#a drabble for your troubles?

[jazzythursday]

Wylan leaves in the morning.

He doesn’t plan to, not exactly, but he definitely doesn’t plan on staying, either.

Wylan is no stranger to one night stands. He can’t say he gets around very frequently, but enough to know the general plot of how they're supposed to go.

Flirt, drink, fuck, leave. The order isn’t necessarily set in stone, but the list ends the same every time.

He has a good time, for the most part, and it’s always a welcome break from the awful chemical smell burned into the Tannery or the staleness of the empty rooms in cheap boarding houses (when he can afford them) that Wylan is used to. Wylan likes the freedom that comes with it, too. It’s liberating to go where he wants and do what he pleases; to not worry about who he’s seen with or sleeps with or what they might think of him after. And he likes feeling wanted, for a little while. He likes being reminded that he exists.

So Wylan does not make a habit of falling asleep with the people who take him to bed.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, really.

He doesn't remember, and yet, Wylan wakes up with his head pillowed on Jesper’s chest. With Jesper’s arm draped over him. His breath is warm where it ghosts over the top of his hair, and if Wylan glances up he can see the way Jesper’s mouth— those lips�� fall open in sleep.

It’s the best morning he’s had in months, possibly. Certainly the most comfortable.

He knows it can’t last.

Wylan looks at Jesper, still sleeping peacefully next to him, and he panics.

He’d woken up in Jesper Fahey’s arms.

He’d slept with Jesper Fahey.

Jesper has a reputation, and Wylan knows it, even new to the Barrel as he is. He’d heard about Dirtyhand’s second and resident sharpshooter plenty— Can’t resist a gamble, never misses a shot, and not just with bullets. Jesper Fahey is an excellent marksman, they say, with terrible luck with the cards, and a soft spot for pretty girls and even prettier boys.

Jesper’s played the field— multiple fields— went on a seismic world tour of fields.

Wylan is very good at not being noticed. He’s also very good at listening. People tend to look past him, they never pay any mind to the too skinny boy with the wild hair and the hunched shoulders and the grime that never seems to wash off completely after his long shifts at the Tannery. Wylan knows this, knows he’s very adept at being able to disappear, when he needs to.

So by the time Wylan actually meets Jesper, he’s well aware of his place in Ketterdam’s booming rumor mill. Jesper has many, and Wylan thinks by now he may have heard them all.

And yet, none of them do a thing to prepare him for Jesper.

They’d met in a tavern.

Wylan had been nursing his drink for the better half of an hour, trying to come up with reasons not to go back to the sad cot he had waiting for him in a rented room, with the only window overlooking the brick wall of a dark alley.

So far, he’d only come up with the one.

Wylan had seen the tall Zemeni man from across the room and hadn’t stopped looking since. He was flirting with a girl at the bar, twirling one of his guns in one hand demonstratively with a drink in the other. The girl— a curly haired blond— was giggling, hand pressed to her mouth with eyes that had very clear and direct intentions.

Wylan had almost resolved himself to a night of wasting the few kruge at his disposal with little to show for it, when the man had looked up and caught him staring. The man had smiled, twirling his gun with an extra flourish and then tipped his hat. Wylan smiled back, and gave a little wave. Embarrassing, He’d thought, stop it, he’s already with someone else anyway. He’d looked down, and stared at the near empty contents of his drink until someone sat down next to him and said, in a voice like apple butter and sweet syrup, “Can I get you another of those?”

Then Wylan had looked up into the eyes of the handsomest man he’d ever seen, and thought, he has the most perfect lips.

Out loud, he’d said, “I, uh, well—” His mouth was wide open, he’d realised, and shut it quickly. Again, the man had smiled. Again, Wylan had smiled back. “Yes, please.”

And that's how he’d met Jesper.

Afterwards, they’d stumbled through the streets— I know a place, Jesper said, If you want to take this somewhere more private— until they’d passed a corner where a vendor was selling traditional Kerch sweets out of a cart.

“Stroopwafels!” Jesper had stopped. “I love stroopwafels!”

Wylan was tugging him toward the cart without really making a conscious decision to move, and Jesper had laughed, surprised and delighted.

Wylan bought them both stroopwafels and handed Jesper his with a shy smile and a shrug. “For the drink.”

Jesper looked at him consideringly, head caulked to the side, and Wylan felt himself blushing in the low light of the lamps. “You’re sweet,” he’d said eventually.

“Is that bad?” Wylan had asked, sheepish. Jesper was already shaking his head.

“It’s good. Just not that many sweet things to be had in the Barrel. It’s refreshing.” He’d bit off a piece of one of the waffles and smiled. “These are sweet too,”— he’d leaned in, smile still earnest but with something decidedly different underneath— “I like sweet.”

Jesper had not touched him like he’d been expecting to be touched. Jesper made no assumptions; he’d asked, about everything, in a way that was near gentlemanly if it wasn’t for the fact that he radiated trouble through his pores. Jesper was— not quite gentle, because Wylan had expected hot and heady and everything deep, and Jesper was all of that and more— but he wasn’t rough. He didn’t bruise, not if Wylan didn’t say yes first, and afterwards he’d laid back down and settled Wylan into his arms in a way that he had no real way of protesting— didn’t want to protest, anyway— and kissed him.

It was that that had scared Wylan the most, he thinks. Because Wylan is rarely kissed for the express purpose of it. It was always the promise of more— the rush of what was to come. But people do not generally tend to kiss Wylan for the sake of kissing Wylan. It’s different. Jesper is different, and Wylan can’t afford to be stupid enough to do something like get attached. Can’t afford much at all— really.

But Jesper had kissed him, pleased and lazy and warm, and at some indeterminate time later they had both apparently fallen asleep.

And it was nice.

It was too nice. It hurt with how nice it was.

Wylan peels himself slowly out of Jesper’s arms, careful not to wake him, and decides then that he cannot stand to be here any longer.

Jesper Fahey is not what he’d expected, he’s better.

Jesper Fahey is lovely, and beautiful, and kinder to him than anyone has been to Wylan for almost as long as he can remember.

Jesper Fahey is more than he could have ever hoped for, and he isn’t going to stick around for someone like Wylan.

So Wylan leaves, and he doesn’t look behind him as he closes the door.

[galaxy-fleur]

Thinking 'bout Leon in his 40's-50's getting his first streaks of gray hair... Need to see that badly, he'd looks so good with them! Although he strikes me as the type to have a full on crisis at the first gray hairs he sees.

He's been stuck in the bathroom for, like, 20 minutes now, so you go to check on him and catch him straight up sitting on the toilet, head in his hands like he just heard the worst news possible, his eyes clouded over... And when you anxiously try to figure out what the heck has him looking like this, he points to his gray hairs.

That's it. He's getting old. Time for the midlife crisis, it seems. It's hard not to laugh at him, but he looks so genuinely bothered you might wanna hold off on teasing for a bit.

He'll feel better if you kiss the top of his head and say he looks handsome with them though. Still a bit panicky, but better. He's a bit of a drama queen with his hair, but it's cute.

[hoboblaidd]

hey Karen, tell us about Solas when he finally took Suledin Keep. What was he feeling? Was there any triumph or vindication, or was he feeling the losses too deeply?

Hundreds died taking Suledin Keep from the self-proclaimed goddess of sacrifice. They burn in the pit before him. Soot and embers sting his eyes, leaving tracks of tears through the ash on Solas’ face. Beneath the smoke and the eyes downturned in mourning, Fen’harel’s rebels do not see their god smiling.

She had run from him. 

Solas’ chest is wrapped where she’d stabbed him, and dried blood pools in the hollow of his throat where she’d driven her dagger. But the only pain he feels is the pain of holding in his laughter.

Andruil had run. From him. 

“Are you alright, Solas?” Felassan asks gently. So gently. He’d been there when Solas had at last dragged himself through a remote eluvian. He was the only one to see how broken he was. He was the only one who’d known.

“I am…” Solas pauses, his shoulders shaking with adrenaline. His mind races for the right word. Proud. Powerful. Avenged. “Overcome,” he says, and the light in his eyes is giddy, manic.

Felassan’s brow furrows. Solas has never been able to fool him. Something ugly and proud curdles in his chest, but then he is called away. He feels Felassan’s eyes on his back and thinks, how dare he judge his perfect victory. How dare he hope to understand a god.

Landalen waits in the courtyard. Solas can scarcely hear what they say. He feels outside of himself. He leads Landalen to Alenriel’s body, he says the right words, he thinks, makes the right faces. 

He casts the spell over Alenriel’s corpse, buried overlooking the lake. Andruil’s Protection. And she had run from him. He stands at Landalen’s side. Mythal’s Devotion. If she could see him now, triumphant, she would quake.

Felassan corners him when he returns, but Solas pushes him away. He cannot be trapped. Never again.

They erect a statue of the Dread Wolf in the ashes of this, his fortress. His conquest. His vengeance. He tells himself it's also for Ghilan'nain. But it is not her victory. It is his, and his alone.

Hundreds had died taking Suledin Keep. Solas would sacrifice thousands more, just to see that fear in Andruil’s eyes again.

[good-beanswrites]

LCSYS prompt?

Yuno: *looks up 'cat maid Fuuta'* That's a lot more results than I expected!

Omg yes!! 😂 Based on this convo and wonderful art -- it's so fun to picture the characters having access to the current fandom... I wish them all the best of luck............ (Obviously this would be part of the famous-variation of the au 👍)

“What are you looking at?” Amane leaned over to see Yuno’s phone, just as she hurriedly closed all the tabs.

“Nothing.”

“Yuno-san, it’s not good to lie.”

Fuuta looked up from his mobile game to scrunch up his face. “She’s probably looking into something scandalous for the upcoming photo shoot.”

Yuno rolled her eyes. “It’s not that bad. I’m just trying to get some ideas. Haven’t you guys started brainstorming?” 

She looked between the pair who’d joined her on the break room couch. They had some time away from filming, offering the perfect opportunity to come up with ideas for the merchandise photoshoot that was quickly approaching. Most of the content that the team sold came from within the prisoners’ music videos, so they were abuzz with the prospect of choosing their own unique outfits for this one.

Amane straightened her posture. “I have. Mahiru-san helped me pick something out.”

“And you, Fuuta?”

He slumped further into the couch, focused on his game. “Who cares? It’s supposed to be our natural style, right? So, whatever I wear that day will be what I wear.”

Amane frowned. “You should have a little more pride in your appearance, Fuuta-san.”

“Eh, I care as much as I need to. What am I supposed to do, pander to the audience like some sort of a sellout?”

Yuno opened a new search. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. I was just looking through what some of my fans have been saying about me! I want to see if there’s any specific ideas I can get on my outfit, something they’ll find attractive.”

Fuuta scoffed. “Who in their right mind would find us attractive?”

“Could… could you look for me too? Look at what people are saying about me?” Amane dropped her gaze when she said it, ashamed of her curiosity. “I-I like the outfit Mahiru-san chose. I just want to make sure it won’t be disappointing to everybody…”

Yuno and Fuuta jumped to reassure her at once. 

“I can still find some things that they’re saying,” Yuno added, “if you wanted to hear their compliments firsthand!”

“No, no. That’s alright.” She squirmed in her seat, trying to hide the blush creeping to her cheeks at the thought. To change the subject, she quickly asked, “what if we looked into ideas for Fuuta-san?”

“Tch, I don’t need any help.”

“That’s a great idea! Hmm~ I wonder what his fans like…” Yuno shot him a look. “... in general.”

“Hey!”

Amane pointed to the screen. “What were you searching up for yourself? Could it be the same?”

Yuno’s hand flew to her mouth, trying to stifle the loud laugh that escaped. “I’m not so sure about that. I doubt Fuuta’s videos inspire talk of cat maids as much as mine.”

“Cat maids?” Amane’s face lit up at whatever mental image she’d conjured for herself. Her eyes were intense. “We should still check. You know. Just in case.”

Yuno made a mental note to find some cute art of cats in dresses to show the girl later. Still, she didn’t see the harm in indulging her now.

“I guess we can see if anyone’s mentioned it…”

Fuuta tossed aside his phone, Game Over scrawled across it. “You must be stupid if you think I’m going to wear a fucking dress at my photo shoot.” He peered over Yuno’s shoulder. “Oi, are you listening?”

“You don’t have to wear it. Right now we’re just seeing what the people want~” Yuno’s fingers flew across the screen. “Cat Maid Fuuta.” She hit search.

Her eyes widened. Then Fuuta’s. He slapped a hand over Amane’s.

Yuno pursed her lips. “That’s… a lot more results than I expected.”

Behind Fuuta’s palm, Amane was beaming. “It sounds like it’s a good idea, then!”

---

I like them chillin on the couch better but this was a doodle I had from a while ago 😂

[scvcnofswords]

this is one of regin's poems post-veilgaurd ( @turpisdeus ) in the phase of recovery in the Lighthouse, rather tightly related to this meme response. (though not the poem she's writing IN that response)

The way the storm sings in my veins As it’s done every day I’ve ever knew So strange, that of everything that came before, now this is what remains. At your every touch, that chaos born anew It’s not shelter that I’m seeking Just every sense and every hue Oh this havoc that you’ve been wreaking Fits the puzzle to what was born from my soul, true Thoughts gone sharper than any thorn from any briar There’s a maelstrom born from me and you I think there’s part of me addicted to that fire A part of me that craves that smoke in my lungs Chasing the words, the exploration and arguments That are so eagerly, easily, borne from our tongues Take the pleasure and the pain, the shadow and light of you, I take them all, with that storm’s intent And chase that which I know is true. I chase the storm and seek no shelter,  The storm born from me and you. Madness maybe, madness true to letter But you look into me, and never through. If you’ve a mind to chase I cannot know, Only that cloud, of every hue Above the clouds and within the glow, The way the storm sings true A heart to burn, a heart to chase and heart to know. A storm born of me and you. Now this is what remains.

[fangsanddaggers]

Hearth's Rising starter call

It's time for Astarion, everyone's favorite vampire! Will be capping at 2 1 more because he has a challenge I gotta plan still (I'm trying guys)

You can find him;

It's that time of year again, time for a Yule Log hunt (and maybe food)

He will be buying more and more materials for Hearth Dolls (they're a comfort thing even if he's slowly filling the room beneath the stairs with them) Claimed

Why not gather some Snowberries? Sounds fun, cute, domestic even?

Lunar Voyage perhaps? He heard there's some pretty rocks

[phoenixcoin]

❂⭃ @deusmater asked: ⥷❂ ❂⭃ CHANGED! ⥷❂

Glimpses of the Past send CHANGED for a scene from my muse's past that represented a turning point in their life

⤛⌠❂⌡⤜

Byron sat at his desk long into the night, just staring down at smooth, flat surface. That flat piece of wood had felt far too long like a sheet of glass upon which he was precariously perched, playing the part of a jester for the hands of Sanbreque. How he toiled away over stacks and stacks of papers, unraveling everything his brother had ever stood for, only just managing to slip by a bit of coin or two to those names which he supported. So many years where he had been using that place as an instrument of ruin and ignoring the cries beneath him.

But that night had changed everything. Seeing Clive and Jill after such a large span of death and silence, it had completely toppled his world and every single stack of those damn papers. He had never played the part of a villain well, and he could no longer sit idly by and watch the duchy crumble under his hands. Watch the world fall to pieces between the mortar and pestle that was the war between Waloed and Sanbreque. Knowing that Clive was alive, knowing what he was fighting for, how could he possibly continue to waste his days staring at this barren environment at his desk?

Oh, it should have been a very serious moment, but Byron could not fight the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin, couldn't fight for a moment the laughter that started small and began to grow. With a rolling laugh fit for some jolly old king, Byron stood and took his arm to sweep across the surface of his desk to knock every single object into the floor. A shower of paper and trinkets that crashed with a terrible sound, sending its echo through the halls like a banshee crying out in the night.

Byron's servants rushed to the door of his study, crowding around in fear and concern. A stray voice called out among the rest: "My lord, whatever is the matter!? What are you doing?"

Byron turned to face them, hands on his hips and a smile beaming larger and brighter than any who worked at the estate had seen in a great many years, "Ready a ferry for me, my man. I am joining Cid the Outlaw!"

A cacophony of confusion and concern erupted from the staff, and with the chaos a great many rebuttals to deny such a short-sighted idea, but Byron merely laughed, hard and loud, and sauntered out of the room to his bedchamber. It was time for him to ready himself for a great adventure.

[kuraikyu]

@trehontin : Deny him, hm? What a bold move to make, and he underlines that with just the mere shift of his body a bit closer to him. A bit nearer [ too close? ], sapping the strength between their boundaries with nothing but his presence and the benign laugh somewhere deep within his chest. He knew a jest when it was presented to him, but alas. " Why play so coy? " Because they both knew. " Want me to plead for an answer? Or just want me to ask nicely? " Whatever it was, he may entertain in just unraveling the other man a bit further. Bit by bit, just wanting to see him come undone [ not quite yet? ]. Thus he could speak, in that soft and whispered tone. " Kindly indulge me a bit further, will you? Did you like what you saw? " [ for geto :} <3 ]

ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 accept absolutions of immensity than in inviting embrace of death? Just like he entangled himself in perpetual aeon of this invisible chase that peeled him raw slice by slice and left to trill something in his veins. To straddle seldom curves of fundamental duality & to have one hand drift and defy gravity with order and security, and the other in chaos, and possibility. Having all one's interest absorbed by something so sanguinary ... angry, and engrossed, he felt right now and full of get-up-and-go. He loathed this situation ... the chain events ... this man ... his presence ... the way he looked at him ... the way his unknown energy printed invisible marks and tried to bend him in his knees ... If it wasn't for his morbid fascination with everything dire and deadly, he would sickly curl, embracing his stomach in derisive self-laughter of an emotional rollercoaster akin to the one he has fought since Star-Plasma Vessel mission. Despite being pro-justice-oriented, Suguru hated listening to someone else's orders and he hardly ever found himself interested in other people, so what made this guy ( think he was ) special? This confusion brought back the mantra of despair because he could not understand what the hell was the meaning of all of this. And suddenly he remembers all those scary myths about otherworldly beings kidnapping / murdering the living. What if this time he wasn't a hunter anymore but the one being hunted? The unsettling terror that would strike guts of anyone acknowledging such realization. But what if - maybe they could be of mutual use to one another. Dangerous thought. Either way, there was no escape now, not from that warmth. There were many subjective questions, but no grounding instinctive self for it was too late, and the man was close; too close to the point where their chests almost touched. The following strangeness of such, sacred, fiery togetherness, substantially fills the habitable space between them beyond personal and social norms. The resonance of unknown energy would mesh and conflux with his cursed on the whole, stirring something that was over the moon for living and rapturous for non-living; purring somewhere between back gates of his portals. He did not know why this man was here, but he wanted to know why his body especially the energetical perkiness of his ardor reacted the way it did, and as if it wasn't enough as if all the negative emotions he exorcised tried to claw their way out to pierce, puncture, tear and devour (the creatures wanted right?) . The only way how to figure it out was to play this game. Death bringer in the guise of such aural apparition could very well see through his sotto voce and pretense veil of impassivity which held but one singular purpose and that to be served as a tease. As his students would jokingly say - 'he was good at hiding his rotten personality'. If only they knew ... one should not fully mend his faith in him. The thrill was not wholly one of fear. With faintest smirk manifests in grace simultaneous reaction to coyness.

'Want me to plead for an answer? Or just want me to ask nicely?

Such question challenged the poetic cantor in his own tune.

With drop of concern, his eyes would rest on the intruder with serenading recollection to allow other senses rise with another bold remark and reckless gesture but that's just him. " Carefully, such words might play into your disfavor, '' in responsiveness his voice scarcely low, daintily perceiving the immediacy of ingenuity to effective details, '' as much as I hate to say that, both options, in fact, sound quite appealing ... "

Layers of so seemingly harmonious patterns stirring gales from the most profound depths of one's being reveals themselves as intense to be gripped fully and meaningfully. Slowly, with utmost care & never all haste but cautiously, hand rises up. Closer and closer to his face in enticingly tender, almost ghostly brush. Halting in tracks and only pausing himself when the other spoke. Touching him, felt like touching a living sculpture cut from marble. Next - a stain of fresh crimson (* he almost forgot they stood in woodland desolation and he was injured ) trailing along, painting a small rivulet behind his thumb sliding all the way down across Shinigami's cheekbone and lip-corner. He had no intention to oblige his request; not unless he felt like doing so in his own fashion.

Gild, black tide unbroken by ragged breaths engulfed them like a spiral of a lustrous silk veil.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤCan you feel it?

The energy of Curse User was nothing pleasant but pure darkness and negative emotions combined, in spite of that such invocation by hands of skilled user could produce something additional and unexpecting in arts of manipulativeness. Symmetrical ache that lifts in forth pressing pressure and circulating synchrony, tightening to a feverish nearly ecstatic, devouring degree ... ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCan you feel my answer?

But it all would fade with brisk removal of his hand in next few seconds for another echo approximating behind his back was getting stronger.

---

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ'-ensei!'

Nobara's and Pandas's call. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ'Sensei!'

' All good here ... these creatures are dead. ' Thanks to our new friend.

ㅤㅤ

[shcrbcrtxlcmon]

lily evans tag drop

—・✦・— || lily evans || with a heart as pure as gold || visage

[sttoru]

[𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈]: he’s down bad for his wife—you. female reader. fluff, sfw. reader gets called ‘sweetheart & dear’. drabble.

“i miss you, hubby,”

—is all you said to your husband over the phone last night. kento had flown out of the country earlier that morning for a business trip and his absence was bothering you more than you expected it to.

but when you uttered those four words to him, you didn’t expect kento to appear at your doorstep not even a couple hours later. you stand frozen as your brain processes who you’re seeing in front of you.

“ken?” his nickname slips out of your mouth in a confused whisper.

kento lets out a breathy chuckle. a small smile plays at his lips at your surprise—exactly the reaction he expected. “hello there, sweetheart,” he murmurs and steps inside before pulling you into a gentle hug, “i’m home.”

you don’t hesitate to hug him back. your head rests against his chest, hearing that familiar heartbeat that soothes your nerves. you stay like that for a good few moments before tilting your head back to look him in the eyes.

“so soon? i mean—i’m not complaining at all, but wasn’t your business trip an important one?” you ask, half worried that kento will get in trouble for dodging his missions.

the blonde man shakes his head. a large hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip as he admires your beauty. “nothing is more important than coming back to my wife when she says she misses me,” he responds.

you flutter your lashes as you realise what had driven kento to come back before his business was taken care of. all because you whined at him over the phone, telling him you miss him—his presence, his touch, his scent. the power you have over that man is quite mind boggling.

“no need to worry. i pulled some strings,” kento lowers his head to press a loving kiss to your forehead.

…ah, right. poor ino, you muse quietly as you realise the hidden meaning behind his words. kento’s protégé always covers for your husband whenever he needs it. you’re thankful for the young man.

you giggle softly before leaning in to plant your lips against kento’s. he returns the kiss with passion, one hand holding the nape of your neck while the other splays over the small of your back. your lips move in perfect sync until you’re breathless.

kento presses his forehead against yours after his ‘welcome home’ kiss. you open your eyes and find him smiling at you like you’re his entire world. a gentle smile only you’re able to witness.

your husband sneaks in another quick kiss before ducking his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck to breathe in your scent. he knows it’s not even been twenty four hours since you’ve last seen each other, but he needs you like crazy.

kento closes his eyes and his body relaxes in your embrace. he empties his head—no more stressing about anything business related. all that matters right now is his wife.

he leaves a small peck on your throat; “i missed you more, dear. way more than you think.”

[humanjarvis]

whose?

synopsis: what’s his is yours.

tags: fluff, smut (handjob), kind of comfort, in a way. jealous/possessive reader, reader needs reassurance, caleb subs himself out to give it to them. reader is a bit delusional but he’s into it, of course word count: 1.4k

a/n: i have reached the point in writerdom where my “drabble ideas” exceed 600 words and must become full fics. i like this one though

“So, how was it?” 

Caleb looks up as your voice echoes from the living room, having just returned from a Fleet meeting. That afternoon, there’d been a new recruit skill showcase, and he’d been summoned to judge.

“Nothin’ special,” he calls casually, strolling into the room. “The guys at the DAA were a lot more passionate, and a lot nicer to be around. Although…I think this one girl was trying to get on my good side. Kept lookin’ over at me during her trials like she wanted to impress me. She even came up to me afterwards saying she liked my eyes—I had to turn her down. Shame you weren’t there with me, otherwise we could’ve saved her the trouble,” he ends with a sheepish chuckle. 

Unfortunately, Caleb was too wrapped up in his storytelling to notice you flinching at four particular words: “girl,” “liked,” “my eyes.”

Bristling in irritation, you shoot him a skeptical glance before turning your attention back to your phone. “Whose?” you ask, your eerily calm voice cutting through the dry air.

“Huh?” he blinks confusedly. “Whose…what? She said she liked my eyes, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he repeats.

You tut, ticking your head up to the side and raising a sloped eyebrow. “Whose?”

Caleb feels like he’s back in a college classroom, sweating with nerves as he stares at an exam question that hadn’t been on the study guide. 

What had he said wrong? He racks his brain for an answer, and then—oh. He knows what you're doing.

Lately, when other people commented on his body—the body you'd waited so long to touch without consequence—you got a bit…sensitive.

He knows what you want him to say, now. And, like always, he was happy to indulge your adorably territorial request.

“…Yours,” he swallows.

“Good.” With a haughty sniff, you click your phone off and lob it across the couch. “Come here.”

And now, Caleb feels like he’s back in high school, suddenly getting called to the principal’s office. Except this time—because it’s you—a thrill rockets down his spine, propelling him forward in long, obliging strides. 

He sits obediently when you pat the spot next to you, and you turn to face him with a light scowl on your face. An act, he thinks. You’re no more than a lion cub trying to be brave, but you need the validation, the reassurance. And he’ll gladly give it to you.

“I wasn't doing it on purpose,” he pouts. “It's not my fault. Just wanted to tell you about my day.”

“It is your fault,” you grumble, “for being so damn hot and charming all the time.” 

He uses all his effort to take you seriously. To listen solemnly instead of preen at your praise.

“But I am glad you told me, because that means I can remind you,” you add, climbing on top of him. “These,” you start, fingers tracing the outlines of his purple irises, “are mine.” He inhales sharply when you come forward, his eyes fluttering shut to let you press twin kisses to their lids.

He shivers for a moment before opening them gently, encouragement and poorly hidden delight in his gaze. “Yeah,” he rasps in agreement. “Yours.”

Humming in pretend contemplation, you trail your finger down the bridge of his nose. “This too,” you declare, tapping it lightly. 

You take his quick nods as a sign to continue. 

Just a few more centimeters, and your hand reaches his full mouth. “And these,” you start, lowering your voice as you lean in, “are definitely mine.” Claiming his lips in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, you tangle a hand in his hair as he groans into you. His large palms splay across your back, tugging you even closer, and you’re almost upset when you have to pull yourself away. But you have a point to prove. 

“Am I right?” you ask through uneven breaths, and he answers you with hazy eyes and swollen lips. 

Onto the next part.

Running your hands down his bulky arms—also yours—you inch back on his lap just enough to see the full pane of his clothed abs. Like usual, he knows what you want before you even ask and swiftly tugs his shirt off, exposing himself to you with unconditional trust. 

You let a soft smile grace your lips as you count the smooth muscles, chiseled by years of hard work and restraint. “Each of these,” you begin, lightly tapping each one, “is also mine. So I certainly hope she’s never seen them,” you warn with a deceptively playful squint. 

“Nope,” he says proudly. “Nobody outside this room has for a long time. I just keep ‘em in good shape because I know their owner likes them,” he smirks and squeezes your hip gently. 

Flustered by how readily he plays along, you clear your throat bashfully. Damn him. “Y-yes. Well. I do,” you stutter, cheeks burning when his grin widens.

Alright. Evidently, he’s eager—almost too eager—to be put in his place, if you can even call this that. You have to shift the power in your favor, to get the ball back in your court. And luckily, you’re in just the right position to do that. 

Meeting his gaze defiantly—he is not in charge here—you reach between your bodies to slip your hand into his pants. As your warm fingers wrap around him, he lets out a choked whine and screws his eyes shut, only to blink them open seconds later with a pitiful stare. 

“Mhm,” you hum in approval. From Caleb, that look is a show of submission—his favorite card to play when you score the upper hand. That look—the furrowed brow, the pleading gaze, and the slightly quivering bottom lip—means he’s yours to control.

“And whose is this, Caleb?” you tease with reclaimed confidence, squeezing gently around his hardened length. 

“Yours,” he breathes shakily, the response automatic. “Only have it for you—so you can use it.” 

“That’s right,” you smile in satisfaction. Giving him a quick kiss, you lift his heavy cock out of his boxers, watching in admiration as the head glistens with growing need. “Mine to use. Why don’t I show you?” 

Reaching up, you run your thumb across his tip and down his rigid length, coating it thoroughly until he’s slick with his arousal. You figure it’s okay to reward him—that’s part of learning, right? Rewards for good behaviors, punishments for bad. And despite the small hiccups, the moments where he’d siphoned your dominance, he’d been so good for you tonight. 

So you start with slow strokes. Gentle praises and twists of your hand, up and down, down and up, until his face contorts in bliss. Frantic gasps and whimpers fill your ears, and you’re happier than ever that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. You know there’s no one else—you’ve always known, deep down—but that doesn’t stop you from needing to hear it. From needing him to say it. So you’ve started to ask for it in…creative ways. “You’re all mine, right Caleb?” you murmur between pumps, savoring the pleas that fall from his lips. 

“Forever,” he moans, glassy eyes trying their hardest to focus on your face. “Only yours. Only want to be yours.” 

The fuzzy feeling inside you is a bit out of place in the moment, but as your heart swells, you decide not to care. Latching your lips onto his, you increase the pace of your strokes until he’s struggling to return your kiss, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. Giving him space to breathe, you take the opportunity to whisper in his ear: “Let go, Caleb. But remember, that belongs to me.” 

And as your words envelop him, he spills into your hand with a mewling groan. After two more lazy pumps, you settle yourself back in his lap, positioned right over his twitching cock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, kissing his cheek gently. He buries his face into your shoulder in response. 

Chuckling, you ease his head back and gaze into his—your—violet eyes. “I almost forgot,” you add softly, placing a hand over the erratic thud in his chest. “This? This is mine, too.” 

[jazzythursday]

Jesper doesn't understand how he holds it all in there. Wylan’s brain is like a squirrel. Packing nuts into expanding pockets for the long winter. He knows everything.

He lights up with it. Like he constantly wants to share the fruit of his labour. Like the knowledge he collects needs to be poured out in bits before it overflows. He talks and explains and it’s fast and free and it’s so Wylan, through and through— and then it’s like he catches himself. Like he dims once he realises what he’s done.

Jesper doesn’t want to think of the implications of that look. Because it makes his chest tight and puts a bad taste in his mouth. He’s happy to reassure Wylan that he likes when he talks as much as it takes for him to believe it.

But that look— right before. Like he’s so happy to be telling him, like he’s happy to be listened to. Then the split second of frozen fear. The pinched lips, tense jaw, widening and then squinting of those big, big eyes. The part where he huffs that short, horribly self deprecating little laugh. The part where he looks down, and when he looks back up there’s something stiff in his smile, false in the upturn of his lips. Eyes like cut glass shining in the light. The crest of an eagle, mid flight, shot down. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Um— I’m probably boring you. I’ll stop.”

You could never bore me, he thinks. Keep talking forever, he thinks. Tell me who made you think your words weren't worth anything to anyone so I can make them taste the blood on their own tongue.

Wylan and boring are not two words that Jesper can even fathom placing in the same sentence. Wylan is like lightning in a bottle. Like a spark personified.

Jesper isn’t sure how much he’ll accept. He doesn’t want a repeat of Shu Han if he can help it. Jesper hates disappointing people, hates being anything other than exactly what they want— expect— out of a good time with Jesper Fahey. He isn’t sure what he’s allowed to argue for or against when it comes to Wylan. What they have— This thing between them— is still so terrifyingly new.

He’ll put himself out there for this, though, as much as he dares, to make sure Wylan knows that he’s listening.

[tohruies]

a realisation that home was here. home was now. and it had been all along … 🥺💘

— ☆ 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐒

alhaitham x ryu. this is obviously a selfship piece for ryuhaitham and it’s in first person. canon au. comfort. fluff. read here if you want more context on us. 0.7k wc

I sat curled on the couch with a blanket drawn tightly around me, staring at the modest decorations I’d strung up days ago when Alhaitham first left for Akademiya business. The lights, the strings of ribbon—they felt out of place here, like foreign embellishments in a world that had no meaning for them.

Christmas. Once upon a time, it had been everywhere—woven into every light, every note of music, every breath of winter air. It wasn’t as though I’d celebrated Christmas extravagantly but the absence of it here made the ache of displacement settle heavy in my chest. Even if I’d only half-participated in the holiday back then, its laughter and warmth had always been a comforting constant.

Teyvat moved without pause. The winds of Mondstadt whipped across snow-buried plains, Sumeru’s ever-shifting leaves played on the breeze and Liyue’s lanterns flickered against a fading sky. It was timeless and unchanging, as if the universe was indifferent to the celebration I longed for. But like the decorations I’d strung up, Christmas had no place here. And in that knowledge, my homesickness deepened, the distance between my old world and this one stretching farther.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and I startled, my gaze snapped to the figure entering. Alhaitham’s silhouette was outlined against the dim light of Teyvat’s evening and in his hand was a small neatly wrapped package, the paper a rich shade of crimson, tied with thin, silver silk that shimmered softly in the light.

���You’re back,” I mustered, rising slightly from my seat.

“I am,” His gaze swept over me, and a crease formed between his brows. “You look troubled.”

I offered a fragile smile, “Just thinking about… you know.” I trailed off, eyes drifting to the window where whimsy unbeknownst to me twinkled in the inky expanse above.

Without preamble, he extended the gift toward me. “Here.”

I blinked in surprise, looking from his hand to his face. “What’s this for?”

“Isn’t it customary to exchange gifts for… Christmas?”

The word fell from his lips tentatively, as though testing its weight. His eyes searched mine for any sign that he had mispronounced it. Then, a bittersweet ache unfurled in my chest.

“You… remembered?”

He remembered. Even in passing, even if I hadn’t explained it in detail, he had remembered. And more than that, he had acted on it.

“You mentioned it once,” he replied, the faintest hint of awkwardness colouring his tone. “I don’t fully understand the tradition, but it seemed important to you.” He paused, then added softly, “I thought it might remind you of home.”

My fingers brushed the wrapping paper, tracing its edges as a quiet laugh escaped me. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It matters to you. If it makes this place feel less foreign, then it’s no trouble at all.” He spoke as though his sentiment was the simplest truth in the world.

I bit my lip, his words filling the emptiness in my heart like the flickering flame of a candle in the dark. Slowly, I unwrapped the gift, the paper falling away to reveal a delicate glass ornament, its shape a perfect, crystalline star. It caught the lamplight, scattering prisms across the room like a reflection of something celestial—like fragments of a distant sky.

“It’s not much,” he almost sounded apologetic, “but stars seem to hold significance in your world’s imagery for this holiday.”

I stared down at the gift, my vision blurring as the sting of tears welled unexpectedly. The ornament trembled in my grasp, held close to my chest as the first drops slipped free, unstoppable. “Thank you,” I whispered, so softly it felt like the words might dissolve and me with it.

Watching me closely, a shadow of concern crossed his face, as though uncertain whether he had made me uncomfortable. “You’re crying…” His voice wavered, caught somewhere between a statement and a question.

I wiped at my tears, smiling through them. “They’re happy tears,” I told him. “I really needed this.”

Alhaitham sat beside me with the same calmness that defined his every action. The silence now brimmed with a bubbling warmth, deeply felt like a steadfast anchor.

“If you’d like,” he started, “then we’ll celebrate it. Here, every year. However you wish.”

His offer settled gently. “I would like that,” I said, already untethered.

Alhaitham nodded, brushing his hands against mine, the touch so tender it seemed to carry a promise with a three word phrase hanging in the air. As the glass star shimmered between us, the ache of homesickness began to ebb. In its place bloomed a sense of belonging.

A realisation that home was here. Home was now. And it had been all along.

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[good-beanswrites]

hello beans!! hope you're doing well 💜 ^w^ I know you've probably gotten a lot of requests - but I'm gonna add to that pile anyway because it's fun and also your writing is wonderful and always cheers me up to read!! I'm so inspired by your drabbles and you really bring these characters and this little world to life ;w;

From drabble list #1:

14. "Please tell me, this is not why you woke me up."

Character(s): honestly anyone, but my gut was saying Es as soon as I saw that sentence so... up to you!

Woo thank you pal, same to you!! Thanks for your kind words ah ;--; This is the perfect line for Es omg, I've been cracking up over it for so long 😂 I was tempted to write them waking up for T2, taking one look around and going "uh-uh," but decided on some T1 comedy...

Es rarely dreamed. Usually it was vague images and thoughts. Sometimes it was just them thinking about breakfast the following morning. Occasionally they were plagued by a nightmare of being forced to sing karaoke with the prisoners. Most of the time, though, it was just silence that welcomed them at the end of the day. Wonderful, peaceful, silence.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Someone slammed their fist on the door. Es just about fell out of bed.

Mikoto’s voice came from outside. “Oi, get up! There’s been… uh… an incident!”

That was the last thing a prison guard wanted to hear at -- Es checked the clock -- 2am. Damn. 

They muttered to themself as they threw on their uniform. Why the prison’s cells didn’t lock was beyond them. Some of the prisoners were more troublesome than others, but the first trial had been going smoothly thus far. Why now? 

Their mind flashed with various possibilities, each one worse than the last, all urging them forward. By the time they were running down the hallway, their shirt buttons were a row off, and they had to switch their shoes to the opposite foot. They adjusted the cap clumsily on their head.

Fear gripped their chest as they heard Jackalope’s voice crying out for help from the panopticon. Jackalope never called for help. 

Es burst into the room. The prisoners froze, looking up guiltily. 

They sat in a huddle on the floor. Yuno and Muu held the little furry warden over a tub of sudsy water. Bottles of soap and shampoo sat nearby. An assortment of brushes and combs sat to the side. Splashes of water spread across the prisoners and ground, speaking to several failed attempts at getting Jackalope into the bath.

Nearby, Mahiru was holding up the tiny guard’s uniform, her sewing kit spread out on her lap. Es spotted bandages on Yuno’s and Kazui’s fingers. Shidou was currently dabbing blood off Fuuta’s nose as he fumed. Jackalope leaned over to nip at the hands holding him, but Yuno and Muu held him fast.

“Es!” came his frantic voice as he thrashed around. “You gotta help me! Make them stop, dammit!” 

From the group of prisoners who had been watching from a distance, Haruka turned to them. “Oh! Es! Th-they thought that he needed a -- uh, a bath! His uniform had a h-hole, and Mahiru can s-sew! And they thought, they thought we could do it all t-together… Muu called it a -- a spa night…” 

“At two in the morning?” Was all that came to mind.

“We tried to get him to do it earlier today,” Muu said, “but we didn’t get a chance until now.”

“They didn’t get a chance to kidnap me, she means!” He squirmed around some more, swinging his antlers wildly. “They hid around the corner and nabbed me like the filthy criminals they are!!”

Yuno said, “hold still,” as she brought him closer to the water. He kicked his feet wildly, screaming at Es to show a little authority and do something. 

“Hold on a second,” they stopped her.

They closed their eyes, pinching the bridge of their nose. They took a measured breath. They were here to contemplate sin and crime, guilt and forgiveness. Their job should have consisted of questions about morality and life and death; they never anticipated looking around their prison and asking, “is human shampoo even safe for his fur?”

Kotoko spoke up from the other side of the room. “That’s what I thought, but is he really a rabbit? He eats human food and everything, we didn’t think a bit of soap was that different.”

Jackalope disagreed (“that stuff is as bad as poison -- poison I tell you!”) but the others chimed in with their agreement. From around the room came promises that they were being gentle with him, and that they’d keep quiet, and that they’d dry and brush his fur really well when they’d finished, and that they’d feed him treats, and that his uniform was already good as new, and so on. A few complaints at getting bit mingled with Jackalope’s own insults. 

“-- Alright.” Es held up a hand to silence them all. They knew a warden shouldn’t be making compromises with their prisoners. At the same time, they didn’t have the energy to argue about bunny baths at this time of night. “You can continue, but wash him outside of the tub. And go easy on the shampoo. Any mess you make must be cleaned by morning.” 

They were met with excitement and thanks. Jackalope grumbled that they were too soft, but he sounded relieved as he was whisked away from the dreaded bathwater. 

Es sighed. There may have been a few bites and bumps, but that was all. No emergency, no fight, no danger plagued Milgram tonight. Their relief quickly turned to annoyance. They leveled their gaze at Mikoto as he entered from the hallway behind.

“Please tell me this isn’t why you woke me up.”

“Huh? Oh, this? No, no -- we have everything under control. Aw, Mappi, that looks great!”

He pointed at her sewing job, revealing bandages on his hands as well. It looked like no one was safe from the rabbit’s little teeth… Then Mikoto jabbed a thumb casually over his shoulder. “Nah, the faucet in the men’s room broke when we tried filling the basin. The whole room’s flooded now. I think it’s gonna start spilling into the hallway soon.”

“WHAT?”

[scvcnofswords]

tag dump 3. regin lavellan

[marvelstoriesepic]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.