#I'm so tired head empty cannot tell if this is any good. they're just soft

[purgetrooperfox]

oooh 23 for bastra and jaro?

softer world prompts

we talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time. (it is the exact opposite of alone)

“I’ll admit,” Jaro says in lieu of any sensible greeting, heedless of the way Bastra startles. “I can’t fathom what you’re doing here.”

The city lights of Daiyu glare vibrant neon that reflects off the pooling water on the street. It doesn’t fully mask the grime that coats every conceivable surface, but it does well to draw the eye away.

“I’m doing the same as everyone else on this planet, looking for something.”

Bastra pays no mind to the gentle fall of rain – it won’t soak through his clothes any time soon, and he can’t be bothered to move from his perch on the roof of a dilapidated inn. With one leg tucked close to his chest and the other dangling over the edge, he has a comfortable vantage point over the bustle that never ends, no matter the hour.

He hears Jaro huff a sigh and sees him, out the corner of his eye, sit cross-legged at his side. Almost close enough for their thighs to touch. Into the space between them, he asks, “What are you looking for? Something, or someone?”

Scowling, Bastra tears his gaze away from the street to look up at Jaro’s face, which is angled further up toward the clouds. “I can multitask, can't I?"

"Of course," Jaro grants, "I only hope you've thought this through."

That makes two of them, for whatever it's worth.

"More or less. I need credits to travel, so I need a job. There's not much else to it."

He watches Jaro's ears twitch back, the surest sign of his disapproval. For a man with a face like a locked vault, his ears always cracked the combination. Saved Bastra from putting his foot in his mouth more than once.

"I wonder if you're chasing these goals you claim are so straightforward, or if you're still running away."

"Fuck off."

"I will not."

"I'm not running away," Bastra hisses, then deliberately unclenches his jaw. "There's nothing left to run from except death, and I'm not currently interested in letting that catch up with me."

Imperial efforts to hunt down the few Jedi who escaped the Purge ebb and flow, but have generally waned over the years. He can travel relatively freely, as long as he keeps his head down and doesn't draw attention. Odd jobs keep him going. It's aimless, at times, but it's something.

Jaro bristles, scratching idly at his beard. An old habit that never died. "It seems to have caught up with you, all the same."

Bastra snorts, even though it's not funny. "Sure, your death follows me relentlessly. My own will have to work harder to catch up."

He's still only halfway convinced that he hasn't lost his mind, and these visits from Jaro aren't just complex hallucinations. At best, the Force truly does work in mysterious ways. At worst, well. He gets a very convincing construct to talk to.

The first time it happened – whatever it is – he shut down, couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The second wasn't much better. Jaro stopped trying to explain and simply shared his space after a few more, and something eventually clicked in the back of Bastra's mind. Whether it clicked into or out of place is up for debate.

With fear and shock and confusion worn away, the hardest part is how real it feels– how real he feels. The illusion is incredible, but not perfect.

Jaro's eyes don't reflect the glaring neon lights of Daiyu when he meets Bastra's gaze. His clothes and hair and fur are unmoved by the wind. Every detail of his features, all the way down to signs of age, is exactly as Bastra remembers from before. He's a snapshot, displaced from his time and stubbornly refusing to rest.

"You shouldn't taunt fate, Bastra," he chastises, but there's fondness in his tone. Relief, maybe. "She comes for us all, in the end."

They're close enough that their thighs could touch, but an insurmountable cavern apart. Fate will come for him in the end, but maybe his family will be there too. "How long do you have?"

Before they lose this strand of connection.

Jaro's shoulders drop, almost imperceptibly. "Not long enough."

"Hm." He can't tangle their hands together, but his fingers itch with sense memory, and he would, if he could. "Thank you. For being here at all."

There are nights when thinks it won't be the price on his head, or hunger, or exposure, or a stray blaster bolt, or a speeder crash, or anything else that kills him. When he thinks it might be the loneliness that does it.

This, at least, is the exact opposite of alone.

Maybe, possibly, he'll actually pick up Cal's trail, and that won't be alone either.

[starrysebastians]

things spies don’t notice

prompt : based off this request from @hamiltonofjakku

pairing : bucky barnes x reader 

word count : 2.4k

A/N : i went for something soft and simple, nothing extraordinary. this is probably a bit different from what you wanted? but i hope you like it? enjoy?

"Is this really happening? How old are you?" you complain louder than you think, rolling your eyes so hard it physically hurts you. You're sprawled all over the leather couch, legs propped up on the armrest and you know your back is resting against something hard — someone? But you don't really pay attention to it because tonight is all about drinking and blowing off some steam after months of grueling missions. Everyone in this room — Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint, not Wanda and Vision because they went on a special getaway or something, not Tony because he also decided to take Pepper on a getaway, something spectacular and extravagant he said — loves what they do. It might be a love-hate relationship, because not everyone chose to do it. Not everyone entered this business with the right motivations, not everyone manages to deal with it on a daily basis. No one does. But at the end of the day, you're a team and you all know you've got each other's backs, and it makes it easier. It helps with the burden you have to carry whenever a civilian life is lost, whenever building collapse, whenever it gets too much.

The thing you're resting against moves, there's a weight being lifted off the sofa, and suddenly you fall down on your back, groaning because the ceiling gets all blurry for a second. "That hurt."

"Sorry about that," someone crouches down next to you so that your faces are on the same level, and you lazily turn your heard towards the voice, blinking a few times because it's been a few hours since you watched the sun set from the compound and you do not have the ability to see in the dark. "Didn't know you had that much to drink." Words spoken in a low voice, with a soft chuckle and blue eyes that manage to stay bright and perceptive despite the room only being lit by dimmed and cosy lights because that's how you and the rest of the team like to spend your festive evenings, when it's not some gala or fundraising organized by Stark Industries. You like it better when it is intimate and you can all relax. Maybe you can't swoon over James freaking Barnes wearing an all black suit — which is a gift from God — but he's right here in front of you, in a grey sweater that looks as soft as his skin, and black jeans, his hair in a bun with strands falling in front of his eyes, and he's as pretty as usual.

"Well — i'm not that drunk, considering i'm not the one who suggested playing spin the bottle to grown ass adults!" you raise your voice at the end of your sentence so that the rest of the room can hear you, but it doesn't really work, and your throat hurts. Maybe you sang a bit too much earlier when your favorite song came on.

"C'mon," Bucky stands up and you can only stare at him as he's towering above you, a hand extended towards you, lifting you up as you take it. You stumble a bit, and he has to put both hands on your waist to make sure you're not going to fall. Maybe the room is too hot, maybe it's the alcohol, but your cheek flush and he probably sees it. Given his abilities, maybe he can even feel your heartbeat quicken.

"I'm good." You squeak, pushing him slightly in order to take a seat next to Natasha on the floor, your thighs brushing against each other as you lean towards her. "I do not like this." She raises a brow and her lips quirk slightly as she watches Sam, Bucky and Steve sit next to each other, probably bickering, while Clint comes back with a refill. No one bothers telling him that he might have had enough to drink already, probably because no one cares. "Right. I'm sure you don't."

Turns out, everyone had a refill. And the bottle has been spinned many, many times. You can't remember the first thing you had to admit — because you're too tired to take on dares and you would rather leave this to Sam and Clint, who obviously enjoy being laughed at, not that you're complaining. It started out innocently, because someone needed to know who ate the last plate of that special recipe, or who had lied to a shield agent that had taken a special interest in Sam, telling them the last girl he had sex with had run off because his mother came by every morning to do the laundry — that one did not please him. Maybe you had to share a few personal details, and maybe some agents around you were paying more attention to what you were saying than others.

"Nat, c'mon. We all saw you leave with him, what happened?"

"I already answered your question. This is a second one. You have no right, and I don't have to answer. Next."

You don't know what they're bickering about and it lasts at least 5 minutes, but then you jump when your name is being shouted.

"Since it's on the table. Do you have a crush on anyone at the moment?"

It has to be a joke. Your eyes pop back open as your mouth hangs wide open, and the first person you cross eyes with has to be Bucky, otherwise it wouldn't be funny ; the whole universe is laughing at you right now. And he looks bored, legs lazily spread in front of him and his head slightly thrown back as he stares at you, a brow quirked. And you're a goddamn avenger who cannot be intimated by a question that could have been asked by a sixth grader.

"Someone's blushing!" Sam coos and you shoot him a dirty glare before straightening up.

"Please, this is so childish. I'm an avenger. You think I'm gonna waste my time pinning after a pretty boy? I don't do crushes," you say, rolling your eyes in an exasperated way to get your point across. You only get unimpressed looks. "I don't!"

"What about that Shield agent, the blond one?"

"Yeah, well it was boring. And that was not a crush. I was just asked out and I said yes. Because this guy I — anyway. I was bored. That's different."

"So you do know what a crush is. And you do have one, because you were bored, and this guy you like is dumb and — "

"I'll kill you with my bare hands and you know it." You didn't want that sentence to come out so slurred but it was still efficient.

For some reason they let it go, probably because your friends already know. Maybe you're not as subtle as you think, and the only person being oblivious to all of this, and the constant looks the team give you whenever you're near him, is Bucky Barnes himself. Or maybe he knows, because he's a spy and a soldier with heightened senses and there's no way he wouldn't notice the way your heart rate picks up at the sight of him, the way you usually avoid staring at him straight in his eyes — except when you're drunk because you don't know what you're doing right now — the way your whole face screams longing and admiration when he is doing the bare minimum. Maybe it's more than a crush. A crush usually happens with someone you don't know that much. Someone with pretty looks and maybe a nice laugh but you don't get to know them because you're to shy to approach them. 

But you've actually gotten to know the former Winter Soldier. By watching him interact with the team, bicker with Sam, subtly watch everything Steve does as if he was making sure he was alright like he did back in the days ;  there is this calm and soothing aura around him and it's like he is trying to redeem himself for what he did as a Hydra pawn by being the quiet one, the one who never causes any trouble. He knows not to touch Clint's sandwiches, the ones he makes so that it's ready when he comes back from training — the one Sam eats without remorse but not anymore, not since Bucky decided to hide it from him. He always leaves coffee in the pot, and he sits the furthest away from Wanda because he knows that sometimes she can feel his negative thoughts and he doesn't want to ruin her day. He is always, always paying attention to what is going on around him. Always.

So there's no way he doesn't know. And it's more than a crush. It is complete and absolute infatuation over someone who is way too good for you. And you're not in the mood to play anymore. Without even noticing what you're doing, your eyes are cast downwards and your lips in a pout, shoulders dropping and we all know how spies rely on body language to analyze their target.

Bucky's eyes are trained on you as your fingers play with your empty glass. He notices you subtly casting a desperate glance at Natasha, a look that screams : I want to get out of here, and he's not surprised when you finally get up, faking a yawn, stretching, and mumbling some nonsense about being too tired and this game being stupid and childish. You almost step on a glass you thought to be empty, but still knock it over. Bucky tells you he'll take care of it, that you should go to your room and rest, and it's his turn to mumble something about going to look for a napkin or something.

The elevator doors are about to close as you stare at the ceiling — which moves, by the way. There are dark spots that keep widening and that are probably gonna swallow you whole and —

"Hey — um, wait up!"

The noise is a bit too much for your intoxicated state and you visibly flinch when metal collides against metal. Bucky winces as he watches your face, sliding next to you while the door finally closes.

You smile at Bucky, and it probably looks a bit sad. "Hi"

"Hi," he breathes out. "You okay?"

You only nod, blinking more than three times in a few seconds.

"You sure? You had a moment, back there — you looked — " he sighs. "Are you sure you're okay?"

You stare at him for a moment, because if you focus hard on something then everything can stop moving and swaying around you and the background fades away. When the door open you still haven't said a word and Bucky gently cups your elbow to lead you to your quarters.

"You're a spy," you let out, maybe by mistake, but maybe because the alcohol is numbing and your filter is gone.

"Um — yeah?" he answers in a confused way, watching you warily as you stop in front of your door, turning to him, your eyes wide.

"You notice things. You're…you have heightened senses. You're not dumb." You state.

"I'm not —?” he scoffs. “Thanks, I guess?"

"Are you doing it on purpose?" your voice is smaller, and he notices how you seem to shrink away, as if dropping your shoulders was going to make you disappear into the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

"Ignoring me. You could just say you're not interested, you know. I know you know things. You always pay attention, you always know what people want because it's your job. How can you not know I want you?" Your eyes are filled with tears as you look at him, lips parted, eyebrows set in a desperate way.

"I'm — I do not — "

"You could just tell me!" There's a tear running down your cheek and it ends up on your lips and it's salty and it's too late to try and be proud, act like the sole idea of being in a room with him doesn't make your heart beat out of your chest.

"Y/N," Bucky takes a step forward, eyes wide, wider than you have ever seen them, not even on a mission, but maybe it's the alcohol playing tricks on your senses. "Y/N, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I never meant to make you feel like this."

"Never meant for me to like you because the feeling is not mutual because if it was then you would have said something, anything —"

"Never meant to hurt you. I do notice things. I thought you were… I thought you were scared or something. Intimidated, I mean. Not in a good way. Not in a crush kind of way, whatever word you're using with the team." 

He’s talking about the metal arm. About his past. There’s this unspoken thing where no one really adresses it because it’s over and it’s a way to show him that no one cares about what he did, no one thinks it’s a defining trait, but maybe he still does. There are things he does notice, but maybe sometimes he needs to be told things.

"But I like you. I like like you." You pout and his rosy lips part. “For you. For who you are. I know who that is because I see it everyday in the way you carry yourself and in the way you care about the people around you and I’m not scared. I like you.” You don’t notice him try and say something because things need to be shown. “You always leave coffee in the pot, and it’s not because you’re too lazy to make some, it’s because you don’t want anyone to find it empty. And you always make sure Sam doesn’t mess with Clint. You always watch over Steve. You make sure Wanda’s not affected by your moods or nightmares. You’re the one who replaced her dream catcher and you still haven’t told anyone about it because you’re  — you’re so kind and selfless and —”

“See, you notice things too.” He cuts your rambling, his flesh hand gently grabbing your forearm, pulling you flush against him. You can only look up, lashes fluttering against your tired eyes. 

“Well. I’m a spy.”

“The best one out of the two of us, obviously,” he mutters, hands resting on your waist.

“Obviously. If you hear my heartbeat right now, which I know you can. Are you gonna think I’m scared and about to run off? Or do you finally get it?” 

He rolls his eyes, hands squeezing you a bit tighter before the flesh one slides up your arm, fingers leaving a trail of chills on their way, and cups your cheek. “That’s very funny.” His eyes glitter as his lips brush against yours.

Maybe spies can be a bit clueless sometimes, but it’s okay.