#Flashbacks

[miryum]

Don't Pity Me, My Princess (Azriel x Reader)

With Azriel as your personal knight, it's getting harder and harder for both of you to ignore your feelings.

Warnings: whole lotta angst. Talk of children and childbirth because royalty need heirs, you know? Az doesn’t have his shadows (even though it was so hard to write him without them) but is still called Shadowsinger. Azriel's mother was abused and there's like, one sentence about it

Word Count: 5k

Azriel had lived at the palace since he was a young boy. His mother had knocked on the servant’s quarters one dark night, begging for someone to take her son. She could handle an abusive husband, but she couldn’t bear her baby boy to suffer the same fate as she did. An old maid took pity on the new mother and agreed to house, clothe, and educate the child. Just before the new mother left, she kissed Azriel’s cheek and whispered his name. “You’ll do good things, my dear. I am so sorry.”

Coincidentally, a couple months later, the Queen gave birth to an infant girl. Princess Y/n was heralded with parades and celebrations, the new heir apparent. Meanwhile, in the servant’s quarters, a baby with a thick head of black hair and small little wings was just learning how to lift his head, staring up at the maids and butlers who saved his life.

Azriel grew up preparing for the life of a knight. He remembered growing up watching the knights train as he played with his own wooden sword. He remembered beating his still-developing wings to try and see over the wooden barrier of the jousting arena. He remembered when the knights first caught sight of him, trying to hack away at a dummy. They teased him at first, but then, just like his entire life, they took pity on him. The next week, Azriel began training as a squire.

It was a long time before he earned his leathers and then his siphons, but the Shadowsinger became a name that was both respected and feared throughout the kingdom. The King sent him on missions all over the continent and Azriel always returned successful. He would fight in the jousts and consistently win. He had maidens and ladies swooning over him, but they weren’t who he yearned for.

That’s why he volunteered, almost a bit too hastily, when the King asked for extra protection over his daughter, Princess Y/n. 

Azriel’s mind was filled with you, almost every moment of every day. It couldn’t be healthy, that he was aware of, but having grown up next to you, even if from the shadows, he had forged a deep connection to you.

When he was young, he had hardly noticed the little princess completing her studies. He couldn’t remember a time when he saw her in the halls or at the training ring — which is where he most frequented. But one day, a year or two after he had turned a teen, Azriel had fought in his first joust. In any joust, it was customary for a knight to be sponsored by a lady of the court. A lady usually had a favourite knight she regularly sponsored, so Azriel’s stomach was in a pit when it was time to trot by for potential sponsorship. Who would ever cheer for the newest, youngest knight? Azriel sure could beat a village boy in combat, but he was still the smallest and scrawniest of all of the palace’s knights — if you could even call him that. He could recall his anxiety as if it was yesterday. The way the crowd was cheering, the way his horse’s hooves kicked up dirt underneath, and the way he began to sweat as he tried to sit straight. 

And then, as he passed the royal box, you stood. Azriel almost kept his horse trotting by, sure it was a mistake, but when he saw you extract your blue handkerchief, he pulled on the reins. By some fortuity or fortune, your handkerchief was the same colour as his siphon. He had just earned his first one the week prior. Through his metal visor, he stared, wide-eyed, as you reached down and tucked your handkerchief into the folds of his armour. The rest of the court was watching too, but Azriel didn’t see them. He could only focus on the way his heart sped up when you whispered, “good luck.” 

You were an utter vision. Azriel was sure that you had chosen him to be your champion because of the closeness in your ages, but your support, even if it was just a piece of cloth you had embroidered, meant the world. He hadn’t won his first joust, or his second, but you kept sponsoring him. Azriel became accustomed to stopping under the royal box and bowing to you before heading to his starting position. Sometimes, especially if it was an important event, you would have a new handkerchief for him, or even some whispered encouragement, but Azriel didn’t need those things as long as he could keep making eye contact with you. And then he started winning. He could still hear your excited screams as his javelin hit his opponent straight on, which gained Azriel the championship. It wasn’t unusual for members of the court to get invested in the jousting, but others found it humorous that you were jumping from your seat to see better. However, you were only a teenager, and they knew you would soon be able to control your emotions. 

You had not-so-patiently waited for Azriel to bring his horse back around to the royal box after doing a lap of the stadium. People had thrown flowers and kisses and Azriel had shed his helmet, his cheeks hot from both the exertion and attention. When he saw you, he bowed deeply and handed a flower that someone had thrown to him. It was a small red rose. Your gloved fingers brushed his as you took the flower. His black hair hung over his face as he ducked his head. You made a mental note to have the barber stop by the barracks. “My Princess,” he muttered, head still bowed. “Thank you for choosing me as your champion, all those months ago.”

“Well, Sir Azriel, it certainly paid off, didn’t it?” you replied, smiling down at him. “It’s an honour to have you wear my colours.” You nodded to one of your handkerchiefs that was tucked in the chink of his armour, right above his breast. 

That was the past. And now, Azriel had the glorious opportunity to stand in front of the King and Queen, multiple siphons displayed proudly as he suggested his own name for the position of your bodyguard. Your childhood knight was retiring, something everyone thought was best as his wit, speed, and strength declined. That opened up the position. The King and Queen had called for the Shadowsinger’s opinion and he gave it, however biased he was with his feelings. “Your Majesties, I believe that the best thing for this kingdom and your daughter would be if I offered my services.” 

“And why is that, Shadowsinger? Wouldn’t you rather be sent on missions and participate in protecting our kingdom?”

“With all due respect, my King, the princess is the face of the kingdom,” Azriel said, a knee pressing against the floor of the throne room. It hurt, yes, but he could handle it if it meant sparing you the pain. “The people love her, but that also means many hate her. There are too many dangers, especially with other kingdoms threatening to encroach on our borders. I would be able to protect the princess, and you and the Queen, more efficiently if I was her personal guard.”

The two monarchs exchanged a look before the Queen nodded. “Very well, then. You’ll assume the position effective immediately. You shall accompany Princess Y/n to events and daily excursions. You’ll be briefed more extensively later this week.”

Azriel nodded and stood. He thanked the King and Queen and hurried out, trying to conceal his budding smile.

“Do you remember all the signals?” you called from your dressing room. 

Azriel was standing outside, content to just listen to your voice, but he replied, “yes, my princess.”

“And you’re wearing your dress uniform?”

“Yes, my princess.”

“Are all the other guards as well?”

“Yes, my princess.”

The door then opened and you peeked out. “And are you sick of me asking you senseless questions?” you asked, an apologetic smile on your lips.

“Never, my princess,” Azriel answered softly, eyes holding yours. “Are you almost ready?”

You ducked back into your dressing room, voice floating out again. “Almost. I believe we just need some more hairpins, yes?” Your maid responded in an affirmative and a couple minutes later, the door opened once more. There you stood in a cobalt gown that cascaded down to the floor, hair all done up, and jewellery proudly displayed on your knuckles and upon your collarbone. It didn’t escape Azriel that your dress was the same colour as his siphons.

Azriel had spent years serving under the King and Queen, honing his emotions to be the stoic force he needed to be. But, with you in front of him, he found his resolve cracking. His eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Do I look that horrible, sir?” you teased.

The guard immediately shook his head. “No, my princess. Quite the opposite, in fact. You…” his jaw tensed. “Those princes and dukes will be tripping over their feet.”

As much as Azriel would love to pretend that you were his and he would be the only one accompanying you tonight, he knew that this ball was for a very specific reason, and one he did not like. Your parents needed you wed, and it couldn’t be to him.

Nobility and court members alike knew to avoid Azriel when he was watching you. You were on your fifth dance with the fifth man and Azriel made sure to walk around the dance floor as you moved, always being as close as possible.

The moment Azriel had known he was to be your new personal knight, he had created a series of hand signals for you to use covertly. He was always on the lookout for your well-being and thankfully, there had only been a few times when you had needed to use the hand signals.

Months prior, your parents had held an anniversary ball for their marriage. You were a bit younger, more naive, and Azriel had only been your personal knight for just under a year. He had loved every moment of it, but he couldn’t help but feel a budding sense of anticipatory fear as he saw you twirl around the dance floor carelessly. You had one of your younger cousins in your arms and was spinning them around to their delight. While Azriel wanted to imagine a smaller child in the stead of your cousin, perhaps one with dark hair and your eyes and little wings that replicated his own, he was more focused on the older man that was watching you.

A measly Count from further South, the man looked twice your age and three times as intoxicated. He stayed on the outskirts of the celebration, but the Shadowsinger was not one to miss something.

When the Count approached you after your dance with your cousin, Azriel didn’t intervene. He couldn’t act only on a suspicion that the Count was malicious. And he wouldn’t act without your express approval.

But then he saw you twist the ring on your pointer finger.

When Azriel had first become your bodyguard, you were unsure if you could remember all the signals he had wanted you to memorise. A deeper fear, admittedly, was that he wouldn’t be watching and then unintentionally leave you to your own devices. Azriel was determined, however, to never waive your trust. He immediately came marching in, whispering something meaningless into your ear under the guise of matters only you, the princess, could attend to, and swept you away. A dirty look was thrown to the Count and Azriel made sure never to let you near him again. In fact, the Count was barred from any and all future events.

Meanwhile, you had finished your dance with the nameless suitor and Azriel already had an arm stretched out for you. You took it gratefully, needing a respite from all the men giving you unabashed stares. “I really do hate this,” you said to him as he guided you away. “I don’t see why they’re even letting me choose my husband if he will be from this very specific pool of men. At this point, it would be easier to simply betroth me to whomever they see fit.”

“You know my feelings on that, my princess,” Azriel replied. “And I’m sure your parents feel the same. They wish for you to have some sort of semblance of choice and happiness.” Even if it is not with me, the man who would worship you.

You sighed and looked down at your feet. “I know, good sir. But it’s tiring, as I’m sure you can realise. I’d much rather be in my room, engaging in the arts or taking a nap.”

Azriel couldn’t help but let out a deep laugh, one that drew your lips up into a brilliant smile. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure you would.” He paused and then looked down at you. You looked so perfect on his arm and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep you there. “Here’s a proposition: if you survive the rest of this evening, I will dance with you.”

Your eyes immediately light up and Azriel swore the stars themselves burned brighter, pledging their allegiance to you. God, you were like ambrosia in his veins and how he wished for it to keep flowing. “Really?” you gasped. Azriel had been very conservative in his dances, even though, unbeknownst to you, he would dance on forever if you asked. But whenever he held you in his arms, it was too intoxicating. Too dangerous. He was still the Shadowsinger, even if he was sworn to protect you. The hands he held you with had been the notorious cause for so much pain. The thought of telling you about his past missions… It scared him more than imaginable. Those memories were ones best kept locked away within the shadows. He didn’t want you to think of the people he’s hurt – of the suffering he had caused – when you looked at him.

So all he did was nod back, smiling the soft look only you could bring out.

The night slowly wore on, the candles flickering over the walls, bidding the departing guests farewell. And still you stayed. Even as the moonlight rose above the windows and the maids and butlers slowly began cleaning up, you stayed. Only the musicians remained as Azriel led you to the middle of the floor. There was an unspoken trust between you and the musicians, knowing they wouldn’t tell your parents (who had already gone to bed) about your singular, last dance with your knight.

Easily, you placed your hand on his shoulder and Azriel’s palm flexed on the small of your back. The way your dress swished softly was a small distraction from the thoughts swirling in Azriel’s mind. He drew your joined hands closer to his chest as he thought back to how you danced with those other men. As if you knew he needed comfort, you stepped closer to Azriel, resting your head on his chest and eyes closing with exhaustion. His arms automatically wrapped around you, holding you tightly – almost protectively – as he let his cheek rest on your hair. His eyes softened and he murmured, “tired, my princess?” 

“Over a multitude of things,” you replied. 

Azriel tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. “A multitude of things?”

“I almost wish I didn’t have to marry,” you admitted. “It’s not as easy as it seems in the stories. I need to take alliances into consideration and the happiness of my people. Along with wealth, resources, and good blood. My feelings hardly add into the equation, even though I want them too.” You then shook your head and changed the subject, a teasing smile on your lips. “Has anyone complimented your wings before?”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“No,” he responded, a bit hoarsely. “No one has.”

You hummed and shook your head. “They should.” Your eyes trailed down to your intertwined hands before giving his palm a small squeeze. His burn scars marred his skin, contractures stretching over his hands and arms and small keloids by his wrists and creeping up to his elbows. Azriel winced slightly at the pressure of your hand on his scarred skin, memories of the pain flooding back. He tried to hide it, not wanting to ruin the moment, but a flicker of discomfort crossed his features. You instantly lifted your hand slightly to give him reprieve. Azriel wished for the contact back, but he knew he was the one to blame for the lack of touch. He was the one to make you flinch away.

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, trying to bring the conversation back to his wings. "You’re the first.”

“I’m privileged then,” you murmured as he spun as the music lilted. “Though it truly is a pity.”

As you spun around, Azriel's wings extended instinctively, the iridescent membranes catching the moonlight. He held you close, ensuring your balance, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to revel in the beauty of his own wings. They were a part of him, and something he couldn’t imagine living without. He watched you longingly as you twirled in his arms. His eyes followed the movement of your gown as you twirl. When he had you pressed close to him once again, he replied quietly, “is it really a pity, my princess?”

“They should’ve been complimented — all of you should’ve been complimented a thousand times before now,” you corrected yourself quickly, thumb sweeping over his hand where yours was placed on top of his. “You don’t see how amazing you are because you hide behind your scars and memories. But you’re the best knight I’ve had.”

The words carved him open deeper than any blade, striking into the insecurities he held. The sincerity in your voice and the gentle touch of your thumb on his hand made something in his chest ache. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. The idea of all of him being complimented, rather than just specific parts or aspects, such as his fighting ability, was a foreign concept. He glanced down at you, eyes filled with sereness. “All of me?” he asked quietly, his voice rough.

You nodded with a caring, hopeful smile on your face. Maybe he would finally see how sensational he was.

Eventually, you came to a stop, standing in the middle of the room. The musicians finished their song and quietly packed up, leaving. Yet, you and Azriel were still in each other’s arms. Azriel continued to hold you, savoring the moment. He relished being able to hold you like this, without anyone else around. 

“Do you truly pity me?” he wondered.

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered out. “I would never be able to pity the man who devoted his life to me. I would never be able to pity the man who devotes himself to me. And I don’t think I have it in me to pity the man whom I truly care for.”

For a brief moment, he stood rigid, unused to such easy affection. Then, his wings unfurled slightly, wrapping around you both like a cocoon, shielding you from the world outside. “As I you, my princess,” he allowed himself to say, scared that if anything more were to come from his mouth, it would be a declaration of unwanted love.

“Will you ever call me anything else?” you couldn’t help but tease, looking up at him.

Azriel smiled back down at you, hazel eyes warm with love. “No, my princess.” The night was silent, but Azriel didn’t want to be. His lips parted to tell you something, but when your eyes darted down to them, he found himself asking, “have I yet praised your dress?”

“You have,” you laughed. “But it’s kind of you to do it again. I wanted to match you, you know?” You reached down and pulled your dress to the side to reveal a glittering sheen of fabric under the thick cobalt fabric.

Azriel’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Beautiful, princess,” he admired sincerely once again. “It’s an honour to have you wear my colours.” He repeated the words you had said to him all those years ago.

“I’ll always wear your colours,” you replied. “You’re my knight, after all. Ever since I was young.” Your hand slid up his chest and wrapped around his neck, thumb brushing against his skin and along the hair by the nape of his neck.

The Shadowsinger couldn’t contain his shiver. “Must you, my princess?” he breathed out, voice rough.

“Must I what?”

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut and his head dipped down, nose brushing against your forehead. “Must you marry some duke or prince?”

It took you a while to respond and Azriel’s heart only beat faster each second that passed. “No,” you admitted quietly. “But my parents would like it. They won’t have me marry a commoner, but… I could very well marry a knight.”

“Princess…” Every part of his soul seems to be reaching out, grasping for you. His grip tightened slightly, holding you against him as if he feared you would be ripped. His hands trembled slightly as they remained on your waist. There was a vulnerability in his eyes – a desperate need for confirmation that the words you said were real. “Do not give me hope if you plan on tearing it away. It is too cruel of you.”

“So it’s true,” you muttered. “You have feelings for me?”

“I am not brave like you,” he instead said. “I’ve been your loyal knight for years, my princess. But I couldn’t bear to make myself a liability to your heart. I couldn’t do that to you. I care what others think of me, as much as I hate it. They cannot pity me, I cannot have it so.”

You shook your head sadly. “Sir, they do not feel sorry for you. No one does, especially not me. You’ve protected me for so long, you’ve more than earned your place here by my side. This isn’t some fanciful notion born of youthful indiscretion. You and I both know that. This is a mature, considered love that, hopefully, you feel too.” Your voice cracked as you continued and tears shone in your eyes. Oh, how Azriel hated to be the one to cause you such pain. “My love for you, as you are, flaws and all, is why I adore you so deeply.”

The man couldn’t bring himself to say anything. What did one say when the love of their life confessed feelings?

You couldn’t see the way he gazed down at you, almost lovingly. You stubbornly kept your cheek on his chest, trying to minimise the way your cheeks heated up. Why wasn’t he saying anything? But you were already so far in, so you couldn’t help but whisper, “you would do most anything for me, correct, good sir?”

“Within a heartbeat.”

“Do you mind if I demand something from you?” you asked.

Azriel chuckled softly at your question, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rested. He tilted his head curiously as his fingers traced small circles on your lower back. “What did you have in mind, my princess?” he asked, his voice low. “I'm curious now... What could possibly entice you enough to make a deal with the devil himself?” 

“Oh, the devil himself?” you repeated, shaking your head as you laughed softly. Somehow, he always managed to make you feel better, no matter the embarrassment that coursed through you. “Is that what you truly think of yourself?” You smiled up at him, not answering his question as you tried to find the courage to do so. Finally, you whispered out, “a kiss.”

Azriel's breath caught in his throat at your whispered confession. For a moment, he was stunned into silence, hardly believing what he heard. He could feel his heart skip a beat, like a leaf in the wind. You looked so small in his strong arms, so hopeful. “Is that all you would ask for?” he finally managed to ask. His wings twitched a bit.

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. That’s what I would demand.”

He stared down at you, taking in every detail of your face - the slight parting of your lips, the wide-eyed gaze, the flush creeping up your neck. He could feel the tension between you, thick and electric, like the air before a storm. His hand slid up your back, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. Gently, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Just a kiss,” he repeated, his voice a low rasp. “Nothing more?” 

“Ignorant knight,” you whispered out once, laughing.

“Is that still what you want?” he asked again desperately. His heart hammered in his chest so hard it made him dizzy. His eyes traced over your face over and over again. 

“Oh, Shadowsinger,” you muttered, shaking your head in amusement. You reached up and cupped his face in your palms. “Why won’t you kiss me?” You reached up on your tiptoes before slowly connecting your lips. 

Azriel had been struck by lightning. Every nerve ending in his body came alive, sending sparks of pleasure through him. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, scarcely able to believe what was happening. Then, with a low groan, he melted into the kiss. His hand came to cup your face tenderly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he deepened the kiss. He poured all his pent-up longing and affection into it, trying to convey without words just how much you mean to him.

From the sheer intensity of it, your knees weakened under you, but Azriel quickly wrapped his arm around your waist to hold you securely against his chest. You tilted your head and it felt like a dream. But he didn’t need to wake up because you were real. You were there, loving him fully and kissing him sweetly.

Azriel laid in bed, body and wings curled around the smaller form. His eyes blinked slowly, gazing down reverently at the infant. The baby had small wings that were almost exact to Azriel’s own. They had made the birth difficult and Azriel had been about ready to break down the door when he heard your screams. He hadn’t been allowed in the room, even though you had begged for him. Your cries had brought him to his knees and replaced the nightmares about his past missions with ones of your sobs.

Nevertheless, you had accomplished the horrible feat and Azriel had rushed into the room. He had first checked up on you, hands and anxieties flying about, kisses being placed on the skin that he could reach. Then he saw his little son, whom he now held in his arms. 

You had recuperated over the months, but it never got old to Azriel to hold his child. It never got old to hold you either. The moment he had gotten his child in his arms, so unbelievably worried about doing harm to him as he had done harm to so many others in his past, Azriel had asked for another. 

You had almost thrown him out of the room.

That first night, Azriel had held both you and child close to his bare chest, for the midwives had said that skin-to-skin contact was best. For the next few weeks, Azriel hardly put on a shirt (which you didn’t complain about), so it got normal to see the ex-knight pressing his son against his chest as he walked around the castle, as if giving the newborn a tour. The baby’s head fit perfectly in Azriel’s palm and more often than not, he would look up at his father with wide eyes that were so much like his mother’s, reaching out to grab at Azriel’s chin or wings.

The Shadowsinger had yet to be thrust into the life of King, for your parents hadn’t passed on, but for that he was grateful. It gave him more time to spend with his wife and child.

There was the creak of a floorboard and Azriel looked up to see you entering your shared bedroom. A smile instantly broke out on his face. “There’s my wife,” he murmured, reaching out with his hand that was adorned by the perfect ring. Its twin sat on your own finger. “My princess.” The words had such a sweeter connotation now.

“Husband,” you replied, having yet to get used to that word. You took his hand, and with a smile of your own, crawled into bed next to your son. “How are my two favorite Shadowsingers doing?”

“Oh, he shall not need that title,” Azriel hummed. “It’s much too dangerous for our little boy.”

“And what would you rather propose?”

Azriel gazed down at the small child, a hand ghosting over the boy’s thick patch of dark hair. “That’s for him to decide,” he finally said. “He will be able to make his own name and title and we will love him whichever path he chooses.”

After some blissful moments passed, you allowed some words to tumble from your mouth. “Are you happy, my love?”

“Of course.” He looked up at you, concerned eyes snapping away from the babe. “Why do you ask? Do you doubt my love for you?”

You shook your head, smiling. Your voice was quiet, worried about stepping over a line. But if almost two years of marriage had taught you anything about Azriel, it was that he never held secrets from you. “No, never. I just remember how, before we were wed, you were certain that everybody pitied you. I was wondering, do you still think they do?” 

“No,” your husband replied, eyes soft as he looked over at you. “Why would they? My entire world is here with me now. I hardly need anything else.”

Thank you so much for reading! This is my first ACOTAR fic so I hope I did Azriel justice. 😊 I wanna thank @pellucid-constellations for writing amazing Azriel fics and getting me into ACOTAR in the first place and just being amazing. (Also @illyrianbitch for posting today and giving me the excitement to post for Az) 😁

[sara-the-wizard]

I Care. Chapter 6 (part 1/2) (Rottmnt comic)

Donnie and Raph assemble the wheelchair back together for Leo. And honestly, after being stuck in bed for a week, Leo is super excited to get away from the med bay! On the other hand, Donnie doesn't think he deserves any gratitude for finding the wheelchair pieces. It was his fault Leo was hurt in the first place! Donnie wanted to set things right and fix Leo. Truthfully, it looks like everything would be okay! But... Leo's not out of danger yet.

Next Part: Previous Part: Start:

[just-b-wilde]

Hands 6x06

[gogtropica]

GEORGENOTFOUND FUNNIEST MAN ALIVE

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Does anyone have any tips on writing flashbacks? I'm finding the tense a pain -- "When Jonathan was a boy, he had once run into friends at the local chip shop. "What are you doing here?" Biff had said .... But if not using perfect tense, what's a good way to transition into and out of flashbacks?

I know I've read good ones, but I can't remember how it worked (because it was "invisible")

One big issue with flashbacks is that there are so many ways to do them. That makes juggling when and where to do them a bit tough. However, there's definitely some things to keep in mind:

Some Don'ts

Don't use a flashback right before conveying information the flashback makes essential. The one is a bit confusing, but imagine this - you're in the middle of a confrontation with the big bad. Right before they start fighting, a flashback reveals the villain killed your main character's brother and therefore this is personal! ...Except that information would have been better revealed much earlier in the novel, especially if everyone but the reader knows it.

Don't start a flashback in the middle of an action scene. You could, for example, throw some quick remembrances of something that happened in the past, but if you're interrupting a critical scene to yank the reader back to a multi-page event in the past, you're killing all the tension in the story.

Don't let a flashback take over the main plot. If the flashback is more important than what's happening in the present, you're writing the story from the wrong point of time. You might want to consider shifting the narrative to that time period, and dealing with the "current" plot at a later point in the book or settling for quick, contextualizing flash forwards.

Don't use a flashback to hide things from the audience. The absolute worst way to use a flashback is to make a scene look like it happened in a way that it didn't. If your flashback is deliberately misleading in a way the characters of the story are aware of, don't use it. For example, let's say your MC flashes back to her father's murder. It's framed to look like her uncle did it. But your MC has known all along her mother was the murderer. The flashback isn't a story she's telling, it only exists for the readers, and audience she's not aware of. Even in first-person with an unreliable narrator, a flashback is not a good way to introduce doubt in a story. It makes the reader feel as if they've been cheated.

Some Dos

Use flashbacks to convey something essential to the story. You might have pages of past events that you've cut out of your story. I certainly do. But including them slowed down the pacing and killed the tension, and ultimately, I narrowed it down to what was essential for moving forward the plot. If the flashback tells us nothing about the character, the plot, or the world in relation to either, it's probably not necessary.

Use flashbacks for character-building. Your character is formed by their past. You will need to touch on that past in some ways. A flashback triggered by a painful memory (discovering an old toy, looking at a photograph, etc) might be a way to go about it.

To show how the character got there. Your character stumbles into a bar with a head injury. As they attempt to have a normal conversation, we flash back to the car accident they fled from.

Use flashbacks to highlight but not show the real issue. This is harder to convey, but if your character is trying to avoid the truth of an event, they might often revisit the event (a fight, an argument, a conversation), but not cover all the details. This skews toward hiding things from the reader, so you should be careful about it. However, if the narrator is avoiding the truth, there are ways to do it (flashing back but not covering the whole event, flashing back to pieces of the event, etc).

Use flashbacks to frame what actually happened. Your character tells a story about themselves the whole book, but the flashback reveals what actually happened in a moment that reveals the true nature of their character.

Types of Flashbacks

Mid-scene, short paragraphs. Good for characters struggling with trauma, trying to avoid the truth of something, or looking at an image or thing that jogs their memory.

A few pages of needed context. Your MCs are at a party. They're laughing it up, seemingly having a good time. The next page or so steps back into the fight they had in the car on the way there, and how they spent time fixing their makeup before going inside.

A whole chapter - maybe. As I said above, the longer you spend in a past event, the more likely that is the main story. But if you need the POV of a character from the past, or need to highlight a critical event that you deliberately skipped over when it happened, a chapter might be a good call.

How to determine what kind of flashback you need and where you need it? That depends on where you're at in the story.

Does this flashback convey critical information about your character?

Does this flashback convey critical information about your plot?

Does this flashback add to or fit into the tension of the scenes around it?

Does the flashback slow down or stop the action? (It may be in the wrong place in your story.)

On that note, is your finale flashback-free? (If you're wrapping up the story, you need to have all your cards on the table.)

There's many, many more things we could get into, but that's a decent start. Working in flashbacks is a matter of trial and error at times, so don't shy away from them when drafting. You'll figure it out!

[mikaikaika]

Foolish : Are you [Pangi] wearing a mask?

Pangi : Yeah it's a gas mask

Foolish : Ohh I uhmm had a phase with that once. I get you

[backstabber128]

Here's the inevitable part 2 of the God of War Ragnarok x Arcane crack AU I had y'all 👍👍

These ideas obliterated me out of nowhere so I definitely went wild with them this time. I fleshed out more of the girls' origins and the drama with Silco who's on a spree for revenge on Vander.

Silco saves little Powder from a pack of monsters and she tries to give him a reason not to finish his quest for vengeance.

Unfortunately, their relationship isn't enough because Silco doesn't believe he can be saved. He uses his mind control power to manipulate Vi's anger + Spartan Rage against herself and Vander. Even so, Powder can't bring herself to kill him after seeing he's not entirely the monster they say he is.

The fight ends with Powder alone with Silco and scarred from the chains of Vi's blades of chaos. And of course Silco banishes Vi into another realm and assumes she would die from her injuries.

(Vander may or may not get revived and come back later stuck in his beast form bc this AU is tragic enough 😭)

I'll leave the rest to interpretation but this was a blast to draw! The Norse mythology theme is still my favorite and drawing the fight scenes and family stuff was the best part.^^

[lobotomyscars]

the crushing weight of every horrible thing that has happened to me

[miryum]

You've Got Stars in Your Eyes so Let's Paint the Sky (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: Azriel “mourns” his wife

Warnings: Az pretending to be angsty (but happy ending), recreational drug use (tho not from Az or reader), gambling, drinking/alcohol, mentions of hangovers, timeline is a bit loosey goosey, a bit of Elain-bashing, guilt. (title is from Hold On by Extreme Music. Fic is not based off of it, but I was listening to it while editing and thought it fit well)

Word Count: 2.9k

Azriel was hardly one to get intoxicated. Yet there he was, sitting around the expansive fireplace with the other members of the Inner Court, tossing back his fifth glass of alcohol. 

It was not an uncommon occurrence for the Court to get drunk every once in a while and indulge in pleasure after their missions. Azriel had just returned from a two-week long commission and was slouched in an armchair big enough for his wings to fold comfortably behind him. It hadn’t been very taxing, but the trip had required secrecy. He couldn’t speak to anyone, just having to let his shadows zip in and out of places, returning to whisper in his ear. Admittedly, he had missed his family and couldn’t say no when Cassian asked him to join in some indulgences.

A cloud of weed surrounded Cass as he took another drag. Even Rhys had an ornate pipe between his lips, though he had yet to light it. Feyre sat on his lap, dragging a slow hand through his hair. Mor had convinced Nesta to play a round of cards and the pair had money laid out for the winner. Elain was sitting next to them, awkwardly watching. Amren was in Summer Court, visiting Varian.

The Shadowsinger didn’t like to drink. It usually brought back painful memories at night, though he was able to forget about them during the fact. He liked the sting of alcohol and its taste, but not the effects. The pleasure of it burning down his throat was always welcome, but the headache in the morning was uncomfortable. As he would lay in bed that next morning, memories swirled in his mind, either one’s from the night before or from his childhood. It was a gamble he was very rarely willing to take. And yet, as he watched Rhys finally light his pipe, Azriel couldn’t help but take another down of his drink. He swallowed thickly and the alcohol was like fire. The moment he compared it, he glanced down at his hands. Flexing his fingers, Azriel turned his stare to his whiskey. It was a lovely amber that seemed to glow in the firelight.

Azriel’s eyes wandered to his brothers and their mates. His finger slid around the rim of his cup, sometimes catching on the glass and disrupting his rhythm. His lips pressed together and his gaze turned to the fire. Shadows slowly curled around him, resting in his lap like a cat. They shifted and creeped lazily up to settle on his forearms. One wisped around his ear before brushing against his cheek, like a kiss. A deep sadness settled within Azriel. His heart weighed down as if by an anchor. 

He reached up and brushed at the leathers right over his chest, like he was searching for something that wasn’t there. One shadow climbed up to nestle in his hair, before settling down with a wistful sigh only Azriel could hear.

“You alright, brother?” Rhys asked, noting the shift in mood. Feyre glanced towards Azriel, resting her head on Rhys’ shoulder. Elain quickly looked over her shoulder.

The Illyrian nodded, exhaling through his nose. “Simply thinking,” is what he only replied.

Cassian blew out a smoke ring before turning to the conversation. “And what is it that you’re thinking of?”

Azriel only shook his head when he noticed Nesta peering up at him suspiciously. She laid down a card and Mor’s brows furrowed just a touch. It was things like these that one noticed being the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

Rhys studied Az’s face carefully. It wasn’t unusual for Azriel to be quiet, but something about this was unsettling. Something was on his mind and there was only one person that made Azriel this melancholy. Unfortunately, the weed was lowering his inhibitions, and he forgot the promise he had made to Azriel when the Archeron sisters had first arrived. “Thinking of Y/n again?” he asked in a whisper, though his voice was powerful enough to sweep the room. 

Mor instantly tensed, a contemplative frown on her face. Cassian blew out a long column of smoke, using his full chest to exhale. Feyre stared at Azriel, confusion swirling on her features. She stayed in the crook of her mate’s side, ever perceptive. Nesta rubbed a card between her thumb and pointer, about to set it down. She was the first to speak. “Who’s Y/n?”

The night was silent and it took a long time for Azriel to answer. He pressed his finger into the rim of his glass and the shadow in his hair seemed to deflate slightly. Even the shadows in his lap stilled before curling tighter around their master, either asking for comfort or trying to give it.

“My wife.”

Elain’s eyes grew wide and a thick blush covered her cheeks. Her stare darted down to his fingers, as if looking for a ring. When she didn’t find one, she turned away, head ducking down. Feyre lifted her head off of Rhys’ shoulder and even Nesta looked shocked. The senior Inner Circle, however, didn’t react. They all knew who Y/n was and they loved her dearly.

“I miss her. I miss my wife,” Azriel muttered, staring down into his drink.

Azriel could barely see through his tears. He stood, in a new custom suit, in front of his brothers. He sniffed once and Rhys clapped him on the back so hard he let out a cough. 

“Where is she?” Cass muttered from his place behind Rhys. Rhys then turned around and gave him a sharp glare. Amren rolled her eyes at their display and Mor gave Azriel an encouraging nod. The females were standing opposite them.

It was then that the door to the garden opened and Azriel turned to see his mate, you, walk out. 

You were wearing the dress you had always gushed about and your hair was styled beautiful. A bouquet of flowers was grasped in your hands, though Azriel could hardly see any of that. All he could see was your eyes. They had quickly become his favourite colour and something he loved to stare into. 

The tears finally began to fall. He could hardly remember the words the High Priestess said, too lost in the feeling of your hands in his and how utterly beautiful you looked. You had insisted on a wedding after learning of the human custom. Your mating bond had snapped over seven years ago, but Azriel was more than happy to keep indulging in your wishes.

Morrigan and Amren were your ladies and Rhysand and Cassian were Azriel’s gentlemen, something you insisted was vital in a wedding. You had also insisted on exchanging rings, slipping the band onto his fingers before he repeated the gesture to you.

Finally, Azriel had the chance to kiss you. He had kissed you plenty of times before, even before you were mated, but this felt… more complete. With one hand on your hip, he pulled you close. You let out a giggle as his other hand cradled the back of your neck. His lips curved up into a devilish grin before dipping you low. You let out a lovely squeal, arms looping around his neck, before he silenced you with a fierce kiss.

And so you were wed. And he would never let you go.

Mor let out a sigh, rising from her place on the floor. She stood for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. Eventually, she decided to refill her own glass before offering the pitcher to Azriel. He took it thankfully. “I miss her as well,” she said. “But it does not help to dwell on her, Azriel. It only makes you sad, and you know this.”

“What- what happened?” Elain asked, clearing her throat. Feyre shot her a stern look but Nesta hummed in agreement. As much as Feyre wanted to be considerate, her curiosity also burned.

In response to Azriel’s silence, Rhys provided quietly, “I sent her on a mission. Years ago.” The muscles in his jaw jumped and Feyre made a sympathetic noise, running a hand through his hair again. “I don’t believe Azriel has ever forgiven me since.”

Azriel let out a derisive scoff. He pressed his lips together and gave Rhys an eye roll. However, after a moment, he said, “it comes and goes.”

Elain shifted her position so she was sitting a little closer to Azriel and facing him. “How many years ago?” she asked, her voice calm and consoling. “Do you still have your ring?”

Cassian was the one to answer, brows pulling together like a drawstring. “Only two years,” he said. It sounded like he was scolding Elain, but Azriel didn’t notice, instead focusing on a shadow that was weaving around his fingers. 

The shadow drifted up to rest on Az’s collarbone and it dipped down to touch his leathers. With a sad, nostalgic smile, he tugged out a chain that was hidden beneath his clothing. Hanging down from it was a gold ring. “Even before her mission, I thought it would be best to keep it out of sight,” he murmured. “In case I was ever caught. I wouldn’t want to risk her.”

Mor, who had been drifting around the room, gave Azriel’s shoulder a squeeze as she passed.

Meanwhile, Elain glanced towards Feyre, a pleading look in her eyes. Rhys turned towards his mate and let his hand glide up and down her side. Feyre finally asked, “did the bond ever snap for the two of you?”

Azriel’s entire expression softened and practically everyone could see his shoulders relax. He wasn’t sure if it was the memories or the fire that sent a warm feeling through his chest and throughout his body.

You stood on your balcony, doors wide open and arms crossed. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be at the Town House. You wanted to be at your shared apartment with Azriel, one that was located in the city center. But, seeing as Az was being a stubborn male, you had decided to spend the night away.

Of course, Azriel wasn’t going to let you. You saw his shadows before you saw him. They zipped to you, racing up your body. They twirled around you excitedly and you couldn’t help your smile. Even if you were mad at the Shadowsinger, you couldn't stay mad at his shadows. “You know I love you, yes?” came his smooth, quiet voice from behind you.

You let out a breath and nodded. Azriel came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder and in your peripheral vision, you could see his wings twitch next to you, as if wanting to embrace you too.

“That’s not an apology,” you noted.

It was Azriel’s turn to sigh and his breath tickled your skin. “I know,” he murmured. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Entering your relationship, you were aware that apologising was hard for Azriel. He wasn’t used to making mistakes and was usually so guarded and careful that he didn’t. But you were different. You made him feel things that no one else had and he didn’t know what to do with those feelings. He was bound to make some mistakes.

Finally, he turned his head into your neck and whispered out, “I am sorry, my love.”

That’s when the bond snapped.

Your soul was yanked towards Azriel’s and the centre of the universe seemed to change. Everything was now focused on him. Everything now made sense. And based on the hopeful, desperate expression on Azriel’s face, he felt it too.

“We didn’t see them until practically a month after their mating ceremony,” Mor snickered. Cass let out a loud laugh, the weed making everything seem much more funny than it actually was. Elain pressed her lips together. 

Azriel shook his head fondly. His shadows suddenly darted away from him, but he was too inebriated to care. “Shut your mouth, Morrigan,” he muttered, though he was smiling. “What can I say? I love Y/n. It was a nice month.” He took a sip of his whiskey, trying to hide his grin.

Yet, before he could start reminiscing, a knock sounded against the wood of the doorframe. “Az, what are you telling these lovely people?” a new voice spoke up, a teasing lilt in the tone.

Azriel instantly stood. “By the Cauldron,” he murmured reverently. He didn’t notice the Archeron sisters peering curiously at the newcomer as he launched himself into your arms. You were obstructed from view to the sisters as Azriel’s wings curled around you protectively as he held you close. His grip was desperate and loving as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. “My love,” he whispered out so that only you could hear. “I didn’t know you were visiting.”

You held your mate close, a hand brushing calmly in his curls and your other on his back. “I’m not visiting,” you replied softly. “Rhys said I could be done. With the mission, I mean.”

Azriel had half a mind to turn and shoot an accusing look at Rhys, but he wouldn’t take his eyes away from your beautiful face. “My wife,” he muttered. He took your hand in his and kissed the ring you wore proudly. “Forgive me.”

“What for?” you asked.

He shook his head and pressed his forehead to yours. “That promise I made to you years ago – I didn’t keep it. I let my emotions get the best of me as I missed you. Rhys didn’t deserve my anger for sending you away.”

You let out a laugh that was beauty incarnate to Azriel’s ears and Feyre shared an bemused look with Nesta. Since when did Azriel apologise? And for being rude to his brothers, of all things. To add to it, he had been smiling more with you in his arms than the entire time they had known him. Was it simply that the Shadowsinger had missed his mate? Was there another layer underneath that lay dormant until you were there to peel it back? What was Azriel truly like when the love of his life was home?

Cassian called you over and you exchanged hugs with the rest of the Inner Circle. Mor was ecstatic to have you back – her best friend had returned. You were disappointed that Amren wasn’t there to greet you, but you understood the needed time with her mate. After all, you were sure Azriel wouldn’t let you out of his sight after being reunited. 

You were then introduced to the Archeron sisters. You gave Feyre a little teasing bow and greeted, “my High Lady.” Feyre scoffed and swept you into a welcoming hug. 

Nesta was next to greet you and you congratulated her on being able to put up with Cassian. Azriel laughed at your joke, arm around your waist. Throughout greetings and introductions, he had never left your side. Every so often, he would place a kiss on your temple or give your hip a small squeeze. He truly was a different man around you.

Eventually, you stood in front of Elain. “Azriel made it sound like you were dead,” she said in hello. Her voice made it sound like she was passing blame onto your mate, but you tried to brush it off.

With a laugh, you said, “well, he gets rather grumpy whenever I’m away for too long. I’m sure you understand.” Some of Azriel’s shadows brushed lovingly along your arms and face.

“He wasn’t wearing his ring, you know?” She laughed along with you, albeit a bit awkwardly. “You have a lovely mate. You’re very lucky to have him.”

You raised your brow and exchanged a look with Mor. “Yes,” you agreed slowly, thinking that was an odd thing to comment on. “But Azriel can choose to wear his ring or not. And he talked to me about it beforehand. We both thought it best to keep our marriage under wraps as we went on missions.” You held up your left hand and Azriel took that as his cue to nuzzle his nose into your hair. “I put mine on only a couple hours ago, when I knew I’d be coming back.”

Elain’s cheeks filled with heat and she nodded. Muttering some things about how she was glad to meet you, she stepped back and towards Nesta. 

Impatient as ever when it came to you, Azriel soon ushered you away with the complaint on his lips that your attention wasn’t only on him. He wanted to see you back in your home. After mating, he had chosen a wonderful house special just for the two of you. Over the months, it had gotten harder and harder to live there without your presence. Oh, how he had missed you.

When you were finally alone, you cradled his face in your hands, finally able to kiss your mate after two years. One hand slipped down to pull on the chain that hung around his neck. “I need you to wear this now,” you whispered. 

Azriel chuckled and raised a brow. “Jealous, my love?” He pressed close to you, unable to take the feeling of you not cradled in his arms any longer.

“I think I’m entitled to some jealousy,” you replied. “After almost twenty-eight months without hearing your voice, seeing your face, or touching your skin, I get some leeway.”

“Hmm, that you do,” he muttered, slipping his ring back on proudly. “Now, will my beautiful wife accompany me to our home?”

“With pleasure.”

[pop-st4rrr]

Haven’t posted in a bit, here’s my guys :3

[tryandbehappy]

That was… painful.

Cruel, even for us as viewers.

Let’s try to take the emotion out for a second.

June doesn’t know what Nick was facing.

We do.

She didn’t see the pressure, the trap, the impossible position he was cornered into.

To her, it probably looked like betrayal.

But it wasn’t.

Nick didn’t betray June.

He gave up Mayday yes. Because he had no other choice. And thank god it was clear, it was shown

Because, truthfully, he doesn’t care about Mayday, or Gilead, or politics.

He cares about her. He’s always chosen her.

And June keeps choosing the war.

She chooses justice, vengeance, people she loves: Moira, Luke, Janine, Hannah.

And who could blame her?

But it means there’s always something more important than him.

So yes it hurt.

Yes it was devastating.

But was it betrayal?

No.

It was the cost of being in love with someone who keeps choosing something else 😭😭😭

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

Chapter four: If it weren't for you

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3

word count: 5,3k

“You motherfucker!” 

The shout tore through the dormitory like a gunshot, sharp and violent, cutting through the low hum of murmured conversations. It was the kind of sound that made your body react before your mind could catch up. Instead of going to your bed like you intended, you stopped.

Your head snapped toward the source, your pulse spiking—because you knew what was coming. Everyone did.

A commotion? No. A beating.

MG Coin—Player 333—was on the floor, trapped beneath Thanos and Player 124. But this wasn’t a fight. This was a slaughter. Thanos was on top of him, fists hammering down in relentless succession. 124 grabbed 333 by the collar, hauling him up just to slam him back down again.  

A sickening thud. Then another. The sharp crack of knuckles meeting flesh echoed through the dormitory. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but no one moved.  

No one helped.  

You exhaled sharply. Cowards.  

It didn’t matter what 333 had done—fraud or not, no one deserved to be beaten into the floor like a goddamn animal. 

You took a step forward. 

“I lost all that money because of you, you piece of shit,” Thanos snarled, punctuating the words with a brutal kick to 333’s ribs. A choked gasp left his mouth.  

A choked, wet gasp left his mouth. He curled inward, instinctively shielding himself—but it didn’t matter. The next kick came anyway.  

“Be grateful,” Thanos spat. Another kick, “And fucking eat what you’re given.”

Still, no one moved except you.  

Not Jung-bae. Not Dae-ho. Not the players who, moments ago, had been shovelling food into their mouths like this wasn’t a goddamn death camp.  

Dae-ho unconsciously rolled his sleeves back up, flexing his tattooed arms. Considering stepping in. But he didn’t.  

Fuck this.  

You let out an annoyed sigh, hands stuffing into your pockets, "This is bullshit."  

You were almost there when a firm hand clamped down on your shoulder.  

You froze. Player 001.  

Your breath hitched, heartbeat stuttering. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it held just enough weight to make you stop. His fingers lingered, just for a second longer than normal—then he stepped past you, slipping through.  

Purposeful. 

There was something about the way he moved—unhurried but deliberate, like a lion stalking its prey.  

Gi-hun stood, too. His shoulders squared, lips pressed into a hard line as his eyes tracked 001’s approach. The older man stopped a few feet away from the fight, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Then—  

“Boys,” his voice was even, almost gentle. And suddenly the beating stopped. Thanos and 124 turned toward him, confusion flickering across their faces.  

001’s gaze dropped to 333, who lay on the ground, panting, his body curled inward like a dying animal. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened.  

“No fights during mealtime,” he continued, his tone light but firm enough, “There are elders present. Mind your manners.” 

A weight settled over the room. Tension thickened like smoke. Thanos sneered, rolling his shoulders back, ”You’re lecturing me?”, his voice dripped with mockery, disdain.  

He took a step closer, ”Uncle, what the hell are you even doing here?” His lips curled. “You ended up in this shithole too. Maybe you should shut up and take care of your own damn kids.”  

The dormitory stilled. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Slowly—too slowly—001 tilted his head.  

“What did you say?”  

Thanos smirked. He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t notice how players nearest to 001 subtly moved back. Didn’t notice how his own friend, Player 124, hesitated. Didn’t notice the way your stomach coiled, instincts screaming at you.  

Thanos’ arm jerked upward—instinct, pride, stupidity—but he didn’t even make it halfway.

001’s grip tightened, cutting off the movement before it even started. ”Don’t,” 001 said, voice low, steady.

001 struck. 

Fast. Precise. Unforgiving.  

His hand shot out, clamping around Thanos’ throat—not a full choke, but a grip so calculated it forced him to freeze. His thumb pressed just below his jaw. A perfectly placed hold. Thanos stiffened instantly. His hands flew to 001’s wrist, gripping, clawing, trying to pry him off.

It wasn’t working. 

001’s grip didn’t waver. Didn’t tighten. Didn’t need to. It was controlled. Measured.  He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to hurt without crushing.  A calculated show of dominance. 

124 lunged at 001 from behind. Big mistake.  

You were already moving before you even thought about it. Pure instinct. Right?   

A sharp sidestep, just enough to throw him off balance—then your foot connected with his shin, fast and brutal. A sickening thud. 124’s body jerked, a strangled yelp escaping as his leg buckled beneath him. His hands shot down to grab at his knee, staggering—  

Gasps. Someone swore under their breath.  

You barely heard them. Adrenaline burned in your veins. 124 writhed, clutching his leg—but you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.  

“Oh you goddamn bitch, I’m gonna—“ 

Another precise kick to his rib. You didn’t have to, but the way he called you a bitch did something to you. 

“You’re a goddamn bitch, (Y/N), you know that? If it weren’t for your sorry ass maybe Jonah would still be here. If you just would’ve done more.”

Your fists curled so tightly at the memory, they trembled. Thanos was still struggling against 001’s grip, gasping—but before he could claw his way free, 001 let go—only to drive his knuckles into his chest.  

A sharp, precise blow. Thanos choked, staggering. His knees buckled, his lungs fighting for air.

“I—” He wheezed. “Wait—” 

Too late. 001 grabbed his arm, twisted. The movement forced him forward, crashing onto the cold steel floor.  Two brutal kicks to the ribs.  

Thanos wheezed, barely moving now.  001 stepped over him.  Not rushed. Not angry. Just there.  

His fingers wrapped around Thanos’ throat again— This time, his grip wasn’t controlled. This time, it was crushing.  

Thanos gasped, struggled. His purple hair fell over his face, but his complexion was quickly matching it. 001’s fist rose again.  

You moved, “001, that’s enough! Look at him. He gets it! Let him go.”  

The room held its breath. Thanos gasped, choking.  

“She’s right,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”  

001’s expression was unreadable. Then finally he let go.  Thanos slumped to the floor.  

A beat of silence. Suddenly, applause. 

At first, just one person. Then another. Then a wave of cheers. 001’s brows furrowed slightly.  He smoothed his hair back, the movement shy, almost self-conscious. 

What the fuck was that?  And why did it feel so nice?

You turned back toward your group. 390 leaned over.  

“Who the hell is that?”  

Jung-bae and Dae-ho exchanged a glance. Then, simultaneously, they fixed their sleeves.  001 sat down. You followed, heartbeat still hammering.

Jung-bae exhaled. “Sir, where the hell did you learn that?” Dae-ho shook his head. “No way you’re just some old guy. And you—” He looked at you. “Miss 132, one kick and that guy was down!”  

001 and you chuckled. You tilted your head slightly. “But… you’re okay, right?” 001 met your gaze. His expression softened, “I left and came back the same. You?”  

You nodded.  

There was something very peculiar about this man.Dae-ho nudged you. “Miss. Sir. You have to teach us that.”  

—

Lunch and dinner was nice and the evening crept in faster than you expected. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly as the robotic female voice announced, sharp and indifferent—  

"Bedtime will begin in 15 minutes." 

The words settled over the dormitory like a thin layer of dust, familiar yet suffocating. The air shifted. Conversations grew quieter, movements more deliberate, as players shuffled toward their beds. Some climbed to the top bunks, staking their claims. Others stuck close to the lower levels, rooted in silent alliances they hadn’t yet put into words.  

You watched, eyes flickering across the room, before glancing at Gi-hun.  

"Can we just move to any bed we want, or are they assigned?"

Gi-hun nodded, rubbing his arm absently. "Yeah. But most people are sticking to their X and O zones."

You glanced down at the blue sticker on your chest. Oh.

So that was it, then. An invisible divide, carved out by something as simple as a shape. You weren’t sure why it made your stomach twist, why it suddenly felt heavier, more permanent, like the sticker had been pressed directly onto your skin instead of your clothes.

It did matter. The proof was all around you—the way people clustered together, how the dormitory had already begun to separate itself into something more than just a sea of players.

X’s with X’s. O’s with O’s.

And you? You were somewhere in between.

Your fingers hovered over the sticker for a second before dropping to your side. It wasn’t like you cared where you slept. That would be stupid. You just needed a bed. Any bed. This was survival, not summer camp.

But still…

Your eyes flicked toward Gi-hun, then to Jung-bae, who had already claimed a spot next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t even considered looking for somewhere else. Something about it felt… warm. Not quite comfort. Not quite safety. But something close enough that you let the feeling settle for just a moment before pushing it away.

You already saw them as friends. But did they see you the same way?

Or were you just another number, not a name?  

You turned your head.  

Player 001.  

He sat in the same corner where your group had gathered earlier, his expression calm, unreadable. But the way he was watching you too, lord. Your stomach twisted. Not in fear. Not even in discomfort. Just… something you didn’t quite know. It felt fluttery.  

Familiarity.  

And yet you didn’t know why. Something cold curled at the edges of your thoughts, but before it could take root, before you could even grasp onto it, he smiled. Soft. Knowing. 

And suddenly, the moment felt ridiculous.  

Of course he was looking at you. You were looking at him. What else was he supposed to do? You took a breath, shoving the tension aside, and moved toward him. You weren’t sure whether or not to ask. Would he welcome it? Or would it feel wrong? Or worse, would it feel nice?  

Your hesitation hung heavy between you, the seconds stretching just long enough to make you reconsider. “Sir...", you started, voice quieter than you intended. But 001 didn’t let you finish. His smile grew, as if he already knew the question before you asked it.  

"We can sleep next to each other if that’s what you wanted to ask."  

A pause.  

"Really?" 

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I refused?" His voice was light, playful—but there was something behind it. Something that made your skin prickle.  

You swallowed. That feeling again. In your stomach. Recognition, but… not quite. Still, you let it go. The tension in your shoulders eased, and you returned his smile, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you." 

You dropped your water bottle onto the nearest bed, he shortly followed suit, claiming a space the same way Jung-bae had earlier, as if you two had always belonged there. And for some reason, it actually felt nice. You sat down, hands resting on your lap, gaze drifting across the dormitory. For the first time, it hit you how massive this room really was.  

Row after row of steel-framed beds, stacked high, stretching into the distance. People whispering, blankets rustling, quiet conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. A small movement caught the corner of your eye.  

You turned, 001 was already looking at you. This time, he didn’t smile. And this time, the feeling didn’t pass. Your chest tightened, breath catching—because there it was again. That whisper in your brain, pulling at something buried. Something just out of reach.  

A flicker of memory, too fast to hold. A distant echo—smoke curling, the sharp click of a lighter, the weight of silence shared between two people who barely spoke at all.

“Could I have a cigarette?"

Why? 

Your lips parted, instinctually about to say something—but then he smiled again. Soft. Measured. Like he had been waiting for you to figure something out. Like he knew you couldn’t.

And just like that—the moment slipped through your fingers. You forced a small, nervous smile of your own before breaking eye contact.  

---

Gi-hun shifted on his bed, stretching out, but his eyes weren’t relaxed. Every few moments, his gaze swept the room. Watching. Calculating. The weight in your stomach remained. You needed to focus.  

"Do you think we should take shifts at night? Considering the big fight today.” you asked quietly. Gi-hun exhaled. His fingers tapped against his knee as he considered.  

"That’s a good idea."  

Another voice—steady, calm, ”I can take watch first, if you’d like."  

You turned.  

001 sat up, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows across his face. The perfect opportunity.  

To talk. To ask. To figure out why the hell your body reacted to him like it had known him in another life.  

The dormitory lights dimmed. The robotic voice announced: "Lights out in five minutes."  

Chatter faded. The room shifted—bodies settling, whispers dissolving into the rustling of blankets. The moment was slipping away. You exhaled, steadying yourself.  

And yet—as you laid back, staring up at the metal slats above you, you could still feel his gaze.

The moment the lights shut off, the dormitory shifted. Silence never really settled here. Even in the dark, the room breathed—soft murmurs, the occasional rustle of a blanket, the distant creak of a bed frame. Someone let out a quiet sigh in their sleep. Another stirred, turning over. It was a lull of human noise, subtle, constant.  

You stayed still. Waiting.  

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Your mind wouldn’t stop.  

It felt too heavy. Too full. Too restless.  

“Where is the money, dad? Did you drink it away already? That was for Jonah’s funeral and you know it.”

"You think you're so smart, don’t you?" He leaned in, the stench of alcohol thick in the air. "Just like your mother.”

Your fingers curled against the thin blanket, pressing it into your palms. You let out a slow breath, as if you could force the memory out with it. You turned onto your side, eyes adjusting to the dim light seeping in through the high windows. The metal slats above you cast faint shadows, lines stretching long and thin against the walls. Across the dormitory, bodies lay still, curled into themselves, exhaustion pulling them under.  

But not him.  

Player 001.  

You could just barely make out his figure—a quiet silhouette sitting at the base of the stairs. Not asleep. Just there. Watching the room, or maybe watching nothing at all.  

Your stomach twisted.  You didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel like you were meant to sleep yet.  

Slowly, carefully, you slid out from under your blanket, shifting your weight onto your feet. The floor was cold. The air was colder. You moved without thinking too much about it, letting instinct guide you past the beds, weaving through the steel maze of bunks, every breath held just a second too long.  

When you reached the stairs, he didn’t turn immediately.  But you knew he was aware of you.  

You lowered yourself onto the step beside him. Not too close. Not too far. The weight of the dormitory stretched around you both, swallowing the world outside this moment.  

A beat.  

“Can’t sleep?”  

His voice was soft. Not quiet, but something close to it. A murmur in the dark. You hesitated.  

“No.”  

The word came out bare, stripped down, something more honest than you meant for it to be. He nodded slightly, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. For a moment, neither of you spoke. This felt familiar.

The quiet settled thicker this time—not awkward, not uncomfortable, just there. Like it belonged between you. Like it had always been there. You exhaled, pressing your hands together between your knees. “You?” His lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite not.  

“Not yet,” he admitted. Not yet. That answer sat strangely in your chest.  

You looked ahead, gaze trailing the empty air in front of you. The darkness stretched wide. Deep. Like if you reached too far into it, it might pull you under.

You swallowed. “Does it ever stop?” He turned his head slightly, watching you. You could feel it.  

“What?”  

“This,” you said, the word felt heavier than it should. Motioning vaguely at the space around you with your hands, “The weight of it all. The noise in your head. The way it follows you even when you're safe.”  

The words tumbled out before you could catch them. You weren’t sure why you said them, why you let the thought escape. But maybe it was because it was late. And maybe, just maybe, he felt like someone who would understand. 001 didn’t answer immediately. 

“No.”  

Your throat tightened. You nodded once. “Thought so.”  

A pause.  

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest feel tight. Something knowing. Something too familiar.  

“You lost someone,” he said. Not a question. Your breath stilled. You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”  

A shift. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.  

“So did I.”

Something about those words cut deep.  

You exhaled, the weight of the conversation settling into your ribs. It was strange, sitting here in this awful place, talking about ghosts like they weren’t still haunting you. Like you hadn’t carried them into this room with you.  

You licked your lips, your voice quieter now. “How long ago?”  

001’s hands rested against his knees, fingers barely moving, as if tracing patterns only he could see.  

“9 years,” he said. “And yesterday.”  

“Me too.”

You blinked. Turned to him. He finally looked at you. The dim glow from the high windows cast his face in soft shadows, making it impossible to tell whether he was smiling or frowning or something in between.  The quiet stretched. Too thick. Too fragile.  

Your fingers curled slightly. “That’s not fair.”  

His head tilted. “What isn’t?”  

You swallowed, forcing the words past your throat. “Time. The way it drags some things with it and leaves others behind.”  

His gaze didn’t waver. It stayed on you. Fully. “I know,” he said, voice low. Understanding. Deep. “I know.”  

The weight in your chest pulled tight. Neither of you spoke after that. Just sat there, staring at the dark, letting the quiet fill in the spaces you couldn’t. And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel lonely.

The silence lingered between you, thick and unspoken. But for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. It didn’t press against your ribs, clawing at your throat, demanding to be filled. It just… was.  

You stared ahead, watching the faint glow from the high windows stretch long shadows across the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, a player shifted in their sleep. A faint snore. The rustle of fabric. The steady hum of breathing all around you. Still, neither of you moved.  

“I remember the rain,” you murmured. It came out softer than you intended. Like a thought that had slipped through the cracks before you could catch it. Beside you, 001 didn’t react right away. But you knew he was listening.  

You swallowed.  

“Back then… when I got the news that he didn’t have much longer,” your fingers curled against your knees, pressing down like it might ground you. “It was raining. That’s the first thing I remember. Nothing else. Just the sound. The way it filled the silence before the weight of it could crush me.”  

A pause.  

001 shifted slightly. “Rain has a way of making things heavier.”  You inhaled, sharp and quiet.  

“Yeah.”  

“You were alone that night?”  

The words landed wrong. Too specific. Your pulse stuttered. I didn’t say it was night.

He could’ve guessed. Maybe. But the way he said it—it wasn’t a question. Not really. You turned your head slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. He didn’t look back. Just sat there, staring ahead.

Like he hadn’t just slipped. Oh, but he did. The question now was; did he do it on purpose?

Your throat tightened, “I was supposed to be,” you said. “But… someone else was there.”  

001 tilted his head slightly. You could feel his eyes on you now, watching. Waiting. “I don’t remember his face,” you admitted. “Or his voice. Just… the moment.”  

Your own voice felt distant. Like you were speaking from somewhere outside yourself, slipping between past and present without meaning to. 001 stayed quiet. Something about it made your chest ache.  

You turned your head slightly, studying his profile. The dim light carved soft lines into his features—gentle, unreadable. He looked… calm. But something told you he wasn’t. That same weight. That same understanding. Like he knew exactly what you meant. Like he had been there, too.  

Had he been there too? Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why, but the thought made it hard to breathe.  

You opened your mouth. Hesitated.  But then he beat you to it.

"You don’t have to remember his face,” Young-il said suddenly. His voice was low. Steady. “You already remember the part that matters.” Something in your chest clenched.  

“That doesn’t make sense.”  

“It does,” he said simply. “You just don’t want it to.”  

You exhaled. Looked away. The quiet settled between you again, softer this time. A few minutes passed. Maybe more.  

Then, finally, he spoke again.  

“Go get some rest,” 001 murmured, voice soft, almost reluctant. “It’s late.”  

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t even that you wanted to stay. It was just... You stopped and looked at him.  

001’s gaze met yours, steady and unreadable. And for a second—just a second—something flickered there.  

Recognition. Not the kind you’d find between strangers who happened to cross paths. Not the fleeting kind that slipped away before you could name it. This was something deeper, something settled. Like he was looking at you and seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.  

“You never told me your name.”  

“Does it matter?”  

“No. Guess not.”  

There it was in your mind. Another memory you couldn’t place. Your breath caught, and then he smiled. Soft. Knowing. Just like before.  And just like before, the moment slipped through your fingers before you could grasp it.  

You turned away. But you didn’t leave.  

“…001?”  

A beat.  

“Yes?”  

You turned to face him once more, only now realising how close you actually were. Close enough to see the faint creases at the corner of his eyes. The way the dim light traced the sharp lines of his jaw. The way his presence filled the space between you without effort, without force—just there, as if it had always been. If you leaned forward just a fraction more, his breath would be warm against your skin. The thought alone sent a strange shiver down your spine.

“It’s weird addressing each other with a number,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”  

Something shifted in him then. Not a flinch. Not surprise. Just a hesitation, barely there.  

“Oh Young-il.”  

The name sat between you, delicate and unfamiliar. You tested it on your tongue, rolling it over in your mind. It was a nice name. Strong. Steady. But somehow, it didn’t really suit him. Or maybe you had just been calling him something else for too long. You didn’t say that, though.  

Instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him. “It’s a good name,” you admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like yours.”  Something unreadable passed through his expression. Then, a soft chuckle.

“You’re the first person to tell me that.” 

Your brows furrowed slightly. The first person? Somehow, that didn’t feel right. No, that couldn’t be right.  

“Really?” you murmured, watching him carefully.  

001—Young-il—held your gaze, his expression unreadable, but his lips still curled at the edges, like he was amused by something only he understood.  

"Would I lie to you?"  

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Would you?”  

His smile deepened, but he didn’t answer. And maybe that was your answer. Your fingers curled slightly against the metal step beneath you, grounding yourself.  

“I feel like…” You hesitated, the thought curling at the edges of your mind, forming into something half-real, half-memory. “I feel like I’ve met you before.”  

His gaze flickered—quick, unreadable. Then, just barely, to your lips. So fast you might have imagined it. But you instinctively licked your lips. 

A breath held a second too long. A slow inhale. “Is that so?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, he tilted his head slightly. “And why do you think that?”

Your fingers curled against your lap, pressing into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I just… do.”

It sounded stupid when you said it out loud. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away. That heavy, sinking sense of familiarity—like something you should know, but couldn’t quite reach. Like déjà vu stretched too thin over your head.

Young-il hummed, something close to amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Interesting.”

That single word settled into your ribs, unsettling. You should let it go. You should let him go. But you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, pressing your palms together between your knees. “It’s not just a feeling,” you said before you could stop yourself. Young-il didn’t move. But his presence sharpened, like he was waiting.

You exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been having flashbacks.”

There. You said it.

The words felt heavier than they should, as if saying it out loud made them real in a way they hadn’t been before.

For a second, nothing happened. He just looked at you. “What kind of flashbacks?”

You hesitated, pulse picking up. You should lie. Keep it vague. Say something meaningless. But the words slipped past your lips before your brain could stop them.

“From when my brother was in the hospital.” You forced out a breath. “It’s not the big things I remember. Just… pieces.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, like they were remembering the weight of something that wasn’t there.

“The feeling of it. The way the air smelled. The beeping. The sound of the rain outside. The way the doctors looked at me before they spoke, like they were bracing for something. Like I was bracing for something.”

Young-il didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“My father used to visit,” you continued, voice quieter now. “But once it got too bad, he couldn’t do it anymore. Just stopped showing up one day. Couldn’t even look at him. Or me.” A sharp exhale. “And my mom—” You stopped. Shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

A beat of silence. Too heavy. You almost regretted saying anything at all. But now that you’d started, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“What I was going to say is that I felt alone, at first.” You swallowed, throat tight. “But I wasn’t.”

You flexed your fingers against your knees, grounding yourself.

“There was this guy. Always lingering somewhere. Just close enough to be there, but never enough to feel like real company.”

Your breath came shallow now, the weight in your chest pressing tighter, “We didn’t talk much. Barely at all. But he was always… there.” You shook your head, a humourless huff leaving your lips. “We were alone together. If that makes any sense.”

And then—before you could stop yourself—

“You remind me of him.”

Young-il only looked at you. 

And suddenly, you felt like you had said too much. Maybe you should let it go. Maybe you should turn around, crawl back into bed, and pretend this conversation never happened.  

But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the shift in his pupils, the way his jaw tensed just slightly before relaxing again.  

“You ever notice how quiet it gets at night?”

The words left your mouth before you even realised you were saying them. You hadn’t meant to change the subject, but maybe you needed to. Maybe it was easier than whatever had been building between you.

Young-il’s head tilted slightly, considering. “You call this quiet?”

It wasn’t silent, not really. The room still breathed—muffled whispers, the rustle of fabric, the distant creak of a bed shifting under restless weight. You could hear 388 quietly snore behind you, you stifled a laugh.

“No, I mean—not like that. It’s not silent. Just… different.” Your gaze flicked to the rows of beds, the slow rise and fall of sleeping bodies. “Even in a room this big, with this many people, there’s a moment where it stops feeling like we exist together.”

Young-il hummed, something unreadable in his expression. “And what does it feel like instead?”

You hesitated. “Like we’re all just… waiting.”

His gaze lingered on you a second too long. “Waiting for what?”

Your throat felt tight. You weren’t sure why. “Morning.”

A beat. Then, softer, he murmured, “If it comes.”

It wasn’t a dramatic statement. Wasn’t even grim. Just… matter-of-fact. And that was the worst part. Because he was right.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs as you pressed your hands together between your knees. “That’s a terrible way to think about it.”

His lips curled in a sad smile. “Is it?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Because if we wake up already expecting the worst, then what’s the point of trying at all?”. Something flickered in his eyes, dark and unreadable. “Are you trying?”

The question landed heavier than you expected. You blinked. “What?”

“Are you really trying to survive?” His voice was even, but something about it made the air feel thinner. He shifted closer, thighs touching. “Or are you just waiting, too?”

A shiver curled down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the way he said them. Low. Like he could see straight through you. The silence stretched between you, thick, buzzing with something else now. Not quite fear. Not quite safety. Somewhere in between.

Your throat felt dry. You tried to answer, but nothing came.

Young-il exhaled through his nose—soft, almost amused. His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth. “You hesitate,” he murmured, voice lower now. “That means you don’t know.”

Your breath hitched.

He was too close. Physically and in the way he spoke. The way his presence pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was testing just how much space he could take up before you noticed.

Your fingers curled against your thigh. “I do know,” you said, steadier than you felt.

His lips twitched, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Then say it.”

Your pulse hammered. You shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not to him. 

But when you looked at him, really looked at him, you realised—he wasn’t just asking about the games. And that terrified you more than anything.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs, and there was something in your eyes that he immediately recognised. There was something here. Something you didn’t understand yet.  

And the worst part? He knew exactly what it was.  

Lust. 

Or something worse?

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs.  “You should get some rest,” Young-il murmured again, softer this time. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”  

He was giving you an out. Telling you to walk away before you dug too deep. A carefully placed door he was holding open for you, waiting for you to take it. Maybe he was right.  Maybe you should.  

But when you turned your head, just slightly, catching the way his fingers twitched against his knee—just barely—you realised something.  

You weren’t the only one feeling this. You weren’t the only one remembering something you couldn’t place.  

“…You should rest too,” you murmured.

“I will.”  

Liar.

He didn’t. And neither did you. 

Just before you turned to leave, his fingers twitched—like he almost reached for you. But he didn’t.

[miryum]

Doing Something Stupid Pt 2 (Thunderbolts*!Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Part 1

Warnings: spoilers to Thunderbolts, swearing, memories of torture (though not explicit), very very very small illusion to Bucky’s SA if you read between the lines

Bucky stepped into the darkness. Once Yelena had submitted herself to the Void to go after Bob, or whatever the hell his name was, Bucky found himself doing the same. He didn’t know what to expect, nor did he particularly want to think about it. As the Void formed around him, he ran a hand through his hair — a small thing he did unconsciously whenever he wanted to calm down. It reminded him of how you brushed your fingers through his hair. A memory ran through his brain, though it was a nice one unlike the ones he was sure to encounter soon.

Bucky’s head laid on your chest. He was close to blissful sleep when he heard you mutter, “you know, I think I might buy you some different conditioner. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you want, doll,” he mumbled faintly.

“Seriously, I think with some conditioning and then maybe a little blow-dry, you would look like a prince.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed together. “You want me to look like a prince?” he asked.

“I just think it would look really pretty.”

The super soldier smiled lazily. “Okay, doll.”

The first scene to materialise around him was a place he saw frequently in his memories. It would be agony to relive so vividly, but with the thought of you in his mind, he stepped forward.

Bucky watched as his own chest heaved with exhaustion. He had been given food, yes, for they would never starve their budding super soldier. Water was sparse, so he had learned to drink no matter what drugs may be in it. For now, his problem was surely a new serum they had injected into his veins.

Bucky, the one with the shiny new arm and aging lines on his face, couldn’t help but watch. A much younger version of himself was strapped down to a table. His hair was clean cut, though he hadn’t shaved in some days, and there was panic in his eyes. He wore a dirty green shirt, dog tags hanging out to remind him that if he died, at least his sister and mother would know of it. He had two flesh arms, riddled with little cuts and dirt. 

Even without the hints, Bucky could’ve easily remembered the scene. Right before Steve would save him, yet too late to stop the experimentation. 

Bucky turned away as his younger self began to scream. This was nothing new and he had long learned how to deal with his own cries, voice wailing and cracking desperately. As his memories shrieked, he began to search for a way out, fingers tracing along the cracks before spotting the glimmer of a different Hydra cell in the reflection of a sterilised tray.

He jumped through.

This time, the howls for mercy were replaced by a stone cold stare, grunts all that could escape the mouth of the Winter Soldier as he struggled against the machine he ironically couldn’t seem to forget.

Bucky stood in the corner, jaw set and unable to tear his eyes away. Why was this more painful than the last memory? He could see the way his veins pulled against his skin, the way his matted hair hung in his face, and the way his eyes seemed to slowly resign to his fate.

There was nothing left, the Winter Soldier was thinking. And Bucky knew the feeling all too well.

Could he stand to watch the way the metal arm with the red, brutal star reflected in the light? With all the hands roving over him, willing him to do their bidding and slowly stripping away what little identity he had left?

Bucky found himself thankful that this was the memory the Void had presented to him. There were far worse ones. But perhaps he had buried those too far away…

Even in the Void, Bucky Barnes was not lucky. The memories he had to trudge through to try and find Yelena and Bob were scattered, never in chronological order, but maybe that was just a testement to how fucked up his brain was. 

Hydra seemed to dominate, which didn't come as a surprise. Bucky hadn’t even tried to save his past self, knowing it was fruitless. He had resigned himself to staring around the room, looking for the next torturous memory he had to walk into.

There was when they welded the fatal arm onto his stub of a shoulder, like giving the Grim Reaper his scythe. Numerous memories were when Hydra nobodies — low level men who thought it would be good fun to show each other how they could subdue the great Winter Soldier — would barge into his cell and force him onto his knees with well placed electric shocks. Another memory pulled from the vault was the one time he tried to resist the chair. Bucky had watched with pity as the Winter Soldier struggled and roared with frustration, taking out one or two scientists. Both knew that retaliation would be long and disastrous.

It wasn’t until he pushed his way from the Hydra base to a place he knew all too well that he froze with actual terror.

In this new memory, it should’ve been blissful to see you in your bed at the Avengers’ compound, sleeping soundly with your chest rising and falling in rhythm. Bucky stepped forward, gaze softening. His eyes were stuck to you and as he crouched by the edge of the bed, he couldn’t help but reach out and brush your cheek. You looked so peaceful and lovely. This had to be years ago, given that your hair was styled differently and the laugh lines by your eyes weren't as prominent as they were in the present. How could this be a bad memory?

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to your hand that was resting above the covers. No ring yet. He hadn’t made you his. Maybe that was the bad memory part of it. That he had been stupid enough not to propose the moment he saw you.

Just then, the bed shifted slightly and an arm was slung over your shoulders. Bucky instantly frowned. That wasn’t his arm. He stood and when he saw who was beside you, his blood ran cold. He could feel his heart drop to his stomach where it was slowly digested in a pit of acid.

Tyler. The ex-boyfriend.

No. Bucky knew what was coming. He whirled towards the door just in time to hear the timid knock. No no no. Shit. How dare the Void pull this from his broken brain and present it to him. You stirred and your eyes cracked open. “No no, go back to sleep,” Bucky hushed out, rushing towards you, but it was too late. Your legs had already swung off the bed and you were pulling away from Tyler’s arm. Dressed in nothing but one of Tyler’s shirts, you made your way to the door, rubbing your eyes. Meanwhile, your boyfriend let out a groan, which Bucky cringed at. He knew the extent of super-hearing.

Bucky tensed as you opened the door, revealing himself. This younger Bucky had only been at the compound for a few months and had instantly glued himself to you, something that surprised everyone, Steve included. You weren’t an Avenger — simply Tony’s assistant, but after a kidnapping where some guys had thought you’d give up your boss, Tony had offered for you to just move into the compound.

But had that mattered to Bucky? No. You were a break from the chaotic life of a quasi-superhero and all the redemption he was trying to achieve. You were a calming base. He frequently found himself coming to you whenever he had nightmares and you would always open your arms.

Then came Tyler.

Steve always shot Bucky sorrowful glances whenever Tyler came around, making him feel pathetic. He found himself drawing away from you, which certainly didn't help his mental health. That probably had something to do with the nightmare that led him to your room.

Bucky watched as his younger self looked up from his pitiful stare of the floor to your face. The younger man’s shoulders dropped with relaxation before he noticed your attire. That only made his muscles tense again, but you were too tired to notice. “Hey, Buck,” you greeted, trying to suppress a yawn. Bucky pressed his lips together in greeting. “Did you have another nightmare?” your voice was loving and the Bucky Barnes stuck watching this unfold even felt himself breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of it.

After a moment, the Bucky of his memories nodded, but he shuffled around. “I didn’t realise you had company,” he muttered out and the invisible Bucky who could do nothing wanted to wail out in desperation.

“Oh, well, yeah, Tyler’s staying the night,” you explained awkwardly. 

Bucky, the super soldier he was, seemed to shrink into himself. “Sorry for waking you.”

“No, no!” Bucky shouted to himself, surprised at the ferocity he felt. “Don’t just leave!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you coaxed softly. “You know it’s okay.”

The Bucky that still had the silver arm shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologised again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You looked like you wanted to say something, but Bucky turned and walked away. The Bucky in this wretched Void could only have his words catch in his throat, eyes shining with tears. He urged his feet to work and ran after his younger self.

Bucky watched as he closed the door to his room, which was down the hall from yours. Suddenly, he found himself back in his old room at the compound. It must be some magic of the Void, forcing him to keep witnessing this torment. 

The younger Bucky stood in the middle of his sparse room, hands clenched to fists at his sides. His body slowly began to shake with sobs. Bucky, the older one who had already lived through his heartbreak, couldn’t help but rush forward and take his younger self into his arms, trying to console him.

“It’s okay,” he pleaded. “He’ll be gone in two months. I know, I know. It’ll be okay. She loves you. She really does, I promise. She didn’t want to turn you away. Please, listen to me!”

But he knew that the blissful sleep that only came in your arms wouldn’t find him for years to come.

The next memory was speedy, which was exactly how it felt when he and Sam went different ways. Bucky only made it in time to watch Sam stalk off, shoulders taut. Bucky was still reeling from the last memory, so seeing himself lose a friend, especially when the wound was so recent, didn’t help in the slightest. 

“Damn it. Damn it!” he found himself yelling, throwing his hands up into the air. He wished he could go back just a few months ago and force himself to walk after Sam and attempt to fix the cavern that had appeared between them.

But it didn’t matter. In the window of a shop nearby, Bucky could see the reflection of Yelena and Bob. He charged forward.

It was all a publicity stunt. That goddamn Valentina was able to play it off beautifully. And Bob just stood to the side, clapping stupidly because he couldn’t remember shit.

Cameras flashed around them and he knew his face would be splashed on every television and newspaper soon enough.

Bucky didn't have time for this. He had more important things to attend to. Like taking Alpine to the vet. He simply walked away.

Riding the subway in his tactical gear after saving Earth didn’t even make him bat an eye. He got off right by his home and walked up the steps.

You were sitting on the couch, tears streaming down your face and with the news on in the background. Bucky quickly rushed towards you, crushing you in a hug. You toppled over on the couch from the force, but simply gripped him back. “Thank god,” you whispered into his skin as he buried his face into your neck. “Jesus, Bucky. I- I saw the blackness coming towards me and then all of a sudden I’m back in my memories and I know for a fact you probably stepped into that hell by your own volition and I told you not to do anything stupid. What you then had to relive—” His arms circled around you tighter and you reciprocated. “— I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. And then I turn on the news expecting to see my husband dead but there you are, proclaiming to be new Avengers, like what the hell?!”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just needing to feel you breathing and in his arms. He would wipe the tears away later and tell you everything that had happened. He would welcome your insistence of him resting in bed and your doting cuddles. He would tolerate your rant about him running towards trouble and how stupid he was. Just after he made sure you were still his.

“You’re still taking Alpine to the vet tomorrow, right?” You broke the silence.

“Yeah, of course.”

[yoshifan456]

People people I found it! The flashback we didn't get in the English/Dutch sub, but we did get in the French dub!

Look at it! We solved how Logan got the photograph!

[rannabane]

"A picnic in the forest? mm...no, I guess I'll pass."

[askthefairlynormalparentsau]

For Ved , do you enjoy gardening?

Ved: mah Daddy spent most’a my pup-hood tendin the royal gardens, but ah’ve always preferred workin in textbooks ta workin in dirt, so if you’re lookin fer tips, you’re barkin up the wrong Nightosphere, friend! 🤓