#Writing out my bleak mood.

[breadandbloodybutter]

You are so beautiful, he'd say. A claw tracing down the face, all the way to the chin. Cutting through the skin like knife to hot butter, painting you red.

Red from a blush, red from his skin - red, the colour that's buried within.

Late at night, he'd hold you, arms and legs wrapped around tight. He's learnt from the last time, taken precautions. A loose embrace means his mouse will flee for the first crack they find. He holds you tight enough to be a cage - remind you of your place

Warm hushed whispers and a poisonous tongue, he pulls you into a dance that breaks your ankles, binds your wrists. A kiss as sweet as cherries, but erodes your soul every time.

To be in a devil's favour is one foot already in a grave. Love like a sin is not designed to last. Like a squeeze of affection that only breaks your ribs and turns you blue.

You are so beautiful, and all one could ever want. Until your eyes close, never to open, and the shadow moves to darken another's door.

[afterdeck-ace]

I went to Elsa Schiaparelli's fashion exhibition in Paris today and it was amazing! I took so many pictures. I'll post some of them later on cause it'll definitely fuel my inspiration for the One Piece Fashion AU.

And I had so many moments where I was thinking "Buggy could wear that" or "That's a dress for Doffy" or "I want to bring this one back home". 🖤

[rafey-baby]

sweet treat 5

Shy!reader really wants to tell construction worker!rafe how she feels but what if he doesn’t feel the same?  

cw: the L-word, mostly fluff, reader being an overthinker and getting a little jealous, pda

wc: 2.3k 

hi! this is the last part of sweet treat (might write some extras but I make no promises) and just wanted to say how much I appreciate everyone who reads my stuff. the first part was my first proper piece of writing I posted on this account and I was overjoyed by the warm welcome and all the kind comments, asks & reblogs (nothing goes unnoticed by me!) so thank you so so much for being so lovely <33  

hope you enjoy xx 

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

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

It’s been exactly two weeks since she came to terms with the fact that she’s in love with him. She hasn’t been able to sleep all that well and has tried her very best to avoid Rafe, albeit fruitlessly since he insists on driving her home from work every day and on top of that, he often invites himself over to her house or asks for her to stay the night at his; not accepting her excuses about being tired and having to wake up early.  

”Why don’t we just…be tired and wake up early together, then?” His grin is playful when he argues with her reasoning. And how is she meant to refuse that? 

And if all that wasn’t already suffocating her, of course he’s now helping with the renovation of the cafe since her boss wanted to expand the business; make the small coffee shop into a bigger one in hopes of more space for new tables and seats because the amount of clients they got was beginning to be too much for everyone to comfortably enjoy their stay.

Therefore, she now has to practically work in the same building as him every single day because the renovation work isn’t disturbing the current cafe from running nor decreasing the number of customers with a sweet tooth or a craving for their usual morning coffee from strutting in.  

This wouldn’t be a problem, if Rafe wasn’t walking around all sweaty and dusty, biceps bulging whenever he’d lift wooden planks over his shoulder or carry around different equipment; looking as attractive as ever.

And with these newfound lovey-dovey feelings trying to break through the surface, she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to stop herself from ogling him or keep her rapid heartbeats to herself whenever he wanders over to chat with her on his breaks.  

She tries to act as normal as she can, but she can tell that he’s picking up on her excessive rambling and stuttering, flushed cheeks and anxious fingers fixing her hair every two seconds whenever he’s talking to her.

She’s certain he can see right through her, knows that she’s hiding something. She can practically see how he wants to bring it up more often than not but seemingly hasn’t found the right way to approach the subject yet and she can sense that she’s running out of time; can’t tolerate lying to him for much longer.  

She’s been thinking this whole thing through over and over, to the point of her head hurting as she bakes Rafe’s favorite lemon raspberry cookies as a distraction and because he’s been working so hard and she wants to surprise him; see the soft smile that makes the whole world glitter whenever he graces her with it.

She wants to tell him, wants him to know how deeply she feels for him, how much she appreciates him but every time she tries to open her mouth, the words seem to evaporate before they’ve even begun to sprout on her nervous tongue.  

What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if this is all just a casual thing for him and she’s making it into something more than it is? These bleak thoughts turn her mood sour; a pout forming on her lips as she concentrates on topping the flamingo pink icing covering their most popular vanilla cupcakes with fresh blueberries.  

As she’s taking out Rafe’s cookies out the oven, she comes to the conclusion that she has two options; she either tells him she’s in love with him or she doesn’t. If she tells him, there’s a very high possibility of him looking at her with a crease between his brows and words about not wanting for this to be anything serious hitting her against the face.

And if she doesn’t tell him, then…well she doesn’t really have anything to lose, does she? Except maybe the what ifs haunting her for the rest of eternity.  

She tries to get rid of these tormenting thoughts with a shake of her head as she sets the cookies off to cool down and begins to place the finished cupcakes onto the display counter, trying her hardest to forget about it all.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Later that day when Rafe is contently munching on the cookies she plated for him and happily distracting her from work, someone approaches the counter; a girl with glossy lips and shiny hair.  

”Hi, could I get a mango matcha latte, please?” Her eyes are as green as grass as she places her order. 

”Of course, would you like it with ice or no ice?”  

”With ice, please,” she answers in a friendly manner.  

”Coming right up,” she gives the girl a polite smile when her payment goes through.  

”You’re working on the renovation?” The girl’s attention then turns towards Rafe, making Y/N’s gaze flicker over to them as she puts blended mango into the bottom of a tall glass. 

”Yeah, the cafe’s gon’ be twice as big as it’s now,” his gravelly voice drawls, putting the half-eaten baked good down.  

”That’s so cool, I’ve always wondered how construction workers are so strong. Do you go to the gym a lot?” A saccharine voice reaches Y/N’s ears, making her brows furrow as she’s measuring the right amount of matcha powder and trying to appear nonchalant.  

”Uh, yeah, yeah. Also think my workdays sometimes count as workouts,” he scratches the back of his head as she lets out a giggle. It wasn’t that funny, Y/N thinks with a roll of her eyes.  

”Hey, I was actually wondering if maybe you’d wanna hang out sometime? Could give you my number?”  

Something muddy swirls in her stomach at the girl’s straightforward question. She doesn’t appreciate the fact that she’s blatantly hitting on Rafe right in front of her. Even if she’s well aware that they’re not together and the girl probably assumed they were just friends, which they are.

However, she can’t prevent herself from turning grumpy from the mere notion of him being interested in someone else. After all, the girl is stunning and she wouldn’t really blame him if he wanted to at least consider her offer.    ”Nah, I’m actually not available right now,” he offers an apologetic smile when the girl’s shoulders slump.  

”No? That’s a shame. Well, let me know when that changes?” She gives him a flirty smile that makes Y/N quietly scoff as she pours the milk into the mix. 

”It’s not changing anytime soon,” she mutters under her breath, making both of them turn their heads towards her.  

”Sorry?” The girl asks, muted jade settling on her suddenly tense form. Fuck, did she really say that out loud? 

”Oh, um— just that…here’s your drink,” she peeps out, feeling Rafe’s eyes burning into the side of her face as she sticks a paper straw into the beverage; the ice cubes clinking together when she hands it out to her.  

”Right, thanks,” she says looking over to Rafe once more, seemingly expecting him to give her an answer of his own. 

”Uh…yeah, what she said. Not changing anytime soon,” his grin is wide, making the girl’s cheeks flush as she hurriedly leaves. 

And when it’s just the two of them again, she flits her eyes down, busying herself with a wooden container of tea bags she’s trying to organize, not wanting to face him. 

”What was, uh…what was that about?” His tone is teasing, an annoying smirk playing along his features. 

”Nothing,” she quickly dismisses, avoiding his gaze. 

”Nothing? You’re telling me you weren’t just really fucking jealous two seconds ago?” 

”N—no,” she can’t even convince herself with the pitiful denial. 

”Don’t worry, I’m all yours, alright?” He chuckles as he stuffs the rest of the cookie down his maw.

”How did you know I was craving these, by the way?” He asks around the mouthful as she tries to brush aside the sudden tingle in her ribcage and the blush dusting over her cheeks.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

A few days later when her shift is coming to an end, her other coworker already beginning to take orders and telling her she’s free to go, she drags Rafe behind the counter and practically forces him to taste test a new recipe she’s tried out; a walnut carrot cake with lime buttercream.

”Wow, this is…amazing. The lime gives this fresh sourness to the frosting, it’s so good,” his voice is muffled by his chewing and her heart warms in response to his detailed commentary, never one to shy away from showering her in compliments. 

”You think so? I actually added the lime just cause I know how much you like citrus fruits so, I’m really glad you like it,” she beams up at him. 

”Yeah? Made this just for me, huh? Can I ask why I’m getting this special treatment all of a sudden?” His tone is playful, tongue licking over his bottom lip to clean up the bit of icing lingering there.  

”Well, cause I love you and—“ she blurts out and then her entire body tenses; mouth hanging open in chock and wide eyes slowly moving to look at him, trying to verify whether he heard it or not. Of course he did. She wasn’t exactly quiet now, was she?  

“You…you love me?” His brows raise in surprise. 

“Uh…I— I didn’t mean to…I mean, you probably don’t feel the same so doesn’t really matter. Just— um...just forget I said that. I don’t know why I—”  

“What are you talking about? You think I spend most of my time with you cause I…what? Dislike you? You can be so silly sometimes, you know?” He scoffs, setting the golden fork down on the porcelain plate. 

She stays silent.

“What I’m saying is that I’m obsessed with you. I mean, you’re even in my fucking dreams, right? But listen, love has always been a little…tricky for me to grasp onto cause my relationship with my family has always been…complicated? But if me wanting to spend every second of my day with you means I love you too then, shit, maybe I do. But I need some time before I can really say that shit, you get that?” His words are honest and raw and she thinks her rattling heart is going to beat out of her chest.

“Oh. I— um…yeah, of course. Take all the time you need,” she finally manages out.

“Hey, c’mere,” he says before he’s practically dragging her dumbfounded form into his embrace; beefy arms pushing her flush against his chest with a steadying grip on her waist.  

“I mean, we’re basically already dating at this point, no? Wasn’t sure how to make it official without freaking you out but since you love me, I think you’re all good, yeah?”

She croons something incoherent in response.

“So, wanna be my little girlfriend or what?” He asks into her hair. 

“I— of course I do,” she mumbles against his shirt.  

“Yeah?”  

“Mhm,” She hums before he tucks an index finger under her chin and raises her face to look up at him; thumb toying with her bottom lip before he’s leaning down and smearing a sloppy kiss against her mouth.  

“Shit, you’re so cute. Just wanna swallow you whole sometimes,” he murmurs with a soft smile tugging at his lips and blue hydrangeas twinkling with something syrupy in them.  

“I love you,” she mumbles, almost inaudible; words still too tender to consciously say out loud.  

“Say it again,” he practically demands. 

“Um…I love you,” her voice is nearly a whisper. 

“What was that? Think you can say it a little louder?” He teases.  

“Rafe, stop…you’re embarrassing me,” she whines, cheeks coloring over with a strawberry hue.  

“No, I’m not. Just wanna hear you say it,” his smirk is all big and smug and it makes her huff.

“ILOVEYOU, okay?” The words mesh together like fluffy clouds in the sky and her volume is louder than he’s probably ever heard it, a couple of curious heads turn to look at them, the lively chatter around them quieting down some.  

“Yeah? You guys heard that? She loves me!” He’s nearly shouting, looking around with a stupid grin on his face, making her flush and hide behind her hands as a few customers cheerfully titter in entertainment. 

”Congrats, dude!” Someone even yells.  

“Oh my god, Rafe. Why would you do that?” Her mortified eyes widen as she crouches down; trying to find shelter from behind the pale yellow counter. ”I’m never leaving my house again,” she complains with a glare.  

He doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by the whole thing, simply chuckling with dimples denting his cheeks; the light-hearted sound making her stomach flutter despite the humiliation crawling up her spine and making her want to vanish into the cracks on the floorboards.  

“Of course you are. I’m your boyfriend now which means I’m taking you out on a date tomorrow, yeah?” He lifts her up with a grip on her waist, pulling her flush against him as his devious fingertips slip underneath the hem of her shirt, smoothing over her bare stomach and making her let out a squeak.

Then he’s grasping her jaw in one hand and pressing his mouth on hers once again; her protests withering away like a dead rose when he slips his tongue past her lips, dragging out an involuntary whimper from her.  

She pulls away, hiding her face in his chest when she can feel multiple pairs of eyes staring at them. 

”Rafe, can we just go already?” She pleads with her voice small before he’s guiding her out of the coffee shop with a big palm resting on her back, calming her down some.  

And despite the little scene he just caused, she thinks she might just be the happiest girl on the island as he helps her climb into his truck with a honeyed kiss warming the apple of her cheek.

[starzgaze]

LOVESICK POTENTIAL: sung jinwoo

pairing: yandere!sjw/reader

UNFINISHED incoherent drabble brainrot on yandere!sjw hahaha... this is so unfinished but it fried my brain so badly all i can do is draw this out later because i cant write for long periods of time 😒 also english isn't my first language so this is really ERRR not good also no proofreading we die raw

tw: froth and nothing much

BEFORE THE DUNGEON EVENT:

This era of jinwoo was so cute he looked so squishy I'm biting my bedsheets. This time is the perfect moment where jinwoo gets his reasons on why he's a little cuckoo over [y.name].

Jinwoo always came home covered in bruises and maybe with a dent in his mental health. I mean not only you face life threatening monsters but you also face the words of your fellow hunters that consists of demeaning and degrading your whole existence does horriblewonders to Jinwoo's mental health! After when his mother came out of the picture by falling ill to the Eternal Slumber, Jinwoo had to face the expectations on becoming the breadwinner and help to keep his family a float.

Jinwoo doesn't have ambitions or anything during this time, not when he's too focused on trying to feed Jinah and pay the bills. He's a blank pitiful slate who's being driven by desperation and the promise he made to his mother to take care of his sister. He doesn't have anyone to turn to and he can't tell what he's experiencing to his sister because that'll make her worry for him! Jinwoo doesn't want his sister to flunk her studies because he made her worry for him... so he's basically alone.

Until you come in to the picture. [y.name] one of the few people who saw him as a person instead of some weak pitiful excuse of a hunter. It doesn't really matter how you meet Jinwoo, whether it be through connections, after a dungeon raid, or you randomly meeting him on the street, what matters is how you perceive him as a person and how you turn his miserable world upside down.

When [y.name] entered his life, it felt like a ball of light entered his dim world but not as if [y.name] was extremely energetic or what not. It was more like that [y.name] ignited something within Jinwoo. [y.name] would stop by and talk to Jinwoo, solidifying his self as a person. They would talk about ideals and goals and even encourage Jinwoo to maybe create his own when they found out that he didn't had any of his own. Jinwoo felt so warm inside whenever he'd spent time with [y.name]. He felt so inexplicably happy.

Jinwoo decided that [y.name] is his goal and the driving force of his ambitions.

Jinwoo limped a bit as he walked towards his small apartment he shared with his sister. It was what remained when his mother was sent to the hospital for falling ill. He groaned silently as he clenched his arm that was throbbing in pain. Even after being recently healed by Joohee, he could still feel the pain of his arm being battered to smithereens.

He wondered how many dungeon raids left till he'll perish by the hands of some low ranking monster.

The young man approached his door before suddenly being called out by a familiar voice. Jinwoo turned around and his bleak mood was changed into a more joyful one.

"Jinwoo! I caught 'ya this time!" [y.name] giggled as they skipped over to Jinwoo, a small mischievous smile plastered on their features. Jinwoo chuckled at [y.name]'s words as he admired [y.name]. He wondered what did he do in his life to meet [y.name]

Jinwoo hoped that the next dungeon raid isn't the one where he'll perish by the hands of a monster.

AFTER THE DUNGEON EVENT:

Jinwoo would probably avoid contacting [y.name]. After realizing he has a new opportunity to get stronger. His mental health before wasn't the best, he often thought he was pulling [y.name] back and has this mindset that he didn't deserve any of the kindness he was receiving from anyone especially from [y.name]

But now? he has now the chance to pay them all back by becoming stronger and become someone they can all rely on. So randomly... he'll just disappear from [y.name]'s life randomly. Jinwoo feels horrible but he isn't ready to face [y.name] again but he promises to himself that he'll meet his darling[y.name] soon.

Jinwoo would admire [y.name] from afar and sometimes do this just for the sake of answering to his personal question of: "I wonder how are they doing now?". Jinwoo is aware how much it hurts to [y.name] that he randomly disappeared from their life without a word especially how worried they were for him.

When Jinwoo finally deems he's prepared and worthy enough to face [y.name] he almost forgotten how different he looked when he last met [y.name]. Jinwoo almost scared [y.name] away when a devilishly handsome tall young man approached them with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Thankfully, [y.name] recognized the man from the slightly meek demeanor he showed.

Maybe after a few more meetups and catch ups, [y.name] would notice the many changes on Jinwoo's overall.. being? like aside from the fact he's now built like a sculpture made by the gods, he's more confident and charming?.. Jinwoo of course didn't miss the way how [y.name] would quiet down and stare at Jinwoo, taking note every little different detail on Jinwoo. This fed the hunter's ego and was proud how his hardwork paid off.

While [y.name] was admiring Jinwoo, they didn't notice how Jinwoo added a few of his shadows into [y.name]'s shadow. His love for [y.name] during their absence has doubled a thousand fold and the lengths he'd go for [y.name] is now boundless. Jinwoo's goal of achieving [y.name] might not be impossible anymore if he pushed himself a bit more just like what [y.name] says.

After meeting up with Jinwoo, [y.name] bid the hunter goodbye as they exited the cafe. [y.name] was pleasantly joyful that Jinwoo didn't forgotten about them and met up with them again after a few years but this still didn't made [y.name] pissed off over the fact he basically ghosted them for a few years too!

[y.name] walked down the cold street that was dimly lit up by the lamp posts around the area. They shivered a bit as they tried to warm up their hands by shoving one of them in their trenchcoat's pocket. [y.name] was on their phone when they suddenly bumped into a man by accident.

"ow.. oh? I'm sorry I didn't notice you there I'm really sorr—" [y.name] stammered out as they bowed their head in apology but then they felt a hand pushing them hard enough to be stumble back into a lamp pole, hitting their back pretty hard. The man reached out to [y.name]'s trenchcoat's pocket and pulling out their purse then he ran away with their purse in hand.

"agh! what the- my purse?!" [y.name] yelled as they rubbed their back to ease the throbbing pain as they tried to run after the robber.

Unfortunately for [y.name] he was fast on his feet and after for a while they lost him. [y.name] panted as they decided to not give up yet and looked around the now lightless and eerie street, it seems like the robber ran into a more abandoned side of the city.

[y.name] roamed around the street and would peak occasionally inside of alleyways hoping to catch the man but much to their dismay, they haven't seen any glimpses or hints. They mindlessly walked around, slowly losing hope until they heard a quick shriek then a hard thump from a nearby alleyway. A cold sweat went down their neck as they froze in place... Did something happen?

[y.name]'s eyes narrowed down on the alleyway where they assumed the sound originated from. They contemplated for a bit whether they should check it out before they decided to see what it was, clinging on the possibility it might be their purse. [y.name] slowly peeked their head in the alleyway and immediately gasped at the sight.

The man who stole their purse on floor, wriggling in pain before a dark figure. Froth was coming out of his mouth as dark inky shadows circled around his throat. His ankles looked twisted but in a very unnatural degree that it looked grotesque.[y.name]'s eyes shakily looked at the soon to be a corpse then up to the figure who was holding their purse. They blinked blankly at the figure.. [y.name] recognized him?!

"Jin..woo?..." [y.name] murmured underneath their breath as the figure looked up to see [y.name] who was pretty shaken up. The light finally hits the figure's and it revealed it was indeed Jinwoo... but he had this soulless glint in his eyes that suddenly brighten up at the sight of [y.name]

"ah. [y.name]" He called out as he walked past the struggling man and approached [y.name] who took a step back away from Jinwoo. This made his heart wrench.

"don't. don't move away. it's dangerous at this time, you shouldn't be alone" Jinwoo continued as he was finally in front of a terrified [y.name]

"you shouldve accepted my offer walking you home"

[minkdelovely]

love and power

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter ten: part one

“i won’t die for love

but ever since i met you,

you could have my heart

and i would break it for you.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: vibes are not good y’all — it’s a blizzard in this here hotel 🥶 angst, crying, descriptions of sadness/loneliness, valentino mention lol, alcohol abuse and drug usage, mentions of bruising and bite wound recovery, power dynamics

word count: 5.8k

author’s note: okay, i was really hoping to have this all completed today but between some family obligations and graduations i didn’t have all the time i wanted to wrap this up in one go. but i really couldn’t keep this to myself anymore — i am so desperate to share what i have ready for you. i am still hacking away at the rest but for now, please accept part one of this finale with my gratitude and love 🙏🏻💖 @hazelfoureyes & @sugoi-writes come and get it my darlings ❤️‍🔥

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The week that passed was long. Undoubtedly the way weeks in Hell were supposed to feel — grueling and bleak, devoid of joy. Hours passing like decades, leaving its casualties wrung out and aged.

Despite the rift only being between the two of you, it was felt by everyone in the hotel. Much to their misfortune, neither of you were spending hardly (if any) time in your rooms. No one knew exactly why, of course, but understood well enough to suffer in silence and bear the brunt for now. The weight of what transpired hanging in the air of whichever room either of you entered. 

Yours took the form of an icy draft, reminiscent of past winters that could only be felt again here in a manner such as this. Wandering the halls of the hotel, save for one, like a specter. Leaving sinners in your wake grateful once you had finally passed through; the natural heat of Hell returning in your absence to soothe their frostbite as if apologizing on your behalf.

And if your melancholy was that of a cold wind, Alastor’s was the storm that bore it. Blustering and wild in its unpredictability, an exposed nerve waiting for a catalyst. Always he was in the eye of it. Not even knowing himself which direction it may take — malice, apathy, vengeance — but claiming victims nonetheless, despite his efforts to maintain his air of refinement around the hotel. The hairline cracks in his guise couldn’t help but leak.

Even Niffty was proceeding with caution; not daring to climb the length of his body as she so often did without care. She had only made one attempt in the interim of the argument and had yet to fully recover from the murderous glare Alastor had threatened her with. His tense, bloody smile was still the first thing she saw when she closed her eyes at night. But she was warming up to it.

Husk was particularly displeased with the whole affair, having to deal with each of you as you took turns sulking at the bar in between bouts of sucking the life out of anyone you passed. Something had to be done about it. Not only for his whiskey supply, but he just also wished Alastor would mope somewhere else. And there was no telling which mood he would be in by the time he was ready to go back upstairs. Making it dangerous for anyone still roaming around in the late hours of the night. 

Asking Alastor about what was wrong was a dead end, and thankfully no one was naive enough to try. But you were still so despondent, nursing your drinks at one of the booths in a dark corner of the bar, that no one dared approach you yet. Though Angel was getting close. In fact, an idea was forming in his mind right now as he watched you sulking from his usual seat at the counter. 

“I can’t fuckin’ take much more’a this,” he grumbled lowly to Husker, frowning over his drink. “It’s startin’ to rub off on me! I’ve been infected.” His histrionic expression of woe only mildly overdone.

It really was wearing on him, as much as he tried not to let it. But between the atmosphere at the studio and now this… Angel could only be so resilient. Though he did his best to ensure it wasn’t bleeding into his work. Not an easy feat, especially when he thought back to that weird voicemail he got from Valentino about a week ago. 

Tell our little Sylvie I said ‘you’re welcome’ — God knows she really fucking needed it. Such a repressed thing… really wish I could have kept her longer.

The implication had actually made Angel lose sleep. Even knowing that Alastor had been with you, when it came to Val the possibilities were endless. And clearly whatever he instigated between you and Alastor had ended in disaster. Angel hadn’t relayed the message, of course. Nor had he given Valentino even a hint of what was going on at the hotel, much to his chagrin. He’d sooner face the Exorcists again than give Val the satisfaction, and it was fun being able to piss him off, whatever the consequence. Still…

“Have you tried talk—”

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” Husk said definitively, an unimpressed look on his face. “I ain’t gettin’ mixed up in this shit. The less I know about what’s going on between the two of ’em, the better.” He shuddered just at the thought.

Angel sighed, but understood Husk’s resistance to the idea as he obviously wasn’t prepared to try and speak to the Radio Demon about it himself. Getting a peak behind Alastor’s curtain was an intriguing, but ultimately deadly, risk — especially for the bartender. Meaning there was only one way out. 

He glanced back over his shoulder at you, taking in the distant look in your eyes as you absently played with the two small straws in your glass. Feeling resolved, Angel downed what was left of his drink and gave Husk a quick wish me luck before walking over. 

“All right, doll face, you’re comin’ with me. We’re overdue for a gab sesh,” Angel said, leaning over the table to grab your drink. His tone of voice was kind, though a little irked, and left no room for argument. “It’s uh… about that time anyway,” he added softly, offering a hand to help you out of the booth when you didn’t move.

That time… There was no need for him to say more; you knew Alastor was coming down here after you went up to your room for the night. Was it getting that late already? The bar didn’t have windows so it was impossible to tell how long you had been sitting there in the dark, counting only the number of drinks you consumed. Four wasn’t too bad. Yesterday it had been more. Maybe almost double. But it was hard to remember.

You took his hand and scooted yourself out of the corner, grateful to feel someone holding you steady again. It nearly brought you to tears in your drunken state, but you managed to blink them back and focused on the impending journey to the elevators. All your concentration going to your feet as your arm gripped his for support, which he didn’t falter in providing. Angel had plenty of experience in this, after all. You weren’t the first drunk he had helped home and you wouldn’t be the last.

A chill ran through you as you crossed the lobby. When you looked over your shoulder you could’ve sworn you saw a shadow flitting across the carpet… but it was gone as soon as you blinked.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Husk groaned as Alastor materialized at the stool he’d adopted at the bar counter — dead center, wouldn’t you know it. Muttering to himself about how Angel had just barely rid him of one problem only to be replaced with an even bigger one; turning to the shelf behind him to grab the whiskey he already knew the son-of-a-bitch wanted. 

“Quit your bitching and just give me the bottle,” Alastor grumbled, rubbing at his temples as Husk unceremoniously obeyed. Slamming it down in front of his keeper and earning a tight, unamused look in response. “Bastard…”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Husk scoffed as he set down an accompanying drinking glass. Amused by the display of decorum Alastor subjected himself to, as if he wasn’t about to drown himself in liquor for the fifth night in a row. 

It was starting to catch up to him, though Husk wouldn’t dream of letting him know. It was obvious if you looked at the Overlord long enough, which most people didn’t. And they were smart not to. 

Husk, however, had no choice other than to spend hours hanging around the otherwise empty bar waiting for Alastor to finish sinking his sorrows bottle after bottle. So finding the tells was inevitable. Dark circles under worn eyes, a few hairs out of place. Counterfeit smile reaching a level of mania the bartender would have thought impossible before this week. 

But that was none of his business.

Alastor ignored him then, pulling the cork out of the bottleneck before pouring into his glass and downing it with a single swallow. He repeated this two more times before deciding to pace himself.

It didn’t take passing you in the lobby to know you had been here. Your scent permeated the room, mingling with liquor and tobacco, smelling closer now to cyanide than your usual floral almond and cherry; surpassing the bitterness Alastor had ever assumed it could reach. He detested how much he enjoyed it, especially when it was hanging fresh in the air as it was now, though he didn’t know whether it was an outward or inner loathing. The aromatics of the bar helped cut through the ache. Made it tolerable. But…

“It smells awful in here,” Alastor sighed bitterly. Eyes faraway as he let his nose hover over the glass before taking another sip. 

If he said it out loud it could be true.

About as awful as you fuckin’ look, Husk thought to himself before casually responding, “Well this is a bar in Hell. None of ’em smell like roses.”

Alastor merely hummed in response; a disconnected sound. Most likely the last sound the bartender would manage to get out of the Overlord for the rest of the night. 

It wouldn’t be wise for Husk to let on that he knew exactly what Alastor meant by the smell, but he did agree. That was part of the reason he was getting to the end of his rope with the both of you. Although you kept to yourself, the scent you were emitting was harsh and it lingered. Husk was beginning to wonder if it had actually started seeping into the wallpaper.

As difficult as it was to stay neutral, especially since he could understand certain aspects of your plight, getting involved was simply too dangerous. He thought he had a good grasp on his keeper’s moods and behavior, but this was all new territory. Tread lightly.

And so, he reserved himself to suffering through your poisoned aroma and Alastor’s moods. Hoping to whatever benevolent entity that could hear his silent pleas that Angel Dust would manage a breakthrough.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You were sitting crossed-legged on Angel’s bed as he rummaged through his specially made walk-in closet. Doing your best to fight off the sleep that was beginning to weigh on your eyelids, but it was a test of will that you were rapidly losing. The temptation to lay down and nestle yourself into the comfortable pink pillows and duvet growing stronger with each passing second. 

Angel must have been able to tell when he finally emerged, turning on some music to a volume that was just loud enough you couldn’t dismiss it as background noise before revealing a joint from behind his back with a flourish.

“Ta-da! Those bitches really think they got the last of it, but they’ll never find my break in case of emergency stash,” he mused with pride, nearly jumping on the bed to wake you up. 

He wasted no time in lighting a match from a pack on his nightstand, igniting the paper and taking a couple hits until a sufficient burn was glowing in a thin line of red. At which point he passed it to you, exhaling with a turn of his head. So polite.

This was far from your first time, but it had been a while since you last done this with a friend. You opted for a long drag and held in the smoke, nearly sighing as you felt the drug kick in after a second. Welcoming the warm, floating feeling in your head with a lazy smile as you emptied your lungs.

Angel whistled, impressed. “Not even the tiniest cough! My kinda gal. We shoulda done this ages ago.”

You nodded your head, passing it back to him as you laid down; sinking into the plush pillows with a hum. He followed suit, taking another hit and blowing the smoke your way with a teasing look on his face. You couldn’t help but giggle, both from the high and Angel’s comforting presence. Time passed for a while this way, taking turns with the joint and listening to music. Little laughing fits when you made eye contact for too long or muttered Val’s hat. Cuddling with his darling little pet pig, Fat Nuggets.

But once you had taken the last drag there was a shift. He was staring at you, waiting with the most open and soft face. The question on it the one you could no longer avoid. So what happened?

It took all you had not to cry. In fact, you were amazed at the capacity of tears your body had rendered over the past week. How could there still be any more left to give? But there was. At this point you weren’t sure whether they were coming from a place of anger, shame, or heartbreak. When it came to Alastor, you found your emotions had chasms deeper than you ever conceived. And they were more oppressive the further you went.

“Valentino didn’t tell you anything?”

Angel shook his head and made a face, landing somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation. “Sort of. You know how those fuckers like to play their little games. He keeps waitin’ for me to say somethin’, but I prefer to watch him squirm.”

Though you worried for him and hoped some part of Alastor’s deal held up in his favor, starting there would be a good place to start; leading him through the whole affair at the penthouse that you were present for. Not missing the sad look in Angel’s eyes when you finally got around to Valentino licking your neck. 

When you began to tell him about what happened once you got back to the hotel his eyes went wide. The scandalized scoff and I can’t fucking believe you sparkle in his eyes made you blush before you both erupted in a cackle, a form of pride shining through storm clouds of melancholy. You knew he would have burning questions and answered them as they came up.

Is he big? Yes.

Rough? No, until he was. 

Maybe even just a tad over. There were still some decent bruises to show for it. On top of which, the bite was taking a little longer to heal than expected…

You were snapped back by Angel’s next question.

Was it good? …the best. In fact, had you ever experienced that in life you would’ve found yourself here immediately after.

The last one had you both squealing. But he could see the tears blurring your eyes afterward, holding your hands as you continued. From waking up in his bed that evening, what happened in it, all the way through the fight the following morning.

“Fuck,” he sighed, the empathy on his face threatening to make you break down all over again. “Would you have done it without the pheromones?” 

Your lips quivered a bit, and you let out a shaky breath as you fought to remain composed before answering with a nod. “But he wouldn’t have… and now…”

The sob that followed took you by force, fueled by the loneliness you’ve been losing battles to all week. Angel hushed you when you tried to apologize, holding your hands until you were done. He left you momentarily to get you tissues and returned in pajamas; a box and large t-shirt in hand.

You took them, going for the tissues first. Turning away to clean your face and blow your nose. It was not a bodily function you ever cared for, so of course it was something you still had to deal with in Hell. Afterward you undressed and put on the oversized shirt, immediately feeling much better by the time you rejoined Angel in your former positions.

“Keep goin’,” he said, shifting some pillows to get more comfortable. “We gotta get this off that sweet chest’a yours.”

“Are you sure…? I don’t wanna bum you out too much.” 

He waved his hand, and raised his eyebrows. The expectant look on his face practically shouting get on with it. You put a hand up in defeat and exhaled.

“I just… wish he would let me leave, you know? Even though I can’t imagine not being here with you and everyone else but… I can barely make it to the garden before I start to feel the tug.” Your hand went up to your throat as you swallowed. 

You hadn’t meant to, but you didn’t mention the chain during your recall of the fight. He would understand, you knew, but… you kept it to yourself. It was hard to reason why. All you knew was that for now, it wasn’t something you wanted anyone to know about.

“He’s got me trapped here and I swear it’s like I can feel him all the time even though we’ve been avoiding each other all week,” you bemoaned, squeezing your eyes shut to fight back another wave of tears. The look on Angel’s face told you all you needed to know when you opened them again. He knew. “Is it bad that I miss him? I’m… fucking mad at him too, but… I miss him more than I thought I would…”

It was a painful admission, but an honest one. 

Angel wiped a stray tear from your cheek before running his fingers through your hair. Sighing before he said, just above a whisper, “No. It’s not bad that you miss him. But you know it’s…,” he sighed again searching for the right words. An almost tired look on his face. “Guys like them… they think they can just treat us like toys. But we ain’t. Alastor might be pissed off now but it’s only a matter of time before he’ll want you for something. That’s how it works.”

He practically spat the word out, voice rising slightly with indignant fire. 

“I can’t say I know what he’s thinkin’ — no one understands that mind’a his. But he’s been… different since the fight. We all thought he was startin’ to come around! I think you’ve been a nice little distraction.”

The pinch to your cheek was a welcome dose of levity, and your chest bloomed with warmth at the sight of Angel’s mischievous face. Though his eyes were still a bit somber as his mouth relaxed into a soft smile.

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, as long as you know what you want and what you’re gettin’ into… No one here would think any less of you for it. There’s only so much you can do. I know.”

You let the words sink in as you wriggled closer to him, sighing a thank you into the comforting fluff of his chest as his arms wrapped around you. Not that you needed permission, but his blessing and understanding of your feelings carried a weight you weren’t sure he fully realized. The sun breaking through the clouds.

Angel played with your hair as the two of you changed topics, talking aimlessly about other things going on around the hotel that you had been too tired to notice. Gossiping and laughing until sleep finally crept up on you. For the first time in a week, your dreams had been light and kind. Dancing with static, familiar red eyes, and a radiant fanged smile.

Oblivious to the idea that was hatching in Angel’s mind as you fell asleep, the glint in his eye was wicked and determined. Overlords weren’t the only ones who knew how to play games.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Days of the week didn’t hold the same kind of power in Hell as they did on Earth. But for the first time in years Alastor found himself growing impatient for evening’s approach. Akin to an itch, there had been a persistent irritation running through him. Something he managed to push to his feet at first but was steadily crawling up, leaving pinpricks of restlessness it its wake.

The nervousness was finding outlets in peculiar ways. Mindlessly shaking his leg for unknowable amounts of time, snapping pencils as he tried to focus on work. Clothes strewn about his room like the vines that adorned the radio tower.

Weekends weren’t a concept that existed here, and even if they did, they would mean quite little to the Overlord as his work was never finished. Splitting time between his duties to the hotel and his radio segments kept him more than occupied. Well… when he wanted them too, at least. He had been letting the side down these past couple weeks. Following his flights of fancy was one of the lingering pieces of his humanity that refused to leave him even after all this time. In fact, it was a trait that found more enabling here than it ever had in life.

All of this to say, Alastor didn’t place significance in time or days of the week unless there was an event or some tiresome chore tied to it. 

Tonight was one of those times. 

Charlie and Vaggie had gathered the residents yesterday to announce that they had a surprise planned — a Friday night out, since the pair had missed it the last time due to their appointment in Heaven. Alastor had been listening from the banister a few floors up, watching as everyone reacted with relative enthusiasm. Except for you.

Had he not heard the words with his own ears, he’d have thought you’d been told you were attending a funeral. This hadn’t been the first time he’d eavesdropped on the daily activities gathering, but it was the first time he’d had his interest peaked. Not because he was concerned with you going out — you weren’t allowed that right now. And knew it.

Watching you squirm was something he’d never tire of. It was a subtle tell, which is why Alastor appreciated it. Just a touch of additional tension between your brows and a fiddling of fingers. That perpetual pout and concentrated look in your eyes were distracting enough to maintain focus, easily deterring others from picking up on your nervous fidgeting.

Still marinating in the bitterness of the week, it brought him a keen satisfaction seeing you struggle to think up an excuse as to why you couldn’t join them on their evening out. Would you blame it on him? Or put it upon yourself? 

“I hope you all have a great time! But I think I’ll hang back… I’d hate to be the sad drunk at the sex club.”

Is that what the establishment Consent was? 

If Alastor hadn’t already shortened your leash, he would have done it now. Not even realizing his claws had dug into the bannister until he felt the recoil when he tried to walk away. An irritated growl reverberating in his throat as the heat of his shortened temper fogged his mind. So he melted into shadow to retreat back to the privacy of his room to let off steam.

And so, Friday evening had plagued him ever since. The hotel now empty save for the two of you.

It was a thought that shouldn’t have riled him up the way it did. He was still rather cross with you for instigating that fight, after all. You had laid misery at his feet and he’d be remiss to not return the favor. It had been warranted.

The intention of isolating you from him was supposed to be your punishment, but had somehow become his as well. It was infuriating. Another example of how his plans of late continued to backfire and leave him scrambling to figure out a clean escape.

It hadn’t come to him as easily this time. Drowning his agitation in liquor, hours of pointless gardening in his sanctuary just to keep his hands busy. Listlessly sitting at the bench of his piano, staring at the keys with hesitant hands. Any music he did manage to play, while passionate, was acrid and only further soured his mood. The bitter notes mingling in the air with what was left of your scent. Mocking.

Exhausting.

He felt now very much the same as he had right after the battle with Heaven, recovering from the ghastly wound Adam had landed on him. Alone. Made aimless in recovery. Back to square one. 

Alastor’s antlers branched out at the memory, a snarl on his lips as he paced through trees and shrubbery. It was a low point he thought he’d never suffer again, yet here he was. A sulking menace, same as you.

Despite best efforts, he had combed over the fight more times than he could count these last few days. Which of his actions had mislead you to such a conclusion that the copulation had been nothing but a game? Is that the kind of man you took him for? His blood burned again at the very notion, eyes radiating with such a heat he couldn’t believe the grass in its wake hadn’t shriveled from it.

He had taken advantage of your offer, but his desire to have you was something he had already been struggling with. Was that not apparent in how hard he fought to maintain a gentle touch? At least until he couldn’t? Even if your docile face hadn’t told him how needed that was, it was something he could feel. And something he more than willing to indulge. He had always been a hunter.

But his hand had been forced that time, and that was something he couldn’t forgive. No matter your willingness to participate nor the pleasure he had felt in claiming your body. 

The second time…

That had been his decision. Though your laugh was the trigger. 

Alastor wasn’t lying when he said he thought you didn’t know how. Yet there it was, hiding in your chest, those sweet chords of mirth falling from your mouth with a nonchalance that was almost offensive. Your lips turned up in an equally rare display, eyes sparkling in his partially lit room as you sat in his bed, bundled up in his housecoat.

It haunted him now.

But in the moment, his mind had gone blank, so surprised by the honest show of emotion from you. He himself was prone to a more orchestrated laugh, so he knew. It had been real. You had laughed for him. Let him burrow just a little further into your soul that you kept so guarded, despite the fact that he owned it.

You were the goldfish enticing him behind your glass bowl as if he were a cat that was afraid to get wet. 

He wasn’t.

Honestly, he hadn’t planned to bed you again so soon. In fact, he had felt rather sated from the exploits of the afternoon, despite his reservations for how it came about; more than content to let you sleep while he read his book. Knowing you’d eventually be waking up from the pain of his bite, he kept you close. Glancing over every now and then between passages to look at your sleeping face.

Even in sleep those downturned lips of yours taunted him. He had even touched them. The plush softness under his thumb a sensation he didn’t think he’d enjoy as much as he did with a clear head. He watched as the knot in your brow melted away, the swell in his chest giving him little reason not to do it again. So he did. You looked so peaceful it almost made him want to join you, but he wasn’t ready to entertain that just yet. Eventually rewarded for his abstinence with being able to watch you come back to life, petulance and all. 

And then you laughed. 

Laughter was something he heard all the time around this fatuous hotel. And he had certainly heard more than his fair share of cackles. None of which had moved him. Well… 

Getting Husker to laugh for the first time was an accomplishment. Those were still hard to come by, despite the amount of time they’ve known each other.

But that had been a game Alastor was actively playing. He had never set out to make you laugh (even when he said he was). Being the spoilsport — childish but true — you were, you were too much fun to tease to put an effort into making you laugh.  

What a golden little sound it was; lighthearted but just incredulous enough to make his cock twitch. So… no. It hadn’t been the pheromones the second time.

He wanted that. He… enjoyed that. 

He still wanted that, though he didn’t fully understand why. You just seemed to… set something off in him. A difficult thing to articulate, as he hadn’t ever really felt something like it before. Not this acutely.

Possessiveness, sure. Alastor wasn’t ashamed to admit to that. Was it so wrong to want to hold tightly to what was so hard-earned? He had broken his back to gain the reputation he had, and would never regret the choices made to get here. Save for one. But that was beside the point. For now.

What he felt for you was different, again, just in a way he was unsure of. Not love… he wasn’t a boy. It was much too soon for a word like that. But there was certainly a longing… a fondness. 

It had been your scent that intrigued him at first. He had made his peace with that. Enjoyed his little games in testing how your mood would change it, which aided in his desire to wipe that frown off your face. A flash of how you looked laying beneath him came to the front of his mind then, and Alastor gave his head a harsh jerk to vanish it. Though it didn’t help clear the phantom echos of your cries and moans now ringing in his ears.

You had surrendered to him so completely, given him your trust so fully that afternoon that you even endured that ferocious bite with nothing but a scream into the pillows. Letting him claim you in the way he needed to in that moment was no small feat. But you did. He didn’t whisper apologies on a whim. You had earned it.

Irritation was building up in him again, a growl rumbling in his chest as his jaw tightened and antlers creaked with growth. But he persevered, continuing down his train of thought as his legs kept up their restless strides. It was the closest he had felt to something akin to clarity all week.

While he had definitely enjoyed fucking you, there was more to it than that. He wouldn’t have given himself to you in the first place if you hadn’t appealed to him in other ways leading up to it.

Rigidity, diligence, sullenness. Pride, even. 

Despite the more irksome traits, one thing he could always count on was that you would complete the tasks given to you well. A hard thing to come by in this godforsaken place.

But there was a fierceness hiding underneath that you refused to let loose, unless of course you were giving him attitude. That, in particular, drove him rather mad but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it. He had grown rather accustomed to navigating you in such a short span of time. It wasn’t lost on him that you had done the same.

You had shown him quite a few times how willing you were to accept even the harsher side of his moods. That evening in his room when Angel had told him about Valentino was a prime example. You had been absolutely terrified — something he was able to see on your face and smell — yet you still showed up the following morning. Impressing him, in a way, with the gall you had to actually enter his suite without permission. He would have chuckled at the memory if he wasn’t on the verge of punching something.

That morning had been the first time he took notice of how you went about cleaning his room, taking extra care with how you made his bed that he hardly ever slept in. So much wasted effort for the both of you, but Alastor didn’t regret it. Even though that bed had become the bane of his existence, mocking him any time he was in the room.

Why did you care so much? 

Irritation turned to anger at the thought, meaning he was on the right track. You were asking him the wrong questions the morning you fought, but you had been justified on some fronts. He had done nothing but push your buttons since bringing you here. Made you do pointless things just to see if you would and test how long he could get away with it before you snapped; purposeful choices made so that he could in turn punish you for being disobedient.

Not that his desire to punish you was your fault. It wasn’t. And if he was being honest, you hadn’t presented him many opportunities to do so anyway. Diligence.

He wanted to move past it, but he was still so twisted up about how everything happened with the battle against Adam and the Exorcists a few weeks ago. To the point where sometimes he wished Adam actually had taken him out. To be nothing but a discorporated soul clinging to life in some inanimate object, indulging in the peace of such an existence. No more fighting, no more posturing, no more leash. 

But he retreated before Adam could finish the job. His instinct to survive persevering once again. No… It was his ego, not his instinct, that had made that choice. Though if it hadn’t well… He wouldn’t have been able to go to Rosie’s that fated afternoon, would he? You were a burden he hadn’t wanted to undertake and had no choice but to. And yet you fit yourself into his routine as if you’d been tending to him for decades.

Why did you care so much?

Could you tell that he was struggling in the never-ending war against his own vanity? That he was dejected from losing a fight in what seemed like near self-sacrifice from the outside? Some part of you must have. Why else would you let him bully you, only to turn around and address his needs with a consistency that alarmed him. Let him prod and hold and touch you at his whim, much like the microphone that never left his side. 

Another loss he hadn’t recovered from. Its splintered form now buried at the base of a tree in his secondary room. The shame of seeing it lying around his suite or the radio tower while he failed to mend it too much to bear. A contemptuous symbol of who he was and what he had been reduced to.

Exhausting…

He hadn’t even noticed that he was walking to your room before he was standing in front of the door. Alastor would be lying if he said he thought you would be the one to come to him.

You always took the wrong things to heart.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

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[joels-darlin]

Bad Day

Pairings: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Warnings: hurt, angst, shouty Pedro (if that is even a thing), comfort, fluff, mentions of anxiety/panic attack, sad Pedro.

Summary: Pedro has a bad day and you bear the brunt of his frustrations.

Word count: 1.5k

Author Note: Appreciate that RPF isn't everyone's cup of tea so feel free to keep scrolling, I always make sure when writing for Pedro that I keep it to his true character and also respectful. Just a piece I've had in-progress for awhile and I've spent far too much time on it for it to go to waste. Enjoy and as always feedback is appreciated ♥ Special thanks to @ladybess-a03 for providing your beta reading services and wisdom, also for being a continued support ♥

AO3

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint where everything had gone astray. It was early, and he had woken up in a shocking mood; the bleak, grey, rainy weather outside and lack of sleep contributing to his miserable state.

It frustrated him to know that, of all days he had to leave the house, it was for something that could have been done over the phone. Next he couldn’t find any clean socks, and eventually had to forgo his mission to find some or else he’d be running late, and instead slipped on the worn pair from yesterday. Finally, upon entering the kitchen, he noticed they were out of coffee, so it looked like he was leaving even earlier than intended to stop at Starbucks for his fix.

So safe to say when you waltzed downstairs singing ‘Morning’ in a cheery tone it rubbed him the wrong way; irritated him, in fact. Pedro grunted in response, not in the mood for talking. Observing this straight away, you opted to retreating to the bedroom to change, giving him some space for five minutes.

┈

“Hey P, any idea where my laptop charger is?” you questioned as you reached the bottom step of the stairs. You were sure it was around here after working from home yesterday. Pedro was still in the kitchen, head down on his phone, thumbs stabbing away at the screen. No response.

“P? Do yo-”

“Oh my fucking god, WHATTT?…You know what, no wonder you can’t find it, this place is a fucking mess,” he said, lifting his arms to gesture to the various items haphazardly scattered across the room, his tone laced with frustration and anger.

“Have you even cleaned up in here this week? And, to answer your question, NO, I don’t know where the damn charger is,” he snapped back, continuing his tirade of anger. Bastard.

His venomous words hung in the air, coating the room with an awkward silence, and for the first time since you’d known him you were unsure what to say next. Yeah, okay, it had been a busy week for you both. Between your day job, Pedro between filming, costume fittings, and the constant interviews and photoshoots, trying to keep on top of the house in general was impossible. It wasn’t a huge mess by any means, just well-lived in. But every evening you found that you were both were too exhausted to even attempt chores.

You weren’t sure what audacity he had to assume the job of cleaning up was solely on you, to be honest. That wasn’t at all like the Pedro you knew.

“I’m going to work,” he grunted before grabbing his car keys, the door slamming behind him on the way out.

You stood frozen to the spot, partially in shock. Pedro had never raised his voice to you; he could be stern at times but never once had he acted like this. Glad it was a work from home day, you grabbed a glass of water before heading up to the home office.

┈

Today was one of the rare occasions where Pedro opted to sit in for his coffee, holed up in the dark corner of a Starbucks in the hopes that he wouldn’t get recognised. But in his haste to leave the house, he hadn’t bothered to check the time, and realised only once he’d started driving away from your home that he was at least two hours early for his first meeting of the day. Curling his hand around the now lukewarm cup of black coffee below him, sighing outwardly, his other hand came up to card through his already messy locks.

The events of the morning back at home were playing in his head on loop. Pedro didn’t mean to act the way he did, a complete and utter asshole. The feeling of regret pooled in his stomach as soon as the words left his mouth. Unfortunately he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed and taken it out on you which was completely unfair. In your case he knew how stressful work was at the moment spending your work from home days locked in the home office, constantly nattering away in meetings between trying to get your own tasks done to please managers.

What broke his heart the most was the look of sadness, and he supposed shock, that adorned your features when he spat those words out; eyes starting to well slightly with tears, your feet rooted to the ground almost in abhorrent horror at what he’d spat out. Only now, sat in this coffee shop, was he just beginning to realise the weight of his words and how they were directed towards only you. The onus of keeping things in check was on you both. Draining the last of his coffee he sighed again, leaving his seat and disposing of the cup on the way out. He had Hell a lot of grovelling to do.

┈

So far your day was not going smoothly after the events of this morning. Everything else then seemed to fall like fucking dominoes.

First your work laptop wouldn’t turn on, and only after two hours on the phone did IT decide it was broken and that you needed to come in for a replacement (brilliant, thanks for that. Real waste of time). Secondly, once getting a replacement, you had spilt once warm coffee all over the front seat in a rush to get home. The final nail in the coffin was on your commute back from the office. Focused on just getting home so you could attempt some work today, you nearly ended up in a crash.

Through no fault of your own (your head might have been all over the place on account of Pedro’s foul mood this morning, but you always paid attention on the roads), someone ran a red light. It just missed you, and nobody was hurt, but it was a close enough call that you needed to stop before heading the rest of the way home. Pulling over into the nearest petrol station for a breather, body shaking with fright, you had debated calling Pedro at this point. But knowing he was busy in meetings, and still being mad at him, you decided against it, eventually starving off the panic attack on your own. A massive sigh of relief left your lips upon parking the car on the drive. Knowing you were in for a long evening you hunkered down in the home office playing catch up with the pile of work that got pushed aside earlier in the day.

┈

All day you had played on his mind, especially during the fourth meeting of the day. Bored out of his skull, not really contributing and more listening and making script notes, this unexpected meeting was thrown into his schedule last minute which meant he was now home later than usual.

He’d missed you to the point where it made his chest ache, wanting nothing more than to rush inside and beg on his knees for forgiveness. Putting the car in park he sighed, glancing up at the window. The office light was still on which meant you were still working; he wasn’t surprised.

Locking the door behind him and placing the keys in the bowl by the entrance, he moved slowly in search of only you. His eyes doing a quick scan of the adjoining kitchen and front room. “Still upstairs” he thought, sighing loudly, hoping you would have heard his car pulling up. What he didn’t fail to miss - the place was now immaculate. That feeling of guilt again pooled in his stomach again like it did several hours ago. Pedro sat on the couch waiting; defeated and guilty, taking his phone out as a distraction. Eventually you made your presence known, coming downstairs. He stood to attention before your feet had the chance to touch the ground floor.

“Sweetheart…I-I-” he began.

“It’s okay, P don’t worry, I’m s-” you started, but couldn’t get anything out, his words interrupting yours.

“No, no! Querida, no, I’m the one who should be apologising, I was out of line. I snapped at you because I woke up a grump…it was uncalled for and I’m sorry…please come here” he said, begging in his tone, arms outstretched.

Padding along from the other side of the room you closed the gap, practically crushing against his warm chest. His arms came around your waist in a tight hug, placing a tender kiss atop your head. A few moments just to enjoy each other's embrace.

“I can’t apologise enough, mi amor” he said softly.

“Hmmm I might just forgive you…if I can get a kiss” Moving back from his chest so you could look at his face, Pedro leant down to meet you; foreheads now touching. His hand moved from your waist to cradle your head, thumb rubbing ever so gently over your cheek.

“Never have to ask sweetheart” he whispered softly.

Smiling down at you his hand moved down to your chin taking it in between his thumb and finger, gently guiding your lips together in a tender kiss.

There was one thing for certain the bad days were worth it if they all ended like this.

[stxrvel]

welcome home (1)

series summary: you woke up from a long coma with no memory of a part of your life only to be told by your teammates that you're married to the man you hated seven years ago. even though that seemed to be the only problem, as time goes on you're realizing there's a lot more history and mystery behind the accident that left you in medical care for months. blackouts, more memory loss, mistrust and a strange man who seems to be connected to everything. every day it gets harder to trust anyone around you, but you won't stop until you can finally uncover the truth behind the accident.

chapter summary: when an accident makes you forget the last seven years of your life, you're lucky to have someone like Bucky to support you in your recovery. except he's not the Bucky you remember.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +4k

warnings: angst. that's all.

note: this wasn't planned. at all. i had the day off and wanted to write something but nothing was coming to me enough to write another part of the outbreak or how to break a routine in one year, so i was just browsing tumblr until i saw something related to memory loss and this popped into my head. i thought i wasn't going to finish writing it but it came out more than i expected. and clearly this gives for a part two and even more, but at the moment i don't know when that will happen. also, i suck with titles, i think i'll change it later. meanwhile, i hope you enjoy it! feedback is always appreciated, thank u for the support! 💜

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Bucky was right to be scared. He was right to feel his soul leaving his body and his heart bursting with pain. He was completely right to be frightened, unsure of the future and the opportunities it had taken with it. Bucky was right to feel that his world was crumbling, that he was left with half a heart to survive for the rest of his life.

But he was also right in deciding not to show how scared he was. He could have his nerves frozen inside his body and feel his blood boiling inside his veins, his whole insides churning and messing up without any compassion, but he couldn't let that rule his life. He knew that the only solution was to cope rationally and objectively, even if he wanted to burst into tears every ten minutes.

“Okay, everything looks good for now,” Bucky heard the doctor, along with the others who were in the room.

He had been standing in the corner of the room the whole time, not moving a millimeter barely to breathe. The mood was so bleak and melancholy that he feared the sadness would rub off on him if he blinked any faster.

“So, can you discharge her now?” Tony Stark asked, his body closer to the door than any other.

“Yes, she can leave after you sign some paperwork. I'm going to need her to come back for some monthly checkups and let me know if she comes to remember anything.”

“Of course,” Steve Rogers stated.

Bucky wandered his gaze over the other two men in the room and the two women behind them, Natasha Romanoff and Carol Danvers. They all looked wary, not taking their gazes off your figure lying on the gurney after the doctor finished checking something in your eyes. He didn't like the way their bodies moved, anxious to talk, anxious to ask questions. He didn't like how Steve constantly opened and closed his hands; how Tony crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest; how Natasha suspiciously watched the doctor every time he approached you and asked what he was doing; how Carol glared at the man every time he told them there was no news or progress. They had overwhelmed you before with so many gestures and words that the orderlies had to take them all out almost by force.

In a way, Bucky understood them. He too had been terrified at the beginning, still was to some degree, but it had been a while before they began to regulate their behavior. Bucky understood that the situation was difficult for them, as it was for him, but they also had to think about what it was like for you.

You were on the brink of death and awoke to find that about seven years of memories had been erased from your head.

Bucky had not taken it well at first. He was in a constant panic and searched the internet for all possible solutions that could make up for the mistake that was made. He was anxiously talking to Wanda trying to convince her to find something to do. He had gone to Strange almost begging him for some spell that could fix everything. He had asked the doctor a hundred times on the verge of insanity if it was possible to fix it with another surgery. It had simply been the worst news he had ever been given in his life.

Until, by some divine miracle, the rational part of his brain took control of his thoughts and emotions. That's when his “there's nothing we can do” thought came. The rest of the team was surprised when they saw him calmly walking around the Complex and going on missions, when Bucky had finally understood that he couldn't stop his life for something he couldn't fix. He had to learn to live with that and he hoped the others would too.

But no, it seemed that moment of enlightenment hadn't come to anyone but him.

They returned to the Complex after signing papers and picking up medications with the orders the doctor had given them, some pills for the eventual migraines and muscle relaxants if needed.

The trip was tense. Everyone sent you wary glances and purposely averted their gazes when they saw you watching them. Bucky could tell you were starting to get nervous. Even more, anxious.

Lacking knowledge of your family's whereabouts and that your current address was the Complex, that was where you would spend the rest of the days of your recovery -although Bucky had other options in mind-. The doctor had put his buts in, believing that being in such a tense, busy and overwhelming environment as the main Avengers facility was could hinder your process of getting better, but Tony was very specific and quick to tell him that there was a part of the Complex, a wing, that they had almost completely isolated to keep you in a safe place and away from the stress of the job. The mechanic spoke confidently about how you would be totally at ease as if the decision was entirely up to the doctor, while giving Bucky a helpless look. Finally, to please Tony, the doctor agreed to let you go spend your recovery at the Complex.

Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that Bucky was your husband.

The doctor who treated you for almost a year, from the time you arrived injured and near death, to your subsequent surgeries and recovery, always knew that the final decision was out of his hands. It was funny to watch Tony argue his points to influence his decisions, but in the end that was not something he had any power in. His gazes always turned to Bucky, waiting for a nod or a shake.

Tony knew that too. You had invited him to the wedding because you were closer to him than Bucky, plus they had to see each other constantly for work. They weren't best buddies, but they maintained a relationship that was professional and affectionate and friendly enough to keep you satisfied. That is, until the accident. Since that day, Tony had taken a completely different stance towards Bucky and he really didn't find it strange. He hadn't even been able to speak to him since the day he had almost apologized with his knees to the floor when they had to tell Bucky that you almost died because of a mistake.

Over time, Bucky had let go of the anger along with his realization that he couldn't do anything to change the past, but it seemed to him that Tony still felt guilty about what had happened.

Bucky looked away from the road when he saw you stir in your seat as they were about to arrive at the Complex. The team tried to make small talk after several minutes of traveling in awkward silence, but it resulted in a much more tense atmosphere with everyone turning their heads to look at anything but you like fish out of water.

Bucky watched you from his position in the back of the van as you moved forward to view the Complex facilities in delight. He couldn't help but smile after spending months in constant stress, realizing that you had done the same thing the first time you had gone over ten years ago.

Carol and Natasha took it upon themselves to guide you through the isolated wing of the Complex to the room you would be staying in. Bucky stayed a few floors down along with Steve and Tony in the living room.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky heard Steve ask next to him, as Tony quietly approached the bay window.

“Fine.”

“Buck, you don't have to-”

“Really, I'm fine,” Bucky nodded, noticing Steve's incredulous look. He had to fight not to roll his eyes in disgust.

One thing the team had taken to doing constantly was treating him like a child, like someone who didn't know what he was feeling and didn't know how to control his emotions. That had been happening since the moment he accepted that he couldn't fix something that was out of his control. That you'd had an accident, you'd lost your memory, you'd forgotten him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had tried everything, and there was nothing.

But the team thought his attitude was that he was trying to hide his feelings and, well, in part he was. He didn't deny that it still made him scared and angry to think of all the opportunities and moments that were gone along with your memory, but he was aware that showing himself that way in front of you wouldn't bring you any good. Unlike him and completely unaware of the truth, the team believed he was in denial. They believed that Bucky had been trying for months to avoid dealing with his feelings and that at any moment he would break down and suffer fighting the horrible reality.

Bucky had only responded to their unconscious attacks and questions with the truth, but it seemed the team was in more denial than he was.

“The doctor said the chances of her regaining her memory were high. Don't worry.” Steve patted Bucky on the shoulder to accompany his words, a sympathetic smile on his face.

“Steve, I'm not wor-”

“And she'll adjust well to the routine in this place. You know we'll be constantly keeping an eye on her and making sure she's okay, right?”

“I'd rather you stay away,” Bucky mumbled, his teeth grazing at the discomfort.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Bucky kept his distance at first. He wanted to first meet and see how you were adjusting to your new home and how you related to others. Besides, he was also a little nervous about talking to you. You had done it before, yes, at the hospital. You had introduced yourselves and asked him a few questions when he was around. But when Bucky finally confessed to you that he was your husband, it was as if something had disturbed the gravity around the both of you. Clearly Bucky was quick to notice that change in your behavior and began to pull away trying to give you your space and not overwhelm you, unlike others.

You had some memories with him, Bucky was sure. You had lost the memory of about seven years, and you had come to the team ten years ago. That would have been good for him and your relationship, except that in the beginning neither of you could stand the other.

That's right. You two hated each other's guts. And Bucky eternally regretted waiting until the fifth year of meeting you to make his feelings known to you. Because, at that point, all you remembered about him were his stinging comments and his cold, calculating stares. When he remembered the things he had said to you to hurt you on purpose, he would cringe and his body would tremble in rejection.

Before confessing, he had thought about the possibility of keeping everything hidden, maybe try to win your trust again and suddenly have what you had before. And maybe the Bucky of six years ago would have done that, wouldn't have hesitated to keep the truth hidden just to guide you down the path he wanted to walk. But the Bucky who was there, in year ten, couldn't look you in the eye and try to keep something in the dark. He knew it wasn't right and that lies usually backfired on the person telling them. Besides, ever since you had decided to try to have a relationship, you had made him promise never to keep anything from you, no matter how stupid or horrible it was. You had been in such a toxic relationship with him before that you only wanted to look out for each other's welfare. A relationship based on trust and communication was a good relationship.

And Bucky wanted to keep his promise, even if you couldn't remember it.

So he was keeping his space, but he was always aware of what you were doing. And that's why he noticed every time you would give him a questioning look and then pull back and focus your attention on something else when you noticed he was looking at you.

Bucky wasn't sure if it was a good or bad idea what he was doing. He could just walk up and talk to you, maybe you were willing to do that. Or you might think he was crazy for watching you from afar like he was an eagle and didn't want you near him under any circumstances. Bucky didn't know what to do, and asking the team wasn't in his options, so he just decided to do what he thought best.

One day, a couple of weeks after you returned to the Complex, Bucky met you casually. Really, casually.

He had spent a whole week in constant stress so he hadn't even been able to get near the side of the Complex where you were staying. He had been assigned an undercover mission and it had turned out to be a little more complicated than it seemed at first. There were too many fights involved in the end, but he had achieved his goal.

The day he arrived at the Complex he took a long shower and a long nap. It was the least he deserved. After waking up, he went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee because it was just getting light, when he saw you leaning on the kitchen counter.

You froze at the same time he did. Bucky wasn't expecting the first person he would meet to be you, he didn't even know you were already freely leaving your safe place, but life is full of surprises, apparently. Bucky noticed your wary gaze on him, how the cup you held in your hands had been halfway to its destination and how your body moved only to breathe.

He moved, continuing with what he had gone to do, despite feeling that captivating electricity coursing through his body and asking him to move closer to you. Moving his eyes away from yours felt like a sin and his body was almost reluctant to follow the directions in his head.

Bucky finally approached the coffee pot to notice the steaming liquid coming out of it. So, it was coffee that was in your cup.

He was a little hesitant to drink from the coffee you had made because he didn't know how you would react to his intrusion, so he decided to move to the other side of the kitchen where the drawers were and grab the first cereal to be found.

“You can have some of that coffee,” you spoke to him suddenly, resuming your movements and he could barely turn to look at you over his shoulder. “Clint did it.”

Bucky followed your eyes moving all over the instance, anywhere but on his, and even though he felt he'd had a year to prepare for this, it seemed completely insufficient: nothing would have prepared him to ever again hear your nonchalant voice directed at him the way you spoke to him before you decided to become a couple. Bucky thought that those years had been buried in the back of his head, that the situation you were going through wouldn't bring back memories he preferred to keep hidden, but thinking about doing it was easier than actually doing it.

He moved his body almost groaningly until he was back in front of the coffee pot next to you. Hearing you talking to him like that had knocked his mood to the floor. He wasn't too high either, that mission was both physically and mentally exhausting, but he was more relieved to be back at the Complex.

“I didn't see you this week,” you spoke again as Bucky thought you were about to leave the kitchen. He moved his head to look at you, his expression indescribable, you could barely describe him as dumbfounded and bewildered.

Bucky mumbled a few words before responding. “I was on a mission. Far away.”

“Mhm,” you hummed in response, and Bucky nearly melted at the sound. Even though he recognized your demeanor, because that was how you acted before when you wanted to get information out of him or when talking to someone you suspected was hiding something from you, he couldn't help but rejoice at finding little gestures that made him reminisce about the good times he had with you.

With more encouragement, Bucky poured his black coffee under the umbrella of your expectant indifference.

“How have the others been?”

He moved to stand in front of you with the cup in his hands, and could notice how subtly your shoulders slumped a little. He couldn't define whether in calm or ennui.

“It's been… complicated.”

“Are they very insistent?”

You turned your head to look at him, and Bucky nearly choked on the sip of coffee he'd taken. He thought you'd keep visually ignoring him and not turn to look at him like he was a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

“They're horrible,” you barely whispered, your head bobbing closer in complicity. Far gone was your mask of coldness the moment you found someone to complain to about how terrifying those weeks at the Complex had been. “I feel like I can't move my hair without having someone behind me asking me if I want my hair combed for me or if I was moving it because I had a headache. Anything I do is over-analyzed and that's so…ugh, so frustrating.”

Bucky definitely didn't expect you to spew all those words in front of him, but he did understand how overwhelmed you must be and mentally berated himself for agreeing to you having visitors from the moment you arrived. His idea was that you would have time to clear your thoughts and to adjust to that new place on your own, but somehow the team managed to convince him to let them in from time to time to greet you because being alone too much all of a sudden wasn't good for your sanity.

He should have known better knowing how clingy and pushy his teammates were.

When he was around you, they behaved, but they seemed to pretty much take advantage of the times when he wasn't around to behave as they pleased.

“I hate being treated like I'm a piece of glass. I understand well what happened and its aftermath and that it affected them too much, but I can still live peacefully without needing them to do things for me. I'm not incapacitated or anything like that.”

“I understand.”

Wow, Bucky, couldn't you have said something much more interesting?

“I'm fine,” you continued speaking as Bucky noticed how your eyes were lost in the distance in the kitchen. “I really feel fine. But they're always on me like trying to convince me otherwise and talking about my memories every other time.”

Bucky furrowed his brow and suddenly felt the sting in his chest from anger. There was only so much Bucky had in life to control his temper and that was you. With anything else, Bucky was nothing but walking indifference. He didn't care about the fights the others on the team had, he didn't care about the decisions that had to be made, he didn't care about what the majority chose, he didn't care about the discussions about the rooms when they had to stay in hotels. But when it came to you, there was no stormo chaser that could withstand his tempestuous attitude.

The limit was that the others could get angry, fight and argue about whatever they felt like, but the moment that started to affect you, Bucky didn't hesitate to step up and shut them all up. That was one of the reasons he was the leader of the mission most of the time. It was easy to recognize his leadership ability, even if he tried to hide it through that window of indifference. He was very objective when it came to making tough decisions and was very capable of organizing whatever chaos had been created around him.

And, at that moment, Bucky felt he had reached his limit. He had let himself be convinced by the team to bring you here to carry out your recovery contrary to what he had thought of leaving you in the city with one of your closest friends that you remembered very well; and then he had let himself be convinced to let them invade your space when it was clear that they were not going to know how to behave around you and would overwhelm you just like they did in the hospital.

Bucky couldn't understand how he could have made such bad decisions about you. He felt he had completely failed you as your husband by not giving you a truly safe place in which to heal.

“I'll tell them not to come back,” Bucky told you after a few seconds in silence and your blank stare focused on his suddenly elated face.

“What?”

Bucky met your gaze. “This wasn't the way I wanted you to spend your recovery, and it's certainly not the way you should spend it. You should be calm, but I don't see that happening. I'm sorry.”

You watched his face, transfixed. Bucky looked quizzical for a few seconds at your dumbfounded stare and no response. His eyes moved around your face trying to figure out if he had said something wrong… until it all clicked in his head.

You didn't remember.

Yes, it seemed stupid because he'd been living with that thought all last year, but apparently he had to remind himself. For a moment, he had gotten so lost, not only in the familiarity of your ramblings and gestures, but also in the annoyance and self-reproach, that he had forgotten for a few measly minutes that you didn't remember. You didn't remember that protective side of him. You didn't remember how much he loved to sit and listen to you talk about others, good things or bad things. You didn't remember how much it made him angry when other people made you the least bit uncomfortable or angry. You didn't remember the way he showed that appreciation, that love for you.

That attitude Bucky was giving you was completely new to you. Surely it was like seeing a different person. Bucky mentally cringed at the thought that you must be thinking of him as a jerk who acted like a teenager and said hurtful things just for the fun of it.

At that moment, he would have liked to take more time when you were in the hospital to talk to you, so he could get to know you and you could see that he was different and not the same person he was six years ago. But at that time he felt so scared. Just the memory of your face contorting when he had told you he was your husband still sent shivers down his spine.

One thing he couldn't deny was that he had lived constantly, even up to that moment, in fear of rejection. When you had reacted that way that time at the hospital, Bucky had at first turned away in fear. But then he had tried to be nice to you, as if nothing had happened. However, he could tell that it was much more strange for you to see the flowers on the table in the room or to have him bring you lunch because the hospital food was so simple. It seemed that no matter what he did, that reluctant expression on your face would not go away.

Then, he stopped trying. He would only show up in your room when you were sleeping, in the daytime or at night, and when everyone gathered for the doctor's checkup. Bucky didn't know how to get back into your life and the very idea was driving him to the brink of panic again. So he tried to have that moment of enlightenment again, but all he got in response was that maybe he should continue to keep his distance.

At that point, Bucky didn't know what to do. It wasn't your fault to react that way because it wasn't what you remembered about him, that wasn't wrong. He felt again that incessant need to pull away and go back to watching over you from a distance, because the look you had given him was so similar to the others that it was scary. Too scary. The possibility that he could never get back even half of what you two had before danced around him like a taunt. The ring on his ring finger too heavy to bear.

“Thank you…? I think,” you replied at last, but without changing the quizzical look on your face.

“I'll talk to Steve,” Bucky announced, a little more impassively than he had planned, and took the cup tightly in his hands with the thought in his head to get out of the kitchen so he wouldn't keep invading your space.

He felt your gaze follow him until he was near the living room.

“Hey, wait.”

He heard your footsteps following him and planted his feet on the floor. He gave you a questioning look over his shoulder, waiting for you to say something. Bucky watched you move from side to side, shifting your weight on your legs, a clear sign of your nervousness. When you looked directly at the contents of your cup instead of his eyes as you spoke, he couldn't help a small smile.

“I'm sorry about that. It's just… This is too weird for me. I wish I could get close and talk to you because that's what my body wants, but my head keeps me alert and defensive when you're around. What I remember about you is not…”

You cocked your head and twisted your lips. Bucky thought that had been the kindest way to describe it.

“You don't have to apologize.”

“But I do have to!” you exclaimed, scowling at him. “It's been a year and you've been nothing but kind to me. You've given me space and time, unlike others-”

Bucky nodded strongly at your words.

“-but I've given you nothing in return.”

He relaxed his features, letting the tension dissipate away from his body. He momentarily pushed away his worries and negative possibilities because you stood there in front of him with such a contrite expression on your face that it caused him physical pain.

“You don't owe me anything, Y/N, okay? What I do I do because I want to, not because I'm expecting anything in return from you. If you feel like you need another week before you talk to me, that's fine, take it. If you feel it's a month, six months, a year, it doesn't matter. Take as much time as you need. Either way, anytime, you know where to find me. I'm not going anywhere.”

Bucky hadn't missed the journey of emotions that roared across your face and he was genuinely happy about it. It had been a while since he had seen you feel not only comfortable but joyful around him, that he had begun to think that those moments would only live on in his memory from now on. But, perhaps, that might not have been the case…

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmured after sighing, and if Bucky hadn't been so attentive to you he surely would have missed it. Along with the small smile you gave him that would be enough to keep his sanity afloat for the rest of the month.

You saw him give you a small nod and then begin to walk away, leaving as the sun's rays began to appear through the living room window. A strange feeling settled in your chest, and it seemed like a turf battle was taking place between your reluctance to accept that Bucky had changed and that you two had taken your relationship four levels higher than expected, and this new feeling that was akin to hope. You could barely recognize it.

You didn't know how you were going to begin to deal with the reality that you were married to Bucky, but you suddenly felt a little less afraid to know the history of the decisions that had brought you to this point.

You remembered the wedding ring that was tucked away in your nightstand drawer and how it shone just as brightly as the one you saw on Bucky's finger. Maybe you felt a little closer to being ready to start dealing with it.

[k-howlett]

Prey | Jason Todd X gn!reader [PLATONIC]

TW: Character Death (Jason Todd), Mentions of hospital Equipment, Smoking & Drinking, light catholic mockery

Rating: Teen+, Implied Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Smoking & Alcohol Use, Gender Nonspecific, Angst (With A Happy Ending)

A/N:

A songfic to hopefully get you guys excited for my(@/k-howlett) September Playlist Challenge (Which will be a 30 day writing activity (Songfics) that you’re all welcome to participate in! I will drop the list of songs and characters (specific to my account) sometime this month!)

Thank you for the continued love on my series (Breaking and Entering), I am very much in a DC mood as a convention is coming up soon, though I have a residual rush of Deadpool and Wolverine overload so expect lots of superhero fanfics in the coming weeks!!

as always,

with love and healing

-Lark(ly)

♬⋆.˚

prey - the neighbourhood

⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

As long as,

you notice,

I’m hoping,

That you’ll keep your heart open

(keep your heart open)

I’ll keep mine open too

(I’ll keep mine open too)

♬⋆.˚

“They say some secret society runs the upper echelons of Gotham, y’know?” Y/N chimes in from where they lay on the roof of a beat-up Cadillac shell. The windows are busted out, and the paint is worn thin by Gotham’s relentless weather.

Jason tilts his head back, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Like the Illuminati? You gettin’ into conspiracies again, Y/NN?” His lanky frame is propped up against the car’s torn-off panel, his eyes flicking from the dark sky to Y/N’s silhouette, illuminated by the cold moonlight.

They were waiting for the fireworks to start, a rare spectacle that both of them, despite their tough exteriors, had always looked forward to.

“No, not the Illuminati. It’s much worse,” they insist, leaning over the roof to peer down at him, their face earnest, almost grave. The two of them, alley kids by definition, had always found solace in each other at the Gotham City scrap-yard. It was near the docks and dodgy as hell, but neither seemed to mind. They knew how to be careful—the needles that littered the ground were easy to avoid if you paid attention, and the dilapidated buildings surrounding the chain-link fences were just part of the landscape, nothing more.

Jason’s grin widens, that trademark smirk of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you think the moon landing was fake too?”

“Oh, c’mon! Is it really that hard to believe? Think about it. The rich get rich, and the poor get poorer. Ain’t that what the saying is? Someone’s gotta be corrupt at the top, pullin’ the strings. How do you think Joker breaks out all the time? Or how GCPD’s incompetence hasn’t been talked about outside this city? Hm? And they say it’s hard to leave, too! Once you’re here, you’re stuck, ’cause they don’t want people like us to be free. To be like them,” they argue, their city accent thick with conviction, as if they’ve spent hours turning this theory over in their mind.

Jason chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through the night air. “You’ve been spending too much time listening to the old timers down at the docks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the Bat’s in on it too.”

Y/N rolls their eyes, exasperated but not defeated. “Ah, whateva. One day you’ll see. Just how fucked this place truly is.” They cross their arms behind their head and lie back down as the first burst of fireworks lights up the sky.

For a moment, the world is silent, save for the crackle of fireworks high above. New Year’s Eve in Gotham was a strange paradox—celebratory and bleak all at once. The fireworks painted the night in bright colors, but the streets below remained as grim as ever. Jason glances over at Y/N, their face softening in the glow of the display. He couldn’t help but admire their fire, their passion for things he often brushed off with a laugh.

There was a time when Jason himself had that kind of fire, the belief that something better was possible, even in a place like Gotham. But as they lay there together, watching the fireworks, a small part of him wondered if Y/N was right. Maybe Gotham was more than just a city—it was a trap, a cage, and no matter how hard you fought, you were bound to lose.

But for now, he lets the thought slip away, pushing it down with all the other doubts and fears that plagued him. Tonight was about the fireworks, about the rare moments of peace they found in this chaotic city. He wouldn’t let anything ruin that.

As the final burst of light faded from the sky, Y/N nudged Jason’s shoulder. “Next year’s gonna be better. You’ll see.”

Jason looked at them, his smirk softer now, almost wistful. “Yeah… we’ll see.”

♬⋆.˚

If you don’t ask,

I won’t tell

Just know that,

Just know that

It all hurts,

it all hurts just the same

♬⋆.˚

Y/N sits at the base of the headstone, laughter spilling out in bitter, uneven bursts. The years had worn them down, every laugh wracking their frame with a painful shake.

“You know, it’s comical, really,” they mutter, voice dripping with venom. “You ditch me, go play house with your new family, and now look where you’ve wound up.” They take a deep drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling from their cracked lips into a wry smile. “Look what they fuckin’ did to you,” they say, exhaling slowly. “What a cruel joke.”

Jason’s eyes narrow, his stance tense as he watches them. He expected something—anger, maybe even tears—but this? It cuts deeper than he’d anticipated. “Hey, cut that shit out,” he snaps, his tone edged with irritation. “Not here.”

“What, smoking outside?” Y/N laughs, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough.

Jason steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “It’s disrespectful, Y/N. Knock it off.”

They grind the cigarette into the concrete, but not before taking one last drag. “You don’t mind, do ya, pal?” they sneer. “I mean, it’s not like you’re even really six feet under.”

Jason’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He crouches down beside them, his voice cold but tinged with something darker—pain, maybe, or regret. “Yeah, I do mind. This place is for people to rest, not for you to play out your bullshit. You used to hate smoking—your old man would blow that crap in your face, and you’d go ballistic. Where’s that Y/N, huh?”

“Don’t tell me how to process my emotions, Todd,” they spit, their voice raw with anger. “What’s it matter now, huh? Why show up after all this time? You’ve been prowling around the streets of Gotham for what, a year? And now you want to make a grand entrance? What’s your angle? You gonna pretend you’re not the same lowlife Mafia bosses we used to mock?”Their eyes bore into him, full of accusation and pain.

Jason’s jaw tightens, his eyes cold and hard. He takes a step forward, his voice a gravelly snarl. “You think I wanted this? To become the monster we used to laugh about? Gotham doesn’t give a damn about redemption. It chews you up and spits you out. I had to adapt, or die trying.”

He leans in, his gaze intense. “You’re pissed off? Good. You’ve got every right to be. But don’t act like you know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. You think you’re the only one who’s lost?”

Jason steps back, his voice unwavering and edged with steel. “Go ahead, hate me. But don’t act like you don’t understand. Gotham changes everyone. Even you.”

Y/N’s eyes flash with defiance. “I changed because I lost you, so don’t get it twisted. Gotham’s not the reason you’re like this. You’re on some vendetta trip. I’ve seen the headlines—throwing the Bat into a brick wall in front of the little bird? Talk about a temper. I thought I had a short fuse.”

They let out a bitter chuckle, the amusement in their voice sharp. “Guess I underestimated you. Always thought you had more control. But now? You’re just another angry soul tearing through Gotham like it’s personal. Maybe it is.”

Jason’s gaze hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You think you know what this is? You think you’ve got me all figured out? You don’t have a clue what I’ve been through or why I do what I do.”

Y/N’s smile fades, replaced by a look of steely resolve. “Maybe not. But don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re the only one who’s suffered. We all deal with our pain in different ways. You’re just louder about it.”

Jason turns away slightly, the tension palpable. “Maybe so. But at least I’m fighting to make a difference. Even if it means getting my hands dirty.”

♬⋆.˚

something is wrong,

I can’t explain

Everything changed when the birds came,

You’ll never know,

What they might do,

If they catch you too early

♬⋆.˚

“So, what was it like then?” Y/N asks softly, holding a beer bottle, their legs dangling off the edge of the rooftop.

Jason exhales sharply, his gaze fixed on the city below. “Shitty,” he responds with blunt honesty.

Y/N nods, their voice carrying a dry tone. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jason’s expression turns somber, his voice carrying the weight of his regret. “For the record, I would’ve come sooner. If I’d known… if I hadn’t been so damn ashamed, I would’ve found you first.”

Y/N looks away, a hard edge to their voice. “But you didn’t.”

Jason’s shoulders slump slightly, a resigned acceptance in his tone. “No, I didn’t.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. The city lights below seem to fade into the background, irrelevant compared to their shared pain.

♬⋆.˚

we need to fly ourselves,

before someone else,

tells us how

something is off,

I feel like prey,

I feel like praying

♬⋆.˚

“You keep a rosary in your car? Since when?” Jason’s disbelief is evident as he looks at the symbol.

Y/N’s voice drops to a softer, almost defensive tone. “Since your funeral service,” they reply, the memory clearly still raw.

Jason’s eyes widen in surprise. “Seriously? You’re not messing with me?”

Y/N shrugs, their expression a mix of resignation and irritation. “Yeah, seriously. The church preys on people when they’re down… and I was down.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “So you turned to Catholicism?”

Y/N’s gaze is steady but weary. “God doesn’t come looking for you. You go looking for Him.”

Jason’s face shows a mixture of skepticism and cynicism. “Wow, they really did a number on you. You’re all in, huh?”

Y/N’s patience wears thin. “Can we just drop it? I don’t want to get into this with you.”

Jason’s tone turns more challenging. “Oh, come on. You really think if there was a God, He’d let this city of sinners last?”

Y/N’s eyes meet his, a flicker of wry humor in their gaze. “Maybe He’s trying to flood it. That’s why it rains all the time.” They lock eyes, the serious moment breaking into shared laughter. The tension easing ever so slightly.

♬⋆.˚

so, so I’ll probably,

take you aside

And tell you whats on my mind,

But you, you’ll just keep it inside,

probably tell me that you’re alright

♬⋆.˚

“What the hell happened to you!?” Y/N’s voice is filled with shock and concern as they watch Jason stumble through the door, bloodied and barely conscious.

Jason collapses against the wall, gasping for breath. “You remember when we were kids?” he rasps, wincing in pain.

“Yeah, I remember,” Y/N replies tersely, their hands already working to remove his torn and blood-soaked clothes. “I lived through it.”

Jason coughs, cringing as Y/N begins to clean the gash on his side. “Remember how you used to say Gotham was run by some secret cabal?”

“I didn’t say that” Y/N corrects sharply, applying pressure to the wound. “I said the upper echelons were corrupt.”

Jason grimaces, his face contorted with pain. “Well, you were right.”

Y/N’s hands still for a moment, their eyes meeting his with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Yeah?”

Jason nods weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah…”

Y/N’s expression shifts from anger to a deep sadness, their gaze lingering on Jason’s battered form. They finish tending to his wounds with a gentler touch, their emotions raw and conflicted. The weight of his admission hangs heavy in the air, the reality of Gotham’s corruption and its toll on Jason becoming painfully clear.

“And?” Y/N prompts, their tone a mix of frustration and curiosity as they continue tending to Jason’s injuries.

Jason winces, his voice strained. “And that’s all.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You givin’ me my ‘I told you so’ moment?”

Jason nods weakly, a small, pained smile playing at his lips. “Mmhm.”

Y/N’s expression shifts to a wry grin, a hint of triumph in their voice despite the grim circumstances. “Ha! Well, I guess that makes me right then. I told you so!”

Jason lets out a strained chuckle, his eyes showing a flicker of reluctant admiration. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. Just… don’t let it go to your head.”

♬⋆.˚

if I run,

If I run away, I’ll never know

What you want

And if you go then I’ll never grow,

I’m undone,

let me slip,

let me slide

♬⋆.˚

“You’re teaming up with the Bat to track down John Wycliffe—who’s at the heart of Gotham’s corruption and causing problems in neighbouring cities—and subsequently the entire court of owls—and you don’t even know if you’re coming back?” Y/N exclaims, their hands gesturing in frustration. “Why? I just got you back—”

“I have to, Y/N,” Jason replies, his tone firm but strained.

“You don’t have to,” Y/N argues, their voice filled with desperation. “You don’t owe Gotham anything. This place is falling apart—it can burn for all I care. We could leave, get out of here. Just come with me. Please.”

Jason’s expression is resolute. “I can’t. This is bigger than me. I have to see it through.”

Y/N’s voice cracks as they struggle to keep their composure. “Don’t do this. Not again. I can’t handle losing you a second time.”

Jason looks at Y/N with a mix of sorrow and determination. “I need to do this. It’s not just about Gotham—it’s about making sure things don’t get worse.” Jason gives a final glance over his shoulder, a grim acknowledgment of their concern, before disappearing into the night.

♬⋆.˚

Something is off, I can’t explain

You know what I mean,

don’t you?

Something I saw,

Or something I did,

It made me like this,

could you help me?

♬⋆.˚

“Bruce,” Y/N says with a formal, measured tone.

“Y/N,” Bruce acknowledges with a slight tilt of his head, his demeanor guarded.

“Are you still banning me from seeing him?” Y/N’s question is direct, their voice carrying a note of frustration barely masked by formality.

Bruce’s gaze remains steady. “Are you going to be calm this time? He needs rest, not another argument.”

Y/N takes a deep breath, their expression composed but tense. “I’m completely calm.”

Bruce studies them for a moment, assessing their sincerity. “Good. He’s in there. You can see him now.”

Bruce steps aside, allowing Y/N to enter the room. The tension between them lingers as Y/N walks past, their shoulders tense with a mix of worry and determination.

“I don’t want to fight,” Y/N says softly as they enter, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

Jason, looking exhausted with an IV drip attached, raises his hands in a similar gesture. “Yeah, I don’t want to fight.”

Y/N gestures to where Bruce had previously been “I heard you took a bullet for him. Quite the change from when you were on the news trying to kill him.”

Jason winces, but his expression remains guarded. “Yeah, well… it wasn’t on purpose.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Not from what I’ve heard. Seems like you’ve grown a soft spot for your messed-up hero family.” Y/N glances at him and the card on the table from Dick—His older adoptive brother.

Jason manages a tired smile. “Maybe just a bit.”

Y/N picks up the card and looks it over. “That makes you part of the team too, you know.”

“A hero? Not quite,” Jason says, shaking his head.

“More like an anti-hero,” Y/N replies with a smirk. “But definitely not a lowlife mafia boss or a villain.”

Jason chuckles, a weary but genuine smile on his face. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

“Get some sleep,” Y/N says, adjusting the blinds to block out the sunlight. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Though, with your track record, who knows if you’ll be here after you do.”

Jason groans. “Can you cut it out? I nearly died, Y/N.”

“You did die,” Y/N says gently. “But you’re here now.”

They share a brief laugh. Jason pulls a pillow over his head to shield himself from the light as Y/N makes the room more comfortable, tugging on the blinds to hide the rare Gotham sunshine.

“I’m glad you made it out this time, Jay.”

♬⋆.˚

I don’t want to fight,

I don’t want to fight,

I don’t want to fight

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Approx. Word Count: 2,806

J.T. One-Shot (Songfic)

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Status Page: Here

Prompt/Character Requests: Open

[zoros-bandana]

A Drunken Proclaim

(SFW)

Slight fluff/slight angst

Warning: mentions of drinking, being drunk, drunk confession

Summary: once again drunk at another straw hat party you found yourself looking for the missing surgeon, unexpectedly leading to an unofficial and abrupt confession of his feelings.

Word Count: 1,300

(A/n: I don’t have my notes with me for my other requests I’m working on as I’m on holidays but I really am just craving writing some Law stuff right now and will get back to them next week)

Pulling yourself out of the uproar, you found a clearing through the legs of Franky; a band of dance moves sweeping you into the middle of the floor. Taking a quick sip from your bottle of alcohol, you moved further out, your mind spinning from the overbearing and shrill music. It hadn't taken much convincing for Luffy to throw another party, his excuses becoming more bleak for reasons to celebrate.

The crew, however, was happy to take some time out and forget their troubles, even the likes of the usual quiet Zoro and Robin taking their turn on the dance floor. It was admittedly a wonderful night, as these things always were. However, there was a part of you that felt off, missing a familiar face as Luffy twirled you around the floor; watching him closely not to hurt you.

Sweeping over the crowd you found Bepo, losing any remaining worry as he swayed and fanned himself down; lost in the rhythm of the song. As usual, his captain was nowhere to be found, creating the perfect mission to escape for a few moments; wishing to retrieve the surgeon in a hope he might dance with you.

You stumbled into the infirmary, tightly grasping the same bottle you had carried around for the last few hours; more comfort than beverage. The room was dimly lit, a few stray candles surrounding the surgeon as he leaned forward, lost in the stacks of papers under his nose. He was focused, as usual, spending most of him time researching than he did bonding with the crew. You guess that was how he got the title of surgeon.

"You're still in here?"

Law looked up towards you, his face neutral as usual, giving no rise into how he was feeling in that moment; his grey eyes swiftly taking you in. He sighed, that usual annoyed sigh, as if he wasn't in the mood to be disturbed tonight. Not by somebody who was drunk, anyway.

"How much have you had, Y/n?"

"I don't know" you admitted, tripping into the room. You hummed as you steadied yourself, laughing at your words before you even said them. "I'm not a mathematician"

"You're not a comedian either" Law admitted bluntly, sitting further upright. His chair swivelled around to face you as you stumbled to his desk, leaning on it for support as you reached him. Avoiding his gaze you looked blindly at the papers in his desk, blurred together to form some kind of foreign language. Although all medical words felt like that to you.

"You didn't answer my question"

His voice was softer this time, more understanding.

"I'm not sure" you shrugged, trying to give him a sober answer. Anything to get him to stop looking at you like that. Like he was disappointed. "I remember drinking when the sun was still up, and then Zoro handed me another bottle; which turned into a few more... I think there may have been some wine from Nami mixed in there too somewhere..."

"The swordsman..." he trailed off, "of course".

You met his face then, realising there was a hint of hurt as he spoke, not noticing the break before. It was only subtle, and maybe if the room wasn't so quiet you wouldn't have noticed. But it was there.

Noting you were looking at him, he focused his gaze, studying you for a moment. It was if there was something mutual, something warm and passionate, forcing you to truely look at one another; more than usual. His eyes were tired, as they usually were, but held an edge of desperation as if he was speaking to you. He wanted to have you closer.

Setting down the bottle on the desk slowly, you stepped towards him, letting his arm come out to guide you. His hand easily fell to your waist, cupping gently over the fabric of your shirt, holding you like glass. As you straddled up onto him, his other hand moved to cup under you, helping to secure you into his lap. Your arms looped loosely around his neck, holding you close as you took in his face; lit by the flickers of soft gold and orange from the fickle flames.

Law gently moved your hair from your neck, sweeping it back with the back of his hand. He continued to hold your gaze, locking you in a trance to let him control the room; his sober stance holding much more composure than your own.

Moving slowly, he tilted his head down to your neck, gently breathing against your skin. His breath was warm, inviting, your body subconsciously moving away to expose more of your skin for him. Needing this as much as he did.

Law's lips met against your skin, warm and slow, taking him time in leaving soft puckers over your neck. He moved over the same spots, leaving an invisible mark of lust, building up the courage to confess. There was a lump in his throat the burned when he saw you, wanting nothing more than to take you from everyone; knowing he needed you as much as your crew.

But it was different for him, built solely on his own selfish love for you. He didn't need you for your skill or your wit like your friends did. He didn't need you to help him become king of the pirates or to achieve his own dreams.

He needed you because he wanted you.

He wanted you by his side, to bask in your company, your safe and loving aura. He needed to have you, the greatest love he had ever known, to be with him and love him just as deeply as he did you.

"You're so beautiful, Y/n" Law mumbled, dragging his lips over your voice box. He shut his eyes, gulping nervously, carefully grasping at your clothes to ground himself. "You are easily the best part of this experience and I could wait my whole life for you to want to be with me; but I hope I don't have to"

"Say you'll be mine, forever"

A heavy silence filled the room, lost in what to say next. The mix of sake was taking its toll on you, weighing you down with the way Law spoke, making it seem almost impossible to speak back. But you had to say something. These words weren’t just a lost dream you slept upon, curling deeper into your bed to keep yourself here. These words were real.

"Drunk or sober?"

"Both" he smirked, pulling away to look at you again. "Definitely both"

"I guess I could get used to being called Mrs Trafalgar Law"

"Glad to hear it"

You wished to close the gap - you both did - filling the room with lewd and desperate sounds as you kissed one another. How you wished to finally taste each other, so lovingly, so private, losing your senses in a whirlwind of unforgivable madness. But you couldn’t; not like this. As tempting as his pout looked rested on that crocked smirk you couldn’t advance like this. Not while you were impaired.

"Ya know forever is a really long time, right?" You tilted your head to the side, curling your brow, hoping to change the subject.

"Yeah" he admitted, carefully pulling you closer. His arms held you against him, resting his head on your shoulder. A deep inhale crushed him to a saddened smile, taking in your scent, feeling different, more free with his emotions now.

The lump was no longer there, and even if you woke up tomorrow, sober and forgetful of this night, he would remember. He would remember your voice, how you smiled, how you laughed at your own stupid joke. He would know that even for tonight, you were his, and he would hang onto that for as long as he could.

"That was the point; to be with you for as long as I can be"

[davycoquette]

Writerly Questionnaire

I got tagged back in my own questionnaire (tysm @saturnine-saturneight), so here we go!

By the way, if you see this and feel up to answering it, please do! I’d also love if you tagged me in your response so I can be sure to read it!

Smol trigger warning for mentions of various tough things.

About You

When did you start writing? I’ve been writing since I could hold a pen, quite frankly! As a toddler, I’d draw doodles then scrawl zig zags beneath to represent the “words” of the illustrated story. They became real words as I learned to read. I was never found without a notebook.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write? I read a lot of stuff I don’t think I could ever actually write. My all-time favorite author is Cormac McCarthy, followed by Jane Austen and Jack London. Larry McMurtry is becoming a fast favorite. My stories tend to require less lived experience. I am not well traveled or thoroughly educated, so, while I’m happy to do research, I most often write stuff that requires less expertise. I also write more about gay cowboys than any of the authors named above — at least as far as is publicly known.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared? I have been compared to Chuck Palahniuk, which is enormously flattering (if not deserved!) It’s massively important to me to have my own style/voice, so I don’t want to write like anyone but me… but I would love one day to harness even a modicum of McCarthy’s talent.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.) At a desk or coffee shop. The stars must align just so, my mood must be just so, I must have creative juices flowing and absolutely no distractions or particularly strong feelings. (I end up not writing anything more often than not.)

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse? I wish I knew. Inspiration hits me light a lightning bolt once in a blue moon. Other than that, maladaptive daydreaming watching head movies. Music is an excellent source of muse.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about? Absolutely. In a way that reminds me a bit of Donald Ray Pollock, who writes about a pretty bleak and raunchy Appalachia.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all? Loneliness, self-loathing, self sabotage, addiction in many forms, mental illness, abuse, and suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, “taboo” romances (usually sexuality vs time period). Some of these come as a slight surprise; others are no surprise at all.

Your Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.) It’s Shiloh. I have no idea why. He’s been my favorite since 2018 or 2019. He’s weird as hell but writing him comes effortlessly.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life? Preferably none. They’re kinda awful. In all seriousness, maybe Lou? He’s chill and makes a good listener.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them? Ruck. We have nothing in common, would have nothing to talk about, and his poor decisions would stress me out. He’s one of my favorite characters I’ve ever written, but I would hate to actually know him.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters. Just about every one of my favorites started out as a side character meant to garner very little attention. Somehow or another, they demanded to be written — demanded I let their personalities shine. And lo, here they are.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters? Mentally ill lonesome addicts.

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.) As real people! Often I’ll pick a model/actor as a template, but they always evolve into a slightly varied appearance from that person in my imagination.

Your Writing

What’s your reason for writing? It feels so compulsory there’s no other option but to write.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers? I like when people tell me what they felt when they read my writing. Whether it’s attachment or hatred aimed at a character, or nostalgia, or just feeling like they were there when the scene took place. Anything that shows they absorbed and enjoyed it feels like the hugest compliment.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.) I want people to think, this bitch loves words. She loves writing. She is a writer.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer? Making people feel endeared to the characters. Realistic dialogue. Getting inside a character’s head.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others? Pacing & setting description. Which is awesome, but I always feel like these things are weaknesses of mine? I’m always iffy about them - pacing in particular. I have no idea how to do it, but I’ve been told I do it well. That said, there are definitely things -I- think I do well that get the most negative feedback/criticism.

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.) Writing is the only thing I feel I do relatively well. I’m certainly not the world’s best, and I don’t think I’m really ready to be published or anything like that - but I am pretty proud of it. It’s the only thing I feel this way about. I want to show it to people. I wanna talk about it. I love to read what I wrote. It feels gross to say that, but I’m making myself say it anyway, lmfao. I love to see other people feel this way vs anxious or self conscious about their writing.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write? Yeah, for sure. I don’t know if I’d write as much fiction, because part of the fun is talking with others about it. But I’d still journal, and I would still imagine stories in my mind.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence? I hate this question, wtf Davy. It’s a slight mix. I’ll admit a part of me wants validation from others, but a larger part would rather write what she wants to write than turn it into a chore. Doing something just to entertain others is definitely a chore. My writing is heavily self-indulgent and I think it may suffer a little from that - but it also means when people enjoy it, they enjoy it more. I think it’s the same for any writer who does it this way. When I belonged to a huge online critique group, I edited the life out of a novel I was working on and made it less enjoyable to its biggest fans while trying to net a larger audience. I now know that was a huge mistake, because having a tiny group of people who eat your shit up is way better than having a ton of people read it, approve of it, but ultimately forget it existed because it wasn’t memorable.

[triplecatattack]

This was based off of @cloudninetonine 's fanfiction called a players aid and honestly I loved it so much I started to write again so made a little fic about it in my down time if y'all got any comments or criticisms let me know.

≠============================≠

Across time

LU/oot link x child!reader

the guide is 11/12 during the events of the story

Tw: general angst,light body dysmorphia?, Poor editing, oot spoilers.

The hero of time had a child not physically but mentally in a way he dubbed them the guide normally the child be concerned a strange small voice talking talking to them like they had known him his entire life like he was there best friend and them in return and it was quite annoying.

Until he had to leave his home behind the first time he heard them go quiet was after he left the kokiri Forest for the first time saying farewell to saria and the place you've known as a home for all his life was not an easy task maybe even worse by the silence his guide presented after saying goodbye to one of his only friends he felt them he felt there warm tender embrace he could feel there kindness and empathy radiating within him.

"I'm sorry link I know this must be hard for you, to just leave everything and go on a journey like this but hey at least you're not alone you've got me and I'll make sure we get through this together, ok." The child-like voice spouted, sounding not much similar than his own.

"Thank you" he whispered

"What's your name?"

" I'm Y/N " they replied with childlike enthusiasm.

"Do you think we will really stay together through this" he spoke silently walking into Hyrule Field.

"Yeah well we got to, I know you have navi, but who else is going to watch your back." The guide exclaimed to the child hero.

And they did, even when link had went to the master sword sealed within it's pedistle anxiety radiating within him he pulled sealing his fate.

Saria was gone

Princess Ruto was gone

Dariunia was gone

Zelda was missing

All he had was navi and his guide

Y/N had proven to be a beacon of light in his dreary adventure' not to say Navi wasn't helpful but Navi never had any helpful puzzle solving skills and the guide had an odd but unique scence of humor.

Whenever the mood got dark and whenever link let his mind wander too much he could always count on his guide to make a off-color/strange, funny joke, awful pun or even just some reassuring affirmation to keep his Spirit's up.

But then it all changed as soon as the master sword was pulled out of its pedistle it all changed the young boy had the body of a young man, but not the mind to match. And everything, was changed not just the young hero but his land castle town was decrepit, a shell of its former self,Zora's domain a frozen pit, and gororn city all but abandoned.

Hyrule had gone to "heck in a handbag" as they said the one thing stayed the same, his only constant thus far his guide.

Y/n

But things never really got better after finding all the stages but y/n remaind through every hardship trial and quest no matter how bleak it got at least he had people to rely on navi and his self proclaimed "guide".

Until the inevitable end.

Zelda was taken by gannondorf, trapped in a crystal and taken to the remains of Hyrule castle.

This was the endgame he knew it and so did y/n.

"Don't worry link we'll rescue Zelda and save the day together ' we just gotta!" They exclaimed with the typical childlike nativity.

Link on the other hand was not so sure he couldn't escape the sinking feeling that something bad was going to happen regardless of how this was going to end.

"Ok then let's finish this and bring peace to Hyrule!" Link exclaimed.

The battle and escape was grueling, every attack from Gannon hurt tenfold however this was nothing with his guide and navi by his side the two people he could depend on most.

He could take on anything, right?

"Right, Y/n......"

"Y/n"

"Y/n"

" I'm sorry link The adventures over it's time for me to go" they sniffled.

Were they crying?

"Please I already lost navi I don't want to lose you too' don't go please." He sobbed did everything they went through together.

"I,m so sorry I don't want to go but the adventures over I wish I could stay longer but I cant"

"I'm sorry link, goodbye."

And then as if he felt his soul leave his body they left.

Just like that.

There warmth and tenderness he felt all throughout his very being was gone.

"Y/n"

"Y/n"

"Please come back."

≠===========================≠

This was already submitted to cloudninetonine's blog but I was kind of proud of it so, it's going on mine now(⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

[hwaightme]

One new message

(masterlist) (join taglist)

📱 pairing: mingi x gn!reader 📱 genre: angst, hurt, comfort if you squint and look under a microscope 📱 summary: notifications from mingi lose meaning when you crack the code behind them, and goodbyes become easier once the rain begins to fall. 📱 wordcount: 2.5k 📱 warnings/tags: language, situationship, unrequited love, a little bit of spite, no one is the villain but the heart works in mysterious ways, bai attempting to write in present tense *screaming* 📱 a/n: i really should be working right now, really should be, but this idea would not leave me alone :) so behold a sorry attempt at angst ahah~ crawling out here to say i love you all, miss you all, and all reblogs messages comments notes are much appreciated! Much love! *crawls back into the work abyss*

📱 perma-taglist: @doom-fics @legohwas @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @mystar1024 @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt

The day is average. Average temperature, average weather, average traffic, average mood. Nothing special, unalarming… bleak. Not a thing to highlight, not a thing to disregard. So horrifically average that it is easy to assume that you are floating in outer space, where there is no sound, no feeling, nothing; a whole lot of nothing to accompany you and your noisy thoughts. There are many, oh so many. A cacophony. And yet, you smile because that is what you are always able to do regardless of the storm that is inside. Adaptable. Average.

A paper cut on your finger which is refusing to heal because of its location - a bitter reminder that you cannot care less; but there is no one there who would care in your place. You do not mind. At least the stagnancy in your present day is continuous. After what feels like an eternity of suffocating turbulence, the ups and downs, pushes and pulls, it is almost a relief that there is nothing at the end of it. No fireworks. No grand celebration to symbolise the conclusion that you had finally come to. Only the buzzing of the refrigerator is reminding you that you are surviving as you amble into the kitchen to take a bottle of water from the bag of groceries that you had left unpacked from this morning. It can wait. Just like you had done until your limit had been reached.

It is clear now. Always, you were at your most lonely when you were with Mingi. Among the myriads of notifications, there were none that caught your eye until his name graced your screen, which is now a rare occurrence, be it by his or your own volition. You like to say that it is a joint effort. An event even rarer than the sunny days outside as the rainy season caught up to your blues. But what did ‘with’ mean? A lingering hope for a future together? A series of unspoken promises, spun like fine thread around you until you turned into an obedient marionette, awaiting his every command. Technically, he is no one to you. Most certainly, as you had come to accept, you are nothing to him. Perhaps a passing interest. A way to fill a timely void, occupy the mind with an intriguing crush until a new one, a better one comes about. A way to fuel the ego until a better hit arises in whatever it could be. Whatever, except a true adoration that you had been hoping for.

Let’s travel to the sea

How? When?

Tomorrow. You will meet my aunt!

Bombs. Verbal bombs littering your rationality until there was nothing left but a barren field in which you tended to budding flowers of affection. You had chosen to believe Mingi, chosen to believe that his plans had been made with a clear sense of determination. You recall with a bitter chuckle the conversations that you had, the video calls that you had made late into the night; you had chatted away about everything and nothing simultaneously, and at the time you were certain that the feeling of excitement for a shared tomorrow was mutual. You listen to the crack of the bottle cap, so loud against the ambiance of the room that you can almost sense each little prickle, the desperate clinging of piece to piece as you twist with a sharp snap.

Hey I’m free now

Hold on Y/N I’ll be online in five… Running~

Running??

Okay I managed to escape dinner now where are you <;33

The eagerness with which he had expressed his interest in you had been like a tantalisingly warm summer. It had enveloped you wholly, wave after wave, until you began to crave it and before you knew it, you had fallen into a pattern. You had been so stoic, so unapproachable, and now here you were, learning about his every passion, every hobby just so that you could keep up conversation, ask him impressive questions, and make him care more than he ever could. 

Pay attention now, this is what happened at the end of episode fourteen, I’ll quiz you on this you know!

Presentations. Silly little presentations made for one another when you could not meet up in person. Lectures delivered over calls to one another. Words upon words that truly meant something entirely different - all that both of you wanted to say but always danced around with such grace and professionalism. Anime, hip hop, rap… hell, even mental mathematics. You could listen to it all for hours on end. To that raspy, deep voice of his that had made you fall deeper and deeper until that was all that resonated in your ears. As weeks had gone by, you had come to believe that there was no music sweeter than his every tone, every inflection and every sigh. You were ready to worship Mingi’s every hum had he asked so. But all too soon did that hum turn into a low thunderous rumble, alerting you, so ominous, of changing tides between you. The recollection makes you clench the bottle tighter in your fist until you hear the plastic begin to crackle. Discontented with the cacophonic struggle of the material, you watch the water droplets trickle back to the still body, and seal it shut to return it to the bag, liquid left untouched.

Stay quiet, my friend is in the room.

A ghost on his computer screen, hidden behind tabs and windows. Erased at a moment’s notice as you silently stared at the passing figure behind Mingi. A friend. A friend who knew nothing about you. Why? Because Mingi deemed you to be not up to the ranks of being introduced, perhaps? Your hands clenched into fists as the thought travelled and picked up speed in your mind, buzzing incessantly and slamming into the skull until it left a throbbing ache. With a smile, you had continued conversing with him as he drifted off into his own life, his own friends, other friends, far from you, and how he was making plans with them. Plans with them, not with you. Your mouse had hovered over the end call button as you contemplated if the action would cut the strings that he had wrapped around your neck, and return your heart to you. And yet, you had waited. And waited. And waited. Gleaming, chuckling at every odd and untimely joke simply because Mingi was the one to say it. Right up until your time was up and Mingi had other things to attend to, a different schedule. Not that you minded, at least in front of him you did not.

The playlists you had made for him in the very beginning, songs that set the rhythm to your enamoured stride turned into toxic tauntings, and your thumbs drifted to the buried sombre, melancholy tunes of the broken hearted. In the darkness you lay on your bed, wondering if the phone would ever light up your day and your heart, to no avail. As the streams that etched their paths on your cheeks dried and fatigue overtook your muscles and memories, you drifted to sleep, waking up to a

Got caught up with things, what’s up

What was up? Would you ever respond truthfully? You tried. Patiently explaining one thing, another until you were met with an ‘I’m sorry you feel that way’ and ‘let’s talk about something more fun now, yeah?’. Yeah. That, you could. Whatever could bring that smile of his back to your field of vision. You bit your lower lip until it bled, chewing at your remarks until they were nothing but mush, and you swallowed them into a nauseating bile, only for it to remain in your stomach and grow with every passing day that the conversation drifted into the realm of a fever dream. Who had you talked to that day, if not Mingi? Perhaps this had been wishful thinking on your part all along, and you had never been more than a loon. Eventually words trickled down to being a burden, and to your attempts to salvage what you had believed in and had witnessed blossom for a fleeting season you only received the merciless

?

…

[Read]

Eventually, you could predict how he would respond, to the point where conversations could be held before they happened. That way, when you did get that pointless notification on your phone, it hurt a little less. With every passing day, Mingi transformed in your vision to resemble the biting winter winds, piercing the bleeding soul at the most unexpected opportunities, getting his unfair share of the remnants of adoration that your heart still possessed, only to fade back into the abominable breeze. His promises were beautiful, his words resounded in your head and heart, committed to memory until they turned into a slow detonation, a reminder that you were at his mercy. You despise yourself for wanting to run to him if he were to say the word. You subject yourself to self-loathing for leaving your love out in the open for a villain of your own creation to take. You hate yourself for being ready to forgive him at any moment, should he say the word. You had always been ready to give him the stars, the galaxies, the infinite expanse of space itself - he already had your world, what would the universe mean?

You peer outside, at the grey sky, barely noticing the difference between rain and rooftop. The landscape is nothing but a blur, with only a subtle variation of averages to glint in frustration in your field of view. The earth is still. The sky is tearful. You wish you had the energy and grit to cry out, yell, smash a plate, break a door as it slammed, employ all forms of expression to feel anything, to experience temperament above room temperature once more and to rise up into a note more personal than the occasional random selfie from the man who you had fallen in love with, only to be met by refusal, and paired with his desire to be revered and praised, to have someone right there in his contacts who would drop everything for him and run. Faster than lightning, in the middle of the night, at a moment’s notice. Except, instead of this being a form of reassurance, this was a form of power. It was not tyrannical by any means, simply not the same love. It was a love for the self that he had seen in your eyes, you were sure of it. And you were tired of being a mirror. It was agonising, being a mirror. It was exhausting being a supporter, someone’s biggest and closest fan, ready to do everything for them, with this to never be reciprocated.

As you unlock your phone and look over the camera roll, dismissing the photographs that you have of Mingi one by one, pretending as though you do not remember exactly when each one was taken, when each one popped up on your phone first as a ‘ding’, then as a priceless image, you cannot not help but wonder why. Why does he have to be the one who is ‘too good to be true’? Why does he have to become the source of your doubts, the cause of your tears? You do not want to blame him; indeed, what is there to blame except your foolish heart wanting someone who does not want you back. That sunny smile, that laugh, that precious, marvellous face… you would be lying if you were to say you do not think about his embraces. Those strong arms wrapping around your body - your illusion of safety, a mirage.

You became more numb by the week, and eventually, were dismissive of his attempts to gain your attention - the attention that he could feel you were losing. Your gaze no longer settled on him, no longer did you seek him out in a crowd, nor did you hope to hear his voice over a phone call, coaxing him to have a chat with you. He likes the pestering, despite it getting on his nerves, he likes to be loved because of how in control it makes him feel. He had grown accustomed to your presence, but the commitment, the search for something more is something he did not wish to deal with, and so initially, the distance that you were building was somewhat of a relief. But as the gap became wider until it was a ravine, a drop into an abyss, Mingi felt concern rise in his chest, for the first time since he had set his sights on you, and identified an opportunity. He needs the return of the feeling. Unsure of how to define it, he simply inches forward in the darkness in search of familiar shapes until he falls back into the patterns, hoping that they will return what he perceives to be his, right back to him. It is easy enough, right?

Somewhere across the city, in the middle of a crowded room, Mingi stands tall and with an unreadable expression refreshes his notifications. Except there are none that are new. None that would make him instantly smirk with victory, only to lock the phone once again and return it to his back pocket. If there is one new message now, there will be one new message later. And while he does not read it, it shall energise him, so that he can enjoy his day to the fullest with the thought that in that tiny apartment across town you are by the phone, waiting for him and only him. Why did you not send him much of anything anymore? Surely you must be busy, or going through a mood. He opens your contact, clicking his tongue as he checks the time between the passive thumbs up you had responded with and the hour striking on the clock. Before Mingi knows it, he is typing away, trying to throw the hook into the digital ocean.

Just as you set your phone back onto the kitchen table, you see the screen light up, and a familiar name burns itself into your retinas. And yet, the day is still average. The clock ticks at the same speed, the rain does not let up, the groceries are still unpacked and you are still fatigued. Your lips threaten to curl into a grin as you let the screen go dark, and you step away, ignoring your imagination, ignoring how you wish Mingi would feel. Like a mantra you repeat to yourself that there are those damn groceries demanding your efforts still left in the bags, a life left to live with colours you are yet to discover, your tomorrow to look forward to. Your tomorrow, no one else’s.

Perhaps the most terrifying, and the most reassuring notion is that indifference, and only indifference, is the true opposite of love. Blooming in what could have been, a comforting insignificance, a pleasant average dismissible by a swipe of a finger, no longer a number worth counting, or counting on.

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part III

Blue Moon

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: I’m making a serious effort to be as historically accurate as possible in each of these letters, but I also realize that I may reference things that some people are unfamiliar with or confused about. I’d be happy to answer any questions about the time period if you have them!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

Song(s) referenced in this chapter: Chattanooga Choo Choo // Blue Moon

Dedication: As always, dedicated to my sweet friend, @luminousnotmatter​, as well as everyone who has offered such lovely support for this series!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to war and its impact, allusions to rationing, plenty of fluff.

July 6, 1942

Dear Peach,

Is it alright if I call you Peach? I suppose being in and around the Navy for as long as I have, I’ve become sort of used to the notion of nicknames. We’ve got one for everyone around here, and Peach just seems to suit you. I admit, it’s how I’ve come to think of you. But if you don’t like it—or if it seems too familiar for me to be calling you a silly nickname—you let me know right away and I’ll be sure not to do it again.

Gosh, I can’t tell you how happy it made me to receive your letter. Mail Call is always a good day—you should see the smiles around here when the fellas get letters from their sweethearts and families. But it felt a hundred times better the day I got your letter. Benny was about ready to tear it out of my hands and open it himself, and Tommy Boy wasn’t too far behind. Paul practically had to knock their heads together so that I could have a little peace. I kept it in my pocket and saved it to read until after dinner that night. Let me tell you, it was certainly sweeter than any dessert they could cook up in the mess (although, admittedly, their dessert could use some work, even on a good day).

I’m sorry that it took me so long to write back. You wouldn’t believe this, Peach, but they’ve really got us working hard over here. It’s almost like there’s a war on or something.

I’m sorry, was that a terrible thing to say? I don’t mean to make light of it. None of us do. But I think we’ve found that if we look for a little bit of levity every now and then, it makes this whole thing a bit easier to bear. We haven’t been here long, but we’ve already seen and heard things we’d rather not remember. So we look for the good where we can find it—like Mail Call, when we get special letters from lovely girls back home, just like you.

To answer your question, I’m doing just fine. I suppose I won’t try to get one past the Office of Censorship this time around, but we’re still in the same region of Europe and expect to be so for the foreseeable future. I wish that I could paint you a beautiful picture of what life is like here, but it’s rather bleak at the moment. You can still see the pockets of beauty though—I’m sure it was a wonderful place before this war. I hope that one day, it will be again.

But I’m sure you don’t want to hear me ramble on about the sad state of the world right now. Should we talk about something happier? How was your Fourth of July? I hope it was swell. I admit, my mouth was watering a bit the other day when I thought about all the things my mother always makes to celebrate. I’ll never know how she manages to get it all done, but she prepares a feast for us every year. My favorite part has to be her apple cobbler—drop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, and I swear, it’s heaven. All of us were missing home a little extra this Independence Day, so we ended up swapping stories of home and all the ways our families celebrate. I have to say, it did help to dull some of the homesickness. Tommy Boy had us all dreaming about parades marching through town, and Benny couldn’t stop talking about his mother’s berry icebox cake. We made him promise that when this is all over, he’ll have us as dinner guests so that we can sample it for ourselves. Do you have any special Fourth of July traditions?

Speaking of families and traditions, I’m so glad to hear that Paddy, Dottie, and little Frankie are doing well. Although I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your sister, from everything you’ve told me, it does sound like Paddy has found his perfect match. She sounds like a woman who can certainly keep him on his toes. By the way, please let Paddy know that we all played a rousing game of Rummy in his honor. We look forward to getting to play with him again when we get home.

Gosh, there’s just so much I want to say. But it’s kind of hard, isn’t it? Knowing the right things to say, I mean. I’ve always been kind of amazed at how eloquent people’s letters can be. Mine sort of just end up coming out like a jumbled mess. It’s like I want to tell you everything that crosses my mind—as if we were sitting on that bench together on King Street—but I can’t think of a proper way to do it. So I apologize now if this letter is horribly scatter-brained and messy. I’ll try my very best to be more organized in the future.

What I do have to tell you—and I should have said it earlier—is how much I appreciated your lovely description of your day back in Charleston. Unfortunately, it was rainy and gray here the day I received your letter, but reading your words made it feel as though the warm southern sunshine had been delivered right to us. I hope you don’t mind, but I read that part of your letter to some of the other fellas. They really appreciated it. They’re also very grateful to know that you’re thinking of us and wishing us all the best. So am I. It gives us the boost we need when the days get hard.

Nothing would make me happier than the thought of you saving a dance for me. Maybe next time, I’ll even get to hear that pretty singing voice of yours. I know you said I couldn’t be certain that you were a good singer because you were just humming, but trust me—I know. We listen to music over here sometimes when we’re able, but I do admit it’d be much more fun to be listening to it at another USO dance. Sometimes I’ll hear a song that played that night, and it makes me smile.

Anyway, they’re calling us now, and I should probably stop running my mouth so much. It’s funny—I’ve never been much of a talker (just ask Paul), but with you, I feel like I could write pages and pages, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

I hope this letter hasn’t bored you to tears, and I do hope to hear from you again soon. Thanks for sending along the sunshine.

Sincerely Yours,

Bobby

July 22, 1942

Dear Bobby,

Peach is just fine! It’s lovely, in fact. I’ve never had a nickname just for me before, so that one makes me feel quite special. On top of that, it’s also officially Dottie-approved. She insists she only happened to glance over and “accidentally” catch sight of the beginning of your letter, but I think she may have just been snooping. See? I told you she’d get on wonderfully with Benny and Tommy Boy.

Mail Call sounds like a wonderful day for all of you. The USO has been reminding us how important letter writing can be. They’ve been saying how much it boosts morale for our boys overseas, and clearly they were right. I’m touched that my letter seemed to mean so much. If it really does brighten your day, then I’d be happy to write hundreds of letters. I’m not so sure my words are really sweeter than ice cream or pie, but I will try my hardest.

You don’t have to apologize! I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for you over there. As happy as I am to receive your letters and to know that you’re doing alright, I understand that it may take a while for you to be able to write me. And you most certainly don’t need to apologize for trying to do what you can to preserve your peace of mind. My heart breaks to think what you and your friends, and all the other men over there fighting, have already seen and experienced. They say war is hell, and I absolutely believe it. I could never dream of being even half as brave as you are, Bobby. I mean that. If your heart ever feels heavy with all the burdens you have to carry, please know that you can lay it down with me. I’m more than happy to listen. I know that I won’t have all the answers—who does?—but I’ll always try my hardest to help you carry the load as best I can.

I’ve never been to Europe before, but my parents went to Paris for their honeymoon back in 1916, and my mother still talks about how beautiful and magical it was. It makes me so sad to think that countries that were once so full of life and art and beauty and culture have been reduced to war-torn husks. Like you, I have hope that one day very soon, this horrible war will be behind us and all those wonderful places will be filled with magic once more. And maybe one day in the future, I’ll get to travel there. I’d like that very much.

My Fourth of July was very nice! I have to admit, reading about your mother’s apple cobbler and Benny’s mother’s icebox cake had MY mouth watering. There must just be something about mothers because my mama also LOVES baking up a storm to celebrate Independence Day. One of her favorite desserts to make is—can you believe it?—peach tarts! Maybe we can convince our mothers to swap recipes.

This is the first Fourth of July that I haven’t celebrated with my parents back home in Georgia, but Paddy, Dottie, Frankie, and I had a wonderful day. It was Frankie’s first, so we took him to the parade in town, though I think he would have been more than happy to stay home. Poor baby is teething, and he’s been downright miserable some days. I’m sure Paul knows what that’s like, and I’m sure Natasha is dealing with the same with Paul, Jr. right now. It’s hard to watch him suffer—I know it just about kills Dottie.

Speaking of Dottie, she was rather upset that her baking plans got a bit derailed by our ration cards. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but sugar is being rationed now. We pooled together as many ration cards as we could save, but there’s been such a demand for it that there was hardly any to be found. We settled on a simple pound cake with strawberries, which Dottie wasn’t happy about, but Paddy made sure to cheer her up by making a big show about how it was the best pound cake he’d ever tasted. Personally, I do think it could have used more sugar, but please don’t tell Dottie that I said that.

Thankfully, Frankie took a good nap that day, so he was in much better spirits by the time the fireworks went off. We went down by the water to watch them, and he was mesmerized. I enjoyed them, too, but it felt sort of strange to be having such a nice day when I thought of you and all the other men who have gone off to fight for us. It felt wrong somehow to be celebrating as though there wasn’t a terrible war waging halfway across the world, a war that’s been taking more and more of our men every day. But Paddy helped to put it into perspective for me slightly. He said that the men who are over there fighting—men like you, Bobby—are doing so precisely so that the rest of us can enjoy these freedoms. He said that, if it were him, he’d be happy to know that we were safe and still getting the chance to celebrate our independence. Was he right, Bobby? I hope it doesn’t feel like rubbing salt in a wound, me telling you about our Fourth of July.

Can I tell you something? I think Paddy’s been having a hard time wrestling with the fact that his job allows him to remain stateside during the war. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard him and Dottie sitting up in the kitchen one night, talking. I think he feels a bit guilty, being a part of the Navy, but not having to go fight the same way you all are. Dottie has been trying so hard to reassure him, but I noticed that he’s been working even longer hours now—he wants to do whatever he can for the war effort, and to help bring you boys home as quickly as he can. That’s what we’re all hoping for.

I have to admit, I giggled a little bit when I read the part of your letter about feeling like what you write is a jumbled mess. I feel the same. It’s a little tricky to have a conversation on paper, isn’t it? It’s much easier when you’re sitting face to face. Tell you what? I’ll forgive your messiness, if you forgive mine. Does that sound like a deal?

Oh, I’m so glad to hear that the talk of sunshine made you happy, even on a gray and rainy day. And I’m happy that your friends enjoyed it, too. Would you say hello to Paul for me? I’m not sure if he even remembers me, but I’m still so grateful for his kindness at the dance. Maybe say hi to Tommy Boy and Benny for me, too? Even though I haven’t met them officially, I feel like I know them so well through your stories about them.

I’m not sure about where you are, but it’s brutally hot here in Charleston now. Still sunny though, so I’m picturing scooping some of it up and sending it your way. Unless we have errands to run, Dottie and I have been staying mainly inside with the baby. I know we’re supposed to be conserving as much power as possible, but Dottie doesn’t care a fig if there’s a war on when it’s this hot—she’s got all the fans running on full blast. I hope wherever you are, you’re able to keep cool.

I have to say, Ensign Floyd, you really are going to give me a big head one of these days. I assure you that I am not as talented a singer as you seem to think I am, but perhaps I’d be willing to sing along to one song at the next dance we attend. But you have to promise not to laugh when you discover I’m terrible at it. Humming, I promise you, is very different from singing.

Now that I’m on the topic of music, however, I wanted to mention that every time Dottie puts on one of her Glenn Miller records, I think of you and your mother. I know you said she was a big Glenn Miller fan, and I like to think that maybe somewhere in Iowa, she’s listening to “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” same as us.

Just last night, while we were cleaning the kitchen, Dottie and I were listening to the radio and “Blue Moon” came on. Do you know that one? The Al Bowlly song? I think he has such a lovely voice. Anyway, I was listening to the song while I was washing the dishes and it got me thinking about the moon. Gosh, that sounds so silly now that I actually write it out. But it’s true. I was thinking about the moon, and it struck me that the moon that was shining down on me was the same moon that was shining down on you. Even though I don’t even know exactly where in the world you are, when I look up at the moon at night, I can be sure that it’s the very same moon that you’re looking at. I don’t know, maybe it’s silly, but it kind of brought me some comfort. Does that sound horribly hokey? I’m sorry if it does. Maybe if it doesn’t strike you as too terribly sentimental, you can share it with Paul the next time he’s feeling down about missing Natasha and the kids. This war might be keeping us all apart, but at night, when we look up at the moon, we can remember that we’re not so far apart as it seems.

Your letter certainly didn’t bore me to tears, Bobby. On the contrary, it made my day. Now I just hope that MY letter doesn’t bore YOU to tears. Maybe when all this is over, you and I will feel more confident in our letter-writing abilities. I certainly do hope that’s the case.

Stay safe, Bobby. Sending you all my very best.

Sincerely,

Peach

[crzyimp]

Another Sun Au: Tang Monk and Young Sun

Author's Note: Written for the discord JTTW server event! Ngl this is one of my guilty pleasures and one I often think about/daydream. This is a intro to hopefully more(when I have time to write) of my au. Also open for any questions(and requests if it sparks my mood) related to Journey to the west :3

Warnings: None

Words: Roughly 1.65k

Special thanks and shoutout to @sparrow-in-boots for being my beta reader! Check out their blog(s) and art!!

“Baldy monky! I'm here for the secret lesson!” A jovial voice shrieks, the voice bouncing and echoing in his cell. It wouldn't be a secret for long with how loud she's being, but then again, not a single adult yaoguai monkey stopped her yet, nor did the Great Sage make an appearance since that day. So much trust to allow her to roam free like this or how overconfident the ruler of the mountain seems to be, with no care that even children can come and go as they please.

He opens and closes his mouth, as if to say something, before calmly replying to her; “Young Sun,” he wants to keep his distance, at least emotional and personal, “Refrain from shouting, remember inside voices, less you draw six ears.” Especially when any day his head will be on a platter for the Great Sage and his sworn brothers as the grandest of grand feasts. “And please do not call me ‘Baldy Monky’, it's rude.”

Finally she comes into his view with a blank expression, but her eyes sparkle with innocent joy. “Sorry, shifu.” Young Sun whispers, crouching next to his bars. “I got excited about today's lessons.” Tripitaka sighs, tries his best to smile at her, only to falter when she flinches. “I'm really sorry for being loud. Please don't be mad at me.” He can only blink and look at her.

Mad at her? Sure, he was mad and frustrated, but at his situation rather than her; Tripitaka was meant to be journeying to the West to gather the scriptures to bring back to the Tang Empire, along with his small party. The travel was ruinously cut short after they were captured by yaoguai, with Tripitaka as the sole survivor who witnessed the others devoured. He would’ve met the same fate, but fate was crueler. The Heaven-Equaling Great Sage, the one who wreaked havoc in heaven and escaped from Budda’s imprisonment, happened to pay a visit to his lowly general's home. The look from those fiery eyes petrified his very soul that day, before the Great Sage declared that he will stay at the Flower Fruit Mountain for a celebration in the coming weeks, as the main course. “Dis….Young Sun, let us start with your lesson.” He shifts to face her, his beads - bless the Merciful Bodhisattva they didn't strip from him - cupped together in his hands.

“Okay, Shifu.” Young Sun mimics him, albeit clumsily, her thin and hairy arms shuffling her equally hairy legs to cross together like his. His lips twitches, as he fondly looks at her and reminded how at her age he did the very same thing: full of energy and wonderment for the world with a yearning to learn and to help; until the iron bars between them came back to his view and the bleak reminder of his future. Despite this, he begins the first teachings of Buddhism, blessed that at least this persistent, curious monkey wants to learn.

It wasn't even a day after his arrival that Young Sun met him for the first time.

“I am Sun Yángguāng, the youngest and first to be born in 500 years! Who are you, ape? And why are you bald?”

He was so terrified and shocked at their first, but short meeting together as the Great Sage and his four ape generals were there as well. Tripitaka can't recall if it was one of the generals or the Great Sage himself who whisked her away for a scolding. Not that it did much, as she found ways to visit him and learn much of the outside world and Buddhism through him.

“Um…shifu..” Her voice was quiet and unsure, something that must've been on her mind for some time.

“We're not meant to talk during meditation.” He replies.

“I know but…” Young Sun sighs and Tripitaka opens his eyes to look at her. “...I'm conflicted, each day draws nearer to the King's grand feast with the other sages and your…” She bites down at her lip, her eyes move to the ground when they meet his. Ah, this topic again. He remembers how jovial she was at the beginning of the feast and the special occasion until she realized what it meant for him. A topic that is that left her more somber and haunted by restless nights, though this never stopped her from visits and lessons.

“I cannot be biased and say I wish to die, Young Sun. I wish to live so that I continue my journey, but if I am fated to die here, then so be it.” He accepted this, it breaks his heart that he'll fail before he even began,but he'll atone in his next life. He just never expected this would also break her heart, someone who only knew him for a short time. Tripitaka watches as she bows her head and her knuckles turn white with her colorful hanfu bunched up between her fingers; her body shakes with a sharp inhale. He doesn't say a word, nor comforts or cries, he accepts his death and so must she.

No words were exchanged between them after that, Young Sun collects herself and leaves with her head high, but her eyes clouded. Tripitaka inhales deeply and returns to his meditation. That was the last time he saw her, never returning for lessons or visits again; the small ray of sunshine made his lonesome cell dark and alone with his thoughts.

Days or weeks have passed, and Tripitaka wasn't certain how long he's been trapped, but none of that matter as today was his final day in this life. The guards came and announced it before they escorted him from the dingy dungeon to the opulent stone palace. So many twists and turns that made his head spin. It was like a labyrinth and only the residents would know the exit. It was hopeless to even attempt an escape. Before the guards arrived in a room with a tray of food and wine. So the Great Sage had some compassion to allow him one final supper, even if it was back handed to him.

The guards toss him onto the stone floor, the rugs his only means to dampen his fall and the cold before they turn and slam the door with a laugh. He can still hear them through the thick wood as he dusts himself off. If he listens more closely, he can hear the chattering of servants as he sits with his eyes closed.

“Today's finally here!”

“All the Sages under one roof like before the Great War. This will be the perfect mend between our alliance!”

“I heard the Demon Bull King is bringing his son, but not his first wife. I wonder if one of his servants has juicy gossip about that.”

“Grandfather Sun has picked such a perfect day to celebrate, such an auspicious day!”

“Shifu.” A hush whisper against his ear and hands quickly press to stop any sounds of panic slipping through his mouth. “It's me, Young Sun.” Tripitaka finally relaxes and opens his eyes as her arms slip past his head. “I meditated and reflected before I finally found the answer.” He shuffles until he can see Young Sun and softly gasps at the sight. “I decided to fully dedicate myself to be your disciple and helping you on your journey.”

The candle's lights shine beautifully against her freshly shaven head and just beyond, over her shoulder from his view, a hidden passage. “We don't have much time Shifu, we have to hurry before they find ou-”

Just as Young Sun helps bring her master to his feet, a scream bounces and echoes off the walls, cutting through all else and sending the whole palace in a flurry. “Yángguāng! Someone took our Yángguāng!”

Sun Yángguāng wastes no time as she guides her master through the secret passage and closes it behind them. She has to be quick and clever for them to escape. She hoped Aunty RinRin wouldn't check up on her for another thirty minutes, but she should've expected today's excitement that Aunty Rinrin wanted her to look her best for the guests. Her hands reach for his, and she presses a finger to her lip before navigating the secret passage; crossing one room to reach a new one without notice. One day, Young Sun will apologize for the fright she given to Aunty RinRin over the mess of her room, but not today.

The two pause and stop whenever footsteps drawing near are heard, only to go a different direction. She leads downwards, deeper into the stone palace, “Trust me, Shifu.” As if she knew his doubts, and gave a squeeze to the monk's hand. Tripitaka says nothing, but squeezes her hand back.

The smell of a salty breeze, cracks of moonlight dances on the small craven dock. “This is how the elders survived the burning.” Young Sun helps Tripitaka into the small boat, barely enough room for the two of them between boxes and jars. “Forgive me for my absence. I was getting preparations ready, and it wasn't easy to go unnoticed. It's the downside of being the youngest and only mortal of my kingdom.”

He watches her untie the ropes and use the oar to push away from dry land. “I hope the king was drinking his fill before that scream, I don't think I can outsmart him when his mind isn't dull with wine. Hopefully there is mercy and we leave without his notice.”

Gently, the oar glides and swishes in the water as the boat exits the cave and into the open; neither of them dare light a lantern nor talk as the sounds of shouting and soon fighting rang out from the island. They keep their eyes forward as the sounds are slowly drowned by the waves splashing against the boat on their journey to the west.

[hikariale]

college has taken up the bulk of my time, so i don't know when or if i will ever write this fic idea in full, but the idea has been spinning in my head for a long time... it's written in a longform, train-of-thought, imagines way, but it got longer than expected!

mostly platonic liu kang and reader with some liutana and kitana x reader under the cut

Being friendly rivals with Liu Kang. You both want to see the other succeed, but you also compete to each other's betterment. Liu Kang may be the "Chosen One," but you won't allow yourself to be overlooked! It's not like you want to take his title, no, no, no! You want to prove to everybody, including him, that the idea of a "chosen one" is stupid. An idea that stemmed from observing him and realising how isolated he was because he was "chosen" by gods, you've taken it upon yourself to prove that burdens need not fall onto the shoulders of an exceptional, talented few. He always has his plate full, so why not steal something off of it. If you can't flip the table, you can at least make the meal more digestible. You hate to see a person forced to bite off more than they can chew, and Kung Lao is a good companion, but you get the feeling that the chip on his shoulder has put you on different trajectories when it comes to competing with Liu Kang.

Perhaps it is because of an upbringing that severely alienated him from his peers, but you realised early on that Liu Kang struggled to pursue relationships. Sincere as he is with others, he is more than content for others to approach him than the other way around. A little withdrawn and always somewhat preoccupied, the Chosen One is like a firefly. You have to catch it in your hands to halt it, but it rarely chooses to land on its own.

That's why, when Kitana entered the picture, you knew he was likely to doom himself.

You couldn't speak for him, but the Edenian princess blew you away at first sight. Though he didn't admit it, you knew she had the same affect on him. As easy as it would be to leave him to his in the dust before he realises that there's a race, you declare yourself his love rival and wait for him to make the first move as a courtesy. Regardless of how things turn out, you both promise to bow out and support the one who earns her affections.

It does hurt when Liu Kang, against what you always thought of him, catches Kitana's affections by a landslide. As unexpected as it is, you can at least commend him- and hey, he deserves that little bit of personal happiness with all the other things he deals with. And it's clear that Liu Kang can tell you're upset, but you're proud of him for not backing down or expressing remorse for your bruised heart.

At least it isn't as humiliating as you thought it might be. Liu Kang is a good person. He's considerate after the fact and gives the topic of romance a wide breadth when spending time with you. Things are mostly normal. Sure, the odd intrusive thought about the couple enters your head and sours your mood, but you just need time to move on. Maybe in a while, you'll find a new love. Maybe you'll commit to celibacy, or maybe something completely left field will happen. Though things would have normally gone like that, the strange, universe bending entity by the name of Kronika erases the future and all of its possibilities. In its place, she presents a bleak future where your loved ones are warmongers, and your only choice is to accept that you don't get a future at all.

As Charon's ships prepare to dock, Liu Kang tells you that you should tie up loose ends. You know what he means, and though it almost feels like an insult to have a newly born god tell you to fruitlessly profess your feelings for his partner, you know that he means well. You understand that this is probably the end even if the idea of dying hasn't crossed your mind. That intuition clears your mind and allows you to shed your inhibitions.

"I can see why Liu Kang holds you in such high regard. You have admirable character."

That was the only thing that stood out from Kitana's response. It didn't hurt as much as you thought it would. Being let down so gracefully by a woman of her standing is pretty much an honour. And the end is near. And you got to say your piece without committing any transgressions. So that's that, as far as you are concerned. You make sure to tell Liu Kang that much while standing at the entrance of Kronika's keep. The last exchange you have with Kitana is a quick glance while Liu Kang destroys the door. She catches it out of the corner of her eye, and though she doesn't turn towards you, she acknowledges you with an affirming nod.

When deciding how to craft the New Era, Liu Kang briefly considered making Kitana your destiny, and you hers. Earnestly wishing for your happiness in the next life, he thought of giving you everything that he was not afforded for his own love. Just as he began to spin that thread of fate, your defiant words rang in his ears.

"You shouldn't let the gods have that much say over you. If you say no, I'll be right there with you to back you up! Gods aren't the ones who have to suffer the consequences anyways."

Your judgement of the gods was a little off the mark, but the wholehearted belief in mortal agency struck Liu Kang's core. If you knew what he originally planned, he was sure you would complain about it, so he erased the sketch and started over.

In the New Era, you kept that attitude. Raiden didn't have the right personality to engage with your challenges. It made Liu Kang a little happy to know that, though he filled his old role with Raiden, you two didn't have the same bond. Of course, you weren't Liu Kang's rival this time. The ambivalent, borderline suspicious attitude you gave the God of Fire would have stung more if he wasn't expecting it.

During the banquet, your seat was up next to his. You poke at your food and watch Johnny flirt with the younger Edenian princess. The icy expression on your face makes Liu Kang thankful that he never tried courting Kitana in your presence during the previous era.

"It is not like you to be daunted by something like that," he breaks you out of your ruminations with subtle encouragement. Your shock transforms into mild agitation. As you consider telling him not to meddle in things he has no business in, he smiles, somewhat slyly, and says, "You are not the kind of person who leaves things unchallenged."

[liusaidh-writing]

I am SO EXCITED! Tomorrow, both kiddos are at school, which means I will have several hours to do fuck all!!!

Which also means I CAN WRITE AGAIN!!!!

So, in celebration, here's a wee peek at an upcoming chapter of DO NO HARM. ENJOY! (I hope!)

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Another quiet moment filled the space between them, then she watched as Jamie grew restless again, two fingers drumming his thigh, his lips pressed against one another as Claire looked on. She felt the sudden urge to giggle but held it back; Jamie didn't seem to be in a silly sort of mood.

"Ye make me nervous, Claire," he blurted out, shaking his head as he let the words fall from his mouth. 

"Me? How so?" The suppressed giggle escaped, but only briefly. Claire bit her lip to keep quiet. She hoped he didn't think she was laughing at him. 

"If I take ye back to my flat, I mean… I don't trust myself with you." 

This time she did laugh, loud and long, the air leaving her lungs in relief. 

She knew exactly what he meant. 

"You want to kiss me again, you mean." Claire was surprised by her own bravado. Something about the tiny thing she'd swallowed was just what she needed at the moment, though, so she chose not to question it. Let it happen, she told herself. It'll feel good, at the very least. 

And damn it would. To have his hands in her hair, tugging her curls, his lips dancing against hers. God, it was all she'd thought about since that one time in his flat. It had kept her afloat; a little bit of light in her otherwise bleak world.

××××××××

It's not much, but hope you like it. More to come! 😁♥️