#Chapter 8

[undertale-over-the-void]

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[thedaselcor]

Arthur ran his fingers softly along the nasty scar on Merlin’s left shoulder, and tried to swallow the guilt and shame. He had done that. One of the very first days he knew Merlin, he’d attacked him with a morningstar for the terrible crime of standing up to him. It seemed like it had to be so much more than a year and a half to go, couldn’t have been so recent, and yet. 

Arthur had never been good with words, but he knew the kisses he was currently dropping along the edges of the scar could never be amends enough. He took a deep breath, then asked, “help me draft a new policy for the knights? About appropriate treatment of the non-noble citizenry of Camelot?”

Merlin turned to face him, eyes full of question and surprise.

“Not now, I mean,” he added, “after some sleep.”

Merlin nodded, and lunged in, and kissed him, as if ‘ help me draft a new policy for the knights’ was the most gallant and romantic thing he’d ever heard.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (8)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.6k

Warnings: mentions of death, betrayal, fire, knives, dead parents; farewell; feels; tension

Author’s Note: This is not the end, no worries. Wouldn’t leave you guys hanging like that. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It stands tall in the distance.

Rising above the emerald treetops, like a melancholic monarch draped in shadows and light.

The grey stone battlements jut against the hazy sky. Turrets - clearly emboldened by the hues of the background - spiral toward the horizon, austere and elegant, crowned by banners that flutter limpidly in the distance.

The very stones seem steeped in centuries of command, and each mark of weather bears testimony of its history and storms - the memories of which, it seems, they still hold with great dignity.

The castle seems at peace, standing upon its cliff, hanging suspended from the rocky outcrop, as though it grew from the very rock, planted there, eternal. A sentinel of this kingdom. The kingdom that belonged to your father.

Craggy towers break the swell of pallid sky, their dark slate roofs glimmering under the wan light filtering through clouds.

The sight of this castle holds a strange pull on your senses - a magnetic foreboding that you can’t seem to shake.

It looms powerful but sinister, an observer too heavy with secrets for history to bear. Around it, trees keep dancing in and out of shifting hues of green and gold, branches stirring to a wind barely in existence, each gust swaying leaves like a restless audience to your arrival.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There is more here than just the daunting architecture pressing on your psyche. Something personal smolders in the shadow of that place.

You try to put your finger on it but only grasp fleeting impressions - the way your father spoke in clipped tones about duty and appearances, the pack of expectations, the noose he metaphorically kept around your neck.

Beside you, Bucky’s presence shifts. He seems to slip into a hesitating step. The muscles of his shoulders tense against the still slightly stained fabric of his armor.

He does not take his eyes off the castle. The blue steel of his gaze sharpens. You can feel the tension emanating from him, a tangible energy that snakes through the air between you. There is a hostility in the way he looks at that castle. A hardness that knots his jaw. A tautness that frames his mouth.

Somehow he wears apprehension with discomfort.

And it shakes your heart with an inexplicable dread.

He always moves like a man accustomed to balancing control with instinct. But his breathing pattern changes slightly. You ignore the fact that you know his normal breathing pattern in the first place. But there really is a slight strain in his breath.

Your gaze snaps back to the castle, peering through the branches framing its silhouette. Even from this distance, you can feel something lingering around the fortress - energies unvoiced, but undeniably ancient, as if the very stones remember.

A strange chill skitters down your spine. But you can’t really say why. The path underneath your boots is softened with fallen leaves, giving off a musty, earthy scent. You want to hang onto the smell, with its cool air gliding across your skin and the tranquil solitude of the forest. But your gaze keeps wandering back to the castle looming still so far off. It is magnetic. Impossible to ignore.

A realization comes with a blow to your heart.

This might be your destination.

Perhaps this castle is where he's meant to bring you.

A bittersweet and aching pang lodges beneath your ribs. You can’t imagine the journey that has momentarily intertwined your paths is perhaps going to be coming to a close.

You steal a glance at Bucky’s profile. If this is where he is meant to take you, then why does he seem so tense at finally getting here?

Trying to interpret the small frown tugging at his lips, the rigid line in his jaw, you let your eyes sweep. There is a weight of something hanging from his brows, drawing them down.

The wind around you changes direction, ruffling branches and making leaves hop around as if to note the abrupt transition occasioned by you.

The entire atmosphere between Bucky and you seems to stiffen.

The twitch of his fingers at his sides almost betray a gesture of need - to make a fist. He controls his breathing too deliberately for your taste.

Your gaze drags back to the castle ahead. To Bucky. To the castle. And back to Bucky. And back to the castle.

Here stands the proud fortress, untouched by the ravages of time, like one who has never been forced to bow before the wickedness of mankind. Never had to bend to the world’s cruelty. But perhaps, this too, is an illusion. Perhaps it became something wicked, something cruel itself.

The thought strikes you, brief and sharp.

Clouds sweep across the sun and the light dims. Shadows weave itself through the forest. You take in the now cooling air.

No words pass between Bucky and you, but with every step, the mounting tension between you both gets stronger.

It feels flimsy, like glass waiting to shatter.

You want to ask him. Want to ask if this castle is where you are going to part ways as soon as you reach it. It will take some time still. Maybe a day. Maybe less. Maybe more.

But it feels so dwindling and you can’t grasp the time you want to keep.

The sight of the castle only clutches your heart with hands showing not an ounce of mercy, squeezing your breath thin and shallow.

You always knew this journey would come to an end. Even had hoped so for some time. Had complained about relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, sleeping on the hard ground of the forest, not being able to bathe in the warmest water. You have complained about practically everything in this godforsaken forest. But you don’t want this journey to end so soon. Maybe because it’s not the forest at all you want to keep yourself surrounded with.

It’s Bucky.

And admitting that to yourself only tells you that your fear is rising. That this travel with him might really be over soon.

Some part of you grew accustomed to naively believing the road would go on forever. With firelight embers in the dark after making camp for the day. Quiet conversations held in the dark. The endearing way his lips would twitch when he tries to suppress his amusement with you. The way he keeps you afloat even when your world is crumbling into itself. Giggling at his gruffness when he doesn’t like the small ration of food you eat just so he can have some more - him calling you stubborn despite the fact that he mostly won the argument in the end. Walking beside him in the forest and listening to both of your crunching footsteps on the ground. Lying awake at night and listening to his breaths. Exchanging fleeting glances, that linger longer than they should.

You try and swallow the prickling pain at the back of your mouth, but it remains raw and bubbling.

You’re not even thinking about what might await you at the castle. The only thing you can’t get out of your mind is the realization that Bucky will leave you here, will vanish back into the woods, and whatever shadows formed him before both your paths crossed.

And for some reason, just the idea of his absence is a wound that would bleed more than anything your father’s kingdom could ever conjure.

You want to rip through the wall built between the two of you since the castle came into view - but words are pulled between hesitation and instinct. You almost feel lost in whether that silence needs filling or should just remain untouched.

And yet, there is something that settles the attraction to walk beside him. An anchor, if you will, though the world feels like it could collapse at any second due to the weirdness surrounding him.

You cast him another furtive glance, feeling suddenly breathless at the faint tinge of something slashing in his gaze.

He must have felt your eyes on him because he moves his head slightly, the hardness of his expression mellowing just a fraction as he glances down at you.

And for that small moment, you feel light again.

The path turns deeper into the woods, trees obscuring the vision of the castle again.

And once more, you keep walking.

The sun is barely setting when you settle down for the night, cloaked in the golden haze of a waning afternoon.

Shadows grow long and thin across the forest floor, folding themselves beneath the reach of the branches above.

Bucky moves with specifically calculated slowness, like he’s trying to keep control of something.

He collects a small amount of dry wood and then kneels beside the fire, striking flint against steel with sharp and quick movements. You always liked watching him do it. But now it hurts.

A spark breaks, catching on brittle wood and setting it alight.

Instead of observing Bucky, you keep your eyes on the meager lights ascending, tiny glints that illuminate the sky momentarily before they are absorbed into the gathering darkness. Just about like this fleeting moment, which you already feel slip away.

Bucky didn’t give you any reasons as to why you stopped to rest earlier than usual. But you know. The heaviness in his gait, the reluctance in his silence, the way he can’t meet your eyes for longer than a few seconds. It’s clear enough.

This is your final night with him.

The thought penetrates you profoundly, like a punch to your already bruised ribs.

You have expected it since seeing the castle rise among the trees, but it only gets more real the more time passes. It’s a present hollowness in your chest and all you can focus on is the fire crackling angrily, filling the empty space of your chest with everything but the things you want.

Slumping down in front of the fire, you tuck your legs beneath you and let the heat slightly brush against your face.

There is still a chill nipping at your back, but it’s not what makes you shiver.

Wordlessly, Bucky lowers himself onto a fallen log near the fire, letting out a sigh as he drags a hand across his face. He looks tired. Not just physically that is, but in a way that suggests of something deeper.

He stares into the fire, eyes distant, the flames reflected in his eyes like fragments of something burning far deeper than the wood.

The tension is continuously buzzing between you, caressing your skin in a manner that suggests it doesn’t even know how to handle itself.

It’s in the way he doesn’t quite look at you, though you can feel his gaze every time you aren’t the one watching. It feels somewhere between heat and static. You wonder what he is thinking, but are too scared to ask.

Instead, you engage yourself in preparing a simple meal for Bucky and you, hands moving almost mechanically through the familiar motions. The aroma of dried herbs and roasted meat mixes with the smoke from the fire, but the food tastes like ash in your mouth when you finally take a bite.

The silence weighs down, carrying words neither of you knows how to say.

A distant call of a night bird is the only thing talking.

Every now and then, your eyes stray to him - just brief stolen glances exchanged across the flames. His gazes ignite a spark on your skin. He sits with his elbows braced on his knees, shadows throwing across his face, making the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones even more defined and painfully enticing.

His lips are pressed into a thin, unreadable, line and you wonder if he is fighting to find the right words to break the silence as well.

Your heart aches to think that this will, in all likelihood, be the last night spent together, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars and the comforting crackle of the warm fire. Whatever flimsy bond you’ve built with Bucky will be severed by duty and distance.

When your eyes go back to their favorite sight, you find Bucky already watching you. His gaze holds yours for a moment and even the fire seems to have stopped burning for a second. Leaving Bucky and you alone in this situation.

There is something sore in his eyes. Something he couldn’t have prepared for or you would not be able to spot it that easily. It staggers your breath.

Then, he breaks your gaze and only leans further toward the ground.

The silence is getting stern. Unsparing. It enclaves you.

The sputtering fire only gets louder, and something tells you that whatever slips away into the curling smoke fading into the night, it will be something you can never hold onto again.

You shift slightly, adjusting your body on the rough texture of the wood you’re sitting on.

Bucky’s gaze flickers towards you again. Brief but piercing enough. It lingers just a second longer before he looks back at the fire. Shadows play with the lines of his features.

Leaves brush against each other in whispery sounds above you. The wilderness seems reluctant to let go of daylight, its golden glow retreating with a hushed farewell, until only a few pale shades of the dusk remain.

The light of the fire causes shifting patterns to sweep over the forest floor. The night feels delicate, almost. And you can’t shake the sense that this is your last evening spent like this, the very last tranquility you will have with the tamed nature and the stars just starting to blink awake overhead. And of course, Bucky sitting just a few feet away, so close that you could touch, but also so far that loneliness can’t be avoided today.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the noise deepening into a long, low sound and it makes your chest hurt at the same time.

The silence holds until it can no longer.

It breaks with a clear of his throat. The sound is low and rough, scraping against the quiet.

It makes your head snap up. You blink at him.

“There’s an outer gate,” he starts, working the words out slowly, hoarse, as if he is dragging them from some reluctant place inside him.

His gaze remains fixed on the fire as soon as he’s confident you are listening to him. The orange brightness flickers in the pale blue depths of his eyes.

“That’s where I'm s’pposed to take you.”

You don’t need him to explain to you what place he’s talking about. He knows you know. The castle looms as graphically as it has the first time you saw it between the trees. A place carved from stones and shadows. Of course, that’s what he’s talking about. But hearing it from him - hearing it made real - cracks something open inside you.

“You will probably be expected by now,” he continues, the notes softening in his voice as though the words hold an unfathomable weight. “Can’t take you through the front gates. Don’t wanna attract too much attention.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm taut. A vein stands out. “Guess only the important people’ll know 'bout your arrival.”

Important people. The words land sharp between your ribs. Reminding you of where you come from and where he does not belong - or maybe does but refuses to.

You swallow thickly and taste the bitterness of knowing that your father and his web of control likely extends even here, even after his death.

Bucky still does not voice that he means that castle. But he doesn’t have to. There is an implicit understanding in the way his voice falters, in the way he watches the fire like it holds answers neither of you are ready to hear. He seems to have drawn the conclusion that you know your destination is near.

But truly knowing for real only hardens the pang that tears through your chest. It’s a violent and splintering thing, as if something solid inside you is crumbling, breaking down into fine, snaggy crumbs that settle into the hollow spaces in your chest. They make a sound with every inhalation, scraping against your insides and stabbing at the tender places that have already endured enough.

You look down at your hands, curled loosely in your lap, fingers trembling slightly despite your effort to still them.

The thought of this being the end - of stepping through that gate alone, of watching Bucky turn and disappear into the forest without you - makes your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

You’ve known this was coming from the beginning. You hoped this was coming at the beginning. You’ve known it since the moment you agreed to leave behind everything you knew and put your fate in the hands of a man who wanted nothing to do with you. It hardly helps to think about it.

The fire isn’t the only heat between you. Something else is crackling there. In the air. But you can’t tell what exactly.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly as he stares at the ground. There is something edgy about the way he sits, as if he might be somewhere between wishful thinking and physical presence.

And maybe that’s what makes this all the more unbearable - the fact that he doesn’t seem unaffected by this either. The slumping of his shoulders, the hesitation in his words that speak to something more than mere obligation.

Still, he doesn’t really look at you. And maybe that’s for the best. Because you’re not sure you could hold his gaze without breaking entirely.

And the world just keeps turning, ignorant of the slow destruction lying half-lit between you and Bucky.

Everything feels tremendous. Monumental. Every breath, every sigh, every thought you nearly speak out loud, every glance that never quite meets its mark.

And when it sinks in how very heavily all of that rests in the pit of your stomach, you wonder how you’re supposed to survive stepping through that gate alone.

“What do you know about this place?” you ask hesitantly, voice small.

Bucky’s gaze lifts briefly to meet your own. His forearms rest on his thighs, fingers flexing. He exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head following. “Not much.” His voice is low and tinged with weariness. “Just that it’s where I’m s’pposed to take you.”

Supposed to. Like some invisible hand has mapped out your fates long before you ever had a say in them.

Something cold and gnarling twists in your chest. His answer tells you nothing - no assurances, no comfort.

It’s unsettlingly simple.

You stare into the fire, its embers glowing brighter as your thoughts turn darker. That castle you know is not too far away anymore. The one who stood so proudly at the edge of the cliffs - beautiful, imposing, and so wholly foreign - takes a larger shape in your mind.

Your heart grows heavy with apprehension. What might await you there? Your mother, even in death, has always held a protective influence over your fate. The instructions for your journey to this castle may have been hers. After all, that’s why Bucky is here. Because he promised your mother.

But maybe this destination does not come from your mother at all. Sure, Bucky and this journey is her doing but maybe not where you end up going to. Maybe she didn’t have a say in it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she had something else in mind for you as a final safeguard in case everything crumbles.

You can’t know. You also can’t know if she perhaps was the first to die. And that last order for you to be sent away did not come from her at all.

A chill of fear blooms at the base of your spine, unfurling upward in wavy patterns.

Maybe this is your father’s doing.

He was not the man who made decisions for your happiness or peace of mind. His schemes were calculated, self-serving, often cruel beneath their polished veneer. You can’t shake the unabating thought that this place might have been his command, not your mother’s - a contingency for his ambitions even beyond the grave.

Maybe they even both ordered for you to be sent here. Just out of different intentions.

Your fear is awfully gripping. And you won’t know whose will is being carried out until you step through those gates.

Your muscles twitch as an unbidden tremor rattles through you.

“Do you believe it might have been my father who ordered it?” you ask Bucky with a slightly shaking voice. Heavy with doubt.

Bucky has been watching you dealing with your inner struggles. His eyes are deep pools of alertness. They search you. His voice is even. Slow. “Could be.” There is a reluctant pause, tension rolling through his shoulders. “Banner told me to take you there. It’s where you’ll have to go he said. Never talked to your mother or father ‘bout this. Only ever through Banner. And he didn’t give me much. He said your mother would want you protected, but I’ve got no clue if that’s what she meant.” He lowers his head for a moment, a little guilty. “Never bothered to ask.”

You don’t blame him.

Though it doesn’t make this easier.

Sir Banner has always been a kind man, one of the few in your father's court who treated you with genuine warmth. You remember his thoughtful smile, the way he spoke to you as though your opinions matter even when the rest of the court dismissed you.

But even Sir Banner - loyal and true - has ultimately served your father first and foremost.

Has he known? Has he seen your father’s real face?

A swift and aching slash tears through your chest.

Maybe Sir Banner has genuinely believed he was acting on orders meant to protect you. Or maybe he just hasn’t known the full extent of your father’s motives. The thought makes your throat prick and tingle. The man you held dearly in your heart might have been complicit, unwitting or not.

It doesn’t matter that your parents are gone. Their commands will still echo through the kingdom, shaping the path you are walking on even now. Your father’s words carry the weight of stone. And even from beyond the grave, it could crush you.

Bucky’s jaw has tensed immensely. His eyes find you and stay. You might believe he is thinking the same thing. Cool air brushes against your back, igniting a shiver that lingers.

If it was your father’s order then the motives could be far more insidious than you dared to imagine - isolation, subjugation, control, banishment, your own lonely prison.

“Do you believe Sir Banner knew everything my father did?”

You just can’t seem to stop asking for his input.

Bucky’s mouth is a flat line. He swallows and grimaces lightly as if the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Don’t know,” he admits, voice sounding throaty. His body shifts before answering. But he looks at you. Keeping his eyes on you in a way that has you feeling he tries to make this easier for you. “But he seemed sure this is the right place for you.”

You take in a deep and wavering breath and nod at him slightly. Thanking him for his honesty without being able to get the words out. Your fingers fidget in your lap and you look down at them for a while.

You want to trust that whatever awaits you in that castle is a place of safety, not another, even worse gilded cage built from your father’s manipulation.

But you will be walking into the unknown. You might as well be blindfolded. And the man sitting across from you, who has fought and bled for truths buried by men like your father seems just as wary.

Being out in the woods and always in the presence of Bucky has become a strange kind of sanctuary - a place where you learned to breathe freely and hope again despite the dangers lurking in the shadows. But it’s coming to an end. And it feels so abrupt. So frightening.

Your fingers clench around the fabric of your cloak and you fight to steady your breathing.

You glance at Bucky again. His profile glows starkly against the fire, his silhouette strong against the dark woods and you feel your gaze soften at the way his own does. Not enough to give everything away but enough to offer something without words. Reassurance. A promise.

It makes your breath hitch.

The air seems to take on a softer quality itself. Hushed by things never spoken of, he holds something precious in his eyes.

But there is also a sudden sadness glinting within those blue babies. Something you’re not sure isn’t reflected in your own eyes. It seems to be such a rare thing for him.

His presence is a gift.

You’re aware of that now. Though it might be too late.

He became your only tether in a world that has violently spiraled off its axis.

He moves protectively without being overbearing. He never crowded you but always seemed within reach.

It’s the tiny gestures - a glance to check your footing on bumpy ground, a steadying hand when you stumbled, him shifting so he would block you from the cold wind, the way he always ensures you have the warmer side of the fire without ever making a fuss of it, the way he made sure you weren’t going to sleep hungry.

And it’s not just about keeping you alive.

Bucky has done far more than fulfill some vague promise of protection.

He has been tasked with keeping you alive but he has done so much more than that.

He kept you sane when everything around you came crashing down. He became the grounding force you never got your whole life.

When sleep eluded you at night, haunted by shadows of loss, it was the sound of his breathing mere feet away that lulled you into rest.

He became the reminder that no matter the odds, you have him just right there.

He warmed you in every way that fire and shelter could never. Comforted you without needing to say a word.

And what makes it all the more profound is that he didn’t have to. This journey, this promise - none of it required him to care beyond the basics of survival. Yet he did. He does. Bucky cared about more than keeping you physically safe, he cared about you.

He didn’t have to watch out for you in those small, thoughtful ways. He went beyond duty, quietly and without fanfare.

Bucky Barnes is good.

And not just competent or capable, but good in a way that runs deep.

You blink back the stinging in your eyes as if to ward off that very realization. Even despite the burdens and the scars and the doubts he carries, he is a good man. He might not necessarily believe it himself - you heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes - but you do.

You saw it firsthand, felt it in the moments he stood between you and the chaos of the world, protecting you from the ruins.

But what makes your heart bleed red crimson is the fact that you don’t have the time to make him believe.

Because this journey is ending the very next day.

Your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two different directions - toward the promised safety that lay ahead unknown and the comfort of what you have unexpectedly found.

And after this, what will happen?

Once the castle is in clear sight and his task is completed, what then?

Will he leave just like that, fading back into the forest this time without you?

Will you be left with the ache of his absence, suffering in the understanding that you’ve known something so rare and special, only to lose it?

You don’t know.

He was meant to take you somewhere safe and see you through to the other side. And you are nearly there.

What comes after is up to you.

You’re not even sure what you want - what you could even ask for - but the idea of stepping into that castle alone, without him at your side, fills you with trepidation.

Your heart stutters, unsure whether to face forward or shrink back. A needling chill spreads beneath your skin, making it itchy.

Your body seems to brace itself against the time ahead but there is no way to wrestle it into place.

The fire pops, showering sparks into the night.

Bucky moves a fraction, adjusting himself on the log, gaze pinned to the flames again. His broad shoulders are bowed slightly forward, his head tilted lightly. The grim set of his mouth is shadowed as the orange light is rather flashing on the stubble along his jaw.

You are drawn by him, by something beyond logic or necessity.

It almost even feels unnecessary to acknowledge that the weeks spent together have forged a little something between you two.

And though this travel is coming to its end, the hope remains within you, that perhaps it does not also have to be the end of whatever it is.

“Princess.”

Your head snaps up at the husky sound of his voice. He tries for a smile. It looks sad.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

No. Not without you.

Maybe in another life, you’d be able to say that out loud.

****

You basically spent the night searing him to your memories.

Not even the creaking branches or the swaying leaves were able to catch your attention anymore. Only him.

You committed everything you found out about him to memory.

He didn’t seem to sleep all that much as well so you couldn’t exactly stare at him too long. But you worked with what you already picked up, tracing his features in your mind.

That would be the endearing spray of freckles along the side of his face, scattered like stars in a constellation. It’s an unforgettable map etched into his skin.

The strong and proud slope of his nose, that sometimes moves with his mouth when he speaks.

You followed it down to the fullness of his lips, plump in a way that almost makes them look gentle despite the hard set they often carry.

Then there is his smile. So mesmerizing. It starts with a tug at the corners of his lips like it is something he doesn’t want to show but can’t quite suppress. And when it breaks free, it’s devastatingly beautiful.

And his eyebrows, able to relax when he sleeps or even when a fleeting peace washes over him that oftentimes has something to do with a glance your way.

His voice is clear in your mind, gruff but low and warm when he speaks those little nicknames. He no longer laces them with mockery and hearing them always makes a light rise in your chest that heats your skin.

And his eyes. God, those eyes. You tried to name their exact shade of blue, scouring your memory for the right hue. Could it be the light blue of forget-me-nots, those little blooms always so delicate in your hand when you went to seek them out at the palace gardens? Or maybe a more cornflower deep blue, looking so alive between other shades. No, probably more a nice soft, thick, tranquil velvety blue of hydrangeas, looking royal but still so brittle. Or freesia, with their delightfully tender beauty.

None seem quite right. Yet you search anyway. Desperate to pin down something so elusive.

And the way those blue eyes would search your own. Like he is always trying to figure you out, always trying to look deeper than you are sometimes comfortable with.

Your fingers flex slightly at the memory of his touch. The rough callouses and textures of his palm were stark against your soft skin, but his touch has always been gentle. The way he would hold your cheeks, sweep his thumbs over your skin, and tend to your wound, as if you are somehow a precious thing he wants to handle with care. A choice made rather than an obligation fulfilled.

And his hair - chestnut brown, but catching glimmers of gold in the firelight. You liked to watch those wild tendrils whip around his face in the wind. You remember how it looked when dampened by sweat, still unruly, sticking to the sides of his face.

His stubble - the rugged frame along his jawline that heightens his intensity. The one he would scratch at, or run his hand along once in a while. Especially in moments of thought.

You want to remember all of it.

Getting it all in memory locked away inside your mind to access whenever you need him.

Every laugh, every glance, the smallest change in his expression.

The night tried to propel you into the inevitable future, but you put up a fight as best as you could. You lingered, documenting every detail of him, making a mental capture of his perfection. Because he’d be gone.

So you took the time of the last night with him to memorize him, wishing the memory would be forever bright behind your eyelids. Never to fade. Never to leave you alone. That somehow against the odds, he would be there with you long after this journey reaches its conclusion. If not in flesh, then in your heart forever.

But for all the silent preparations you made under the shroud of the night - fixing Bucky Barnes into the tender folds of your memory, knowing you would have to let him slip away into the corners of a life without you - nothing could have braced you for the reality of the gate that enters your vision in the distance.

It stands looming and gnarly, iron bars reaching for the sky like the black ribs of some primeval creature intent on eating you alive. It’s menacing and grating in all its ridges. Almost like Bucky himself.

The path narrows as you tread forward. And with every step, your feet grow more heavy. The earth beneath your boots will be the last reminder of this journey you are so reluctant to leave behind.

The wilderness - the forest - has become such a peculiar place of comfort, full of campfire smoke, marked with whispers, and Bucky’s omnipresence - the stable wall just half a pace in front of you right now.

He scans the terrain, letting his eyes sweep across the landscape in his animalistic way. He surveys every tree, every shadow, looking for anything threat-like that might lurk here in the bushes around you.

There is no part of him that looks unsure. But you know better now. You’ve learned to read the subtle language of his body - his silence, his pauses, the set of his jaw when he’s holding back more than he is willing to share.

Wind brushes around the silence between you.

His earlier instructions echo in your head, just before you took off again this morning. His tone was clear and clipped and detached in a way. So practical. Too practical. You’ll approach the gate together to a certain point. Guards will be waiting on the other side. They will know who you are. They will take you in.

And you will go alone.

You remember his jaw clenching, teeth-gritting with each distinct word as though it caused him actual physical pain to say it, to try and shape this farewell into something more tolerable.

But the gate is in your sight already, far off, and nothing feels tolerable about that. It feels cold even from a distance.

Your breath hitches at the hope your body is already beginning to abandon.

You will have to walk the rest of the way alone. One breath of air in, and one breath of air out for every step. A deep gulf opens within you as the grim truth of that tries to settle. Bucky will stop walking any second and watch you take your first steps through those iron bars, leaving you to the kingdom waiting beyond.

Guards will be placed there. Waiting.

For the princess.

You have to remind yourself that that’s you.

The title no longer fits, awkwardly belonging to the body that has outgrown it much like a gown delicately torn at the seams.

The girl who once danced in marble halls bedecked in jewels that sparkled like shards of stars no longer exists anymore. What is left is the stark truth of exposure - physically and mentally - and survival driven by fear and fire through and with the unforeseen solace of companionship. Perhaps even friendship if you might.

And yet, here they are, waiting for a princess.

They're prepared to welcome back their princess like you’re something valuable to be retrieved. But god, you don’t feel like it.

You feel fractured, worn down by grief and guilt and the truths you’ve come to uncover along the way. The title is a relic from your old life that people now expect you to slip into again. Like a pair of shoes. As if it would be that easy.

You briefly look over at the back of Bucky’s built, broad frame, gripped with tension. His discipline surrounds him, the protective air he wears like his brown armor. But there is something more uneasy in the way his shoulders move.

You don’t know what might await you. What fate that castle will write for you. Bucky doesn’t either. And he almost seems to hate that fact considering the way he keeps his eyes on the gate ahead.

It isn’t just a passage. It’s a threshold. Crossing it will sever something irrevocable. Leave behind everything you’ve come to rely on, everything that’s kept you steady through the burn of your ruins.

Bucky.

You don’t know how to do this without him.

Your steps falter, but Bucky’s don’t.

He presses forward almost fiercely, determined. But still so stiff. You wonder if it is easier for him this way - to keep moving, to treat this as another mission, another battle won.

But he’s no soldier anymore and this is not a mission.

He is simply a man who keeps his promises.

And it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Each step brings you nearer to the end of something special, something you haven’t even fully understood before it began to elude you.

And then Bucky stops.

Your heart might as well have stopped along with him.

He turns his gaze toward you, indecisively, slowly, as if he is unsure whether he wants you to see what waits in his eyes.

But you do see. Oh, you see. And it hits you with a force that tears the breath from your lungs.

There is a rawness there, sharp like frost - something jumbled and aching underneath all that grit and stoicism he acknowledges as a part of himself.

You thought you knew those many different shades of Bucky Barnes by now. The gruff protector, the silent watcher, the man who said more with a tilt of his head or a blink of his eyes than with words.

But this is new.

This stripped-down, unguarded version of him - brimming with something that makes your heart stutter. The pattern it's been following for weeks not making sense anymore.

Your breath stumbles in your throat, rough and halting, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Chilled fingers clench uselessly at your sides, wanting to clutch something, wanting an anchor.

There is no relief. Only him. And that is worse, since even he feels far away now, like a shoreline that seems to slip ever so farther from your reach.

Even Bucky’s stance is off. Unfamiliar. He’s always stood like bracing for a blow, feet planted firm and shoulders squared in resolution to receive whatever blow came his way. Now he stands as though bracing for something else entirely - something no less brutal, something no less punishing.

Something like heartbreak. Or at least something dangerously close to it.

The tension between you is electric with a tingling spiral that tightens with every breath neither of you seems to take.

Words hang unspoken. They force themselves against the back of your throat, refusing to be formed into that simple goodbye you both know is coming.

You drop your gaze, unable to withstand those searching eyes any longer. They fall back to the road leading through the woods into what has become a strange sort of home for you.

The trees loom big and indifferent, the breeze swishing their leaves and whooshing against your cloak.

“I have to thank you.” A shaky breath leaves you, an attempt to steady the tremor in your chest. You try to look at him. “For everything you did for me.” It comes out weak but sincere, each word trembles in its truth.

True. How heart-wrenchingly true. He has done so much more than he was ever bound to. He kept you safe. He kept you whole. And there aren’t enough words in the world to say what that means to you.

You hear the sharp intake of his breath. His head shakes. Almost quick. Almost desperate. As though trying to wave your words away before they take root.

One hand scrubs across his troubled face, ruffling his hair more aggressively than probably intended. The brown strands fall haphazardly back against his temples. Wild and beautiful.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he rasps out finally, his voice thick.

Of course, he would think that. After all, he merely kept a promise, hadn’t he? Delivered you to safety and nothing more, like some grim knight. That’s how he would see it.

But it’s not how you see it.

“I do,” you insist, voice slightly steadier now though your heart is anything but. “In earnest. I mean it.”

You are drowning in your appreciation for this man.

You do not want him walking away from here thinking he was just a means to your own survival, that this was nothing more than duty completed.

He has been more. So much more. And he deserves to know that.

The tendons in Bucky’s neck strain as his jaw stiffens further. Muscles in his face jump.

But he doesn’t look away. His blue eyes - blue like forget-me-nots and cornflowers and every flower you’ve ever tried to compare them to - flit between yours, looking for cracks, for lies. But there are none.

Silence crashes back in again. And something appears to be shifting in it. It’s not goodbye yet, not quite - but it’s close. So close you can feel it brushing against your skin so frigidly final.

You wonder if he feels it too.

Remembering, you shrug off the dark cloak around your shoulders. He bought it for you at that market so long ago - or perhaps not so long. Time has become rather vague on this journey, but that day stands crystalline in your memory. The warmth of his unexpected gesture. The protection it symbolized. The way he did it without a blink.

But you can’t keep it. It’s no longer yours. And he can use it far better if he continues on his journey to wherever it will take him next.

But before the fabric can fully slip off your shoulders, Bucky’s hands tighten it back around. Making sure it sits properly. His hands linger on your shoulders.

“No,” he says firmly, gritting his teeth slightly. He shakes his head once.

“You should take it back.”

“No,” he repeats, still sternly but quieter. “It’s yours.”

You snap your mouth back shut at the insistent way he stares at you. Letting your hands drop from the fabric, Bucky adjusts it another time before slowly moving his arms back to his side.

His eyes sweep over you. Meticulous. Unhurried. It makes your heart stutter painfully.

He seems to be doing what you have been trying to do - committing you to memory. Tracing every line of your face, every shot of emotion that passes through your eyes, and tucking it away where it will be safe.

The moment feels suspended. Infinite. But fond.

This was never meant to last.

But it hurts like hell that it’s ending.

And so you linger. Just a second longer, you tell yourself. Unsure how to step away from the place you’ve both come to, where the boundary between protector and protected has long since blurred into something softer, more human.

You’ve tried to brace yourself for this moment in a hundred quiet ways - attaching him to a place in your mind, memorizing the cadence of his breaths and the rough edges of his voice - none of it has prepared you for how impossible it feels now that it’s there.

You don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You can’t let this moment pass by without trying to hold onto it for just a little longer. Even if it doesn’t make the ache go away.

“What will you do now?” Your voice is bordering on tipping over but you try to keep it even enough. “Where will you go?”

You do want to know. Even if curiosity isn’t the whole of it. Maybe knowing will help make sense of losing him. Maybe if you can picture him somewhere - walking new roads, finding new places - you won’t have to carry your carved-out heart around all the time.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, his face fixed somewhere in the distance. There is a crease in his brow. His fingers flex absently like he is working something through. For a moment, it seems he won’t answer at all.

“I’ve got a place to go, darlin',” he utters finally, the term slipping out as naturally as breath. “Don’t you worry about me.”

But there is something strange about the way he says it. Something weighted. An odd note in his voice that catches on the corners of your heart and refuses to let go. His voice is too quiet, the syllables too thick with meaning he doesn’t name. There is an implacable sadness around the words. So much thought. Something mournful lingers there, as if he might be grieving something. A thought he never dared to say out loud. A question he never dared to ask. And now never will.

It makes the ache in your chest fester and rip at the same time, urging you forward even though you don’t know where this conversation will lead. “You could stay here,” you offer. “Maybe for a while.”

You approached the suggestion timidly, like a leaf teetering on falling. You’ve made it sound careful, hesitant, afraid of disturbing whatever delicacy remains between you.

Bucky stands frozen. Head slightly bowed. His breath catches, a sound that is more of a sharp exhale than a laugh. Breathless, lacking any real mirth. Disbelieving. His head tilts lower toward the ground, perhaps searching for something there, something grounding. His shoulders shake subtly, as if he needs a second to pull himself back together.

When he lifts his head again, there is a tightness in his throat you can see in the effort it takes him to swallow.

“You know that won’t be possible, your Highness.”

Well, that hurt.

There’s a punch to your gut. There’s a stab to your heart. There’s a blow to your head.

All at the same time.

It leaves you bleeding so deeply, you don’t know how you’re still standing.

It leaves you gaping. With your heart in your hands. With your blood dripping to the dirty and leaves-covered floor.

His words don’t slice you open because they are mocking. God, that would be easier to dismiss.

No. His words pain you because there is no mockery at all.

None of his usual teasing lilt. No wry amusement or humor curling around his voice.

It’s gone. Everything stripped away until nothing is left but the sincere intent. He didn’t even call you princess. He called you what he was expected to call you. And he meant it.

He addressed you as a princess. As the most important person to your father's kingdom now that the king and queen are dead.

The persona you have distanced yourself from.

The persona you’ll have to step back into.

You’re so hurt you can’t breathe.

Because in that one utterance, he’s already bid you goodbye. Made it real in a way that spins you around, gutted and rootless.

In your ears, your heart beats to the thunder of a title that expects too much of you. It drums against your skin, as if in revulsion to your existence or perhaps the existence you are expected to have now.

And just like that, the freedom you hoped to have found in this forest - the warmth of the fire, the shared moments, passing glances - cracks apart and slips further from reach.

You want to protest, to tell him titles shouldn’t matter, not after everything you’ve experienced together. But his voice has been so pained.

And that’s the most heartbreaking part of it all. Because you know Bucky Barnes is a man who will carry this goodbye quietly, tucked deep into the hollow places of himself where no one will ever see it.

And you’re afraid that’s exactly what you’ll have to do too.

Because he is not meant to walk that path with you.

You try to hide and swallow the sting his words have caused.

But the pain that crossed your features has already been detected by Bucky.

And before you can step back, he leans toward you, closing the small space.

His hands lift without hesitation, large palms brushing against your skin as he cups your face between them. The hard lines of his fingers are familiar. So is the tenderness in which he holds you. He smells of pine and ash and Bucky. He is so close. Almost pressed up against you.

And your breath catches at the warmth seeping from him, at the fierce storm in his eyes. Remorse and sorrow bleed into the blue, shimmering with a kind of sympathy that nearly makes your knees buckle.

You can’t look away. He won’t let you.

And god, you wish he would, because this moment is everything and nothing you were ready for.

“You listen to me, darlin',” Bucky rumbles out, voice low and rough, with a gentleness that has you floating around his orbit. There is determination in his gaze. Not for himself, but for you. “You’re not your father. You’re not even like your mother. And that’s good. That’s good, because you’re better. Better than all the fools that’ll try to tell you otherwise.”

Your breath shudders against your lips. He leans in even further. Forget-me-nots actually do capture his eye color pretty well. You will have to find those flowers in your new gardens.

“You show 'em that,” he urges, though he still takes his time with telling you. Making his conviction come across. His thumbs brush ever so lightly against your cheekbones. “Make 'em believe it. I know you will.”

His belief wraps around your shattering heart, holding it together even as cracks threaten to tear open.

“You’re gonna be okay.” There was a slight waver in his voice but he caught it. “You are what these people need. Keep that in mind, yeah?”

His words are so achingly earnest. They have you teetering on the verge of tears.

“Yes,” you breathe out, giving him a nod. Just in case that whisper did not even reach him.

You feel something bloom inside you. Wildflowers perhaps, the color of all those you have spotted throughout your travel with this man. They push through cracks in stone and fill some of those spaces you had thought were left to be hollow forever.

The muscles in your jaw are trembling. They want to spill out a sob or a laugh or something else. But you hold firm.

Still, your breaths are released in shivers.

He believes you to be strong. He believes you to be your own powerful person without being shadowed by the ghosts of your parents.

And yet, there is something you spot in his eyes that you don’t want to see there. It’s a flicker of doubt. A tiny glimmer of self-deprecation that tells you he is convinced he is not part of that strength. And that he will never be.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for him, but you don’t dare move.

His eyes are still rooting you to the spot.

His breaths are mingling with yours.

The unrelenting blue of his eyes is so intently drawn to your own gaze.

There is nothing but him.

His touch sets every nerve in your body ablaze, buzzing with a tension so fierce it’s impossible to overcome.

You feel it thrumming between you. A crackling pull.

His eyes flicker down to your lips. And before you know it, your own eyes betray you as well. You trace his plump red mouth. Like poppy flowers. You would have to find those too.

He feels closer. The space between your faces is shrinking. So tentatively.

Your heart races wildly and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your skin, seemingly torn between letting go and pulling you closer.

You want to close the distance.

You want him to close the distance.

A wave of sensation sweeps through your spine, leaving your skin tingling.

It would be so easy. Just lean up a tiny bit and press yourself against his lips. You already seem to be standing on your tippy toes anyway.

You could let this moment become something even more tangible and real, something you could carry with you in the spaces of your heart reserved just for him.

His lips hover just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of him. Everywhere. You feel him everywhere. His breath fans over your face so sweetly.

You both know where this is leading.

And unfortunately, you both know why this can’t happen.

Before your lips get the chance to fully touch, he pulls back. Slowly at first. Only an inch, studying your reaction, flipping his eyes between yours so rapidly you can’t keep up.

But then, reluctantly, he lets you go and takes a step back. His hands fall to his sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

This is the end of the road.

If you fall into his arms now, it will only make the parting more difficult.

But it’s still not even nearly easy.

With a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and pull the cloak tighter around yourself. Just so you have something to do.

A gust of chilly wind hits you and you miss his touch in an instant. You feel removed. Cold.

You’ll carry this hurt, just as you will carry him. Just not behind the same door.

The space between you seems haunted now.

Like something has been stolen from the both of you.

You feel like you’re about to be pressed into the earth.

You know this is the part where you have to go. Where fate and duty carve their lines through your shared path, splitting it in two directions. He takes one half of your heart along with him.

Bucky’s eyes remain steadfast on you. Shadows are turning in and out of his gaze. He watches everything - the wind pulling at your cloak, the slight tremble of your lips, the desperate defiance in your gaze as though willing this not to be the last time.

Breath quivering, you force yourself to stand taller, chin lifted, although you don’t feel like it.

You don’t want to walk away. You don’t want this to end. But it has to. It always had to.

Your voice is thin and brittle like the last leave holding onto a winter branch. “Goodbye, Bucky,” you breathe.

And it still tastes inadequate on your tongue. It doesn’t hold even a fraction of what you truly feel, of what he’s come to mean to you.

Bucky’s movement is a slow gesture of a nod, almost seeming to store this moment away in a secure place deep within him. “Goodbye, darlin'.”

You take a step back, each inch widening a chasm between you. The pain is an entity that breathes inside your chest. Your legs are stiff, the earth not wanting to let you leave itself.

When you are about to turn, your throat clogs and his voice catches you in your tracks.

“Do me one favor, will you?”

You pivot cautiously, meeting his gaze. “Anything.”Fracture lines your voice. But you make it sound resolute. You’ll hold whatever he gives you tightly in your heart where it will live forever.

The corners of his mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. It’s feeble and laden with sorrow. It holds his final goodbye. The sight takes the wind right out of you.

“Don’t forget about me, yeah?”

You won’t.

How could you ever forget about Bucky Barnes.

“I’ll spend a lifetime remembering you.”

- Astrid Suu

Part nine

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

[chleem]

Flashing Lights #8

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A-class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping, (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ chapter7 | index | chapter9

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

9:04 p.m

“I ordered, um, room service,”

You start, to which Drew just nods, while drying his hair with a towel. 

You sit awkwardly on the couch, not sure of what to say now. The two of you rushed back to the hotel due to the pouring rain, and now that both are done showering, the realization of what was said is sinking in. 

How does one start a conversation? You had no idea. 

But, you’re glad Drew knows. 

“What did you order?” He asks, coming to sit down next to you. 

You glance at his naked upper body, quickly averting your gaze back to his face. He looks flushed from the shower, and he smells really good. “Um, just the usual.”

“‘The usual’?” The corner of his lips curl up. 

“Wine, steak, etc,” you shrug, lazy to elaborate what you usually eat. 

“What about mine?” His blue eyes stare into yours, a mischievous glint in them. 

“Whatever I can’t finish,” you smile, leaning back in the couch. 

He shakes his head, reaching for the tv remote. The tv opens, and there’s Netflix on it. The both of you stay silent as he logs into his account, and soon, you see his homepage. 

Oh.

Oh. 

A series that you filmed recently released, and it was in the category of shows he was currently watching. 

It was the only show that was in there. And if you looked down, you could see some of your other movies in his watchlist. 

You snicker, glancing at Drew.

You don’t miss the redness forming on his ears, and his clenched jaw. His eyes stay glued to the screen, his hands clicking on the remote. “Someone’s a fan.”

“I share this account with my siblings,” he replies, eyes still glued to the screen. “They…they like you.”

Is he lying or being honest right now?

Either way, you feel good knowing he (or his siblings) like watching your shows. You don’t know if the movies are good or not, but at least someone’s watching them. 

You turn back to the screen, watching him scroll through the different lists of shows underneath. 

“These shows suck,” you mindlessly comment based on their covers. Truth was, you knew nothing about these shows. 

A loud scoff leaves Drew, and you watch the screen as he stops at Nottinghill.

“I met her once,” you brag, the words rolling off your tongue carelessly. 

“Of course,” he murmurs, pressing the play button before laying back and letting the credits roll. 

You feel a flash of irritation, but you keep it in check. Drew's comment is subtle, but the way his tone is makes it clear that he's not impressed by your fame or connections. 

“We talked a lot,” you mumble, eyes glued to the screen now, pretending to focus on the movie. “I have her personal number.”

His continued silence only seems to make the air thicker; the narration of the movie filling in for it. 

You glance over at him, catching him in the act of rolling his eyes—just barely, but it’s enough to get under your skin. His posture is so relaxed, as though he couldn’t care less. Maybe he really doesn’t care. 

A ding is heard; not from the movie. 

Drew stands up, walking to the door. 

You ignore the staff as he walks in to place the food on the living room table; at least, you try to. The staff keeps glancing over at you, with curious eyes. 

Drew sits down next to you, the staff leaving as soon as he’s done. 

You immediately reach for the wine over at Drew’s side of the table, but a gentle slap gets sent to your arm. “Ow,” you comment, to which Drew ignores, opening the bottle himself. 

“Let me do it,” he mumbles, pouring it into the wine glasses. 

He hands it to you, and when you stare into his eyes, the curl of your lips automatically goes up. 

“What a gentlemen,” you tease, taking the glass from him. You take a sip, the wine smooth and cool against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

The familiar feeling of relief curses through your bones, comforting enough to feel like ‘home’. 

You glance at him; watching as his Adam’s apple throb as he drinks his. 

It’s awfully weird; this calm atmosphere.

Screw it, this whole day was weird. Crying in front of someone? Staying sober? Shit, you must be going nuts. 

Drew starts cutting the steak, and you watch as his biceps flex with every move. You try to focus on the movie, letting the smoothness of the wine distract you, but your eyes keep darting back to him.  

“That’s mine,” you whisper, poking his shoulder. It feels just like how it looks; firm and solid under your touch. 

You pull your hand back quickly, but the warmth from his skin lingers on your fingertips, making your pulse pick up.

Drew glances at you, his brow lifting, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What’s mine?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. His eyes flicker down to the steak, then back to you.

"The steak," you say, your voice a little sharper than you intended.

Drew shakes his head, pushing the cut steak over to your side of the table. He steals a fry, before redirecting his attention to the movie. 

You start eating, just realizing how famished you are.

Right now, Julia Roberts kisses Hugh Grant, after reclaiming the bag she forgot. 

You snicker at that; finding the plot boring and predictable. “It’s like she wants to get caught,” you murmur, reaching for the bottle of wine again. 

You lean forward, your body angling toward him, stretching just enough to grab the bottle from his side of the table.

As you do, you feel the heat of his presence behind you, his breath faint against your skin.

Your arm brushes his as you grab the bottle, and you catch the faintest scent of his shampoo. You pause just a second too long, fingers gripping the neck of the bottle. Fuck. 

You pull back quickly, pouring the wine into your glass. 

You can almost feel the weight of his gaze, even though he hasn’t said a word. 

Then, he speaks up, just as Hugh Grant apologies for his word choice of ‘surreal’. “Just..watch, it gets good.”

“That usually means it’s bad,” you shoot back, gulping the wine down. 

“Internet's’ not gonna like you for that,” he says. 

You hate how you chuckle at his lame joke, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. The pit of your stomach feels uncomfortable; an easy feeling flowing through you that for once, isn’t because of alcohol. 

“You enjoy this shit?” You ask instead, suppressing your smile. 

Drew’s eyes remain on the tv. “Guilty pleasure,” he mumbles between chews. 

“Really?” You fail to hide the skepticism in your voice, “this predictable, unrealistic shit?”

That makes Drew lean back, turning to face you. His blue eyes stare into yours in amusement, and there’s a slight curl on his lips. “Like your taste is any better.”

That makes you scoff, ready to challenge him back. 

Except…well, you don’t have a favorite movie genre. 

You don’t even have a favorite movie. 

The realization hits you in the gut, unexpectedly cold. You pause, your lips parting to respond, but your mind is blank.

What is your taste, anyway? An easy question, yet you can’t answer.

The tension in his eyes further adds to the ache, so you turn towards the movie. “Not this, for sure.”

There’s a long pause before Drew speaks up again, the screen now showing Hugh Grant going to visit her at a hotel, also a press event. “Thriller. Second best.”

You don’t respond; trying to drown out this conversation. Is he trying to needle you, or is he genuinely curious?

“I know a great thriller movie,” Drew presses, “we can watch it after this.”

No response. 

"I think you’ll like it," he says, quieter this time, but his words feel heavy, as if he's saying more than he means to.

Finally, you turn to look at him. His eyes are steady on you, and there’s something comforting in the way he’s watching you, like he’s not just offering a movie suggestion but a kind of unspoken support. 

It’s the same comfort from earlier today—the same softness in his gaze that almost makes you feel safe in a way you’re not used to.

“Better be good,” it sounds restrained, reflecting the feeling you have in your stomach. 

“The best,” he assures, a small smile slowly appearing on his face. The familiar feel of warmth coarse through you just like at the beach; all because of his simple smile.

You turn your gaze back to the movie, hoping to play it cool. That him spending time with you, is nothing. 

——

11:26 p.m

The Conjuring. You never thought much of it, shrugging as Drew pressed play. 

You figured you’d probably doze off halfway through, especially after two bottles of wine.

But you’re…wide awake, next to Drew, your gaze fixated on the screen. The camera focuses on a dark, deserted hallway of the haunted farmhouse.

You’re completely oblivious to how close Drew is. 

Who scooted closer was unclear; just that there was no space between you two. 

Drew could feel the tightness in your posture, the way your body stiffened with every creeping moment on screen. His arm brushed against yours, but neither of you moved away.

Suddenly, the camera zooms in on a cracked door. The tension builds as the whispers grow louder—until the door slams open and the spirit appears.

You gasp, and before you can even think, you bury your face in Drew’s shoulder, finding sanctuary in his arms.

The loud noise goes on, but you just press yourself deeper into his warmth. 

He freezes for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden movement. His gaze shifts to you, seeing your face pressed into his shoulder. 

For a split second, Drew just watches you, his chest tightening as he feels the way your lips, nose, cheeks, everything, brushes against his skin.

He stays still, caught somewhere between wanting to hold you closer, or move away. 

Then, a soft chuckle escapes him, as if breaking the tension. 

“Shit, you scared?” he teases. 

Realizing how close you are to him, you pull away, scooting back to your side of the couch. 

Drew catches the subtle shift, noticing the space that’s opened up between you.

And he almost wishes you hadn’t moved. 

You lift your chin, eyes darting to the TV screen, trying to act casual. 

“I’m not scared,” you mutter, your voice light but a little defensive. 

You try to steady your breath, glancing at the screen. But just as you do, the spirit’s face suddenly flashes across it, its hollow eyes staring directly at you.

You scream again, louder this time, and practically jump out of your seat. Heart racing, you grab for the cushion next to you, clutching it like a lifeline.

Drew watches you, and a chuckle escapes him, “right. You’re the bravest.”

You send him a glare, meeting the blue eyes of his through the dark. “Shut up,” you say, eyes flickering back to the screen. 

An amused grin tugs at his lips, his tongue pressing against his cheek. You’re hiding behind the cushion, eyes wide in fear as you stare at the screen.

After a beat, he speaks up, “I can’t watch this.”

He leans toward the remote, and when he clicks exit, there’s no fight from you. 

——

11:40 P.M

Andy makes his way upstairs with his new toys, the toys in his room freaking out. It’s his birthday party, and the thought of ‘newcomers’ send the toys into a full-blown panic attack. 

The toys scurry to hide, to return to their original places. 

You’re focused on the movie, and you find yourself more intrigued than you’d admit. It’s a children’s movie, but in your drunken state, everything feels a little more intense.

But you can feel something burning the side of your face, a warmth that doesn’t fade. Even when you sip your drink, it lingers.

Turning toward the source, you catch Drew’s gaze. He’s staring at you, intense and unwavering.

“Stop that,” you immediately say, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What?” He blinks, acting innocent. 

“Doing that—staring at me," you say, your tone sharp but betraying a hint of nervousness.

The door of Andy’s room bursts open, and something is placed on the bed, causing Woody to fall underneath the bed. 

“Hey- this part, this part’s good,” Drew comments, his attention back to the movie. 

You scoff, shaking your head before shifting your attention to the screen as well, “you’ve watched this before.”

“Yeah, and it never gets old,” he replies, and you could almost hear the smirk tugging on his lips. 

A new toy comes into the screen, one that’s in an astronaut suit. 

‘Buzz-Lightyear to Star Command, come in Star Command. Star Command, do you read me?’

You feel the same heat on the side of your face again, and turning once again, Drew’s staring at you. 

“Oh my god- stop staring!” You practically yell, the frustration in your voice unmistakable. You turn back to the screen, doing your best to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Sorry- just wanna make sure you’re focused,” he murmurs, yet, he can’t pry his eyes away from you. 

As Woody and Buzz meet for the first time, Buzz freaking out and pointing out his laser, you can’t help but let out a light laugh.

Drew laughs too, but not because of the scene.

Woody proceeds to crash out about the ‘cool new toy’, and you’re still smiling, clearly enjoying the scene.

Drew notices the way your eyes light up with that simple joy, and for a second, he’s quiet. 

Then, he smirks, leaning a little closer, “you’re kinda- kinda like Woody.”

You lean back into your seat, a pleased smile spreading across your face, “Really? Because I’m such a hero?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, “because you freak out just like that.”

Your smile drops at the sudden insult, and you quickly come up with something lame to save face, “well…well you’re such a…Mr Potato Head.”

Drew raises his eyebrows in amusement, the smirk on his lips only growing wider. 

“Because…because, you’re such a loser!” You hear it in your own mind, the lamest comeback to ever be said. 

‘To infinity…and beyond!’

His throaty laugh echoes through the room, adding to your embarrassed state. 

“Fuck off,” you murmur, hitting his shoulder. 

It doesn’t get him to stop, his chest vibrating with laughter. 

Annoyed and flustered, you turn your head to the movie, watching as Buzz makes the perfect landing on the bed. 

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he gives your shoulder a playful poke, his voice teasing, “I’m honored to be Mr. Potato Head.”

“Yeah right- getting teared apart every five seconds.”

“So you can pay attention,” Drew says, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, his hand brushing your shoulder.

“I am, so stop distracting me,” you say, your voice tinged with agitation.

He chuckles under his breath, and as the movie goes on, his eyes still find themselves attached to you, watching your every reaction. 

——

12:34 A.M

‘You are a cool toy!’ Woody exclaims, looking over at Buzz. Then, the realization slowly sinks in, ‘as a matter of fact, you’re too cool.’

‘I mean- I mean, what chance does a toy like me have against a Buzz Lightyear action figure?’

‘All I can do is…’ Woody pulls on the string behind his back, initiating his voice box that plays his most famous catchphrase. 

‘Why would Andy ever want to play with me when he’s got you?’

It’s a sad moment, sure, but not enough to jerk a tear out of you.

However, you do hear a sniffle beside you. 

The faintest kind, the kind that you think you might’ve hallucinated.

You turn back, seeing Drew fixed on the screen, but there’s a slight tightness around his jaw, and his eyes are shining. 

Shining with tears. 

“Are you- crying?” you ask, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

He doesn’t look at you at first, his gaze glued to the screen, but the corners of his mouth twitch, and you can hear the slight hitch in his breath.

‘I should be the one strapped to the rocket.' 

“I’m- I'm not crying,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the way his voice shivers that he’s not fooling anyone.

Your gaze doesn’t leave Drew as you watch the slight tremble of his lips. A single tear slips down his cheek, betraying the tough act he’s putting on.

Your lips curl up in a teasing grin, and you happily exclaim, “you’re crying!” 

His eyes (teary eyes) meet yours, and he furrows his eyebrow, denying, “I’m not.”

“There’s a tear right here-“

“I’m not crying-“

“Please, you so are-“

“No-“

"You are!” you insist, leaning in and poking his cheek. His eyes narrow, the softness disappearing, replaced with a sharper look. “You’re a little bitch.”

Drew’s lips part, ready to say something, but you stop—just for a second. Your gaze lingers on his face, noticing how the tear glistens on his cheek, how his eyes, even with the sharpness, still hold something vulnerable.

You suddenly feel too close.

A flush creeps up your neck as you realize how pretty he looks like this, the mix of emotions playing across his features. Your teasing grin falters, and something gentler takes its place.

“…you’re…a little bitch,” you say, your voice softer now, trailing off. 

You don’t know why, but your heart races, caught in the intensity of being so close to Drew.

Sure, you’ve shared tight spaces before, but this… feels different. 

This time, it’s real. 

No cameras, no crowd, just the two of you, alone in this moment.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in your veins, or just purely Drew, or something else entirely, but you’re convinced you should kiss him.

Kiss. Drew.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, noticing how red and plump they look in the dim light due to his soft crying. 

Then back into his eyes- and how they stare deeply into yours. 

You close your eyes, leaning in, heart pounding as you brace yourself for the contact you’re certain will change everything.

Then—ding. 

The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension like a cold splash of water.

Your eyes snap open, and you jump to your feet, the sudden rush of clarity sobering you up.

Shit, shit, shit. 

“I’ll- I’ll get it,” you force out, your voice a little more high-pitched than you intended.

You don’t look back as you head to the door, not even bothering to check who it is. Your mind’s still buzzing from the near-kiss, and you just need something to pull you out of the tension.

When you open the door, it’s the second round of room service. 

You let the staff in, unloading the food onto the table. 

You stand there by the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware of your senses. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest, and the sound of the movie starts to feel suffocating.

You almost kissed Drew. Drew? Out of anyone, are you serious?

“Y/n?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts to realize Drew’s still seated on the couch, his eyes fixed on you.

It’s also when you realized the staff left, and you shut the door lightly. 

“Yeah?” you ask, trying to act normal, though your voice feels tight. You’re standing awkwardly in the doorway, the last few moments replaying in your mind.

Drew tilts his head slightly, studying you, a small smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t move from the couch, just watches you from where he’s sitting. 

“You good?” His voice is low, almost playful, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent to it—something more serious.

“Yeah…” you force out, your voice sounding more unsure than you want it to. You look away, avoiding his gaze for a second, your eyes flicking to the food, to anything that can distract you from this.

It doesn’t help with how naked his upper body is. 

“Then come back, back to my side,”

He almost purrs, while his hands mix the sauce of the pasta. His biceps flex with every slow stir. It’s almost hypnotic, the way his arm moves, but you quickly look away.

You hesitate for a moment, but the gentleness in his tone pulls you toward him. 

Quietly, you walk over, and sit down on the other side of the couch, the space between you two wide again.

The table full of foods sitting between you now, and the movie’s playing, but your attention is still fractured.

The silence stretches.

A push of plate across the table echos through the room, and it’s the plate of pasta that Drew just mixed. 

The pasta that you ordered. 

You steal a glance at him, his jaw tight as he focuses on the tv. 

Your breath catches. You should say something. Anything.

You look down at the plate. The pasta looks perfectly mixed—cheese and sauce swirled in just the right way. It’s simple, but it feels oddly... thoughtful.

A knot in your stomach tightens, in a way you’re not used to. 

And so you reach for the bottle of wine, finding it the perfect solution to these weird thoughts you’re having. 

The warmth of the liquid as it swirls in your glass is a small comfort, something to hold onto while your mind races.

You take a slow sip of the wine, the bitterness slipping down your throat, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep circling back to Drew. 

Your eyes fixate on the screen, watching Buzz sit at a tea party with Sid’s little sister.

There's something unspoken between the two of you, a silent agreement that whatever almost happened is just... off the table. 

An agreement to act like that moment never existed, and neither of you is going to bring it up. Not now, not later. 

It’s gonna be locked away somewhere, sealed off behind a wall neither of you are willing to tear down, even though the tension lingers in the room, thick as ever.

Instead, the movie plays on in the background, the clinking of silverware and the occasional chuckle at the screen filling the gaps where words should’ve been.

——

1:03 A.M

After Toy Story and way too many bottles of wine, you’ve officially fallen asleep. 

Your gentle snores catch Drew’s attention, and he glances over at you. It’s the way you’re curled up on the couch, eyes closed, breaths steady, lips slightly opened that draws him in. 

He watches you for a moment, not wanting to disturb you. 

Drew replays everything from today, his mind circling back to how it all felt too real.

The ‘date,’ if you could even call it that, the movie marathon, the way it all seemed to blur together in a mix of laughter and quiet moments. 

But then there was the almost-kiss, too. He can’t stop thinking about it.

If there were no interruptions, he definitely would have kissed you. 

And then there's the memory that stays with him, sharp and vivid—the way you looked, eyes red and teary, standing in the raining beach. Your crying wasn't ugly, not at all, but it hit him in a way he didn’t expect. 

Even through the storm, he could see your vulnerability, raw and open.

He’s careful not to disturb the stillness as he reaches for the remote. He turns the TV off, the soft click almost echoing into the room. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips, your head tilting slightly against the armrest. Even in your sleep, your brow is furrowed, that familiar expression Drew's come to know so well— you're either annoyed, confused, or tangled up in some unwelcome thought.

Without thinking twice, he shifts closer, leaning in just enough to carefully slip his arms under you. One hand slides under your knees, the other curling around your back. 

He lifts you with surprising ease, trying not to jostle you too much.

You stir slightly, but your eyes don’t open. 

His heart skips a beat at the way your body relaxes against him, even though you’re asleep. Your head rests against his chest, and he finds himself pausing, feeling the weight of you in his arms. 

The closeness, the softness of your breath against his chest, makes him feel oddly protective, in a way he’s not sure he understands.

He carries you to the bedroom, and when he finally sets you down on the bed, he tucks the blankets around you, making sure you’re comfortable. 

He lingers for just a moment, watching your peaceful expression, before he steps back, quietly leaving the room.

And when Drew sits back down on the couch, he knows for sure that after today, something shifted. 

Something, that he hates to admit, has shifted inside of him. 

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

word count: 4.2k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: this chapter took me wayyy too long to write T_T anyway, this is my attempt at writing a movie marathon

and yes, this story has plot holes which i chose to ignore

elevator | other | index | ch7 | ch9

official taglist for this series aka the best ppl ever: @maybankslover @ditzyzombiesblog @xcinnamonmalfoyx @haruvalentine4321 @wearemadeofstardust0 @akxkr4st4l @percysley @stars4birdie @padf00ts-l0ver @sadheartjellyfish @darklove2020 @claudiamoscatoo

[manga-meow]

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧ mouthwashing ✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P8

EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT.

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

TW: hallucinating, weapons, death, puke, cannibalism

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

0 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

Seeing your loved one’s face sliced by the hands of yourself made you sick. You felt saliva gargle in your throat, triggering you to puke on the ground, droplets falling onto your jumper.

You were lucky enough to turn your body, leaning down before letting out the gruesome sound, followed by the liquid. You gasped, staring at the scene in shock. Tears flooded your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and onto the pile of puke.

Your breathing quickened, the tears swallowing your vision. Everything was blurry. You regretted what you had done, but it was necessary. He needed to go, otherwise he would’ve just suffered. Just like Curly.

Your eyes widen more, remembering the man in bandages who laid in the medical room. You instantly gained the strength to stand, ignoring the calls of Swansea behind you.

You ran to the room, your legs shaking as you walked inside. You lifted your hand, hiding the poor black haired woman from your view, settling your eyes on Curly. There he sat, his eye right on you.

Stepping over Anya, you placed your free hand on the side of the medical bed, staring down on him. You looked crazy. Sweat pooling over your forehead, hair matted and sticking out of place. Not to mention the tears, eyes widened and all.

You didn’t say anything, instead lifting the bandaged man in your arms. Although he was only flesh and bones, his body weight was still fairly heavy. You struggled to carry him, grunting as you stepped out of the room.

You needed to get Curly out of there and fast. You couldn’t let Jimmy get to him, knowing what he was capable of. You were too dumb to realize it before. It only took a friend and lover to figure everything out.

As you walked, you stared ahead of you, feeling Curly’s eye watch your every move. “It’s going to be okay.” You repeat to yourself, eyes darting around the hallway. You couldn’t let the brunette man know where you were.

Suddenly, you paused. You glanced down at Curly before grinning, relief washing over your features. “W-..Wait here.” You muttered, setting him down. His body laid flat on the hard metal ground, pain itching his body.

You ran back into the medical room, lowering your body to the bed before pulling out a briefcase. Your memory was a bit faded, but you could still recall the code to get inside.

You accidentally stumbled upon Anya in the medical room one day, who slid a briefcase into a little compartment in the bed. You wouldn’t let her leave until she would tell you the code, complaining that you may need it for safety.

In an instant, you rolled the correct numbers on the lock, hearing a click of the case before it slightly opened the latch. You fully open it to see the same gun that the woman had told you about.

After grabbing the weapon and making sure it was loaded, you ran back towards Curly, seeing him in the same position as before. Your grin softened, shoving the gun into your back pocket before picking up the man once again.

Making your way through the halls, you ended up finding the brunette you really didn’t want to see in the halls beside utility. He held Swansea’s axe in his hand, glaring at you from the other side of the hallway.

You couldn’t take out the gun without dropping Curly first. And you certainly didn’t want to risk his life. So, you stood still, frozen in fear and hesitation. You were almost to the Cryostasis pods. Why did he have to come out now..?

You opened your mouth to speak, but Jimmy cut you off with a chuckle. “Are you that fucking stupid?” His voice was quiet, but you could still hear him clearly. His tone was harsh, almost as an attempt to make you scared.

And it worked a little too well. Almost immediately, you forgot all your fears and held Curly up with one arm, his unbalanced legs barely touching the ground. Your arm wrapped over his chest, holding his upper body.

You grab the gun out of your back pocket, pointing it at the brunette. Yet, he didn’t drop his act. In fact, he got closer, taking light steps towards your figure.

“Go away!” You shout, backing away from the manYou choked back a sob, not ready to kill another person in the span of under a day. “I said go away!” You scream once again. Curly watched the scene in front of him, not know what to think.

Your poor, pathetic self couldn’t shoot the damn guy, yet that same guy was ready to axe your head off with no hesitation. If he could, he would’ve just taken that gun from your hand and shoot him himself.

But, that was only if he still had arms. He could’ve protected you, helping you get away from this whole thing. But that’s not how this story goes. Before his mind could go any further, your voice pulled him out.

“Please, just go!” You shout at the man who now stood a few feet away from you. Suddenly, you felt a slight breeze hit your shoulder. You choked back a sob, taking your eyes off Jimmy and adverting them to the side, wondering what hit you.

You heard an older man’s voice in your right ear, being muffled for a moment before shouting at you. You recognized that voice as Swansea’s.

“Shoot that bastard!” He would cry. “C’mon, just do it!” As he plead with you, your mind suddenly went blank. You couldn’t focus on anything but his voice.

Your breathing became faster, the weapon shaking in your hand, your palm getting sweaty from the pressure. You stepped back once more, finally hitting the metal wall behind you. As the voice of Swansea would continue, you finally pulled the trigger.

Jimmy fell back, the bullet landing in between his eyes. You stood there, staring at him as blood oozed out of his head. You fought the urge to puke once again, glancing down at Curly.

The voice of Swansea finally stopped, your mind becoming fuzzy. Your vision became a blur.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” You whisper, lowering yourself to the ground, knees to the floor. You cradled his head to your chest, wrapping your arms around his fleshed body. Relief washed through your veins, realizing the man who rose up for hell was finally gone.

He was on the ground, a bullet in his head. He was dead. You were free, but not for long. You didn’t have any food left, not even mouthwash. You sighed, taking one last glance at Curly before lifting him up into your arms.

You step around the body of Jimmy, not bearing a single eye down towards him. You turn to walk into the utility room, ready to end this nightmare. You groan, struggling to open the Cryostasis pod’s door. After a few seconds, you finally got it open.

You widen it with your foot before setting the wounded man in the compartment, leaning forward to do so. You unwrap your arms from him, staring into his one eye as you shut the door. You then turn to the small screen to the side, hesitating before pressing the freeze button.

You heard muffled cries from Curly, causing you to lift your head to him. You watch as the window becomes blurry, his figure fading from your vision. The cries suddenly stop, making you aware that he was gone.

Your hands formed fists before you left the utility room, guilt spreading in your blood like jelly. Your legs shook as you walked back into the lounge area, the air heavy.

The people you cared about were gone. You murdered one of them, the other gone on their own. The monster who started this paid for it, but the guilt couldn’t just be washed away with water.

Tears flooded for eyes for what seems to be the tenth time that day as you dropped to the ground, curling in on yourself. You wrap your arms around yourself, forehead hitting the floor.

Opening your mouth, you screamed. It was raspy, full of emotion. It hurt, but you couldn’t stop. You felt that familiar touch on your shoulder, causing you to scream louder, this time with words.

“No, don’t touch me!” You cried, attempting to shake the hand off. But it wouldn’t let go. You continued to cry, your body trembling from the weight of the hand. “Stop it, go away!” But it wouldn’t. It felt so real.. like someone was really behind you.

The weight of the hand became heavier as if it was trying to cause you pain. You shook your head, tightly shutting your eyes. “It’s okay.” Someone spoke in your ear, attempting to ease your mind.

You recognized that voice as soon as your ears registered it. You opened your eyes, glancing towards the side where the voice came from. There, you saw it. A brunette haired man who had an axe through his face. The same brunette who held a special connection to you.

You stared in shock for a few moments, trying to process what was happening. “Daisuke..?” You whisper, releasing your tight hold on yourself. Your fingers swept the metal ground, cold as ice. Your boyfriend only grinned, causing you to instantly embrace him.

As soon as you did so, he disappeared. Your eyes widened, staring at your hands in disbelief as they sat in your lap. You turned your head back towards the real Daisuke’s body, seeing it still lie on the floor.

“No..” You muttered, your body turning around before you crawl towards him. After a few moments, you sat in front of him, staring at his axe’d face. This time, you were too exhausted to puke or even cry.

You just stared, your breath at a normal pace for the first time in ages. You felt your body become weaker due to starvation. You haven’t drunken the mouthwash for a while now, making your stomach rumble, begging for something.

You glanced over his figure, disgust flowing through your body. You knew what you were about to do. He was dead. He wouldn’t feel it. He’d probably want you to eat him if it meant for your survival. You took a deep breath in before leaning over his forearm.

You held it in your hands, fingers grazing his skin. You opened your mouth before lowering your teeth, biting into his flesh. You softly groaned, closing your eyes. You tried to imagine his skin as meat. After all, it technically is.

But it wouldn’t work. You pulled on his skin, taking a small chunk of it off. You chew, ignoring the way your stomach twisted. After a few seconds you finally swallow, the taste of metal sitting on your tongue.

You lifted your head, staring at the corner of the ceiling. Red liquid spilt out of your mouth, dribbling down your chin. You let out a soft giggle, a bit embarrassed as if the crew was actually beside you, watching you eat Daisuke’s skin.

“I-..I’m sorry.” You chuckle, leaning your upper body on your boyfriend. Your forehead rests on his chest, wishing that his heartbeat was still there. “I don’t know what I just did, but ‘m sorry..” You stumble on your words like a drunk person.

“I’m so, so.. sorry, my sweet b-..” Cutting yourself off, you let out a small whine. You weren’t yourself. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your brows turn upwards, tears falling down your cheeks, replacing the dried ones. They drop onto Daisuke’s clothed chest as you snuffle, tightening your grip on his arm. “What the fuck did I do..?!”

Cries spill out from your mouth, gradually getting louder as time passes on. Your body slowly shuts down, feeling the coldness of Daisuke’s arm in the grasp of your fingers. Blood spills out of your mouth, dripping onto his chest.

Your cries slowly calm, feeling the deprivation of sleep take a toll on you. One hand let go of his arm, wrapping your own around his torso. Your breath settled, eyes finally shutting after fighting to stay open for too long.

“I’m sorry..”

______

Those were the last words uttered from your mouth. The beating of your heart slowly withered away, skin decaying as you stayed in your spot beside Daisuke, barely moving.

There was no point in trying to survive anymore. There was no point in trying to escape the aching pain that laid upon you. You had given up. You knew it would end up with you dying in the end, but you never thought it would happen like this.

Your stomach continued to twist in knots as if it were begging you to eat something. But you couldn’t. You were too weak at this point. Licking your chapped lips, you stared at Daisuke.

You imagined he was still there, smiling beside you with his arms wrapped around your waist. But his touch was cold. One that was one warm and loving, now turned rough and cold.

Each day you opened your eyes, it got harder to do so. Day, after day, after day, you were just hoping you suddenly fell limp, heart finally stopping it’s rhythm. After staring at your boyfriend’s body for a few minutes, your eyes felt heavy.

You didn’t fight back this time. As soon as you shut them, the pain stopped. It was like it was never there to begin with. Your heartbeat slowed, your fingers gently curling around your palm.

You felt free for the first time in ages. Free at last, your lover beside you. The only person who understood you. Your body fell limp, letting out one last breath.

If someone were to tell you this is how you would die as you were boarding the space freighter, you would’ve chuckled before they finished their sentence.

You’ve heard many horror stories about people dying in space. Either due to suicidal thoughts or because of their idiotic behavior. You didn’t know which category you fell into, though.

It wasn’t like that mattered anyway. You were free. You were gone from the shitty hellhole called Tulpar.

Maybe in another life, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you were living in a mansion with a loving husband. But, not in this universe.

Sometimes, stories don’t have an happy ending. Sometimes you just have to accept your fate, and that’s okay. You did what you could, and that’s what matters.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

authors note

thank you all for supporting this story throughout the past month or two. it means so much knowing i’ve gotten many people to see my work.

this fanfic has come to an end. but, there may be a few one shots aside this, showing more of interactions between the reader and the crew.

but again, thank you all. i appreciate each and every one of you. goodbye for now<3

[madokamanga]

[ramonag-if]

Happy New Year's everyone 🥳️

To celebrate the start of a new year, why don't you play the updated demo for Crown of Exile?

Play the game here.

Please RESTART the game before playing. Old saves will cause errors and carry old bugs.

New to the update (Version 1.8) are the following:

The entirety of Chapter Eight;

Bidding farewell to those in Ishari;

Setting sail to the Southern Islands;

Chatting to your companions about Salyra, the voyage ahead and some romance;

Arriving in the Southern Islands;

Reuniting with Dena and a bitter foe from your past - Emos;

Alliance talks with Dena;

Choose to accompany Dena and Elora to secure an alliance; OR

Remain behind because politics aren't your thing and spend it with a companion of your choice;

Learn more about Dena's reasons for joining an alliance;

Deal with the weight of Dena's secrets;

Celebrate or worry about the success of the alliance;

Dance with one of four companions;

Smooch, hug or chat with one of your four companions;

Choose to stay the night with Prince Irus or Queen Elora; and

Optional explicit NSFW, fade-to-black or fluff scenes with Prince Irus or Queen Elora.

There are a lot of scenes that I didn't include in the chapter due to time constraints. Please note that while there are 'missing scenes', all choices are complete and won't lead you to a blank page. The major scenes of Chapter Eight are currently included in the demo. Chapter Eight Word Count: approximately 139 663 words. Total Word Count: approximately 585 173 words.

Chapter Eight is the last chapter of the public demo. Future chapters, including the epilogue, will be shared only with my Patrons until the game is released. The game will be a paid game, however, a price has yet to be set and I will announce that closer to the game's completion. While this is the final chapter of the public demo, I will still be very active on Tumblr so feel free to ask any questions and look out for previews and updates.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me over the past year! I would never have come this far without any of you. Here's to a wonderful 2024 together ❤️️

[everythingisromant1c]

It's Always Been You - Chapter 8

james potter x fem!reader

summary - With James having acted so strangely the night before, you couldn't stop worrying about him. So you decided to go talk with him, even if he was set on being alone. Luckily for you, you knew just where to find him. After all, he was your best friend.

wc [3.4k]

all chapters | <- Chapter 7 - Chapter 9 ->

The next morning, you sat with Marlene and Lily for breakfast, deciding you needed a break from the boys and all their sudden weird behavior. Your plan to escape them didn't seem to work very much though, since after only a few minutes Sirius was taking the seat next to you.

Marlene glared at him from across the table, recalling all that you'd told them about his interrogation over Sebastian to you last night.

"Lovely to see you too, McKinnon," he greeted sourly before turning to you. "Have you seen James?"

You frowned. "No, I thought he was with you guys."

"Well he's not. He's not in the dorm either. None of us have seen him since last night when he was in his weird mood."

You recounted how quiet he was the last time you saw him, hardly stopping to say goodnight before hurrying off to the dorms. You lowered your voice to a hushed whisper. "Have you checked the map?"

"Not yet," Sirius said back.

You thought for a moment, and an idea came to mind that told you the map wouldn't be needed. "I have a feeling I know where he is."

Without another word, you gathered up your things, and maybe a pastry or two, and took your leave out of the Great Hall. A confused-looking Sirius watched you all the while, but you felt as if you needed a moment alone with James anyway. Especially after seeing him look so closed off the night before.

It took a few minutes to make it all the way across the castle, but soon enough you'd made it down to the locker rooms next to the Quidditch pitch, somewhere you knew James frequented when he spent some time alone.

The hall was mostly empty, which you blamed on the fact that breakfast had only just been served, though you managed to catch one boy on his way out of the locker room.

"Hi," you greeted, and the boy stopped in his tracks to peer curiously at you, who clearly did not play Quidditch. "Do you know if anyone's in there?" You motioned towards the locker room behind him.

He followed your eyeline and, after a beat, turned back to you with the ghost of a smile creeping onto his features. "Looking for Potter?" he asked, his tone somewhat amused. You nodded, hiding your confusion.

"Yeah," he then added, tilting his head towards the door in front of you. "He's in there."

You gratefully smiled at him and mouthed a 'thank-you,' striding towards the locker room.

"James?" you called softly as you opened the door, all too aware that technically you weren't supposed to be in the boys' locker room, but figuring it would be empty besides James anyway. To your suspicions, you were right and there was no sight of anyone. That was, until you turned the corner and saw the boy you'd been searching for.

James was standing in front of his open locker, though he'd disregarded it the moment you'd stumbled upon him after what looked like his post-practice locker room state. That is—shirtless. Very shirtless, and practically glowing underneath the sweat from whatever Quidditch skills he'd been drilling.

"Oh, um," you began messily, eyes widening and trying their best not to so obviously take in any area beside his face, but the gleam of his bare and sun-kissed chest was certainly not making it easy. "I can come back-"

"No," James cut in, and the timbre of his voice echoing in the empty locker room had you pausing. "Stay."

You nodded, his voice soft but strong enough that you found yourself standing there, unmoving. He'd clearly not been expecting any visitors, especially not you of all people, to show up in the locker rooms. But if he knew you at all, and he did, he should've known you'd always find him even when he didn't exactly want to be found.

That fact and the unwelcome wandering of your eyes over his chest and abdomen, as if he wasn't staring straight at you watching you do it, had you feeling slightly guilty. You cursed yourself the moment you realized what you were doing, trying to salvage yourself as much as you could.

You cleared your throat. "You weren't at breakfast," you said after you remembered why you'd come to find him in the first place. Your throat felt tight, the spacious and brightly-lit room suddenly feeling cramped.

"I wasn't that hungry," James said simply, and if he felt at all off-put by his shirtlessness and your obvious fit of staring he didn't show it.

"You need to fuel your body if you're gonna be playing Quidditch all the time, James," you chided.

He shook his head at you, eyes maybe a little warm but probably slightly annoyed. "You sound like my mum."

You breathed in your laugh at the warm memories of his mother from every summer you spent with him. "I'll take that as the highest of compliments then, J."

You swore you saw his lips quirk up at the nickname at the end of your warm sentiment. Maybe he was thinking of your summers together then, too, or maybe he was still questioning why the hell you'd chased him into the locker room. A silence passed over you both for a moment. You were still standing by the door, him at his locker some feet away, wordless.

"But seriously," you continued, taking an intentional step closer to him as you spoke. "You okay?"

James's eyes lifted from where they'd been settled off somewhere in the distance, meeting your own for only a split second. "You really love asking me that question."

You tilted your head at him, knowing he was only being avoidant. "James."

His expression revealed little to nothing, and it was like he refused to meet your gaze from that point on. "I'm fine." Following through with his dismissiveness, James turned away from you then, his front to his open locker and his back, his very bare back, to you. He began putting away his things, the muscles visible to your eyes churning with each action. You ignored that on top of his aversion.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "Because I know that last night you didn't exactly seem 'fine' and all, or, I don't know, you seemed upset," you fumbled to voice. "And then I talked with Remus and he kind of mentioned that you might be upset because of me and-"

"He did?" You could see him tense as his words broke your rambling. Either you'd begun to melt his sudden cold exterior or you'd frozen it even further.

"Yeah, he did." You spoke slowly, words cautious. "Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it, I promise." You paused there, giving him an opening to respond, but he didn't. He didn't even turn your way, his back still to you as he began organizing whatever he had in his locker. Your worrying kept your mouth running. "And if I did something to upset you, then- "

"You didn't." James finally turned around, shifting your view of him from his back to his front, and you could see in his eyes that he was holding something back. He looked uncharacteristically shy, his voice coming out softly but withdrawn. "You didn't do anything to upset me."

"That's good to hear," you said, even if you didn't truly believe it. "But you're clearly upset about something. I mean, you're out playing Quidditch before half the school's even woken up."

He shrugged his bare shoulders. "I do that all the time."

"Without telling any of the boys?" you questioned. "Sirius didn't even know where you were. We were gonna use the map."

James stared at you silently for a second, as if he was considering something up in that brain of his, but he stopped the action with a slight shake of his head and another shrug. "Look, I don't know what you want from me." His tone was growing more irritated with every word you pulled from him, and it was starting to not only annoy you but hurt you.

"I just want you to tell me what you're upset about-"

"I'm not upset, alright?" He practically cut you off, shutting his locker door with a jarring echo, but the sound was less alarming than the flinch you noticed in James's face. You shifted your gaze downward. Maybe you'd been too distracted by his reserved front or his unexpected shirtlessness to notice the bandages on his wrist.

Your brows pulled. "What's wrong with your wrist?"

James's eyes darted to yours at the question, and then down at his wrapped wrist as if he'd forgotten all about it. Knowing James and his unruly way of living, you reckoned he probably had. "It's nothing." He threw the shirt he'd most likely recently taken off over his shoulder, apparently ready to ignore your prying all over again.

You stared him down disbelievingly. "James."

He paused his endless movement to offer you a better answer with a sigh. "It started bothering me a few days ago during practice." When you continued frowning down at the injury, he added, "It's no big deal. I hardly notice it."

"You just flinched." You narrowed your gaze. "Now stop being all mysterious and let me at least look."

Giving in to your doting, James took a seat beside you on the wooden locker room bench, his legs facing the opposite side of yours. The skin of his shoulder brushed against your own, which you ignored.

Ever-so-carefully, you picked up James's hand and laid his wrist in your palm. His skin was surprisingly soft, something that contrasted the material of whatever bandage he'd used to cover his injury that'd clearly been chafing angrily against his skin. You eyed the messy bandage work and suppressed any urges to scold him, figuring he was already sitting here against his will.

You glanced up at him from where you sat, only a few inches between the two of you, and looked at him for approval to do more. His eyes searched yours for a beat, maybe in question, and then he nodded.

Steadily, you used your other hand to begin unwrapping the greying gauze, focused on the sound of your own tight breathing and the steadiness of your hands working the bandages. They'd definitely needed rewrapping if not just being thrown out and replaced altogether.

The silence in the empty locker room was distracting you, or maybe it was the fact that James sat so silently next to you, watching your every move. In your peripheral, you could see the hard plain of his chest rising and falling as you worked on his wrist. You chased the view away, lowering your head more until all you could see was your hands and his.

It took another moment to fully unwrap his wrist, your perturbation only heightening each time a new inch of bruising skin was revealed. You held the uncovered limb in your hands, frowning and fighting back a gasp at how not-fine the injury seemed.

"Merlin," you whispered, taking in the redness that'd come from both the bandages and the visible swelling. Slowly, you bent his hand forward ever so slightly, and even that action had James tensing in your hands, the small inhale he took more than audible to you from next to him. "You're telling me you hardly noticed this?"

James gave another aggravating shrug. "It only got this bad this morning. Must've slept on it wrong."

"Or maybe it was from you overworking it out on the pitch just now." You gave him a look. "You're lucky it's your non-dominant hand."

You scanned over the injury for another second and then placed his wrist on your lap gingerly. You turned to get your wand out of your bag but remembered the pastries you snagged from the Great Hall for him.

"I brought you food from breakfast, for after I finish with your wrist." You nodded to your bag. "I even got a chocolate croissant. Your favorite." You felt your lips tugging into a smile. Godric, you really did sound like a mother.

"You didn't have to," James insisted delicately, though you saw his eyes soften momentarily.

"I had to pay you back somehow for all the food you sent up to my room the other day. I never got to thank you."

James shook his head. "I got your thank you note."

It took a second for you to recall the scribbling of your quill against napkin, something you'd done in a hurry in your dorm but meant every word you wrote. You felt your cheeks warm at the memory and under James's gaze that you swore you could feel dancing across your face.

You focused back down at his hand that rested on your lap, taking ahold of your wand and pointing it steadily at the discoloration around his wrist. You certainly were no Madam Pomfrey, but you'd learned some basic healing spells over the years from being the boys' honorary on-hand nurse every time they came back still achy after full moons.

Even with that knowledge, you knew not to try anything too experimental on James's sensitive wrist. Delicately, you lifted his arm again before softly muttering the most appropriate healing spell you could recall. His arm felt especially heavy in its limpness, but you could tell James was still tense. You moved the fingers that held his arm back and forth slightly, a soothing gesture as you dragged the tip of your wand over the bruises. The pointed wood grazed over red-and-purpled skin but left it void of discoloration as it moved.

Your lips parted at the sight that never failed to seem brilliant to you, no matter how many nights you spent alongside your friends in the nurse's wing as she tended to them. You didn't look up to see his expression, but you could feel James's fingers soften in your grasp, hear his breathing shallow.

You worked on his wrist with your wand for another minute before you were satisfied, moving it around slightly and humming softly at the lack of discomfort he seemed to have. For safe measure, you lifted his arm from atop your thigh again and began rebandaging it, more neatly this time. Your fingers grazed against now healthy-colored skin, his long fingers limp in your hold but seeming more alive now that the wrist they were attached to was stronger.

You closed off the bandage, tucking in what needed to be tucked and scanning over your work once more for good measure. You leaned forward slightly to make sure the bandage wasn't twisted on the side of his hand you couldn't see and felt a soft and featherlike something brush against the top of your forehead.

Taken out of the intense focus you'd had on his wrist, you looked up to find the culprit of the feeling. It'd been one of James's curls that'd brushed against the top of your head, a sensation nauseatingly familiar, but you were more concerned with the way he was looking down at you.

Looking didn't seem a proper word for it, maybe studying or staring a better fit, but all train of thought had gone off the rails when you met his eyes. They were hazel, you knew that fact better than you knew the back of your hand, but now they seemed to sink into a deeper color, something heavy behind the way he was looking at you. And maybe you were only imagining it, but you could've sworn his gaze was angled to an area near your parted lips.

You blinked in alarm as your breath caught in your throat, not knowing what to do with all the weight of his stare but feeling like moving was impossible anyway with the way he seemed to suffocate you, all without moving a muscle. You were so close to him, close enough to see the heavy rise and fall of his very bare chest and every movement in his face. His breathing was thick, and yours was getting heavier by the second. Something shuttered inside of you as your brain recalled the only other time he'd looked at you in this way, right before he kissed you over Spin the Bottle.

You tried to chase the fluttery, dizzying feeling away, but it stayed fixed in place within your stomach. Did he know how he was looking at you right now? Like he was deep in thought, but as if his mind was blank, hypnotized. Like you'd entranced him. Like he didn't mind. Like he wanted to ...

The door to the locker room slammed open, and you'd never turned your head so fast in your life. You were sure James did too, but you were too busy staring at the unfamiliar strawberry-blonde boy standing in the doorway to be sure.

"Crap, I'm so sorry Captain," rang the short boy nervously, eyes shot wide as he took in the proximity of you and James, his shirtlessness, and most likely the flush in your face. James stood up and you followed suit, noticing the distance he'd already put between the two of you. "I didn't know you were in here. I just came for my broom polish. "

James cleared his throat, curtly nodding at the boy. "It's alright, Crembley." His voice took on the assertion of a levelheaded Quidditch Captain and showed no sign of the unstableness you were feeling from beside him. You didn't know how the hell he did it.

That thought, along with seemingly hundreds of other ones, ran through your head whilst the kid James addressed as Crembley ran through his things in the locker by the door. All you could hear was the shuffling of his things and the ringing in your ears as you waited. Daring to look over, James's head was perched downward in the silence, and he didn't show any signs of discomfort besides the subtle tick of his jaw.

It felt as if an eternity had passed before the boy found what he needed, carrying a round container in his hand as he closed his locker and walked back towards the door. "See ya Captain," he smiled thinly, probably noticing the thickness in the air. He nodded to you politely as well, albeit awkwardly, before taking his exit, leaving you and James alone in the locker room once more.

The silence was deafening. You looked down at your shoes and then at James, who somehow seemed like he was standing even farther away from you than before. You took a breath in to speak before you even knew what you were going to say, but James beat you to it.

"You should go." His voice cut through the silence and echoed through the room and your head unwelcomingly, tone low and sober.

You blinked at him, brows pulling into a line. "What?"

"I mean," he continued, seeming to correct his blunt tone before you could question it. "You're gonna miss Transfiguration."

His explanation didn't have you feeling any less confused. Your forehead creased and you squinted at him and his tense, broad shoulders. "So are you. James, what-"

"I'll meet you there, okay?" he still hadn't looked at you fully, eyes pitched somewhere too low or too shifted to either side of you to be truly at you. You didn't know what was going on, the questions you'd been trying to get answers to still swirling across your mind, unanswered. You tried to force him to meet your eyes, at least give you that respect, but he wouldn't. As you stared at him and the unwavering projection of his hardened gaze, you gave up trying to shift it.

"Okay."

Your heart throbbed in your chest, tired from the work it'd been put through in the span of a single minute. You suppressed the feeling, gathering your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. You took steps towards the door and James, but paused, remembering something.

"Here." You reached into your bag, pulled out the pastries you'd brought for him concealed by a napkin, and held them out for him to take. For a second, he didn't move, and you thought he might reject your offer entirely from whatever mood he'd been consumed by and send you on your way. But he was still James, the one you'd known since forever, and he took them from your hand timidly.

"Thanks," he said, almost a whisper, and he met your eyes then for only a second. You didn't miss the flush of his cheeks that you were sure matched your own, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. His eyes were guilty and quiet and a muscle in his jaw worked as he looked down at the food in his hand. He kept his gaze on it as you pushed open the locker room door and rushed away, feet moving you as your mind stayed stuck in the locker room, replaying its scenes like they would make anything that'd just happened clearer.

taglist!! ->

@hisparentsgallerryy @msmk11 @garfieldsladybird @empath-bunny @urmykindofwoman

[hwang-inhos-fish]

White Mask (Upcoming) Chapter 8 Mood Board

-_-_-

And then Hwang In-ho withdraws his thumb and kisses Gi-hun.

And it’s electric. It tastes like whiskey and blood and Gi-hun’s angry reactive bite only draws a long, low moan from the man he hates, and he hates more that his hands are already in the man’s carefully arranged hair, ruining it, gripping, pulling, that every shred of rage and violence he’s been holding in all these years want to roar to the surface and take control of him, makes him want to take it out on this man he hates and needs and relies on, his anchor in this storm and the knife in his side.

He wants to taste the salt of him, feel every inch of humanness, lose himself in the ancient bloodsong of lust, holding his enemy against him, with him, where he can keep track of him. Where Gi-hun can watch him. Study him. Figure him out. He wants to bite bruises into this man’s skin and pin him to the floor, keep him helpless and vulnerable, make him pay. He wants to cut the tension that strains between them like a taut rope, resolve this crushing pressure of deep ocean, let go and let it out and fuck Hwang In-ho into the floor until they both feel human again.

(All images in one pic)

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Sugar & Spicy Books FINAL Chapter 8

Summary:  Y/N is an accomplished writer who is newly divorced, and out of fear of the unknown, moves back to her small hometown she swore she’d never come back to.  She comes across her best friend that never left, who helps her out of a tough spot.  Will old feelings arise?  Or is she just too big for such a small place now?

Warnings:  language, smut

Previous chapter

13 months later

Y/N stared at the stick in her hand.  The black dots continued to blink, and she could feel her nerves making her more jittery than she already was.  Today was her wedding day.  Bucky had asked her to marry him shortly after their conversation about their future over a year ago, and as much as she was nervous about getting married since her first marriage hadn’t gone well, she was sure about Bucky.  She loved him, she loved Autumn, and she loved their new life together.  When he had told her he wanted a child with her, her heart felt like it soared, and all the questions she had about them and their future had disappeared.

She had stopped taking her birth control pills without telling him, wanting to see how well her body would adjust to weaning off of them.  It took a while, and for a moment she was worried, but lately she had been feeling off, and missed her most recent period.  So here she was, hiding in the bathroom as Autumn and Winnie were getting ready on the other side of the door.  

Y/N put the stick down, covering her eyes with her hands.  Staring at it wouldn’t make it go faster.  She waited, breathing deeply as she tried to calm herself.  It was okay if it was negative, but there was a big part of her that knew she wanted it to be positive so badly.  She uncovered her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, inhaling deeply, before looking back at the stick on the counter.

Pregnant.

She gasped and grabbed it, holding it close to her face.  She shook it out like that would somehow change things, and when it didn’t, she huffed out a silent laugh and looked at herself in the mirror.  Pregnant.  With Bucky’s baby.  And they were getting married today.  Her hand drifted down to her stomach, cradling it gently as if a bump would magically appear in the next few seconds.  It was happening. Y/N composed herself before washing her hands and leaving the bathroom, hiding the test in her dress pocket for later.

The ceremony was beautiful and small, with only a few of their closest family members and friends there.  They had both cried as they read their vows, and Y/N had vowed to Autumn to be the best mother she could possibly be for her.  She didn’t tell him about the baby yet, and instead focused on having fun on her wedding day.  The small group danced, sang, ate, and enjoyed their time together.  At the end of the night as they said goodbye to Autumn, who was staying with Winnie, to go on their honeymoon, they got settled into Bucky’s car and drove off to the sound of whoops and hollers from their high school friends.

They caught a flight to Puerto Rico, settling into their rented house, all courtesy of Y/N’s alimony, a fact that they both took a lot of pleasure in.  After a day of rest from hours of traveling, Y/N got ready for the day.  She holed herself up in the bathroom again, having grabbed a second test before they left the States.  She just wanted to be sure before telling him and getting his hopes up.  She waited for the second test results, smiling widely when it read the same as the first.  She put it in her pocket before leaving the bathroom.

When she entered the bedroom she started laughing, seeing Bucky laid out on the bed, naked and poised with one hand holding up his head, a leg bent showing himself in all his glory to her, and a red rose stem in between his teeth.  “Oh how romantic!” she giggled, approaching the bed.

Bucky huffed a laugh and sat up, crawling toward her on the bed before taking the rose from his mouth and handing it to her.  As she held it up to her nose to smell it he took her left hand and kissed her wedding ring.  “Just for you, Mrs. Barnes,” he smiled, sitting up on his knees so he was eye level with her, kissing her deeply.  “I know we had plans to go to the beach today but…it’s our honeymoon, and we haven’t officially consummated our marriage yet.”

“Well, we were exhausted from quite a fun wedding day.  And traveling,” Y/N smirked, subtly pulling out the test from her pocket and holding it behind her back.  As Bucky’s hands slid up her hips she nuzzled his nose.  “But I do have one more wedding gift for you.”

His eyes lit up in excitement.  “Oh really?” he asked, sounding intrigued.  “Is it something… spicy?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Y/N laughed.  “It came from that,” she said.  Bucky gave her a questioning look, and Y/N took a deep breath before bringing her hand out from behind herself, holding the stick up in front of his face.  Bucky looked at it for a moment, a slight frown on his face before he gasped loudly, his eyes widening and his hands leaving her to take the test from her fingers.  He held it in his fingers gently as he stared at it for a long moment.  The room was silent, and Y/N wasn’t sure he was even breathing, making her start to worry about his reaction.  “Are…are you happy?” Y/N asked quietly.

  Bucky’s head snapped up to look at her.  He smiled widely and quickly hugged her, pulling her down with him to the bed.  He laid her down next to him and started kissing all over her face.  “Yes, honey!  Oh my god,” he said excitedly.  “Are you sure?” he asked, looking at her.  

“That’s my second positive test,” Y/N said, glancing at the stick in his hand.  “But we’ll need to go to the doctor to be sure.”  Bucky looked at the test again, like he was memorizing how it looked before tossing it on the nightstand and hugging her tight.  Y/N held him, rubbing his back when she felt him nuzzle the crook of her neck, then his shoulders shaking.  Y/N shushed him as he cried.  

“Y/N,” he sniffled.  “We’re gonna have a baby.”

“We are,” Y/N nodded, kissing the side of his head.  “You’re gonna be a daddy.  Again.”

“Again,” he chuckled and pulled up to look at her.  Y/N reached up and wiped his eyes.  They smiled at each other.  Y/N felt like it was a piece sliding into place, finally completing the puzzle that was their lives coming together completely.  “My wife,” Bucky said adoringly.  “Mother of my babies.”  Y/N fought back tears at that, giving him a shaky smile.  “My best friend,” he said quietly.

Y/N nuzzled his nose and kissed him all over his face.  “My husband.  Father of my babies.  My Sugar.  My best friend.”

THE END

Thank you all so much for liking, commenting, reblogging and following! You little darlings make me feel so loved. I'm closing my requests and asks for the next little while because I'm so behind on the ones sent into me, but I'll reopen them soon enough. You're amazing, dear readers. More to come soon!

[tightjeansjavi]

This is getting it’s own separate post bc it deserves it 🥵👹

[writeyouin]

Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Lu-Lu Land

A/N - Alright bitches, guess who's back. I'm still not posting regularly, but I'm trying to get back into my creative pursuits. My family is financially fucked, but there's some stuff in the air and while they thanked me for trying to help, they didn't want to bother others with the Gofundme, so that's why that was down. I lost 2 nannas in a month so double funerals which was a reverse-bop, but fuck it, I'm going to be happy damn it! Anyway, the reason this is continuing is cos I got a comment on this story that was hella supportive and like a few hundred words at least. What do we keep telling you? Compliment our asses, reblog and comment and we authors ar like labradors. I'm a praise whore!

All this to say, thank you for the emotional support, you've all been amazing and very patient and kind. All right, let's fucking do this!

Warnings - None

Rating - T

MALE VERSION HERE

GN / NON-BINARY VERSION HERE

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Lucifer paced back and forth, his eyes wandering to the clock on the mantle, over to the open veranda doors, then upwards to the very Heavens and back. You watched him feeling fidgety by extension. By now Charlie and Vaggie were in Heaven and would be till the next night and you could tell that Lucifer was worried. Heaven had disavowed him. He didn’t want the same to happen to his daughter.

You glanced at the clock. If the portal had been on time then Vaggie and Charlie would have been in Heaven for less than ten minutes but Lucifer’s pacing made it feel like an eternity. There was no way you could take this all day.

You approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you affronted, and then his expression softened though the worry never left his eyes. Ever since your night away and the tale of your death, he had been a lot softer to you, some part of him worrying that you might leave and not come back.

“It’s going to be okay, Lucifer,” You told him assuredly. “We have to believe in Charlie.”

Lucifer glanced at your wrists. Your stitches showed atop human skin, part of your true ragdoll form. You were worried too then.

You followed his gaze and made a conscious effort to go back to being human. The stitches faded away. Lucifer wanted to say that you didn’t have to hide them for him, but he was still thinking about his baby girl up in heaven… with those- those angels!

“Hey,” You said softly, re-capturing his attention. “Not every Angel is bad, okay?”

“I know,” He admitted. “but what if-”

“Don’t think about what ifs. You’ll only spiral.”

Spiral? Ha, that was a joke. Lucifer had been spiralling for seven years, trapped in a nightmare pit of his worries and concerns. This was just the latest curveball to ruin his life.

You could see Lucifer was over-thinking, so you got up and retrieved his coat which had been left folded over an armchair the previous night.

You threw it to him, “Come on, we’re going out.”

Lucifer stared at the coat in his hands, “What? I don’t want-”

“Tough. I’m not watching you pace all day. A distraction will do you good, and you don’t leave the house nearly enough. Come on, let’s go,” You opened the door and looked at him expectantly. He stared up at Heaven once more, weighing up his options.

“Look, if you don’t trust in me, at least believe in Charlie. She wouldn’t want you waiting and worrying like this. So, what’ll it be, stay here and torture yourself, or at least try to make the best of things out there?” Lucifer balled up his fists, crushing the fabric in his hands. “Okay,” He said after a minute. “I’m coming.”

Lucifer’s face crinkled, his mouth hanging open in confusion as he stared up at the open gates of the rip-off theme park Lu-Lu Land.

You beamed next to him, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“Ready to go in?” You asked him, grabbing his hand and tugging his sleeve excitedly.

“Why are we here?” Lucifer asked, thinking of Mammon and how this was exactly the kind of lazy, underhanded tactic he would use to fleece money out of sinners who mistook Lu-Lu Land for Lucifer’s own Lu-Lu World.

“Look, I know it’s your theme park and you might find it boring, but I’ve never been here before, so can you at least pretend to be happy?”

Lucifer’s gaze travelled to one of the giant posters that lined the entrance. It showed an unsettling copy of his theme park’s apple mascot, the writing beneath which read, ‘MEET AMAZING CHARACTERS, SURE TO MAKE MEMORIES.’

Far underneath in tiny writing that almost faded into the mascot’s white shoes was a caveat, barely readable, ‘* In no way to be mistaken with our competitors at Lu-Lu World.’

Glancing back at you, Lucifer couldn’t help smiling and holding back a laugh simultaneously. Sometimes, it was easy to forget you hadn’t been in Hell long. Clearly, nobody had explained the difference to you about the two parks that existed. Well, why not go into the dilapidated park that couldn’t hold a candle to Lucifer’s own. It would be entertaining at least to see what shortcomings it had.

With that, Lucifer followed you into the park, keeping a steady pace while you rushed between the game stalls. Shoot the Targets, Hook an Imp, Balloon Splash; it was all common carnival stuff, and all clearly rigged.

You didn’t seem to care as you slammed some money down on a table, throwing balls at cans that had obviously been glued down. The vendor laughed at your misfortune, trying to goad you into spending more money with practised insults that didn’t bother you much. Still, you put down more money, trying again just for the fun of it.

“C’mon Lucifer, you’ve gotta try this!” You waved him over, offering him a ball.

At the sight of Hell’s ruler, the carnie running the stall paled. Lucifer was never supposed to come to the dingy little park. He never went anywhere!

The imp smiled nervously and hurriedly held out a prize, from the top shelf to the two of you.

“But we didn’t win…” You said confusedly.

“Didn’t win?” The imp repeated as if he didn’t understand your question. You and Lucifer were together, so obviously you had to win. The King of Hell could not lose, nor could his date. If Mammon heard Lucifer was there and didn’t win the rigged games, all the employees would be in for it.

The carnie slammed his elbow backwards forcing the cans to tip from the pedestal, still in a perfectly-glued pyramid as they fell. “Looks like a winner to me, here’s your prize!”

He shoved the teddy at Lucifer who stared at it bemusedly. It was almost an exact copy of his cuddly apple mascot, but decidedly creepier, and much cheaper. Lucifer held it out to you, not caring for it.

You beamed and hugged it, “Aww, it’s so cute! I’m going to call him Aloisios P. McCoy, Apple Esquire of the Fruit Kingdom, but for short, Ally.”

Lucifer smiled at your eccentrics. You truly didn’t care that the games were rigged, that the carnie was bribing you to keep you happy, or that the pathetic excuse for a carnival was just a big hideous money trap; you just wanted to let loose and have some fun. Lucifer found that he had to admire that.

As you ran from ride to ride, dragging Lucifer into the non-existent queues and only waiting for the rides to hurriedly be fixed, his mind travelled back a few hundred years before when he first opened his theme park.

It had been a gift for Lilith. He thought that it would impress her to see all the work he had put into making something fun and pure that everyone could enjoy, and he had run around as eagerly as you were now, showing his wife all the fun attractions. Lilith praised him demurely, but as usual, she was so regal and poised; above such childish things as carnivals.

Yet, Lucifer continued to improve the passion project, expanding it for his growing family. There was a gorgeous duck ride that he had made especially for Charlie and he took her on it repeatedly, holding her proudly on his knees as they went through the tunnels full of bright animals that practically came to life when the boat got near them.

“Oh, look at that! Can we go on it?” You asked, dragging Lucifer back to the present as you pointed to a very similar boat ride to the one he was thinking of. Above the ride was a broken neon sign that was supposed to say “Tunnel of Wonders” but instead read T__el of ___der_.

“Okay,” Lucifer agreed as enthusiastically as he could manage. Part of his mind was still on Charlie but he allowed himself to be semi-distracted, even if this rip-off of a ride was bound to remind him of his baby girl.

The two of you got on the ride and you shook with excitement as the boat slowly started down the water track, the two of you sitting in a giant goose, much more menacing than the original soft-yellow ducky boats in Lu-Lu World.

Mammon’s voice came over the speaker as a recording to endorse his ride, “Thank you, faithful customers, for paying for this ride, and if you didn’t pay for it, fuck off, you stupid cunts!”

Mammon coughed and got back to his spiel, presumably trying to sound calm, though his rough nature only served to make him sound crass and cheap as the boat entered a dark tunnel.

“Welcome to the Tunnel of Wonders. Here, you can enjoy all sorts of good shit, and if you go to the gift shop, you can spend your hard-earned dollary-doos on a plush of me, your host Mammon, or invest in one of our Robo-Fizzarollies, lots of fun for the whole family, or for you sick freaks that want Fizzi’s private attention.”

“Anyway, to the Tunnel of Wonders, and what is more wonderous then, I dunno, love or some shit? Yeah, turn up the romance and fuck in the boats or whatever, Mammon out!”

The tunnel lights flipped on, turning it from black to pink and you looked around to find that you were surrounded by hearts and tiny cupids made in the likeness of Asmodeus, the patron Sin of Lust.

When you first met Lucifer, such a mistake might have made you embarrassed, but as you looked around the love boat ride, with its overly camp music and gaudy imagery of romance, you laughed instead. Lucifer laughed with you, enjoying the error for what it was.

“This- This is terrible,” Lucifer chuckled.

“Right?” You agreed, bumping into his shoulder. “Who made this?”

“Not me,” Lucifer held up his hands in mock surrender. “This isn’t even my park.”

“What? Yes, it is. I saw it on TV.”

“Nope, sorry, my park is Lu-Lu World.”

Realisation dawned on your face. Like many theme parks in the human realm which were laughable copies of bigger enterprises, this too was a cheap knockoff that you had mistaken.

“That explains a few things.”

“Yeah, like that creepy doll,” Lucifer pointed at the evil apple plush by your side.

You picked it up, hugging it defensively, “Hey, Aloisios P. McCoy, Apple Esquire of the Fruit Kingdom is offended by your insult. Apologise to him.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes but did as you asked, “I’m so sorry to have offended you, good apple, Sir.”

“Now shake his hand and makeup,” You demanded, holding the apple’s hand in the air.

Lucifer chortled and brought his hand up to shake the plushie’s. His fingertips brushed against yours and he felt a spark of connection. Sometimes, you reminded him of Charlie, eager to please and befriend others and so full of life and kindness that he hadn’t imagined capable of any Sinner. Yet, there was more to you than that. A fiery passion and a stubborn streak that was hard to rival.

He looked at you for a long time and you smiled awkwardly, holding the teddy in your lap and wondering what he was thinking, though his look wasn’t uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” Lucifer said sincerely.

You didn’t have to ask him what he meant. He was grateful for the distraction from his worries, and also for a friend if you had to speculate further.

“You’re welcome.”

The ride juddered to a halt and Mammon’s voice stuttered to life over the speaker, “The ride has broken down, sit tight while my guys deal with it, and don’t try to fucking sue us! You won’t fucking win, you ungrateful shits. Mammon out!”

“Well, I guess we’re stuck here for a while,” Lucifer stated, wondering how long he could handle the overly chipper music and tacky decorations.

“Yep,” You agreed, “But it’s not so bad.” You placed your hand over his and Lucifer glanced down somewhat surprised. He looked up at you, finding that your attention was solely on your surroundings and he relaxed a bit. It wasn’t anything sinister, you were simply holding his hand. A friend when he desperately needed one.

It was late when the two of you returned to the manner, having just watched the fireworks display which was the one thing that actually worked in the theme park. Though, the fireworks had been made to spell out not-so-subtle messages, like ‘Spend money, cunts!’ or images of dollar signs, and sponsors from V-Tech.

“Care for a drink?” Lucifer asked, throwing his jacket over the back of the armchair in the usual parlour as you slumped on the sofa opposite.

“Sure, a drink would be nice.”

Lucifer headed to the drinks cart, pouring a bourbon for himself and a wine for you. His hands stilled as he held your glass. He hadn’t meant to but he had filled Lilith’s goblet instead of one of the guest glasses and he had paired it with her favourite drink, something which he had never offered to anyone else. His hands shook and he spilled the drink onto the tray.

“Oh,” You noticed his mistake and got up, “Would you like help cleaning that up?”

Lucifer schooled his expression into a forced smile even though he wasn’t facing you and took on the tone that you knew to be fake happiness, “No, nope! Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it all under control!”

“Hey,” You approached him, placing your hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay to be upset. I know you have some things to work through and-”

“Dad…” Charlie’s voice came from the doorway.

“Charlie!” Lucifer cried out excitedly, turning to his daughter, then freezing when he saw her expression and the tears in her eyes. She was home early, and upset! “What did they do to you?” He growled, hating Heaven more than ever.

Charlie broke down into tears and ran to hug her father. While you also wanted to know what had happened, you felt like an intruder watching such a tender moment. Charlie needed her dad, and when she was ready, she would tell you what happened. You excused yourself from the room, leaving the Manor so the pair could talk privately and made your way to the Hazbin Hotel so that you might at least get some answers from Vaggie.

Ko-fi.com/writeyouin

[mishig]

"Someday my prince will come" GUYS DID YOU KNOW NEIGE LIKES BOYS? ♥

[darks-arts]

Have you ever been pondering Ring 3 but forgot who was based and who was cringe? Well forget no more cause I made a chart breaking down who was on what side of the coup, who killed who, and in what order!

[manga-meow]