”

“Wait, what? But, Mr. Barnes, you still have—”

“I don’t care,” he says, already turning towards the elevator. “I need to check on my wife.”

Inside the elevator, Bucky fiddles with his cuffs, trying not to imagine the worst. There is a good chance you probably just forgot to charge your phone and got way too caught up reuniting with your friends to notice the time. Maybe you're already back home, asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. Maybe there really is no reason for Bucky to worry.

But he does worry.

Bucky has been worried for sometime. Particularly since the story of your wedding broke a month ago. 

He didn't say anything to keep you from stressing, but on the second week of your honeymoon in the Caribbean, Bucky received word from his security team that a stalker had tried to break into his house in Westchester. The perpetrator was caught and handed to the police before things could escalate, but it still wasn't enough to ease Bucky's mind. He had to relocate your residence temporarily to his penthouse in Manhattan—telling you a little white lie about doing some renovations at the house. Thankfully, you're none the wiser. You've always loved living at the heart of the bustling city, anyway.

The elevator doors open with a ding.

Bucky steps out, pausing in his tracks when he realizes there is a horde gathering in the lobby. People are murmuring among themselves, their necks craning as they attempt to sneak a peek at the center of the ruckus. Bucky's brows furrow.

“What the hell is going on here?” he bellows.

The crowd parts.

Bucky examines his surroundings. Seeing at least two people with their phones out, receptionists standing behind their desks, and heads turning towards a scene unfolding near the sofas.

There is a man there.

A man in uniform—a security guy—who has his hand around a woman's arm, trying to drag her away across the lobby.

The woman is drenched and shaking, voice hoarse from pleas that have fallen on deaf ears. When he finally catches her eyes—your eyes—blown wide with panic, the rest of the world seems to evaporate.

Bucky sees red.

“Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife.”

The security guard falters, just for the briefest of milliseconds, but it's all Bucky needs to yank his hands off you. He shoves the guard so hard the man stumbles nearly five feet back. Bucky doesn't stop there—he grabs the guard by his collars, the man now trembling with fear in front of him. It doesn’t matter. Not to Bucky. Not after what he just saw this man was doing to you.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Bucky froths, face twisting into stone. “Touching my wife like that? Dragging her out? Do you want me to fucking kill you?!”

“S-Sir, I—”

“Bucky.”

His head snaps.

Your voice is meek beneath the tense air of the lobby, but it reaches him nonetheless. It always does. One short utterance of his name from you is all it takes for Bucky to loosen his grip on the security guard, his breath catching in his throat as he finally takes you in—soaked to the skin, shivering, shoes drenched under your feet.

Everything else melts away.

In two long strides, Bucky is now standing before you, his large palms cradling your face with a softness that startlingly opposes the man that has threatened death upon another human being five seconds ago. There is a pinch in his forehead as he studies your face. His face contorting as if the sight of you alone has plunged a blade so deeply into his soul.

“Sweetheart.” His voice breaks. “What happened?”

Your lips quiver. “I-I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to… I lost my wallet, and my phone’s dead. Then it just—it started raining, and I—I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Shh, angel. It's okay.” He tugs you close, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, not caring the fact that your rain-soaked clothes are probably ruining his expensive suit. You press into him, an involuntary shudder running through your limbs. “Shit, angel, you're freezing.”

Bucky shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, firm hands rubbing your back to transfer some of his warmth to you. His voice is so unbearably tender as it falls on your ears.

 “I’ve got you now,” he whispers. “You’re safe, angel. I’ve got you.”

Then, Bucky turns. 

Slowly.

“You,” he barks at the security guard, blue eyes burning with hellfire. “Explain. Now.”

The guard swallows. “Sir, I-I didn’t know. The receptionist said she was causing a disturbance. Said she was crazy. Claimed she was your wife. I was just following—”

“She is my wife.” Bucky’s voice is deathly quiet. Venomous. “And you fucking manhandled her.”

“I-I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky turns his gaze towards the front desk.

The girl with the red lipstick is now as white as a sheet. Beside her, the other receptionist doesn't seem to be doing much better.

“Mr. Barnes,” Red Lipstick begins. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. She didn’t look like… She just sat on the furniture like she owned the place, and she—”

“She does own the damn place,” Bucky snaps. “And she told you who she was. And instead of doing the one job you have—calling my office—you humiliated her. Called security. Let this entire lobby watch while you treat her like dirt.”

“I—I was just trying to—”

Bucky raises his hand.

The girl's jaw snaps shut.

“I want all of you gone. Now. Security. Receptionists. Both of you. Fired. I don’t want to see any of you here again.”

The other receptionist tries to speak, “But sir—”

“Do you want me to fucking repeat myself?”

The three of them stay quiet.

Bucky turns back to you then, still enveloped in his jacket, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the person he knows you to be. Something inside him splinters at the sight.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He guides you through the lobby, tucking you against his side as if he's afraid to let even an inch of space separate the two of you from now on. Before he reaches the rotating doors, Bucky halts his steps. He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, a raging flame in his sternum when he sees some people with their phones still out.

Bucky takes out his own mobile, typing in something without ever retracting his other arm away from your frame. Seconds later, his driver appears through the rotating doors, taking a subtle double take at your state, before nodding dutifully at the two of you.

“I want you to get all the names of the people in this lobby,” Bucky commands. “Give them to me by tomorrow. Check their phones. Confiscate them if you find anything of my wife. Prepare a fund to reimburse them for the device, we will not be returning them.”

The driver nods.

“Oh, by the way—” Bucky adds, gesturing at the security guard and the two receptionists, “—those three? I want them gone by the end of the day. Make sure to blacklist their names. Notify our partners as well.”

With that, Bucky leads you away again. Out of the office, out of the rumpus, and straight into the safety of his arms.

By the time you reach the apartment, New York City is in mourning.

The rain has exploded into a full-blown storm. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the darkness that has befallen the entire city. The roar of thunder echoes through the floor, still rough, still formidable, but a little quieter now that you're swaddled in the safety of your home.

Next to you, another thunder is subsiding.

Bucky doesn't let go of your hand as you step further into the apartment. He holds you like you're procelain, tucking you a little closer into his side every time he feels a tremble running through you. His lips are pressed onto your temple as he leads you towards the hallway.

“You're shivering, sweetheart,” he points out. “Let me run you a bath, okay?”

You don't have the energy to respond.

In the bathroom, Bucky guides you to sit on the toilet. He moves through the space like a domesticated cyclone—filling in the tub, lighting up your favorite candles, adding in that lavender and eucalyptus oil that he knows you love. Steam is rising within minutes. Bucky turns back to you with the gaze of a man who is trying to spell out love with his eyes alone.

“I'm gonna take off your clothes now, alright?” 

He sheds each layer with reverence. As if he was revealing your secrets rather than taking off rain-soaked worn cotton. Bucky pauses every now and then to squeeze your hand, peppering tiny kisses along the knuckles, shifting closer every time he detects gooesbumps on your skin.

The whole thing is so sweet.

He is so sweet.

And it makes the whole dam you've been straining to uphold finally collapses.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, surprising him.

“Sorry?” Bucky is perplexed. “Angel, why are you sorry?”

“S-Sorry for… for showing up like that. For making a scene. I shouldn't—I must’ve embarrassed you—”

“Hey,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “No. Don’t do that.”

Tears cling to your lashes.

“You can never embarrass me, sweetheart. You’re my wife. The most important thing in my life. If anything, I should’ve been there sooner. None of this is on you.” Bucky brushes his nose to yours, massaging the nape of your neck. “I'm so sorry, angel. You didn’t deserve to go through any of that.”

Your breath stammers. 

Bucky leans back and presses his lips to your forehead.

“Come on.” He smiles. So tender and loving you think you might unravel completely. “Let me take care of you.”

He helps you into the tub, guiding you down into the warmth with a steady hand on your back. The water laps against your skin, chasing the chill from your aching bones as well as your bruised heart. The next thing that comes out of your mouth is a relieved sigh.

Bucky moves to stand.

Your hand shoots out and curls around his wrist before he can rise.

“Join me,” is all you say.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky never takes his eyes off you even when he starts stripping down his clothes. He steps behind you in the tub, tugging you to his chest the moment he has settled into the bath. Your whole body liquefies on instinct the second his arms engulf your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs, pledging the words to your temple. “You’re safe.”

Bucky reaches for your soap, lathering his plams with the scent of lavender and peppermint. You sigh and sink deeper into his chest as you feel his touch working over your skin—shoulders, arms, the curve of your back. He kisses each spot every time he finishes rinsing it off, running his tongue down your neck, whispering praises with each breath.

“So strong. So brave.” He nips at your ear. “So proud of you, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Bucky continues peppering your skin with kisses. Experimenting with the graze of his teeth and the scrape of his tongue. You squirm in his hold when his fingers begin swiping at your chest. Subtle, at first, but then he takes a nipple between his fingers and twist it just enough to make you mewl in delight.

It's the best goddamn sound he has ever heard on this planet.

He begins massaging your breast with his left hand, the other one sliding lower and lower with every bruise he is sucking into your neck. Bucky parts your nether lips, feeling you soft and compliant under his touch. You jolt in his arms the moment he skims over your sensitive nub.

“B-Bucky—”

“Shh, I got you, angel. Don't worry,” he soothes, burying his face in your throat. “Just feel me. Gonna make you feel so good, okay? Just lean back and relax for me.”

You follow his instruction, letting yourself fall back onto his chest. Bucky starts rubbing you slowly, earnestly, circling his fingers around the one place that is yearning for him, never quite touching it just to tease those breathless sounds out of you even further. In front of him, you're panting. Your hips grinding against his hand as you attempt to chase more of those heavenly feelings.

“Look at you,” Bucky muses, relishing the way you're chasing more of his touch. “Always so beautiful for me. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?”

“Bucky,” you whine.

“Shh, I know, angel. I know. Doing so good for me.”

Bucky rubs his fingers over your clit, groaning when the motion tears a wrecked sound out of your throat. He carries on with his ministrations, playing your body like a musician would their favorite instrument. Alternating between lazy strokes and desperate flicks that have you gasping and writhing against him. 

“Oh God.” You close your eyes, brows creasing when Bucky eventually plunges two fingers into your heat.

He moves them in and out of you languidly. Curling his digits, feeling your walls contract and suck him deeper each time he stimulates that one spot that always paints your vision with stars. You're gripping his forearm now. Your head falling back onto his shoulder as his other hand slides downward towards your bundle of nerves.

Everything feels heightened.

Everything feels good.

You angle your head to the side and kiss his jaw as you feel a familiar knot forming in your abdomen.

“Bucky,” you whimper, locking your eyes with his. “I-I'm gonna—oh God, don't stop—I wanna—”

“Wanna cum, angel?” Bucky purrs, running his nose down your cheekbone. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers—shit. Go ahead, sweetheart. Let go for me. Let me see you.”

You come apart within seconds. The murmurs of Bucky's encouragement as your music and the kisses he leaves on your shoulder as your anchor. His fingers continue to drag in and out of you with reverence, prolonging your pleasure, never once relenting until he is sure you've given him everything that you could.

“That's it, sweetheart. You did so well.” He tilts your chin up, leaving a chaste kiss in the corner of your lips. “Such a good girl for me.”

He holds you until your breathing slows, until the thrum under your skin quietens and your nerve endings stop lighting up in flames. Bucky helps you out of the bath with a towel already warm in his hands, drying you carefully, each brush a well-concocted plan because he knows you deserve nothing less than the utmost form of care.

Once you're dressed, Bucky leads you to your shared bed. You're already half asleep by the time he tucks the covers around your frame, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“I love you,” he confesses into the quiet. “You’re my whole world, angel.”

You blink at him, eyes drowsy but warm. “Love you, too.”

Bucky slides in beside you, pulling you close until your head is rested on his chest and your hand finds the steady beating of his heart.

Outside, the storm continues to rage. Anguish in its name and its promise, chasing thunders with the stable clatter of the rain.

Inside, though, it's quiet. A stretch of silence merely rustled by the intakes of breath and the soft snores of Bucky's whole life—his wife. His world. Kept securely inside the certainty of his embrace where nothing and no one else would be able to lay their hands on you.

And with that reassurance, Bucky closes his eyes, drifting off with his heart stitched solidly to yours.