#my big brain moment do u see my vision

[ghostdrinkssoup]

girls don’t want hannibal season 4 girls want a spin-off show that’s basically master chef but hannibal is the only judge and the rest of the cast are contestants except the catch is they don’t know all the ingredients are people-based (except will who’s desperately trying to convince everyone while also having homoerotic tension with hannibal) and it’s filmed like the special features clips on the shrek 2 DVD

[arminsumi]

“you’re short”

“okay? so put some inches in me”

-

all i can imagine is a sassy/bratty reader and a cocky gojo 😭

we’re going to ignore that i’ve only seen one ep of jjk and i’m already requesting smut over it ☠️

OOH, YOU FLIRTIN'?

💗 GOJO さとる

[ Note ] : 🥵😳 what a vision! and lol one ep into jjk n alr thirsty for gojo love that 👍 also u n me are so small compared to him 🫠 also idk if he's more cocky or dorky in this oops lol. and i am writing this on my phone at a sleepover lord help me i have been awkwardly shifting around and avoiding showing my screen to any eyes 😭😭

[ Warnings ] : 🔞 minors do not read/interact : suggestive/18+ content/smut, mentions virgin reader, getting caught

[ Playme ] : XXX

"You're so short."

"Okay, so put some inches in me."

"Yeah, I bet you'd like that, huh?"

"I would, actually."

"Ooh, you flirtin' with me, shorty?"

"Yeah, well you started it, big boy."

Big boy...? 😳

Gojo Satoru, your very cheeky and very bold classmate, who has not held back on flirting teasing you about your height since he met you, is rendered speechless for the first time.

But only for a moment. Soak up your victory quick. He stutters. His brain chokes up. His heart throbs like he's just developed an instant crush. His uniform pants feel uncomfortable.

And then he reanimates himself once he hears Suguru snickering next to him.

"That's pretty bold of you, huh?" he smirks toothily, sinking his shaky hands in his pockets. "Now you're gettin' me all worked up—"

"—oh yeah?" you lid your eyes and flirt. He's taken aback again. "Worked up how?"

"Get a room, you two. Honestly..." Suguru grumbles.

"Yes, I think we will." Satoru winks at you. It's a failed wink. Deep down, he's not confident in his flirting. No. Deep down, he's an awkward dork.

His brain short circuits when you continue flirt back. He actually runs out of things to say.

She's a mature flirt. I'm an immature flirt. How the hell do I keep up? Fuck.

When you and him get alone together, clearing up the chairs after a class, you tease;

"Come on, big boy, what's the matter? Lost your edge?"

"No... I'm just thinking." his voice cracks at the end, he clears his throat. It feels tight. His pants feel tight too.

"About what?"

"About what you look like naked."

You let out a laugh, and laugh and laugh, like he's the most ridiculous flirt you've ever met.

"What?" he raises a brow.

"You're so ridiculous."

Oh yeah. That irks him. That flippant comment. You're not even looking at him as you say it, you're scooting a chair into a desk.

He walks over to you and peers down, making the height difference between you and his 6'3 frame sorely apparent. What a big boy.

"Wanna repeat that for me?"

Ooh his voice is heavy and low, low enough to cause goosebumps on your skin. And the proximity? It makes you feel more than just small, it makes you feel a tingling between your thighs.

He comes closer. Grazes his lips across yours. Mixes breaths with you.

"Uh—" you get flustered.

"—haha, just kidding." he pulls away suddenly. Maybe because he got too nervous (true) or maybe because he felt victorious in knocking you off your high horse (also true).

"I thought you were gonna—" you begin disappointedly.

Satoru cuts you off.

"—do something? Aw, are you horny?" he winks.

"Yeah. For you." you roll your eyes.

Fuck.

My pants feel too fucking tight. Can she see the outline of my dick? Is she looking there?

"Is that so?" he raises a brow, staring right into your eyes. No one holds eye contact quite like Mister Six Eyes.

He chuckles, Addam's apple shifting up and down deliciously. "Aren't you a virgin?" he sneers.

"Yes. I am. Are you gonna do something about it, or just stand there like an idiot?"

He nearly chokes.

Wow. What? She actually just said that?

"Of course I'll do somethin' about it, sweetheart. But..." he leans into your air again, closer than before, 'n breathes tauntingly against your quivering lips.

"... does a goody-two-shoes like you really wanna lose her virginity in a classroom?"

"Stop stalling, big boy. I'm not a "goody-two-shoes"; I'm fucking horny." you seethe lustfully.

Fuck.

He's not sure how to respond. His brain is malfunctioning.

"Alright... then use your words like a big girl and ask me nicely to fuck you." he mutters, lips grazing yours. You can feel how badly he wants to kiss you.

Please say it.

The sexual tension has his heart racing, pretty cock pressing flush against the fabric of his dress pants.

"Satoru..." you begin, pulling on his collar.

He gulps and listens intently. The small touch your fingers make with his neck drives him wild.

"... fuck me."

Something just snaps inside him right there.

He crashes his lips onto yours with a feverish intensity, the rest his history—

—er, until the teacher walks in on you two right as things get toasty, catching Satoru with his hand up your shirt and your hand down his pants. And then you giggle off to detention with Satoru.

He promises to put some inches to your height. Uh... you know... by lifting you off your feet while he stuffs you up with his cock 😌

© arminsumi

No copying/plagiarizing/reposting. Do not promote me on other platforms.

[sleepiexx]

Can’t Lose You

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!Reader

Note: way late to the party of writing for Ghost but y’know I had my fun

Summary: A mission goes slightly off plan, Simon doesn’t take it too well.

Warnings: he yells at u lmao, mention of injury, mention of blood, mention of stitches

Word count: 1190

Mere seconds after the rest of the team cleared out of the room to take off gear and rest for the night, leaving Ghost alone in a room with (Y/N), he snapped. The stress of the recent mission got in his head. It brewed nothing but trouble for him, anger festering until it boiled over. Namely the part where (Y/N) went into the enemy compound by herself— as she’d been ordered to do— when, unbeknownst to the team, her comms were cut leaving them with no way of telling whether she was alive or dead for a large chunk of their assignment.

It all worked out in the end but that did nothing to quell Ghost’s simmering rage.

“You’re a bloody fucking idiot.” He growled, “It’s like you don’t care about your own god damn well being. You’re completely fucking reckless, do you even realize how easily you could have been killed!”

(Y/N) was surprised at Ghost’s hostile behavior, normally they were on good terms. If he was mad at anyone, it was never her. Not to mention that the situation had in no way been her fault.

She scoffed, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and anger, “I was fine! Barely got hurt, I don’t know why you’re getting your panties in a twist over nothing.”

He knew he shouldn’t be this mad, the rational part of his brain could reason that it wasn’t even her fault. But he wasn’t thinking logically, he was thinking emotionally, and to him yelling seemed the only way to express big emotions, “It may not be this time, it may not be the next, but if you keep on like this, some day you are going to meet the consequences of your actions and it is not going to be pretty.”

By then, (Y/N) was pissed, “Jesus Christ, it’s not that serious, Ghost! This is my fucking job! I don’t see you getting onto anyone else like this. What, do you think I can’t handle myself because I’m a woman or some shit?”

“No it’s not that it’s-“ because I love you, “it’s-“

She was sick of the arguing and frankly could not stand the fact that he wouldn’t refute her claim of sexism. She never pegged him as the type, but sooner or later, most military guys showed their true colors.

“Yeah, while you try and think up some shitty excuse, I’m going to go get cleaned up.” She stood from her seat quickly, black dotted her vision.

Ghost watched from behind, confused as she stood there swaying for a moment. Quicker than he could catch her, she slammed to the ground.

He was filled with alarm as he yelled out to her, “(Y/N)!” He was at her side in a split second, turning her onto her back.

“Fuck.” He muttered. She was out cold.

Ghost didn’t even think, it was second nature to help her. He pulled her off the ground, one arm behind her back, one under her knees. With her in his arms, he sprinted to the infirmary.

“Medic! I need a medic!” He screamed as he neared the infirmary.

All heads turned towards Ghost holding (Y/N) in his arms. Any medic who wasn’t previously occupied with an injured soldier ran towards them.

“What happened?” One of them asked, putting on latex gloves.

Ghost was shaken to his very core, even stuttering out a simple response was hard. “She just- she just fell, I don’t know.”

(Y/N) was taken from his arms and moved to a cot where they removed all of her gear. Her green shirt was heavily stained with blood, just below where her bulletproof vest ended.

“Fucking hell.” Ghost whispered. His hands made their way to his head to rake through his hair but he was stopped by his mask. Instead, he ran his hands up and down his head.

He felt horrible. He spent this whole time yelling at her instead of checking if she was okay and she wasn’t. He shouldn’t have been yelling at her in the first place, he only now realized that. He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t even disappointed, he was scared.

They lifted her shirt, revealing a huge gash that was overflowing with blood. The medic who was wearing gloves pressed gauze down harshly on the wound to stop the bleeding as another medic ran to get the suture kit.

14. She ended up getting 14 stitches in her abdomen. The wound narrowly missed her internal organs; had it been a hair's width closer, she’d be in a lot worse condition than she found herself in.

Ghost was mortified, she could have died. She could have died and the last conversation they would have had would have been him yelling at her for something he wasn’t even actually mad about.

He sat at her bedside, mask rested on the table beside him. He didn’t want the mask to be the first thing she saw when she woke up; he figured that it would scare her, and he’d antagonized her enough for one day.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His thumb rubbed over the knuckles on her limp hand. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Simon tilted his head towards the ceiling, blinking away tears. “It’s just… I can’t lose you, (Y/N). I know- I know you are more capable than anyone else at your job. Hell, I’ve seen it, seen how good you are at what you do. But, (Y/N), I love you, and I dread the day that someone gets the upper hand on you and you get hurt and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

He stopped his monologue the moment he felt her hand squeeze his back. His eyes shot down to see hers blinking up at him.

“Good thing that won’t happen,” she rasped. She parted her hand from his only so that she could reach for his face. “Where’d your other face go?”

“My other face?” He snorted, holding her hand to his cheek.

“Your skull.”

“Oh.” He said, glancing towards the mask on the table. “Didn’t want to frighten you.”

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to scare me, Lieutenant.”

Simon shook his head, half disappointed that she hadn’t seemed to have heard his confession, half relieved.

“Oh and Lt.?”

He perked up to her calling him, “Yeah?”

She sat up ever so slightly before pulling him towards her in one swift movement, pressing their lips together. He was shocked by her actions but caught on quickly, kissing back with double the amount of passion she kissed him with. Her hands found themselves interlocked behind his neck while his came to clasp around her waist.

As they parted— hands still glued to the spots on either body that they held onto with a death grip— a spit trail kept them connected.

“Gross.” (Y/N) laughed, triggering Simon to laugh as well.

She stopped laughing to stare into his eyes, the ones that gleamed with love for her. “In case you couldn’t tell,” she started, “I love you too.”

[tyunkus]

all txt members r so cute, but i have them all stuck in my head in different ways like yeonjun fucking your throat while taking a video of you doing it just bc !! and soobin continuously sending you videos and photos of him cumming in ur panties bc u can’t please the poor boy as ur in public, and beomgyu being all tough but then acts oh so different in bed w whimpers and loud moans coming out of him, then taehyun .. i feel like taehyun would fuck you any place he could and when hes out in public w u he teases u like by rubbing his hand up and down your thigh, getting a little too close for comfort tho .. and when i think of kai i think of him trying to be gentle at the start but then has u moaning his name !! or umm .. kai being shy for his size even tho like damn thats the biggest uve seen wtff !!

AHHHHH u have the biggest brain ever anon (more under the cut!)

yeonjun who runs his hand through your hair while you suck him off and thinks to himself wow my girlfriend looks pretty fucking hot. casually taking his phone from the nightstand n starts recording you - youre a fucking vision like this, kneeling between his thighs, hands placed primly on your own while u suck him off T_T and yeonjuns fingers still threaded in your hair and he uses his gentle hold on your head to push you down further n further.. slowly breathing out these scratchy n pitchy moans, the sound of your throat constricting around his dick only riles him up even more

soobins so fucking insatiable ugh! what a needy pet always ruining your panties with his cum and hes not even ashamed, sends you visual evidence while ur out at work or running errands!!! shaky camerawork but you get the gist - soobin fucking his thick cock with his hand, letting out all these wobbly whimpers n pretty noises while he strokes himself to completion right on your pretty lace panties >:( hes so gonna get it later, acting like such a slut in your notifications, so many typos and choppy sentences cuz you know hes fucking himself silly while hes typing them

bratty beomgyu <3 such a pain during the day, teasing you and provoking you in all sorts of ways... sneaky hands drifting up your legs or his lovely lips pressed against your neck before he leaves a bite there..... but even if you scold him he doesnt care, just smirks at you and murmurs, "what're you gonna do about it, princess?" what you'll do is this - straddle his thighs and spread his legs all nice and pretty for you, leave him pretty much unable to move while you set your legs on top of his and start playing with his cock like hes just your plaything! see how he starts crying, so loud and messy, cant even talk properly, your dumb lil pet >:)

taehyun is such a horndog i swear you cannot have even a moment of peace with that man theres always something with him! whether its his hands sneaking up your thighs or his hot breath on your neck or his fingers sliding underneath your panties to cup your pussy taehyun is always up to no good, just loves to rile you up n overstep a line juuuust a little bit, cuz its fun and it always leads to him fucking you someplace where anyone could walk in - maybe with his fingers, from behind and underneath your skirt, or maybe on his cock, against a wall while he leaves marks all over ur pretty skin <3

hyuka trying and failing miserably to be a sweet considerate boyfriend because your tight lil cunt just feels too good :( dont be mad at him okay he cant help it, gets so lost in the feeling, eyes rolled back n head tipped back to expose his throat, you'd think he forgot about you but nope, he still has his clever fingers playing with ur clit :3 oh and seeing his cock for the first time GOD you know how the tips of his ears get red when hes embarrassed yeah he'd look so cute all flushed when you're on your knees in front of him, pumping his cock n telling him how you never thought hed be this big .. <333333

[moonrisecoeur]

Hi moon! Hope you're doing well!

Just wanted to send in a little question in hopes of getting some brain-dumping from you. But, if you want, can you talk more about Leon being needy and touch-deprived? Could be in any context (fluff or smutty) or any version of Leon (because let's face it, he's a pathetic baby across the board) but just wanted to hear your thoughts about that! <3

nicyyyy omg hi :3 i love seeing u on my dash and especially in my inbox heh !! hope you're well and work is good !! i'm doing awesome actually i got a 92 on my midterm that i could have sworn i should have failed. haha anyway!!

mostly fluff but theres a little bit of smutty thoughts too <3

hmm fluffy touchy leon is always such a favorite topic of mine ahhh i love re4r leon being touchy because like c'mon you're like his romantic second partner ever and, not even in like a romantic context, he doesn't get touched a lot!! i mean who is out here giving him hugs and giving him comfort when he's a literal killing machine? he doesn't really even feel worthy of comfort and touch, so he doesn't like asking for it. you gotta disguise it as you wanting comfort or else he'll try to push you away.

"no, sweetheart, i don't need you to baby me. really, it's fine, i don't even like it that much to begin with, it's fine," he says, but then if you say that you want a hug and you want comfort then of course he'll oblige!! and he won't notice it but the way you're rubbing his back in soothing circles as you hold him is definitely a sign that you're doing this for him!!

but also even in circumstances where he doesn't 'need' comfort, he still likes touch. you putting your hand on his arm or resting your cheek on his shoulder is enough to satisfy him in little moments like this.

i can also see every single version of leon being big fan of running his fingers through his partner's hair (or like just patting n petting their head if u got curly hair haha). like!! it's so close and soft and intimate, and he likes making you feel comfy. even if it's a brief hand on the back of your neck, scratching the base of your scalp gently as he leans in to kiss you, he can't get over it.

i also see all leons but especially re2r and re4r being especially fond of his partner cupping his cheek and holding his jaw as you look for little wounds or scratches. you know what i mean? do we see the vision? you're all worried for him, looking at him with such care and gentleness and he's looking right back at you with heart eyes good BYE !!

omggg he loves brushing a piece of hair behind your ear absentmindedly as you're talking. gawd especially like id or re6 good lord, like you're rambling about something and he just sits there listening to you, smiling because he thinks you're the most beautiful thing on this planet, and he reaches out to tuck of a piece of hair away and brushing his thumb against your cheek in the process. god my brain would stop i'd lose any thoughts in my head i would be contractually obligated to suck this man's dick im SORRY OMG

omg you know those guys who say their love language is physical touch but you know its just because they want sex like leon ACTUALLY feels love with touch both giving and receiving. like when he comes home from a mission and just collapses into your arms, poor thing!! you rub his back and press kisses to his temple and he just breaks down crying cux he misses you !! he hates being away from you but for your safety and for his too (because he knows the government would hold your life over his head too) he has to keep going on these missions even though they're literally killing him.

i think he learns to be better about accepting touch and affection overall with age. especially like di leon like he's always giving you hugs and kisses but like he just cannot get enough of you!! he gets less touch deprived and needy the longer he spends in a healthy, committed relationship. he still wants to touch you but he doesn't need it so intensely like he was younger.

also like we sometimes think of di leon like the conclusion, the ending, where he's completely or mostly healed of all his trauma. just because he's not as emo doesn't mean he's full gotten past everything. he's still trapped to some extent. sure, he's not the worn down, pathetic alcoholic old man that he was in re6 or vd and he's got friends he can rely on and he's doing better, but i still think he struggles with feeling worthy of the attention and care of others. he's probably not the best communicator of that either!! so just like with re4r leon, you might have to disguise it as for you as opposed to for him. he recognizes this but doesn't say anything or stop you.

as for smuttyyy hmm i like the idea of leon being touchy and affectionate during sex. like if he's single and it's just a one night stand he met at the bar, then no. absolutely not. he probably won't kiss them on the lips, mostly because he's deprived of that affectionate stuff and will definitely get attached. (edit: actually the more i think about it... maybe he would be overly touchy with some stranger because he's desperate and needs it soooo bad.. what if that scares them away and he gets all sad.. dawg now i'm sad) but if it's his long term partner then he absolutely wants to hold your hand, let you touch him however you like.

on days where he's more needy and touch deprived, i can see him leaning a bit more dominant, just taking what he wants. of course ur not gonna fight him because it's the one time he'll actually seek physical comfort without it having to be a battle between you and his own insecurities. he holds you tightly and possessively, claiming you as his, and gawd i mean what else do you do besides go along with it?

cuz like i don't see him as a total sub (sub leaning switch men x dom leaning switch women representation) but i do also see his neediness manifesting in him poorly communicating his needs. i mean, let's be real. he's not the coolest guy. he's shy and awkward and canonically not good with women (and i'm sure men too). but if you coax him into voicing what he wants from you... he gives in and lets you take care of him.

couple extra random notes:

re2r leon after the events of raccoon city finds it hard to be touchy feely and everything. tries to keep his distance cuz he's so in his head and upset about what happened.

re4r leon struggles a lot emotionally and mentally and thus is very in the most in need of comfort yet the least likely to get it as he can't communicate it very well :( plus he doesn't have a lot of agency/free will in his life so as much as i wanna say "you just gotta give him love!! he deserves it!!" it also feels like he would push away anyone who is too affectionate and loving with him. as bad as it sounds it feels like just another burden being forced onto him.

id leon i would say gives me the least touch starved needy vibes. i also feel like they made him a little too cool in id, he's not loser-y enough to be leon kennedy you know ?? but he's keeping himself busy in order to not have to think about his traumas and problems, and trying to ignore his obvious need for attention and companionship.

re6 leon is struggglinggggg he is barely able to keep himself together and just some gentle touches and love breaks him down to an emotionally needy mess. this is the man that would accidentally be overly loving and affectionate with a stranger he met at the bar.

[castieltrash1]

summary → patience is a virtue and you show bucky barnes he’s worth waiting for

word count → 17k

warnings → angst/comfort, pining, insecurity/jealousy, partial soldat!bucky, mentions of violence, ptsd/nightmare references, ambigious pre-wakanda timeline, alcohol, wanda/vision mentions, reader is non-gendered but gets called “sweetheart” “doll” “darling” and “kid,” bucky is scared of thunderstorms, physical scars and canon-level violence, basically just a big ball of emotion with a happy ending 

a/n → yes guys it is, in fact, finished. i’d like to thank the academy aka my bucky anon and @f1nalboys​ bc without them this fic would’ve never seen the light of day </3 this one is for yall MWAH !!

+ each section of the fic is kind of based on a different song so u can listen to those [here] hehe :3 but the whole fic is based on the song outer space/carry on by 5sos (the title is from lyrics hehe)

---

I. The Archer; “And I don't see an end to this, so I'll enjoy the fire.”

Bucky enters the kitchen almost silently, the slosh and drip of his drenched clothes giving away his sudden presence.

You turn your head just in time to watch a few drops hit the floor, water collecting into a murky puddle of shadow on the tile around his clunky boots.  It takes an eternity of a stretched second for you to recognize him. Everyone had turned in for the night, supposedly. When your brain registers who’s standing in front of you, your eyes widen, heart skipping a beat. Even with everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve watched him do, it still doesn’t feel right to see him in this state.

He’s already stalking off with a rubbery squeak when you grab a spare dishtowel from the counter and rush over to him. For a moment you think he’ll ignore you, but then he stops in his tracks, albeit without sparing you a glance. He’s not all there -- stance stiff, eyes glazed in a way that disregards the usual sliver of warmth in his deep blue gaze. But he’s polite -- obedient -- regardless.

“Sorry,” you quickly apologize -- for not being fast enough, not noticing him; anything he might take offense to in this sensitive state. “I didn’t realize you were still out... I thought…” He doesn’t reply, but his jaw ticks as water trickles from his hair to his cheek. It lets you know he’s not completely numb. Not yet. You lift the towel, but he grabs it from you before you can get any closer.

He drags it across his eyes, forehead, nose, before shoving it back into your hands. When he slicks his hair away from his face, you take note of the blotchiness of his skin; concentrated around his nose and under his red-rimmed eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the veins are bright against his grey expression.

He offers you no more than a sniff as he brushes past, heading towards the bathroom.

When the door slams shut behind him, you break from your stupor and trace his wet footprints back to the puddle that’s begun to seep into the lines between the tile. You sacrifice the already dirtied towel to clean it. Bucky will feel bad for the mess eventually, even if he’s apathetic now. The searing hot shower will slowly bring him back, steam opening the guilt-filled pores that hide under his scarred skin. He’ll come out and scrub the grout until his hands bleed.

The water is still running when you reach the bathroom door to wipe up the last of the mess, just a heelprint of thinned mud.

As you retreat to your room, you text Steve. He’ll be the first one up, and the only one equipped to deal with the emotional hangover. He’ll be the only one who really cares.

You let him know that Bucky just got home, hoping he’ll note the late timestamp of your message. And you tell him Bucky seems tired. Tired. It does little to encompass everything -- all the exhaustion, fear, and confusion he’ll wake up with. But Steve will understand. He always does. And you do your best, even when there’s not a single recognizable part of Bucky left.

Steve catches you by the wrist in the lounge the following early afternoon, tugging you to the corner of the room. A soft smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the sweaty remains of his morning run; all warmth, skin glowing in a way that only happens after a good workout.

His eyes scan the rest of the room, a movement almost too fast to catch. He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh when he realizes you’re alone, and brings you to the nearest couch.

“I got your text,” he says lowly, hesitant to breach the topic in person. “I wanted to thank you.”

You see the nervousness in his gaze and scoot closer to pat his shoulder. “Of course. I know he can be… Unpredictable. You deserve a heads-up if you can get one.” Steve’s been caught off guard before; you all have. It’s easy to think Bucky is just being distant, just being him. And then he’s sleeping too late, saying too little. His dinner plate will stay untouched, but the kitchen will be ransacked at midnight once everyone’s gone. Steve can barely catch up, and you doubt Bucky can either.

Steve shifts, letting out a shaky breath. “I want to help him.”

“You do more than any of us,” you reassure, truthfully. “Bucky trusts you -- he loves you. I think your presence is all he needs most of the time.”

Everyone else has to put more effort into their support. Natasha peels back the scars of her past in hopes of sharing the pain. Bruce spends weekends hunched over his desk trying to make sleeping pills that Bucky’s metabolism won’t immediately digest; tired fingers shaking as he tries a new dose, a new capsule, a new something.

But Steve’s existence alone is more of a contribution than anything.

“He knows you help, too,” he finally says, staring in a way that makes you squirm. It’s the hardened soldier’s gaze that leaves no room for argument. Whatever he’s telling you is a belief buried deep in his soul, an unwavering promise.

It makes your chest clench. Steve confirming that Bucky pays you even an ounce of attention is enough to make your heart race. “I’m just trying to be a friend.” You stress the last word, hoping it’s not visible that you’re curled around the ledge of a maybe more.

“He’ll notice eventually,” he tries, but his determined gaze is gone, and he’s holding onto hope just as much as you are.

The surface of Bucky’s healing has barely been scratched. There’s an entire life for him to uncover, remember, forget, and relive. It’d be selfish to expect any more than that from him. You know that, Steve knows that. A part of you hopes Bucky does too -- that someday he’ll realize his existence isn’t at the expense of others, even if that expense is love.

Steve stands with curled lips and a gentle double-pat on your leg that’s too comforting for something you shouldn’t even be disappointed about. It makes you feel like you’re mourning, but maybe you are, and maybe he’s just the only one who realizes it.

II. Studio 6; “I reached out to wake you but I learned that he'd taken you back.”

Group dinners are impossible, but there’s always a good handful of you in the kitchen at one time.

Tony will sip something bubbly that’s worth a mortgage, while Bruce tosses a salad fit for two; perpetually charged with thinly veiled green anger. Clint will scarf down a slice of week-old pizza and Nat will scrunch her nose at the unpleasant sounds she can never seem to avoid when he’s within range.

And, if Steve’s around, so is Bucky. The latter has only made an exception for Sam if his prior friend is on a mission for too long that he can’t sustain a hunger strike.

No one questions it or why his presence is more likely to exist when the dining room is crowded. He seems more inclined to show up when he can sink out of a conversation without anyone noticing, without any eyes on him -- except yours. He always catches onto your staring quickly though, feeling the heavy and uncomfortable weight of your focus.

But tonight, his chair by the corner of the room is noticeably empty. No one dares to disturb it, even if the extra seat is needed. No one says anything either -- at least not too loudly, though you catch some distant mumblings between Sam and Tony. They’ve chosen to forget (or purposely ignore) the fact that Steve, who’s sitting beside them, has beyond-perfect hearing.  

And he’s quick to hear the vibrating of his silenced phone, brows furrowed as he discards his fork to reach for the device. Normally, he’d scold you for ignoring table manners, but when he reads your hasty message, he understands.

“Have you seen him eat today?”

Steve gives you a tight-lipped frown and discreet shake of his head as a response.

You’re quick to stand from your chair with a sigh, the room quieting as everyone’s eyes focus on you. “I’m done, so I’ll do dishes tonight.” All of them happily agree without question, piling their plates onto yours. Wanda smiles in gratitude, whereas Clint presses a messy kiss to your cheek in thanks. Steve, who usually has clean-up duty, just nods, giving you permission for whatever you’re planning.

Thankfully, the kitchen stays empty for a while. Laughter and voices echo from the lounge, and you half listen to the retold stories as you load the dishwasher. Everyone is still going strong by the time you finish cleaning and grab a new plate from the overhead cupboard.

You hope Bucky won’t take offense at the basic sandwich; certainly not the homely dish of meat and potatoes he might think of as a family dinner. No silverware, no mess. The fridge is mostly stocked, if you ignore the Asgardian leftovers and the three-hundred-dollar block of cheese, so you pile up what you can.

The sliced tomatoes wobble while you walk down the hall, dish balanced in one hand. Light spills underneath Bucky’s bedroom door frame, but when you knock softly, there’s no response. You tap a bit harder, and call out: “Bucky… I have some food for you.” Try as you might to keep your voice steady, there’s a waver that makes you grimace. Contrary to what he may believe, it’s not him you fear -- not in the way others do. He still doesn’t answer you.

You leave the plate on the ground; a pathetic offering of inclusion and peace.

It’s just a sandwich.

When you’ve retreated to your own room, you send him a text letting him know what’s waiting for him. And even though it stings when he doesn’t reply, you feel a silent weight lifted off your shoulders. You played your role today, just as you did last night.

If there’s one emotion Bucky has never evoked in you, it’s guilt.

You don’t check your phone until you’re making coffee the next morning, barely awake as the smell of roasted beans fills the air. The sandwich and its recipient feel like a half-forgotten dream. Only when you’re a few sips into your drink do you see the notification, and the one word it bestows.

Thanks.

It catches you off guard, and you busy yourself by rinsing the pot for the next person, a ceramic glint catching your eye. The stainless steel sink is home to a single plate -- the plate. There’s still a smudge of mustard on the corner from when your hands shook, and the squeezed condiment missed the bread.

You scrub at the dried stain, a much easier mess than the mud-covered floor. It’s just a small task, just a sandwich, just a friendly gesture.

It’s clear Bucky thinks nothing more of it either. The following weekend he’s fine in his own way. After an episode, the air around him feels off; a thick aura that makes your gut instincts fire up. He’s a human timebomb, one wrong step away from mass destruction.

And then he smiles at Steve,  you overhear their conversation about Coney Island, and suddenly all that fear is gone.

His laugh is more of a throaty chuckle than anything else, but there’s a flash of his pearly whites when he jokes about taking Steve on the Cyclone (a story you’ve all heard countless times) and time seems to slow. You hang onto the sight of him like a single frame in a movie; the sway of that one curl on his forehead, the slow upturn of his lips. It’s almost like he’s not there, not really, because he’s someone entirely different -- and not in the ways you’ve seen before.

It feels like you’re standing in the museum again, looking at all the Sergeant Barnes plaques and pictures. Not a hint of Winter Soldier, not even Bucky, just… James.

You must be grinning like the lovesick idiot you are because Steve finally nudges your shoulder. “Don’t you start laughing now. You’dve thrown up too if you went on that thing.” It takes a second for you to realize they’re still talking about roller coasters, and you just shake your head.

“Whatever you say, Cap’.”

“C’mon, Buck, back me up here!” He’s reverted to the past just as much as his friend, though less noticeably. Just a shift of the shoulders and a stance that fits a skinny Brooklyn kid, not a trained Avenger.

“Nah.” Bucky laughs again, stifled now that you’re involved in the conversation. “Steve’s just a chicken.”

“Oh, eat it,” Steve retorts. “I had stomach ulcers! Of course, I threw up.” He acts truly offended, but there’s no malice in his tone. He loves a good row, even when he acts otherwise. You pretend not to catch his barely visible smirk even as he walks away to go talk to Sam, who’s just entered the room.

You lean closer to Bucky, hand covering the side of your mouth, voice lowered. “He’s just bluffing. I heard he screamed over a spider yesterday.” There’s not much space between you two, and your head spins as you realize he must’ve leaned in too. Just a little. Unconsciously, perhaps, though a hopeful part of you thinks he calculates every moment, no matter how small.

He laughs, enough for you to see his chest puff, but too quiet to cover the whirring of his metal-plated arm. Making him laugh gives you a feeling that’s unmatched by any other form of euphoria. It’s a baby step, a sign of comfort, a realization that maybe, just maybe, you’re enough. Enough for him.

Your heart skips a beat, and when his eyes dart to watch your upturned lips, you wonder if his does too.

III. Sign of the Times; “Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets?”

A part of you is beginning to believe good and bad luck are destined to come hand-in-hand.

It’s an odd feeling having Bucky next door to you, even with the heavy, soundproof wall border. There are simultaneously mere inches and a world apart between you. His steps are silent and his door is always closed, but his presence is still there, and you don’t know if you’d still feel it if you weren’t head over heels for him.

Considering the rest of the building’s layout, you’ve been blessed with this corner of the facility. Steve’s across from Bucky, Sam from you. Despite the square shape, they’re a tight-knit triangle most of the time, even if you consider yourself somewhat involved in their friendship. But it’s partially relieving to not always be included since they can be a handful otherwise.

And that much is proven true when a loud clattering wakes you up at four in the morning.

The sound would wake anyone up, but your job and training are responsible for the way you jolt, heart racing. Any remaining sleep is blinked away as your fingers drift to the side of your bed, where you know a knife is sandwiched between the mattress and frame. No one can get in or even close to the facility without Tony’s knowledge, but the smooth metal feels reassuring against your fingertips regardless.

Silence follows for a few seconds, long enough for you to wonder if the disturbance was just a vivid nightmare. And then you hear one door open, and another; both slammed into the wall behind them. Steve’s voice echoes down the hall, calling your name, and you slide off the bed to your door, forgetting your disclosed weapon.

Steve’s halfway through your name again when you enter the dark hall, finding him standing in Bucky’s doorway. He’s bleary, blue eyes clouded with an uncertain look you’ve only managed to see once or twice; most notably, on the freeway that fateful day. He’s forced to adjust to the situation quickly, you realize, when you join his side and peer into the room.

Everything about Bucky is wrong.

His chest heaves, and when Steve shifts forward, he growls. It’s not a warning, but a threat. If his mouth could foam, you’re sure it’d be dripping down his chin at this point. He’s an offensive predator at first glance. And then you notice the little clues: disheveled sheets, sweat gathered on his brow, the broken vase by his bed stand, and the water dripping from his flesh hand.

Bucky suddenly becomes a wounded, scared animal.

You inch closer, Steve grabbing your wrist when Bucky reacts with a snarl. But you don’t halt, forcing yourself past the threshold. One checkpoint at a time.

“Bucky, it’s me.” You stand, palms face out. “I don’t know what you dreamt of -- I’m sure it scared you. But Steve and I are here, ok?” His eyes flicker between you, respectively, and a glint of recognition flashes in them. “Can you sit back down on your bed?”

His expression trembles, metal fingers curling and stretching repeatedly.

You rack your brain for any idea of ways to de-escalate the situation when he doesn’t follow your suggestion. And then it hits. He doesn’t need a suggestion. He needs an order.

With a deep breath, you steady your tone and catch his gaze. “Bucky…” His eyes glaze, but you try again. “James.” He twitches, just a small shift, but you grab onto it. You want to use the least amount of soldier-related words you can and if his legal name works, you’re not going to push your luck.

“Sit down on the bed, now.” You can feel Steve burning holes into your back, but you ignore his presence, and keep your eyes trained on Bucky. His shoulders drop after a moment and he blinks a few times before shuffling backward until the underside of his knees hit the bed frame. His recline is slow, but he finally sinks into the soft mattress with a heavy breath.

When you walk closer, he doesn’t react at all -- just watches your movements. And when you sit beside him, he continues to stare at you curiously. Steve’s still watching as you grab Bucky’s warm hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of his palm in a soothing repetitive motion.

You begin to murmur affirmations while you continue, not daring to initiate any more physical contact. And he slowly, almost unnoticeably, begins to react to it. Steve sandwiches Bucky’s other side and grabs the latter’s fluffy thick blanket from the middle of the bed.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper to Steve, and he nods, but adjusts the fabric on his friend’s shoulders anyway.

“He doesn’t like the cold.”

You swallow down the quickly forming lump in your throat.

Bucky blinks away the fog a few silent moments later. His fingers grip yours and he looks down at them, tracing your arm up to your face. He says your name quietly.

“Hey, Bucky.”

He scrutinizes you for a second, making your heart flutter, and then his gaze shifts to Steve.

“Steve?”

The blond smiles and nods, patting Bucky’s back gently. “Hey, punk. You alright?”

He swallows thickly, too many words and not enough answers. His fingers are still within your grip. “Yeah. I think.” The wavy strands of hair around his ear are slick with sweat and his tongue darts across his chapped lips in a nervous tick.

“Steve, can you get some water?” you ask, and Steve seems taken aback by your control of the situation, but he finally stands and makes his way to the door. When his steps grow quiet, you return your focus to the man beside you.

“I’m sorry if we scared you,” you begin, but then Bucky jerks his hand from yours as if your touch is the red-ringed surface of a hot stovetop.

His vulnerability shrivels away and he covers the rest of it with his blanket as he shifts toward the other end of the bed. If he notices your hurt expression, he doesn’t mention it, and you do your best to hide it as you stand from his bed.

You slowly drop to your knees, beginning to pick up the remains of the shattered vase; counting each thread in the carpet to take up more time. The flowers that fell are already shriveling, stems cracked into stringy vertebrae, petals smashed into the woven flooring.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky suddenly asks, voice gruff, but with a hint of hesitance. When you look up at him, your breath catches; the table lamp behind him is a warm yellow halo, and you can’t dismiss the feeling of kneeling before him, rose gathered in your palm as you pray he loses the solemn look that covers his face.

“Do what?”

He gestures his chin toward the floor. “Pick up my… messes.”

Steve’s promise rings through your ears. He’ll notice eventually. Your hands shake, and you look back to the floor; constant and unchanging, unlike his expressions. “It’s not a big deal. We all make messes sometimes.” And while that’s true, both of you know there’s no one else you’d be picking up glass shards for at four in the morning.

“You don’t,” he says, before continuing in a hushed tone, almost so you don’t hear, “make messes, I mean.”

His words make you still: what does he perceive? What does he know about you, what does he see that you overlook? What has he pieced together on how absolutely ruined you are for him?

Steve walks in with a cup of water, and the questions silence.

He feels the change in the air quickly and grasps your shoulder with his free hand. “I got it. Go back to bed.”

You toss the glass into the trash, pocketing a few of the intact flower petals to press and save.

When their quieted murmurs and sounds of cleaning continue, you dare a glance back. Bucky pulls his blanket closer, chasing as much warmth as he can take. His hair is almost dry, but the shorter and thinner strands are still stuck to his forehead with sweat. When you blink, he looks the same as the night before last -- wet from the rain and too uncomfortable in his own cold skin.

His reaction to the rain suddenly makes all too much sense.

IV. worldstar money; “Don't hate me, am I crazy? So tenderly you watch me burn.”

It turns out that the nightmare is the peak of Bucky’s episode, and his outburst ends quickly after. He returns to nightly dinners -- with Steve in tow -- and you don’t wake up to either of them yelling again.

Coincidentally, his plateau of emotions also lines up with Thor’s periodic arrival. His presence is always a date to anticipate and the team can spend up to a week preparing if they’re given the time. The god is not a handful, per se, since he’s more than capable of entertaining himself. But, at this point, it’s a tradition that his appearance is paired with a party. The few times one hasn’t been organized before he shows, Thor’s taken it upon himself to create one spontaneously; with no regard to his surroundings. Tony’s already lost a few pieces of furniture to Asgardian liquor stains and he won’t make that mistake again.

As the preparation begins and the excited trainees at the facility are informed of the event, your mind drifts back to Bucky. His attitude change seems too instantaneous. The decline and regrowth can take weeks. A part of you hopes it’s a sign of healing - the fast recovery. The logical side of you thinks he’s simply hiding his discomfort since everyone is busy, too busy for him.

Thankfully, Wanda keeps you distracted. Whenever something normal like a party happens, she’s the most excited, and it’s hard to not feel infused with her radiance. Even Natasha becomes more playful, talkative. Despite popular belief, it seems that redheads have the most fun, especially ones who crave some regularity in their lives.

“What about this one?” Wanda pulls the nth dress from her closet, both you and Natasha lifting your heads from where you’re lying on her purple bed. It’s a simple red piece, with a small flower pattern and flowy skirt.

Natasha sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Too simple.”

“You only wear little black dresses,” you retort, sliding up to her side. “I think it’s pretty, Wanda.”

“Hey, it’s a staple to any good wardrobe.”

“Nat?” you playfully jab. “Are you hiding a secret stylist side of yourself from us?”

Wanda clears her throat and you glance back at her. “Nat’s right. I’ll order something new.”

You frown at their obvious attempt to gang up on you. “I thought I was right!”

Natasha chuckles and Wanda attempts a sputtered excuse before she ends up laughing as well. You flip both of them off, but they see the smile gracing your face regardless.

“Fine. What about you, Nat?” You rest your head on her shoulder, feeling her shrug.

“I don’t plan for this stuff.” A total lie, but you let it slide.

Wanda looks over her shoulder as she returns the dress to her overfilled closet. “Picked something to seduce Bucky in yet?” Her accent deepens as she fakes a sultry tone, sending a mascara-lashed wink your way.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“I think you should get something to highlight your ass,” Natasha muses, playfully tapping her chin. “That’s a pretty obvious hint, don’t you think?”

“Not you too!” But she pulls you into her arms regardless. Wanda jumps on the bed a few seconds later, curling up to your other side. You’re so close to them, and not just physically. You feel like you could reveal anything, admit any secret, and it’d stay in this group of minds forever. A Bermuda Triangle friendship for your confessions.

You can’t help but mumble: “Why doesn’t he notice anything I do?”

It still feels selfish to think, let alone say out loud, but there’s no judgment in response. There’s not the pitying comfort from Steve or the teasing grins of the others who don’t understand the depth of the situation. Natasha pats your arm and Wanda squeezes you a little tighter, and they don’t need to offer an explanation because just having them listen is enough. You know that’s how Bucky feels with Steve and you wonder if, in some other dimension, he trusts you just as much.

Natasha leaves first; off to the shooting range with Clint, and you follow soon after.

“Hey, Wanda,” you call, halfway through the threshold. She looks up from investigating her heeled-boot collection, red waves of hair crashing over her shoulder. Her thin brow lifts in question, and you smirk.

“I think Vision would like the flower dress, just saying.”

You don’t look back, even when you hear her sputter a retort, because you already know her face is flushed to match the outfit hanging in her closet.

V. sex money feelings die; “Trade love for one night, two pills and a red wine.”

The air in the facility only changes when Tony Stark is in charge. Routines, workouts, meetings -- they’re all forgotten and replaced with tipsy staff and good music. An inkling of professionalism remains in the lounge, but it’s discreet; fancy champagne, expensive suits, and a few public heads lingering in groups. But as a whole, it’s nowhere near the usual stiffness of your daily life. The facility may be your home, but it’s your workplace as well. Except for during moments like these.

You’re able to spot everyone quickly. Unlike the previous Stark Tower parties you attended a few years back, the guest list tonight is much smaller. Natasha is holding her own in a conversation with a few snobby businessmen and Clint lingers on the balcony behind her looking like he’d rather jump off than engage in any small talk anyone has to offer.

Wanda, in all her flowered-dress glory, is a tad tipsy, but Vision stables her with a hand on her waist, and you can see her cheeks flush from across the room.

Tony is with Bruce at the bar, and Thor is surrounded by excited trainees who’ve only heard stories about him. A second later, your gaze lands on a group of three: Steve, Bucky, and Sam. The last catches your eye and waves, heading your way before you can take a step in their direction.

He stumbles on his path, which means he’s drunk. Sam Wilson is not a lightweight, but deep inside his body lives a frat boy who only appears when he’s had too many shots to remember.

“Hey!” He grins and pulls you in for a hug, the type he’d usually give you after a two-week mission away, even though it’s been two hours since you talked last. “I didn’t see you around. Thought you decided to skip.”

You chuckle. “You know me. Just… Lingering.” And watching for Bucky.

Sam raises his brow cartoonishly high. “I think you’re partying wrong. You,” he starts, grabbing your hand before you can blink, “should be dancing.” He extends your arm above your head until you appease him with a spin.

He whistles, then sighs. “You know, I hate to admit it but I think Barnes would be a better partner. Dude’s how old again?” Sam laughs, palm warm as he squeezes your hand. “Seven decades of dance moves. Hell, you think he can moonwalk?”

It’s a nice thought: Bucky, not yet greying due to his years on ice, being free in the eighties. His hair fluffed with hairspray and a neon earring dangling from his lobe. But that’s another life. Another era he’ll never live.

“Hey, you alright?” The new wave illusion fades away and you’re left staring at Sam’s toothy smile. “You have too much to drink?”

“No, actually.” You play off the spaced-out moment and Sam is too inebriated to notice. “I haven’t had anything yet, really.”

He immediately gets a playful glint in his eyes. “Steve got his hands on some of that God beer, or whatever -- if you wanna try.” Despite internally refusing the offer, you don’t dismiss Sam. Mainly, because Bucky is still standing by Steve, and you can see the invisible walkway leading up to them. You nod, and Sam heads back in their direction with you trailing behind him.

Steve pulls you to his side the minute you’re within reach, breath hot and sweet against your cheek. “Wondered where you wandered off to.” He loosens his grip but lets his weight rest on your shoulder, enough to keep you warm. He flashes his flask at you, silver metal and dark brown leather, but you shake your head.

Before you can politely decline, Sam reaches over to take the offer from Steve’s hands. Three sets of eyes watch, with bated breath, as he tosses back a shotful, complete with a face-scrunching cough. “Is it that bad?” you ask, but Sam’s too busy clearing his throat to respond, and Bucky grabs the flask.

He makes Sam look like an amateur as he takes his own drink. It goes down smoothly, the veins in his neck tensing as he swallows without hesitation. None of his other muscles even twitch. You marvel at him in quiet awe as he licks away the last golden drops clinging to his lips.

Bucky’s eyes catch yours when he’s done. Tonight, he stares, like he’s trying to understand your gaze for once. A part of you wonders how he can struggle to profile emotions as visible as yours. Another part of you wonders if he remembers what attraction and amazement look like to the naked eye.

You don’t have time to consider it before the man of the hour is pushing his way into the conversation, sliding a toned bicep around your neck to pull you in. He grins, sends the other guys a nod. “My favorite human,” he starts, though you’re not sure if that ranking was decided pre or post-Jane. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, Thor, thank you.” He pats the small of your back in response and then directs his attention to the others -- distant chatter of mead and parties fading into the background. You’re in the midst of zoning out when a gentle, but direct, cough alerts you of someone’s presence. Thor doesn’t pay you any mind as you pull from his grip, turning to face a guy you think you recognize. A security guard, maybe -- or a media reporter?

You’ve got a superhuman soldier on one arm and a God on the other, but this, presumably mortal man stays rooted in his place. “Good evening,” he starts and throws your last name out like the idea of being beneath you socially crushes his already crippling ego. “I know this might be, well, quite forward, but…” In the back of your mind, you realize the others have halted their conversation to watch how this will unfold.

“I’ve been waiting to see you all night.” You give him a polite smile and hope your cringe isn’t obvious.

“Thank you…” He is optimistically brave and you know that letting him down without a fight is unavoidable, so you play along to save face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” His grin is bleached white, a staggering contrast against his dark suit and brown eyes.

“Well, now that you’re here,” but he can’t finish the tacky line before Sam snorts, only silencing when Steve jabs him in the side.

You feel downright sick. His intentions aren’t pure, obviously, but you wonder what his motive is. It always starts like this -- a nice, albeit forced, conversation, and next thing you know, he’s asking which Avengers are fucking behind closed doors (or whatever other gossip is trending at the moment.)

“Anyway.” You brace yourself; here it comes. “There’s a private gallery showing downtown next weekend. I was hoping you’d be interested in going with me?”

Oh. Oh.

“I’m sorry?” You’re still not convinced. “Are you asking me on a date?” The word leaves your mouth and you faintly feel Steve take a step closer, gentlemanly instincts kicking in. He’s watched the others be tempted by similar propositions, only to be ambushed by paparazzi or caught in a pre-planned scandal.

“You could call it that, if you’d like,” the guy responds, a flirty lilt in his tone. “I understand if you’re not available -- a lifestyle like yours doesn’t leave much in the schedule, I assume.” He rustles in his suit’s breast pocket before pulling out a card, off-white with a dark grey print. You catch a glance of his name -- Tom -- before he’s speaking again.

“If you end up having time, I’d love to take you.”

You nod dumbly, still not sure how to process the situation at hand. But if his disinterest towards your opinion wasn’t obvious before, it’s clear when he’s already walking away with a grin before you can attempt to respond.

When you finally turn around, all four men are staring at you with different expressions. Thor is impressed, it seems, even when he falls into a bout of surprised chuckles. Sam’s slightly more annoyed, but not enough to stop himself from laughing either. Steve is staring daggers into Tim -- Tom’s -- departing figure, and Bucky is… You’re not sure. His jaw is clenched, tightly, and his stance is far more predatory than it was before; shoulders squared, chest puffed. He’s the perfect picture of jealousy, but you know he’s probably just put off by Tom’s cocky demeanor.

Regardless, the change in the air is palpable, and you end up excusing yourself before you can choke on the tension. You rescue Natasha from her painfully dull conversation and pull her onto the balcony to relax with Clint. He’s staring off at the landscape below, and you both press against the railing with him. His gaze doesn’t shift, but a smirk becomes visible on his sharp profile. “Nice escape in there, you two. Barnes and those businessmen were really shaking their heads.” Natasha scoffs, but you tense.

“Bucky?” you ask, and Clint huffs, faking surprise.

“Yeah, Bucky. Thought the old man was about to go into cardiac arrest when that other guy asked you out.”

“What guy?” Natasha cuts in.

At the same time, you say, “How did you know he was asking me out?”

Clint isn’t easy to annoy, so he continues to answer your questions. “I know because Barnes looks jealous as hell. I can hear his heavy breathing from here, and in case you’ve forgotten,” he gestures towards the purple aid lodged in his ear. “And since you’ve gotten over here, he’s taken it upon himself to finish off Steve’s flask.”

“Gross,” Natasha groans. “I wouldn’t touch that shit if it were the last drink on Earth.” She accentuates her words with a sip of her bubbling champagne, long red nails tapping the glass flute.

“Whatever you say, Barton,” you chuckle, but there’s a hesitation in your words; a silent gap waiting to be filled with more questions. Was Bucky really jealous? Is Clint just humoring you? The thoughts drift around in your head, and your friends let the conversation flow into another topic, saving you from dwelling for too long.

As they begin to playfully argue over something -- like always -- your eyes drift back to the party. It’s reached a quiet buzzed state, the energy of the room coming to a lull. The calmness is enough to leave you feeling dazed, letting the cold breeze coat your skin with goosebumps. You silently hope that Bucky is watching from afar, indulging in your shadowed silhouette against the darkening night. But when you examine each partygoer to find him, you land on Steve instead; with that look.

Natasha finally notices, or at least announces, your distraction: “You alright?”

“Yeah…” You trail off, watching as Steve and Sam glance around the room; searching, worried. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring more drinks on your way,” Clint suggests, but his favor leaves your mind the second you head inside.

VI. SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK; “Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms.”

Your shoes clack against the floor and Steve lets out a sigh of relief when you enter his line of sight. “Thank God you’re here,” he half-jokes as if you can’t see his flustered expression. “I was just about to call you. Bucky wandered off and... I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. He’s not in his room -- Sam checked.”

“Bathroom?” You ask, but Sam, approaching, shakes his head. He looks like he’s a second from toppling, his earlier shot taking a visible toll.

“Looked there first.”

You raise a disbelieving brow. “Geez, I’ve barely been gone five minutes and he just disappeared on you both? Isn’t that what he does?” You discreetly gesture around to the crowd, gritting your teeth. “This isn’t really his scene.”

Steve’s concern doesn’t lessen. “No, I know. He just, he somehow got buzzed. I don’t think he’s slept in days and… I don’t know...”

You know his ability to burn off alcohol is unparalleled, but unlike Steve, Bucky hasn’t touched the stuff since ‘42 -- not even one of Tony’s mild wines at dinner. If he was drinking as much as Clint said, there’s a fair chance he could be slightly inebriated; just enough to throw him off his perfectly calculated balance.

You can’t leave him to his own devices, so you let out an exhausted huff. “Fine. Take Sam to his room, though. He’s about to pass out.” Said drunk sends you a glare, then promptly stumbles in place. “I’ll make the rounds in the meantime. Text me if you see Bucky on your way.”

Both men nod, Sam’s head bobbing in a way that makes you dizzy. They head off, attracting a few whispers along the way, but make it down the hall without too much of a scene. You sneak away in the opposite direction, towards the other half of the facility. It’s eerily quiet as the voices fade away until there’s just silence. The lights automatically flicker on as you walk, turning off behind you when you leave their range.

The closest rooms are the lounge and some storage closets, but they’re all empty, along with the pool. He can’t be in the shooting range or armory, since they’ve been locked up tightly for the night; FRIDAY can’t even open them without Tony’s approval.

But there’s another set of bathrooms down the hall; less used, without everyone’s necessities inside. When you walk past the door, a few sounds catch your attention: a drunken mumble, squeaky boots, and water running. There’s a possibility it’s a public hookup since it’s practically a mile-high achievement to fuck at a Tony Stark party. At least, it was, back in 2011.

You push open the door slowly.

Bucky is leaning against the sink, face flushed and dripping water. It’s been unceremoniously splashed against his skin, dripping down his neck and spilling across his maroon dress shirt. The patches of wet fabric cling to his chest, and you barely manage to pull your gaze away from the smooth outlines of his torso. His jacket is draped next to the faucet, freckled with stray droplets like a garden flower.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror, blue drifting into a hazy grey.

“Hey…” You trail off, closely monitoring his expression. “Steve wondered where you ran off to.” You refrain from mentioning your own concern; a good choice, considering Bucky gives you a tight smile in return. You’re just thankful for more than a grimace at this point.

“It’s pretty loud in there, right?” you continue, looking away as you grab some paper towels, thin white, masking your palms like sheet ghosts. Bucky’s eyes are still on you when you turn back, making you jump. You try to play it off by taking a step closer, slowly raising your hand. “Is this alright?”

He doesn’t respond, but his chin juts outward. When he’s steel-faced like this, you can’t tell who you see more: Sergeant or Soldat.

His reaction seems like a yes, albeit a stubborn one. His skin is warm even through the napkins as you gently pat his face, drying it off. He’s completely still, and it takes a second for you to realize neither of you is breathing. You’re sure your heart is beating much faster than his. You dab his cheekbones and when you move to his forehead, he tilts toward you. It’s tender and trusting and your heart melts; dripping over your rib bones and living jitters in your stomach.

Bucky’s lips pout as you press them once, twice, and you savor the indirect kiss.

And then you pull away, and he leans back.

You smile, and for a second it looks like he does too. “All dry.” He’s quick to grab his jacket, slinging it over his broad shoulder. Right as you move aside to let him leave, he takes an unbalanced step, hurriedly adjusting himself. The sight of Bucky tripping over his own feet is enough to make you giggle, and the quieted sound makes his cheeks flush a shade darker.

“Are you drunk?” you press, and he scoffs.

“Can’t get drunk. You know that.” But the corner of his lips upturn just barely, and you know only a drunk Bucky would ever smile at you.

“Whatever you say…” You pull his jacket onto your own shoulder. “But I’m taking you to your room. Steve’ll put me on dish duty for a week if I don’t.”

VII. Out Like a Light; “If I betray our lonely nights spent out like a light, with no kiss goodnight...”

Bucky is quiet the entire walk to his room, but his presence is warm and comforting behind you; thick like drizzled honey. You don’t have to look back or strain your ears just to feel him, to sense him. You don’t mind that he doesn’t utter a single word or attempt to sync his steps next to yours -- you just make your way down the hall, distantly noting Sam’s door being open a sliver. It’s a habit of his, like many others, that you’ve grown to recognize. He can be overly cautious, sometimes to a fault, but you’re relieved to know he got to his room with a few screws left intact inside that wild head of his.

“And here we are, safe and sound.” You extend your arm to Bucky’s door with a cheesy grin: “Home sweet home.” When he tenses at your words, you try not to falter -- even when you know home to him is a century away, in another life, and another world. Even if home to him means young laughter, warm cooking, and a scratchy record. You can’t apologize for wanting to be home, for hoping the occasional laughter of Peter and the motherly nagging of Pepper are enough to makeshift a family.

Bucky gracelessly stomps into his room, immediately falling back into his unmade bed. Any other night, you’d close his door and walk far, far away. But tonight he’s still got his shoes on and you know one wrong move will track God knows what across his sheets. You can’t help but wonder how many messes Bucky Barnes will make before you finally give in and kiss him.

Without another thought, you close the door behind you, causing Bucky to look up with a raised brow.

“I’m not gonna let you fall asleep fully dressed,” you tell him, voice stern, and he’s half-asleep by the time you’re untying his second shoe, tugging it off his socked foot. He managed to undo one button on his shirt, but promptly gave up, leaving his arms beside him.

You murmur his name and he groans. “Buck, c’mon. What do you normally wear to bed?” He answers by rolling over, muttering something into his pillow.

It’d be frowned upon to go through his drawers, but you’ve got no other choice. You quickly grab a t-shirt and some sweats. You don’t stare when you pull off his button-up and slacks, and you don’t ogle when you pull his impromptu pajamas on. You don’t glance at his scars or his chest or his stomach because he trusts you.

He’s as vulnerable as you could ever hope for, but he’s also stumbling drunk, and bound to forget this encounter tomorrow morning. He will never trust you like this again, so you cling to the moment as you tuck him in and brush his bangs from his face.

The thought of his upcoming headache sends you to the bathroom to fill a glass of water, thankful the tap is filtered. You set the cup on his bed stand, next to his toppled prescription bottles. He’s got a memo pad, unmarked but indented from previous writings, and a silver pen there too. You scribble a note telling him to drink water and take his meds in the morning. You add a little heart, stick it on the glass, and resign yourself to the fate of this being a blurry moment for the rest of your life.

You’re finally about to walk away when Bucky grabs your wrist, completely catching you off guard. His eyes flutter open, drowsy blue and thankful in a way that reminds you you’d do anything for him. “Please, don’t leave me.” He blinks, glossy and unfocused, and you sit next to him with a gentle nod. His hand stays locked in yours, even when he shifts to rest on his side. Your thumb rubs his knuckle while his opposite metal one clicks into place with a soft rattle.

“‘M sorry,” Bucky mumbles, but when you ask why, he just shakes his head and dozes off with a few slurred words. Something like thank you, and then a gravelly rumble of Russian -- Золотце.

A part of you wishes you didn’t understand it. Another part of you is glad Natasha has called you darling so many times before.

VIII. Even If It’s a Lie; “And I know you don't love me so, but please say it once before I go.”

If Bucky remembers anything from that night, he never acknowledges it. The others joke about the party in their sober states, reminiscing and reliving all the antics you missed while you spent the night baring your heart and soul to the man who now can’t stand to look at you.

“I wish I’d drank more and forgotten that night,” Clint jokes before the mention of alcohol jogs his memory and he glances over at you. “You never brought back our refills, so I’m blaming you.” You can tell he’s playing around, and you hope his words will fly under everyone else’s radar, but then Nat nods, growing suspicious. You’re all having dinner -- one of the good ones, where everyone is warm and full -- so you hope she won’t prod. But you can feel the shift in her energy as she leans in, raising a sharp brow.

“You’re right, Barton -- for once in your life.”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you go?” Her cherry lips curl on one side, and Wanda can’t hide her amusement as she snuggles up to Vision on the loveseat; unlike you and Bucky, they’ve barely left each other’s side since that night.

Instinctively, your gaze darts to Bucky, and you’re surprised to catch him already staring back. A hint of something lies in his gaze -- something more unrecognizable than usual. It’s neither embarrassment regarding your time together, nor a glare warning you against speaking up. If anything, it’s almost a silent plea, though not one rooted in regret. He’s asking this to be your secret and yours alone.

“Sam got hammered,” you start, rolling your eyes jokingly. Bucky physically relaxes, you note, watching him from the corner of your eye. “I had to help him get to his room -- with Steve, who did most of the heavy lifting. Literally.” Everyone seems appeased with the answer and you’re relieved to have made the right call.

Someone -- you’re not paying much attention at this point -- remarks how difficult it is to get drunk nowadays; between being on-call and not being able to enter a bar without ten different security precautions. You don’t doubt the gratitude the team shares, both for each other and the satisfaction of saving people. But it comes with a certain yearning. You see it at Steve’s apartment when he makes you dinner and talks to you about the weather like you’re just his neighbor. Or when Wanda paints her nails before missions, even when she knows they’ll be chipped bare by the time you return home.

Everyone wants what they don’t have; a normal life -- a chance at something different, mundane, peaceful.

And you… You want Bucky.

Considering his usual aversion to your presence, it takes a while for you to realize he’s purposely ignoring you. You’d hoped your white lie to the group would build you some rapport in his mind, but the awkwardness builds up until it rolls off him in waves whenever you walk by.

The silent-stand off reaches unbearable levels until Bucky ends up assigned to a day mission. It’s a sad realization, but you can tell the entire facility relaxes at the lack of his presence. No one’s gotten the hang of being around him, so it’s easier when he’s just...gone. If anything, he’s usually in a better mood when he gets back. The alone time, the structure, and the familiarity of burning knuckles and bloody lips calm him in a way nothing else can.

Steve pulls you into his room that late afternoon. He’s all furrowed brows and pouty lips; his thinking look. You sometimes forget he doesn’t have all the answers, despite appearing old and wise. He’s navigating the same life as you are. He’s lived two eras, but so few years. He doesn’t always understand.

His room is clean and stark, bare walls and pristinely tucked sheets. It’s still warm, in all the right ways. It smells soft and sweet like him -- a woodsy linen scent -- and there’s a cream, knitted blanket draped across his bed that drowns you whenever he lets you borrow it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, sitting on the edge of his bed with you. His broad frame takes up most of the space, but you don’t mind. “How did things go that night, with Buck? I asked him how he got to his room, but he said he doesn’t remember.”  

The single spark of optimism you had for keeping that night a special secret fizzles away without another word. Within a mere second, the realization hits you. Bucky’s not cherishing some romantic rendezvous because that’s not what it was. If anything, he’s probably ashamed at how easily he opened up to you after too much alcohol.

You can’t help but scoff to hide your pain. “Lucky him,” you joke, nudging Steve’s side. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he frowns, immediately scooting closer to you.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

You’re blinking back some form of emotion -- heartbreak, anger, the burning feeling of your conscience sneering I told you so. I told you this would happen. “I just got him to bed, that’s all.” It’d be easier to believe that, to gaslight yourself until the memory is nothing more than a faded delusion. If Bucky refuses to acknowledge it, why plague yourself with the isolated recollection?

With the tone of an overbearing mother, Steve sighs. “I know that’s not true, doll. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” And then you feel your wet cheeks and the faint taste of salt gathering on your lips, tears streaking without you even noticing.

“He called me… Darling -- in Russian.”

“What?” Complete disbelief. “Are you sure?”

You know he’s just as surprised as you were, but the question burns: Why would Bucky ever call you that? It’s what Steve’s secretly asking. “Nat,” you answer. “She’s used it with me before. I recognized it right away.”

“Darling...” Steve muses, the world pulling out in a Brooklyn drawl instead of a Russian purr. “Well, I can’t lie and say I was expecting that, but…” He tilts his head with a smile, blond wisps curled around his ears, glowing white in the setting sunlight. “That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

You go to wipe your eyes, but Steve beats you to it, rough knuckles brushing the tears away. “I don’t think so. He won’t even talk to me now. I think he’s ashamed -- but he shouldn’t be, right? It was just a drunk mistake. We all make those.” You know your tone isn’t convincing -- you’re still trying to prove it to yourself, and Steve’s face morphs into a look of pity. His features are drawn with guilt, and you don’t know when you both began to take the fall for Bucky’s faults.

“I’ll be honest.” Steve sighs, leaning forward. It’s hard to see him like this, so unsure. “I can’t always tell what Bucky’s thinking -- not anymore.” He shakes his head. “Maybe back then, before. Things were less complicated. It was easy to understand him.” He reaches for your hand, cupping it between both of his, and the contact steadies your wavering heart. “Sometimes, I think he’ll handle things like he used to, you know?” Sergeant Barnes -- the flirt, all confidence and smooth words. He’d treat you differently, but that’s not what you want, who you want.

“But that doesn’t mean you can doubt yourself, ok?” Steve’s words aren’t a cure-all, but they soothe the growing ache in your chest. He’s a terrible liar, so you know he’s being honest, and his reassurance means more than most people’s.

“Whatever Bucky decides to do - that’s his choice. You’re not doing anything wrong by trying to offer him love.” He doesn’t hesitate with the last word, which burns in every way possible; relief, knowing he understands the depth of your feelings; pain, that even with that knowledge, he only has hope. If Steve, with all of his unwavering optimism, is hanging by a thread, you know you’re past saving.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He says nothing else, just pulls you closer, and lets you rest in his arms for a few beats while you take in his natural scent and warm hands. In another life, he’d be easier to fall for. You’ve snagged a part of his heart, just like the others, but whoever gets it all… That’d be a type of love you’re not sure you could ever wrap your head around.

“I’m gonna go for a walk - try and clear my head. Alright?”

“Yeah, doll. Get to bed soon though, ok?”

You nod, and the sun has set by the time you make it down the hall, incoming moonlight lighting your way up to the balcony.

IX. Two Slow Dancers; “It would be a hundred times easier, if we were young again.”

The outside air is crisp, occasional winds biting into your arms and coaxing goosebumps from your skin. It’s the type of weather that leaves you alone with your thoughts, too sharp to let you zone out into an unfeeling haze. Everything lingering in your mind confronts you when you’re cold like this, and you wonder if that’s why Bucky hates the midnight chill so much; if it forces forward the memories that aren’t really his, the guilt of his subconscious actions.

You’ve all made countless mistakes, misjudgments. It’s part of the job. When you rely so heavily on instincts and adrenaline, slip-ups are bound to happen. But at the end of the day, you have yourself to own up to, not a foreign entity wearing your skin. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier, but the Winter Soldier is a part of Bucky, in a way that can’t be denied. To consider them separate entities would be ignorant, but to blame Bucky would be cruel.

Bucky mirrors your route at some point in the night, quietly joining you. The cold is making your body ache, much like your mind, but you can’t find it in yourself to turn around and go back in, especially when you see him. He’s still in his mission clothes, dark and clinging to his sweaty skin. He looks untouched, though you’re sure he’s got a few cuts and bruises you can’t see.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until the morning,” you state, with a slight chatter of your teeth. The stars above shine brighter than they did at the tower, unobstructed by city lights and various forms of pollution. They feel closer, almost as if they’re listening to every word you say and whispering amongst themselves.

Bucky busies himself by tugging his leather gloves off. “Got done early. Steve said you’d probably be here.”

Bitterly, you acknowledge he didn’t check on you because he felt inclined. Rather, he’d been put up to it. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you hum. Your mind races with what Steve must’ve said, how it led to this. You know you’re being given the conversation you spent nights begging for, but instead of joy, you feel fear. A sour bile rises to your throat. Bucky has dirt caked on his clothes, you’re half-freezing in the dark night, and the universe is cruel for deciding now is the moment.

“I know what you’re doing.” He’s straight to the point, just like always. No flowery language or attempt at sugar-coating, which you find both a blessing and a curse. He won’t say anything that could be misconstrued, but his statement is vague enough to lure you into your own admission.

“Yeah? What’s that?” The crest of fresh tears burns your already irritated eyes. You feel the end of all ends coming, but you won’t be the one to start it. Your pride was what kept this infatuation going for so long, even though it’d been predestined to fail. And your pride is what keeps you from giving in, even with the settling realization that Bucky never intended to treat you differently or give you a chance.

His hands, and their now visible bruised knuckles, curl around the balcony railing. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you, yet he’s never felt so far away. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he says gruffly, and it sounds worse coming from him than anyone else. Less comforting, more pitying.

“Look at me.” You hesitate before obliging.

The sight catches you off guard. You know what Bucky looks like when he’s uncomfortable; seen it countless times - this is worse. He’s gone through Hell and back, yet he still looks more tortured glancing at you than at any time in his past. Why he wants to see you when he does this, you don’t know. Sadistic is the best word for it. Why must he gouge a hole in your chest while giving you those baby blues?

His eyes are dark, stars catching in their reflection as the colors swirl like a galaxy. The celestial vision is only yours to enjoy for a moment before he squints, brows furrowing. He must see the tears, the pleading look on your face that you no longer bother to hide. “Doll?” Like a stab to the gut, he delivers the one word you’ve imagined falling from his lips so many times before. There’s no warm sun or shy smiles or soft kisses to accompany it, only a pitying gaze and the gloomy sky.

“Please - don’t call me that.” You attempt to be stern, but your voice wavers, words barely coating a stifled choke. The second you turn away, Bucky latches onto your wrist, calloused fingers pulling you close; finally wanting you to invade his space.

His lips form a tight line. “Won’t you at least listen to what I want to say?”

“Why should I?” you ask, voice sharpening into a bite. “I know what you’re gonna say. I can tell just by looking at your face.” Chest heaving, you continue. Now that the confidence to speak has hit you, you can’t seem to stop. “I’ve known every day since you came here, Bucky. I know you don’t like me, but I don’t know why you seem so determined to rub it in my face.”

Ripping your wrist from his clutch, you rub away a fresh set of oncoming tears. Bucky blinks, wide-eyed, but composes himself quickly. “You think…” He almost laughs in disbelief. “You think I want to hurt you?” For a second, your stomach churns with guilt, but it dissipates before he speaks again. He is hurting you, whether he intends to or not. “I’m telling you this because I want to protect you.”

Voice trailing into a barely restrained yell, your chest bubbles with frustration, spreading like wildfire. Every word slices through the icy air with a hiss. “Protect me from what?”

Bucky shakes his head, brown waves of hair swaying with the motion. “You don’t know what you want,” he says, sternly. “You think you know how you feel, but you don’t. You… You don’t realize the things I’ve done -- what I’m capable of.”

A second of silence passes before the dam inside you breaks. The tears dry up, scorched away by the anger in your veins. “We all know, Bucky,” you retort, not missing the flash of hurt on his face. All you can think of is Steve, Tony, everyone who’s lost in the name of the man in front of you. They’ve worked tirelessly to push aside the past, putting their trust in the future, in the one who has caused them so much pain. “And we are the ones who have given you a second chance, despite it all. You’re the only one who can’t forgive yourself.”

His chest heaves, letting out a low breath as your words sink in. “You’re right,” he admits, lowly. “Which is why I can’t let you shoulder that burden.”

“Stop assuming you know what I can and can’t do,” you snap, lip curling into a snarl. “This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that you refuse to think anyone can see the good in you!”

“That’s because there isn’t any good in me!” Bucky yells, finally managing to startle you. He steps closer, chest puffed and jaw twitching. For a moment, you imagine this is how his victims must’ve felt in their final moments. “It’s the ugly truth and you’ve gotta face it. I can’t ever be what you want.”

At that moment, you realize it’s never been you that he’s disliked; only himself. The thought makes you spiral, and you immediately soften, voice hoarse and hushed. “You are what I want,” you tell him, hoping he understands. “Just as you are, Bucky. Why can’t you accept that?”

“You’re…” He shakes his head, strung so tight his body shakes. “You’re being unrealistic. I - I can’t see you with hope now when I know that there’s no future where I’m the person you’re imagining.” He’s entirely resigned to the fact, despite all you’re willing to give him, every possibility ahead.

You have to remind him of the light at the end of the tunnel. “What about all the work we’re doing? The therapy, the meds? Steve’s even making negotiations with Shuri… I… Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“What if it works?” Bucky questions and the thought makes you stop. “Are you going to follow me there? To Wakanda?” he asks, and it’s almost sad how quickly you come to a decision. For him, and the chance of something more, you’d leave it all behind.

“I would,” you admit, keeping your voice steady. “If there’s a chance - why… Why wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t even consider it. “It doesn’t matter… It’s something I have to do alone.” He’s burrowing himself into a pit of isolation despite your pleas. Every time you hold your hand out to help, he’s just inches away, fingertips brushing yours. Just one reach and you can pull him to safety.

“I know I can’t heal you, Bucky - that’s not... That isn’t what I’m trying to do. I just… I want you to know I’d wait for you, every step of the way.”

He stops, thinking about his next choice of words. Somehow, you already know what he’s going to say. “What if…” His voice is hesitant, almost as if it pains him to speak. It’s going to hurt you even more. “What if I don’t want you there?”

Finally, it hits; the admission you’ve always been preparing yourself for. The excruciating buildup slams into you with a deafening crescendo. The letdown, the pure collapse, is unavoidable. Not a cell in your body can fight it. Any chance of convincing him is over -- completely and utterly so. It’s the sharpest ache you’ve felt in so long, but you can’t break in front of him - not any more than you already have. You can’t allow him the satisfaction he’s been waiting for since he demanded you look him in the eye; the fact that he is wholly, unequivocally, and painfully right.

“Okay,” you finally exhale, trembling but not looking away. “If you… That’s all you need to say. If that’s what you want.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen Bucky regretful, because the emotion held in his eyes is not something you recognize; downcast eyes, slumped shoulders. This is one instance where the guilt is entirely his own. “I care about what you want too, Bucky,” you tell him, unsure of how he could ever think differently with all you’ve given him. “Just because I feel a certain way… I-I’d never force you to feel the same.”

The balcony falls into silence, neither one of you having anything left to say. The last bit of warmth disappears as Bucky retreats to the doorway, gentle winds brushing his hair back for just a second; long enough for you to see a light gloss of tears coat his eyes. He blinks them back, features relaxing on instinct as he shifts into the perfect picture of numbness like he’s been trained to do. Any hint of emotion is washed away in one crawling, desperate wave.

He stops halfway through the threshold, one final consolation on his tongue. “It wouldn’t have been forced,” he admits, and, for a second, it’s like the dream you’ve always imagined; his soft eyes, the chance of him feeling the same. But the confession is for another life, a different version of yourself that you can’t quite imagine.

Bucky gives you a trace of a smile, and your frustration spills away as quickly as it came. All that remains is the longing for what could have been -- for what will never be. “Thank you,” you tell him, and this time you mean it. He leaves quietly, almost as if he’d never been here to begin with.

You’re left standing in the cold, nose burning, and fingers numb. The stars stare down from above, twinkling and all-knowing. You can’t help but wonder how many heartbreaks they’ve witnessed in all their years, finding yourself grateful for a finite lifetime of them. One streaks across the sky and you let a silent wish cling to the bright white tail, hoping and begging to never take its place in the universe. You’re not sure how many more broken hearts you can handle.

At the very least, not an eternity’s worth.

X. Strange (Instrumental)

The night on the roof slowly fades away, word by word, until you start to forget exactly what Bucky said, and in what tone. The emotions linger in a way akin to sickness; a tight chest, twisted stomach, clammy skin. At the very least, the physical reactions are easier to hide, covered by excuses like a sparring match gone wrong or spoiled leftovers.

To most, you seem entirely fine. No one knows about your conversation beneath the stars, though a few begin to suspect something happened after Bucky’s return. He’s calm. He’s participating. He sits at dinner with everyone else, passing you the salt when you ask and listening intently to your repetitive drones about training. Natasha and Wanda watch with wide eyes, not bothering to muffle the sounds of them smacking each other under the table every time you and Bucky so much as glance at each other.

You neither confirm nor deny their suspicions, partly so you can revel in their happiness. They deserve the relief of thinking your silly little crush is over, even if they do believe it ended in a more favorable conclusion.

Your fork has barely touched your finished plate when Steve picks it up for you, stacking it upon his own scraped dish; three servings packed away in his super soldier stomach. Dinner cleanup is usually his chore, but he’s prematurely eager about it tonight. Everyone is still sitting around the lounge and kitchen, forgotten bites dangling off their cutlery between conversations.

“I got it, doll.” He presses a gentle kiss against the top of your hair before heading to the sink and you don’t miss the curious glances sent in your direction; Tony, halfway through a bite of pasta, focuses his brown eyes on you like a laser.

You know exactly what Steve is doing. Steve knows you know. He’s been stuck to your side like glue for going on a week now, and you’re equally thankful and sick of it. His footsteps sync with yours on the way to the gym, the pool, and even your shared hallway. At night, you curl up into his blanket, which he lent you with a silent acknowledgment. It’s soft and easy to cry into, even if it doesn’t heal the painful cold that fills your body.

Faintly, you wonder if Bucky’s blanket does; if, when he dreams of the blood-stained snow, it warms his metal heart.

Your facade lasts another couple of days before it begins to crumble. Bucky is completely unaffected and, for once, you find yourself envious of him. It’s disgusting to admit, to tell yourself you’d rather feel his aching numbness than the deep pit of sorrow nestled in your stomach, but it’s true. Everyone else praises his change in attitude: That’s three nights in a row that Barnes has come to dinner. Isn’t that great? The words seem to echo in every room you enter and you want to scream, revealing to everyone that the only thing different in Bucky’s life is you. He’s finally rid himself of you, cut you from under his skin like nothing more than an obsessive parasite.

Thankfully, it’s easy to come up with an excuse. In your line of work, everyone gets burned out from time to time, retreating to different areas of the world. Clint goes home while Tony visits the beach. Bruce drops off the grid entirely.

“And you swear you’re alright?” Tony asks, again, watching as you pack an overnight bag. You know he’ll drop it eventually, begrudgingly respecting your privacy, but it’s obvious you’re not being entirely truthful about why you want to leave. If you want to admit it, now’s the time.

You stuff Steve’s blanket into your old duffle. “I’m sure, Tony. Just tired, you know?” He scoffs, nods, and gives you a slight smile -- in that order -- silently agreeing; I’m Iron Man, kid. I’ve been tired since 2008.

He finally relents, clapping his hands like he always does when filling an awkward silence. “Alright, well… I’ve got a driver downstairs for you. He’ll take you wherever you want to go -- which is where again?” You give him an unamused look and he huffs. “What?”

“None of your business,” you remind him, with a smile. “Thanks.”

He waves you off, suddenly humble, and goes to leave the room, actually making it halfway down the hall before his steps audibly reverse. Tony sticks his head back in your doorway with a hesitant look; an expression you’re not used to seeing. “If you want me to, uh, take care of Barnes while you’re gone…” He drags his index finger against his neck in a cartoonish gesture, his smile softening after your laughter quiets. “Just let me know.” His expression isn’t aggressive or vigilante, closer to what you assume is his attempt at fatherly protection. I’m here for you, he says silently.

You’re thankful he leaves before you have a chance to respond, unsure of what you’d even say. You’ve always known not to underestimate Tony, even with his questionable social skills, but another part of you knows you’ll never fully grasp him, and not just in the way you’ll never truly get anybody but yourself.

If everyone is a grain of sand, Tony is a speck of snow. No matter the weather, you will never understand a blizzard.

XI. Outer Space/Carry On; “And the rain, it came too soon, I will wait for you to love me again.”

The door to your apartment swings open with an old creak, wood bouncing off your jutted hip. It smells like dust and there’s a distinct humidity filling the rooms. Your complex is far from dingy, but you do have to smack the air conditioner a few times before it switches on; probably from a lack of use. When you do visit, the electricity and water are usually questionable for a day or so, but the landlord never questions your absence -- a perk of Tony’s bribing.

You drop your duffle on your bed, which, while unmade, is still relatively clean. Knicknacks flood the surrounding bookshelves and your socked feet rub against the old rug tucked under the slatted frame. It’s a far cry from your room at the facility, which is fitted for everyday use. It holds your most worn clothes, all of your life’s necessities. Your apartment is more complex, deeper memories lingering in the walls. It has all the things you couldn’t box up and take with you. There are pictures of old friends on the walls, their voices long forgotten, and belongings from your childhood slipped under your bed in undisturbed nostalgia. Bucky’s question from that night suddenly hits you in full force. If he had to go to Wakanda, could you leave here behind?

You don’t have an answer and soon his voice fades away too. For the first time in a while, you sleep well, only stirring awake once, at around five in the morning. The room is filled with that early blue filter and your sheets are extra cold, your body tingling in its barely awake state. The world is quiet, and you think only of the eyes that match the outside sky.; steel, with icy highlights, and the mist of unshed tears and almost rain.

The weekend morning greets you with dark clouds rolling overhead. Rain drizzles lazily as you walk to the nearest bodega, a couple of stray bills stuffed in your coat pocket. It’d be smarter and safer to order takeout, but you crave the normalcy of buying groceries and cooking dinner, especially now that you’re alone.

The shop is relaxed. Radio music and news announcements overlap in dull robotic voices, patrons harmonizing as they talk amongst themselves; arguing over deli prices and which cheap wine to pair with dinner that night. No one looks at or speaks to you, and you feel invisible, which is somehow a relief. Again, you think of Bucky. He has so often tried to fade away -- usually bringing more attention to himself -- but you finally get it. The ignorance of the customers is your much-awaited bliss.

It seems, you realize, you’re understanding Bucky more every day.

You follow the speckled tile floors to the cashier, who gives you little more than a glance. Her glazed eyes focus on the box television behind the register, hands blindly scanning your items out of instinct. She mutters your total with a heave of nicotine breath, but you barely notice. You wish she understood how much her disinterest means to you.

The plastic straps of the grocery bags dig into your wrists the entire walk home, but you’re just happy to be free.

The storm reaches its full, beautiful, raging glory by the time you get back to your apartment. Lightning strikes, illuminating the living room with flashes, followed seconds later by heavy rumbling. The windows streak with tear-like drops, each one chasing the other to the bottom of the pane, and you feel like a child again, betting on which one will win the race.

Thunder shakes your apartment lightly, and the droplet you watched connects to the one beside it, gravity pulling them both into a long splotch. On the coffee table, your phone blinks awake, unread texts rolling in one after the other. The messages are all similar declarations of missing you, but each one makes you smile, even if you’re a bit surprised no one’s noticed your absence until now. Then again, you’ve been guilty of the same, even with Bucky; not realizing he’s disappeared all day until everyone gathers for dinner. You’re used to sharing confused glances with Steve across the lounge or in the kitchen, two pairs of hands deep in the soapy warm water filling the sink. You did the same thing right after Bucky moved in, cowering and suspicious like a stray dog.

“Is he going to be ok?” you’d naively asked Steve, scrubbing away the soup-dried bowls from dinner.

He had simply smiled, the back of his hand meeting yours beneath the water. “I think so.”

At that moment, you’d dedicated yourself to the cause; to saving Bucky Barnes -- if not for himself, then for Steve. In your eyes, there were two lives lost, two souls who’d gone through Hell and back just to reconnect in an equally cruel and gracious act of destiny. They both deserved a second chance, especially considering they never got a first.

“I can help if you two ever need anything,” you offered, brimming with confidence. Steve nodded, and the conversation inevitably trailed off to some other topic. Bucky was just a casual discussion, one with too many questions and too few answers. You’d both gravely underestimated his recovery, a process that everyone else knew would be difficult. If anyone were to expect miracles in Bucky’s name, it was bound to be Steve and you.

You’d always felt like you’d known Bucky before he came home. The minute Steve found out he was still alive, you’d been the one he confided in, sharing his stories. The countless memories spilled from his lips with intricate details, coming to life before your eyes. He spoke and you could taste the cotton candy of Coney Island, see the wonders of the 1943 Stark Expo, and even smell the bloody battered war.

A part of you was aware Bucky wouldn’t be the same, and Steve had always been prepared for some version of that reality. When he was younger, though, his earlier doubts revolved around war-related PTSD or combat stress reaction, as he called it. Bucky had gone through much worse -- seventy years of torture and an unending abyss of pain.

He didn’t walk into the facility with a suave wink or smooth-as-butter Brooklyn tone. You weren’t disappointed, even as pre-war Bucky dissolved right before your eyes, leaving a hardened man in his place. You just convinced yourself this was like Steve. He was no longer a sick, scrawny boy, right? But Steve was the same, in many ways. His mannerisms and language were stuck in another century, and when he laughed, the insecure sound of a young kid squeaked out. He’d been Captain America for so long, but still hit his head on short doorframes and bought clothes a few sizes too small, always remaining shocked when they didn’t fit.

Bucky was not the same. He didn’t flirt or dance. He didn’t laugh, joke, drink, or brawl, and you failed to imagine how this was the same man that tried talking the red dress off of a young Peggy Carter. Finally, it had hit you that Bucky’s early life was long gone and no years of healing would bring it back.

Even now, curled up on your couch, you can’t fool yourself into thinking he could ever truly be fixed. There would always be more levels of healing to endure, more coping mechanisms to learn, further ways to grow. Sometimes, he didn’t seem driven to take any steps toward bettering himself, content with his internal and external scars being all he had to show for his trauma. He was determined though -- had made it all of these years somehow. Even if his stubbornness worked against him, it had to count for something.

You’re about to let yourself wallow over him once more when a thump echoes loudly through your apartment, rattling the walls with its intensity. You will yourself off the couch, leaving behind a half-eaten bowl of pasta, and glance out the back window, seeing nothing but sleet-streaked streets. It takes an admittedly long time to realize someone’s knocking at your door, but you don’t need to look at the clock to know it’s way too late for visitors. Some animalistic instinct warns you to be cautious, but you have little confidence in whatever criminal has decided to pay you a visit in the pouring rain.

You unlock the door with a sigh and swing it open, cold air chilling the tip of your nose instantly.

“Bucky?”

The immediate sight of him evokes a nauseating sense of deja vu; hair slick against his forehead, lips nearing a shade of purple. When he awkwardly shifts his weight, you hear the telltale squeak of his wet boots and it lets you know he’s nervous since you wouldn’t hear him otherwise.

He exhales in obvious relief. “You’re still here.”

You’re thankful the overhang blocks the rain from reaching him since you don’t feel too inclined to welcome him in. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask, but barely listen for his answer as you take in his exhausted expression. His chest is heaving, and you glance out to the road expecting to see his motorcycle in the distance, but the street is bare.

“I thought…” He must think better of whatever assumption he’s brewing since he quickly shakes his head. You flinch at the cold water that speckles your skin. “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you.”

He must be stupid to not realize he’s the reason you left. You need to be away from him and inviting him inside your otherwise isolated apartment is far from the best idea. “What is it?” you ask, not budging. “Is everyone okay?”

It’s clear he’s expecting a different answer, though you can’t entirely blame him. If he’d shown up any day prior to now, you’d be laying out a red carpet. Instead, his features melt into confusion, and it’s one of the few expressions you’re still not used to seeing; his brows soft, lips plump with a heavy sigh. “You had that date tonight,” he answers, and you’re too distracted by his mouth for the words to register.

When they do, you’re confused. “Wh-”

“I was gonna stop you from going.”

The rest of your question catches in your throat, words lodged in your airpipe. The night of the party fills your head and you breathe in the smell of alcohol and heartbreak. “Tom?” you ask, racking your brain for his name. The single utterance results in a sour expression from Bucky, one that you mirror quickly. “Jesus, Bucky. Did you really think I’d go out with that douche?”

He goes to speak, but you cut him off, irritated. “Even if I did, how the fuck does that have anything to do with you showing up here? Christ, did you walk here? You’re soaked.”

“Ran, actually,” Bucky corrects, and your heart skips a beat. “Can I come in?”

The sane and logical answer would be to slam the door in his face, so you open it wider and step aside. You have to know why he ran in the middle of a storm to check on you, even if a hopeful inkling deep in your heart has already come up with a reason. You probably just worried Steve by running off, but your curiosity gets the best of you. “Alright…”

The second Bucky steps inside, your carpets are soaked with dark boot marks. “Fuck,” you curse, cringing at the sight. “Let me get a towel.” You can’t stand to be next to him for another second anyway, so you race down the hall before he can argue. When you catch a glance of yourself in the bathroom mirror, your nerves are more than visible; your skin losing color by the second, eyes strained with overthinking.

It’s easy to start coddling him once you return, patting away the water on his face before sandwiching his hair between the folded towel and squeezing the strands dry. “I know you do a lot of stupid shit, but running through New York City during a storm has to be one of your worst ideas yet,” you scold, but your touch is gentle and, for once, he allows it. “And I know you hate cellphones but could you really not call? Or get a taxi, at least?”

You know you’re rambling, but you’re keenly aware that if you don’t talk, neither of you will, and that silence will make you spiral. Chest pounding, you start to talk again, before realizing Bucky is gripping your wrist, pulling you from him softly. “Doll,” he murmurs, and this time you’re too nervous to correct him. “It’s okay.” With a slight tug, you yank yourself from his grasp, shaky fingers digging into the wet towel. You use the last dry corner to pat his damp palms, ignoring how large and rough his hands are against yours.

“I told you to stop doing this,” Bucky reminds you softly but doesn’t interfere. “You’re always trying to fix people… patch them up. You gotta take care of yourself, too.” Still, he lets you finish his other hand before he steps back, and you glance at him.

“No offense, Buck, but me coming here -- alone -- was kind of my attempt at that,” you tell him, frowning.

“I… I know, I’m sorry-”

“Bucky.” You’re not sure you can take another second. “What are you really doing here?”

He inhales sharply, and when he begins, you can immediately tell he’s not going to answer your question right away. Knowing he’s a man of very few words, you latch onto the way he seems to be opening up. “Every day, it’s like…” He shakes his head, trembling. “I don’t know who I am or if any of this is even real. It feels like every day is my last and everything is catching up to me all at once. I didn’t want you to be stuck in that, too.”

Bucky glances at you and his eyes soften; white ice cracking to reveal soft blue water underneath. When he reaches for your hand again, you’re in too much shock to deny him, even when he’s squeezing so tightly it hurts. He’s not just scared you’ll be taken from him, he’s scared you’ll willingly leave.

“You deserve better than that, doll.” His voice cracks around the nickname this time and you can hardly believe what’s happening. “I… I won’t ever be able to give you what you deserve.” Your fingernails leave crescents in his palm, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to hold him closer or scare him away. “I just can’t go another day without you gone,” he finally admits, and you gasp.

“Bucky… I don’t-”

He inches closer, face flush with insecurity. “I know. I fucked up -- I fucked up so bad. I don’t blame you if you don’t want this… If you don’t want me, I understand. I just -- you deserve to know how I really feel. I can give you that much, at least.” His grip finally loosens, and you realize he’s shaking, but not from nerves.

Your lips part, and his eyes glimmer with hope. “You’re freezing,” you finally say, and he visibly deflates. “You need to -- um, just sit down for a second.”

“...I’m fine.”

“Please? For me?” The second his chin tilts in a hesitant nod, you’re stalking off toward the bathroom with him in tow. You throw the dirtied towel in the hamper and rustle through the cupboard for a few more. Your bathroom is small, and when Bucky squeezes in behind you, his damp chest presses against your back for a second too long.

When you turn to face him, your noses practically touch. “T-these should be enough,” you stutter, clearing your throat and handing him the fresh towels. “You can hang your clothes up on the towel rod,” you tell him, inching back. He raises a brow and you quickly answer his silent question. “I have some spare stuff you can wear, I think.” And, before he can ask anything else, you push past him, shutting the door behind you.

You have mere seconds to contain yourself, so you rush to your room, mind racing. As you search through your spare drawer, a million questions run through your head. Is Bucky saying he wants to be with you? Does he even know that’s what he’s saying? Is he here on his own accord, or did Steve and Tony send him to ease your heartbreak and lure you home?

You can hear him rustling through the wall and you blindly grab at the only t-shirt and sweats you think could fit; extras left behind by one of the other guys. Hopefully, they’ll work long enough for you to dry Bucky’s clothes and kick him out. He can’t just decide he’s ready, especially not after how he turned you down. You’ll do the polite thing and let him stay until the storm ends, but then he needs to leave.

The bathroom door creaks open the second you step in front of it, Bucky peering out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Just like the last time he was shirtless in front of you, you will your eyes to stay above his neck. Still, you can’t ignore the fact that now he’s allowing himself to be in this state with you, completely vulnerable.

“I found these,” you squeak, handing the carefully folded clothes to him.

He doesn’t take them. “Whose are these?” Silent envy drips from his tongue and you shiver at the thought of it; Bucky being possessive of you, yearning to fill the small drawer in your wardrobe. Swallowing heavily, you rustle the shirt to see the tag.

“Steve, probably? Maybe Clint…” You spot the letters and shake your head. “No, it’s an extra large. But the sweats are definitely Clint’s. Steve never wears them.” Bucky listens amusedly to your rambling, and you quickly clamp your mouth shut. You practically shove the clothes into his hands, stumbling backward. “I’ll just be in the living room.” The door doesn’t click shut until you’re out of view.

It’s hard not to collapse on the couch the second you reach it, overwhelmed with a sense of relief of a wall separating you two. Try as you might, you still can’t comprehend what’s currently happening. As much as you want to kick Bucky out and never see him again, pure delight has started clawing at the inside of your chest, eager to be let out. If he confesses to you once more, you don’t think you’ll be able to turn him down.

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom, your heart pangs at the sight of him. He sinks into the chair across from you with an air of domesticity, like he’s always meant to be here. It’s like you bought that chair with him in mind because it fits him perfectly, and he fills it just the right amount.

“You look better already,” you comment, with a shy smile.

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, glancing up at you from between falling strands of hair, and he’s never seemed more beautiful than in this moment. “I feel better,” he admits. “I’m not a big fan of-”

“The cold,” you finish for him. He blinks in disbelief and you sputter out an excuse. “Sorry. Steve told me.” Then, deciding against putting all of the blame on the one who’s kept you sane this whole time, you continue. “I mean, I’d already kind of guessed so because of that night in the kitchen. He told me later.”

“I don’t remember much from that night,” Bucky confesses, sheepishly; not embarrassed, ashamed.

You’re not sure if it will make him feel any better, but you agree: “I don’t either, actually.” Surprisingly, you mean it. A few days ago you could’ve recalled every small detail from that memory. Now it’s just a dream inside a dream or a  blurry image, abroad a ship, stuffed deep in the bottleneck of your glass brain.

Bucky showed up on your doorstep and it’s like he’s never left.

It’s a slightly unconscious action, but when you shift to make more space on the couch, Bucky takes the silent invitation. His gait is wide, a few silent steps until he’s lowering himself beside you. The line between cushions acts as a border. Even next to you, he’s like an opposing magnet, slowly inching further and further away. He’s toeing over the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to let him fall or tug him back into your desperate arms.

“Bucky-”

“Can I touch you?” His words overlap yours, which isn’t hard considering you’re choking on a whisper, and he’s finally letting the depths of his soul speak without reservation. There’s no context for his question, no way for you to decipher what he’s insinuating. You don’t care. You decide to step off the ledge with him.

“Yes.”

His fingers are grazing your chin, calloused tips warm and rough and gentle. Your pulse thrums against the thin skin of your throat, a lump of emotion gathered in a swallow you can’t force down because Bucky is staring, seeing you for the first time. You don’t blink, and neither does he, blue eyes dew with the first rainfall of spring. You watch winter melt away beneath his fluttering lashes.

“You are so soft,” he murmurs, and you know he doesn’t mean just physically, even when his palms are like sandpaper against your jaw. His grit flattens the rest of your apprehension, and your hands find the sharp angle of his scruff-peppered chin. When your thumb strokes the indentation below his lips, his mouth parts just barely, enough for you to feel the shaky hot exhale he sighs in silent relief.

When he begins to lean in, you don’t budge; not until he’s a hair width away and you feel the tips of his fingers shaking, one hand ice cold, the other burning hot. Then, you close the gap, hungry for the taste of his bleeding heart. The kiss is desperate in its own way, lustful for vulnerability and the satisfaction of finally.

Bucky is the one to press harder, nose harshly digging into your own as his face tilts to fit into the curves of your features like a missing puzzle piece; knocked haphazardly onto the floor when the box is first opened. You can feel his hair, still damp, against your forehead. His metal arm clicks into place, fingers adjusting their grip, and an unfamiliar sensation shoots up your spine. Fear.

He’s never been so close. His hand could easily wrap around your throat and take you out, without him even sparing a second glance. A moment of desperation and your lack of resistance would be all he needed. One kiss is all it would take.

Instead, he pulls away, though not without leaving one last sweet peck on your pursed lips. When your eyes flutter open, he’s blinking in the sight of you with a genuine smile painted on his face; tongue quickly darting between his teeth and catching the last taste of you on his mouth. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, a stifled chuckle that’s just enough to have you joining him, until your cheeks burn from grinning.

“Did --  was that okay?” Bucky asks, lines around his lips deepening. “I thought you were gonna pull away for a moment there.”

“No!” you answer quickly, feeling your skin flush at the admission. “It was… nice. Very nice.” He’s clearly enjoying the way you stumble over your words, especially when he strokes your cheek to further fluster you. “G-great, really.”

“Great,” he echoes. “I haven’t kissed anyone since 1945.”

You can’t help but laugh at his secret. He’s kissing you and only worried he wasn’t good enough. Bucky, the playboy, Barnes, is worried some seventy years of inexperience could stop him from stealing your breath with a single touch. Thankfully, he knows your reaction isn’t out of dismissal or jest, and soon his face is red with cheerful exertion.

“Can I ask you something?” He questions, quieting down but not losing any of his warmth. “Will you come back? To the facility, I mean.”

“No,” you start, watching his face fall before you can finish. “But only because I bought enough groceries to last me the whole weekend and I don’t want them to go to waste. But you can stay with me if you want.” His eyes are wide, brows raised. “My place is big enough and I think I have more of Steve’s clothes lying around…”

“You’d…” He swallows the lump growing in his throat. “You’d actually be okay with that?”

You let out a soft sigh. “Of course.” You force yourself not to backtrack or shy away. Not now. “We could rent some movies? It’ll probably storm the next couple of days so there’s really no point in heading out. Unless you want to?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. I don’t… I’d want to stay in if I stay. I want to stay. Can I?”

“Yes.” You grab his hand in yours and squeeze. “Yes, Bucky. Stay with me.”

The air settles but you see an unanswered question lingering on his mind. You’re about to press, but then he’s asking, shyly: “Will you let me kiss you again?”

It’s such an easy question, so effortless, and yet it holds the weight of months spent alone. You wonder if he has suffered the same aching coldness as you, desperate for someone else’s warmth. You want to tell him he can kiss you forever, until forever, after forever. “You can kiss me whenever,” are the words you finally settle on, and it’s clear they appease him.

“I’ll take the couch, tonight,” Bucky says a moment later. A small relief, since it’s too soon for anything like that. Personal space is something you’ll need to work on. Not tonight.

But you’re still curious: “What if you have a nightmare?”

He huffs, albeit with the ghost of a smile. “If you don’t hear me, I’ll wake you up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Later, after so many bowls of pasta you realize you’ll have to order takeout eventually, Bucky sinks into the couch; toes pressed against the arm, a thick blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. You excuse yourself for a moment to go turn on the heater, setting it a few degrees higher than usual so he doesn’t get cold. Your phone beeps softly from the pocket of your pajama pants. It’s Steve.

“I told you he’d notice.”

When you hear the tell-tale sigh of a snore, and realize Bucky has drifted off, lights still on and arm dropped off the side of the couch, you have to smile.

“Took him long enough.”

---

bucky tag list: @queens-rose-garden @eunoia-kth @zhangyixingxing1 @augustvandyne @fairydxll @justreadingficsdontmindme @interwebseriesfan24

[shayyprasad]

games // part two | peter parker

masterlist to this is here!

part two is here

tw: a couple curse words

god i'm so brain dead rn send help

(pls don't mind the spacing for like any of my fics they're all wonky cuz they're copy and pasted from wattpad...)

unknown number: hey, it's peter. when do you wanna meet up?

y/n perked up at the sound of her phone buzzing, eager that she'd have something to do now. she rolled over and grabbed it from the nightstand, letting her eyes adjust to the bright screen. y/n blinked; peter?

oh, yeah, the cute kid in science. she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, did he already want to start on it?

unknown number: if you want to get it out of the way lol

unknown number: obvi we don't have to rn lol

unknown number: it's up to you lol

unknown number: ur reading these

unknown number: and not responding

unknown number: so i'm assuming the worst

she quickly renamed him to "peter" before responding.

y/n: so you're cute and funny, def scored one

y/n: dw it's not too early

y/n: i appreciate the eagerness

y/n: and honestly you can come over

peter: rn?

y/n: if u want

y/n: like, ofc it's short notice so u don't have to

he responded pretty quickly to that.

peter: no

peter: i mean i have plans

peter: but they aren't that big

peter: so yeah

peter: i guess i can come over

peter: i suppose

y/n: cool then

y/n: see you in thirty?

peter: sure

she dropped her phone back onto the stand, picking herself up. y/n shuffled over to the mirror, deciding whether or not she looked representable. she decided that another coat or two of mascara wouldn't hurt, and she added a layer of lipgloss, as well.

only when her stomach growled did she realize that she was hungry. so y/n left her room and got into the elevator, hitting the button for the 6th floor. when she got out, she saw that her dad was sitting at the couch by steve, nat, and vision.

she watched as vision shook his head, "i do not understand the end goal of this game."

"you're supposed to be the first to finish your cards," nat sighed, and y/n got a feeling that she had to explain this multiple times.

"but why?"

"bec- never-mind, just go, it's your turn," and after a moment, "no! red and yellow have absolutely no correlation! it's not even the same number!"

tony snorted, "you guys fucking suck, you know that, right?"

"go ahead, steve, you know you want to," y/n called out, pouring herself a cup of lemonade.

"christ," he rolled his eyes. "once, it was once! when are you gonna let it go?"

nat added, "bad words are sad words."

"oh, by the way, dad, peter's coming over."

"okay. wait, why?"

"we got a school project. we wanna get it outta the way."

"ooooh," the love of your life teased, though at the moment, she wasn't quite the love of your life.

"i am detecting a change in your heartbeat, y/n."

"god! it's not like that!" yeah, why was there a change in her heartbeat? it was beating against her ribcage, and she was clearly flustered. it was just peter, y/n told herself. just peter.

she chugged the glass down as an excuse not to do anymore talking before moving back to the pantry to grab a pack of sour cream and onion. y/n brought that back to her room and crashed down onto her bed. after she was done eating, she popped a piece of gum in her mouth because... actually she wasn't sure. it was sort of... instinctive.

not because she wanted to kiss peter.

well, maybe, actually.

a hook-up never hurt anyone.

she didn't think much of it. she didn't want to think much of it. to pass the time, she put on some boring, irrelevant show. soon enough, there was a knock on the door. y/n flicked off the tv and pulled it open.

"hi, pete."

he blushed, and she figured it was the nickname. and for some reason, she really liked that look on him. "h-hey." y/n moved to the side to let in him, and he took two awkward steps forward. she flopped down on the bed, pulling out her science stuff.

"you can... you know, sit down," she gestured to the beanbag and the desk. "take your pick. or you can stand, that's fine, too."

"oh- no, i-" he cut himself off, sitting down on the beanbag, freezing as he sunk into it. "it's- um, comfy."

"thanks. i think. damn, parker, you're so awk," she laughed. he laughed along, too, because she had that type of energy. her laughter was contagious, in the best type of way.

"okay, what did you wanna start with?" y/n asked, when the laughter died down after a second or two.

"um- i-i-...maybe just brainstorming better?"

"sure, then. she said power-point prez, right?"

he cleared his throat. "uh, yes- yeah."

she gave him a soft smile as she raised an eyebrow, "i don't bite. promise. you can relax."

"i- i am relaxed," he said, cursing thor as his voice cracked.

"you're sitting like an old man with your hands in your lap. but if that's how you normally sit..."

"no! i mean, no. i don't," he relaxed his shoulders, getting comfier.

she nodded, pulling up a word document, "okay, so basically, atomic defects in solids are one of the most promising single-photon sources or 'quantum emitters', an important building block for many quantum technologies. but... i assume you already know this stuff, being the genius you are."

he blushed again, and she smirked. "uh, yeah. in order to design and engineer better quantum emitters, we need to use their optical and electronic properties, as well as defect formation."

"and migration," y/n added.

"yeah. we can first-principles quantum mechanical calculations c-combined with machine-learning techniques to u-uncover key properties such as, um... defect dynamics, formation mechanisms, free energies and stabilities at... room and elevated temperatures."

she paused, "okay, wow, didn't think of it that way. go parker!"

peter blushed once more, and now that she was thinking about it, his face hadn't really gone back to normal this entire time. they went back an forth, and y/n was happy that he seemed for comfortable around her.

they did lots of subtle flirting, well, she did, he just blushed. peter and y/n had gotten to know each other better, and they did talk about things that weren't quantum physics and condensed matter.

he didn't end up leaving until somewhere around nine, and that was since they'd lost track of time. once he left, y/n laid in bed, hands tucked under her head, staring up at the ceiling. her heart beat faster at the thought of peter and she cussed under her breath, because she didn't like him. they were friends.

he was just nice for a guy, and that made her glad because most guys were pretentious douche-bags.

besides, she flirted with everyone. even cap (but that was as a joke to piss off her dad, steve, albeit, thought it was annoying too, but technicalities). so this was no different.

her heart beat faster.

she didn't like him.

she didn't like anyone like that.

right?

[greenerteacups]

how do u manage the big big project of writing lionheart 😭 can u give tips on how u manage your life in general HAHAHA. i feel that u’re such an organized put together person 💖💖

aw, thanks! This is so sweet. The answer is that I've developed a specific method for writing long projects after a LOT of trial and error (and many, many abandoned stories, alas).

Start with idea. Concept. Thing you want to do. For fics: elevator pitch. Who is doing what to whom, and where? (The "why" can come later, but generally, if the "who" is strong enough, the "why" is answered on its own.) This should be like, a sentence, ideally.

Brainstorm. Write down every idea you have for the thing, throw it all together in a document, and just get it on paper. You will forget everything you do not put in this document. Listen to me: you will forget everything that you do not put in this document. You will think that you will not forget. "I am good at remembering things," you will say. You (I) are (am) not. Assume that you are writing the sort of list that you could use to reconstruct your idea if someone Obliviated you tomorrow and left you with zero recollection of any of it.

Close document, wait 2-3 days. Read a book, maybe. See if you can distract yourself from the project. If it works, abandon project. (You were going to do this anyway.) If it doesn't: congrats! You've got a demon to exorcise.

Now crack that bad boy open again. Organize all of your ideas. Put your set pieces and plot beats in chronological order. Space them out visually, try to get a feel for where your story's inflection points are. Once some kind of linear chronology emerges: congrats! That's your outline.

Keep going through, and start filling in the connections between the scenes that you pictured. These can have as much or as little detail as you need, but you should work through until your story arc/thing is finished. Write it like you're doing a treatment for a screenplay.

At this point, you should be reaching the point where you can throw in stuff like chapter breaks, scene cuts, maybe even little mini-scenes where you know you want the dialogue to go a certain way. I think of these conceptually as "macro-punctuation." What you're doing here is basically sorting out the pacing of your fic. How long are your chapters? How fast do they move? Does each one feel like a distinct narrative moment? Has each one earned its own place? If there's a place where you know you want a chapter break, but you aren't exactly sure, you can always just write down "2-chapter arc" or something to that effect, to make sure that Future You sees what the vision is. You'll want these notes later. Remember, you are 100% definitely certainly going to forget everything you do not write down.

The outline is finished when you can identify the number N, whereas N is the number of chapters that will constitute a "finished" fic. (This number will change, probably. That's fine. But knowing that you have approximately N chapters to go is vital for writing longfic. The alternative is like starting a marathon without knowing how many miles you have to run.) Save outline; open a new document. Copy/paste the outline of your first chapter. Start writing. Delete each note from your outline as you write it.

Reach end of chapter. Feel sense of accomplishment as you delete last bit of outline. Enjoy monkey-brain reward chemicals. Throw in a chapter break, grab a coffee, and then start the new one. Keep adding to the outline as you have new ideas; maybe make a playlist or something. Do a vision board, use Pinterest, I dunno. Don't beat yourself up for not writing. Don't let yourself go too long without doing it, either. Always stop when you feel like it, and don't make this a chore. Dread is the fun-killer. If you start to treat this like a job, you're done for, and this thing is never getting done.

As for the general life tips, I have a lot less practice, so my advice is un-inspiringly normal, I'm afraid. Make your bed in the morning; find a regular time to work. Routines are your friend. So are habits. Drink water, do stretches, and unclench your jaw. Using the Reminders or Calendar app means you can worry less about forgetting things. Answer emails as soon as you read them, because once you've said "later," Later You can also say it. Be kind to yourself; nobody's got a gun to your head. You're just doing your best. It's enough.

And write everything down.

[solipseismic]

i hope you know that every day i wish i could read your book and really enjoyed reading the nanowrimo tidbits you sent, you should infodump about it 👀

CROW ... this is so so sweet i am kissing u gently on the mouth . also this is great timing bc i am just about to compile a vigilante's guide to knowing when to die into a goog file that i can send to my friend (part of our bargain in me convincing him to do nanowrimo w me this year)

snippet from book 2 for u:

The Rift gave a sudden convulsive shudder. Skysteel felt it all the way to her ankles as it threw her out—and away. She was freefalling before she even knew it, pinwheeling through the air like a shitty paper airplane. Sky-ground-sky-ground-BUILDING passed in a dizzy blur right up until she smacked into a billboard with a comedic sound. She would have laughed, except her lungs seemed to have gone on impromptu strike at the time of impact. It really was a hard-knock life, huh? Black spots swarmed her field of vision. An Avian shrieked at the sight of her and dove, the razor talons of its feet extended fully and bladed wings gleaming in the bright sun. Poltergeist and Eidolon were both yelling something over comms but she couldn’t parse anything—all she could see was the golden light of the Avians surrounding her, all she could feel was the agonizing feeling of the Rift splitting open wider far above her. The golden light of the Avians turned blinding. Skysteel’s secondary eyelids dropped down for a split second. But— That was no fucking Avian. A man shining like a blue sun reached down and gently plucked an Avian off Skysteel’s prone body laying in the ruin of the billboard. One moment his hand closed around its shoulder and the next—it was a still-glowing pile of fine, off-white ash on the ground. “That was stupid,” he said. Skysteel took the hand he offered and heaved herself up out of the pieces of billboard she’d fallen to the ground with. “That’s what I want on my headstone,” she told him, wincing and touching a hand to her ribs.

anyways i rarely talk abt a vigilante's guide (which some of u who have been following for a long time may know under the previous title of "demon city" and / or "demon eyes" and so all the stuff i've posted abt it r under those tags) bc it's like That One Big project for me. like u know how brandon sanderson has the stormlight archive that kind of is the hub / culmination of all his works across the brandonsandersonverse (official term is brandon sanderson's "cosmere")? for me that's vigilante's guide. also it's exceedingly self-indulgent is the other reason.

it's gone through like 50 different iterations bc it's existed in my brain for nearly as long as i can remember (i think over a decade at this point) and the Ira Neda i talk about (my supreme blorbo, if you will) is the protagonist! i have ambitions for it spanning five books with the second (formerly "demon eyes") titled a vigilante's guide to destroying the world but right now books 1 and 2 are existing in the same doc (DEMON MEGADRAFT) because i'm trying to see what gets shaken out of it while i play with a non-linear timeline between the two

as a result, there are a lot of ideas that are getting spun into it (and even more ideas that i've had trial runs of before editing or cutting them entirely) but it's got the run of the mill superhero genre setup: we have a recognizable earth set in the near-ish future / a time that's somewhat similar to our own, we have a bunch of vigilantes running around fighting ordinary crime and supervillains (tho these are mainly just called "terrorists" in-world bc, well.), and different people have different powers from different things (but mostly it's because they're alien / part alien lol)

book one (knowing when to die) follows ira neda's arrival in anehaven, a (fictional) city in new york, where she is trying to unravel the circumstances that led to her twin brother's death several years ago. she promises herself, her family, her friends, and a lot of strangers that she isn't in that vigilante business anymore, if she ever really was: she's retired now. she just wants to live a quiet life (lie) and she doesn't intend to instigate anything (lie) and she is never picking up the mantle again (lie). but anehaven, like ira neda herself, has secrets of its own. the city is alive--and it hungers. people have been disappearing from the streets without a trace for over a year now, more and more with each month that passes. she makes some friends (criminal empress and her two partners in crime as well as ... actual partners), she makes some enemies (her fellow vigilantes) there are three questions now that have no answers: what happens to these people? why does the sidewalk have teeth? and who the FUCK is this other guy calling himself a vigilante?

book two is a little more abstract on account of I Still Haven't Figured out Subplots for it, but it's your stock alien invasion with ensemble cast: here we introduce cori sanchez, the (also) (formerly) retired HUSH, a mirek'ar necromancer; alec iakabos, SOLSTICE, and noah harper, EQUINOX, whom you can think of as "gosh, i really was VERY inspired by wildstorm comics when i was fifteen, huh," if you're familiar with apollo and midnighter from them; along with some familiar faces from the first book--alan and blue wilson (POLTERGEIST and EIDOLON, respectively) and ira neda. names capitalized to make it easier for me to keep track of them lol.

[malleux]

black & white. | [part one]

-> childe x gn!reader

-> warnings: detailed descriptions of violence, vomit mention, slightly implied sexual assault, childe’s past, dottore and pantalone are fucked up and i love it , cursing, i’ll add more as i find them because there’s a lot

a/n: sorry this first part is kind of slow but i really like it and wanted the second part to be a certain way so this is how it’s gotta be. i hope u enjoy!

also send me an ask or comment if u wanna be on a taglist i’ve already gotten a lot of messages LMAO

part two (coming soon)

You’ve had your fair share of encounters with the Fatui– as an esteemed adventurer, you knew how to deal with them and were often sent on missions to thwart their schemes. You’d heard stories of them. Of their cruel, wicked treatment of those they consider below them– citizens, prisoners, you.

The shackles were too tight. They rubbed against your ankles and wrists, the raw skin stinging against the chilled metal. Even the underground basements of Snezhnaya were brutally cold and you certainly weren’t adequately dressed, clothes ripped and thin. You had gone out for a stroll in Mondstadt, not quite expecting to be dragged into Teyvat’s coldest country against your will.

The side of your head throbbed, your vision blurred with dried blood and you knew you had a concussion at the least. Permanent brain damage seemed more likely. Your throat was dry, lips cracked. You couldn’t bring yourself to lick them.

You just wanted to close your eyes. To sleep.

Would they be in your dreams as well?

“My, my, Dottore. You’ve found a fine specimen, I must say.” A smooth voice echoed through the cell and you looked up, barely making out the figure of two large men. The smaller one was speaking. “What do you intend to do?”

“I’m not sure yet, Pantalone.” The taller one, Dottore, replied. “Another genetic mutation, perhaps? I’ve always wondered what would happen if you crossed a human with a Rifthound. They could join the cages with the others.”

You shuddered at the thought. Having learned of the Fatui Harbingers, you knew of Dottore’s sadistic experiments. He loved to use human experiments, often trying to mesh them together with animals or monsters before tossing them into the trash like lab rats. Stories of the evil scientist’s exploits were enough to strike fear into the hearts of anybody who heard of them, but being completely helpless at his feet was a completely different feeling. It was much more sinister, and much more terrifying.

Suddenly, two smiling eyes were inches away from your face. You tried to flinch back, head hitting the stone wall and unwanted tears springing into your eyes. You willed them back in– you had to stay strong.

“Quite the sight,” Pantalone’s lip quirked up in an absolutely-not-friendly smile. “If you find no use for them, I certainly could.”

“No.”

“Why don’t you give another Harbinger a chance for once, Dottore?” Pantalone feigned innocence, obviously trying to get the scientist riled up, “I know Tartaglia hasn’t ever had a prisoner before– he’s still too weak-hearted to take one. Why don’t we let him have his fun with this one as an… initiation of sorts. He’s going to have to get used to it if he wants to be one of us.”

Dottore stayed quiet for a moment, kneeling down in front of you with Pantalone. He seemed to inspect you, harshly gripping your chin and moving your head around to get a better look before dropping it. Your head hung down, feeling too weak to keep it up. You also feared that if you were to look them in the eyes, it would be the last thing you’d ever see.

“Fine. Tartaglia has a week to get his shit together, or else I take them back.”

Pantalone smiled, “Did you hear that, little one? You get a break from big, bad Dottore. Look at me. Aren’t you excited?”

You were able to muster a glare in his direction, sneering your lip slightly.

“I asked you a question.” Pantalone opened his eyes slightly, showing his seriousness.

Which was a bad choice on his part, because you were able to spit in the middle of his face.

Pantalone stood and stumbled back, taking off his glasses and beginning to wipe his face with his sleeve. “You bitch! Dottore!”

A sharp kick came to your left side and you coughed, hearing the loud crunch of your ribs against Dottore’s shoes. You slumped as much as you could, but that didn’t stop his knee from driving itself against your chin. Your jaw clanged together and your head flew back, slamming itself once more against the wall.

The room was hot. You were going to throw up.

Another kick– the sole of Dottore’s shoe flat against your chest, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

Warm blood trickled out from the side of your mouth. You couldn’t catch your breath, your entire throat filling with blood. If you were going to die, at least you had spat in a Fatui’s face.

“Don’t kill them yet,” Pantalone’s voice was your saving grace, “That will hopefully be Tartaglia’s job. Let us be on our way.”

When you opened your eyes again, you were face to face with a girl. Her eyes seemed gentle, but you hesitated. Anybody in this forsaken building was probably extremely dangerous, her included. You refrained from spitting this time.

“You’re finally awake.”

Your headache was gone and the excruciating pain in your body was reduced to nothing but a dull ache that throbbed with every heartbeat.

The girl showed you a tin cup. “Water?”

You hesitated again.

“I do promise it’s just water. I wouldn’t trick you that cruelly. Besides, Tartaglia needs you alive. I am Damselette, by the way. You may call me Columbina.”

Who was this Tartaglia everyone kept talking about?

You warily let Columbina place the cup to your lips as you took a sip. Seeing as you didn’t froth at the mouth and die, you drank a little faster. Columbina soon tore the cup from your grasp, leaving you straining your neck to reach for more.

“Now, now,” She tutted, “You’ll get sick again if you drink too quickly.”

“Just let them drink,” A second voice appeared from behind the wooden door that locked you inside– male. It sounded familiar. “So what if they get sick? They’re already probably going through hell, the least they can have is a little water.”

“You’re too kind. This is why Dottore and Pantalone give you a hard time.” Columbina rolled her eyes and stood, dusting off her dress and making her way towards the door. She turned to you as she placed her hand on the doorknob. “Behave.” Then to the person behind the door. “You too-“

“Childe?”

“Y/N? What the…?”

“You-you’re a Fatui? What? Why? How?”

Childe placed his hands in front of himself, gently shushing you and taking a few steps towards you after making sure the door was locked. You pressed yourself against the wall.

“I can explain, if you’ll let me.”

You scrunched your nose. “Yes, Childe. Please explain to me why you’re apart of a murderous, evil organization. And while you’re at it— explain why you lied to me.”

“I didn’t really have a choice, okay? I had to repay them for saving me a few years ago, and the money is good. I send it back to my family in Morepesok. And- and they help me! The Fatui help me get stronger and let me fight, and all I have to do is stay loyal to the Tsaritsa. It’s great!”

“Is it?” You couldn’t help but internally question the man in front of you.

Knowing Childe was knowing two sides of the same coin— one side was a battle-hardened soldier, mercilessly slaughtering those who cross his path, while the other was kind-hearted. This side cared immensely for his friends and family and would do anything in an instant.

But while his personality seemed to be black and white, his morals and motives were gray. Even you, who tried to see the good in everyone, knew this. You now realized that you barely knew anything about the man in front of you. He kept his cards close to his chest, only showing you what he intends for you to see.

For him to be apart of the Fatui— and even worse, a Harbinger— meant that he was playing his hand, keeping a facade in front of you and deceiving you from the moment you met him a few months back.

Months of friendship. Months of traveling together and fun, down the drain. Months of you wishing there could be something more. Could you even bring yourself to look at him now?

“They want you to hurt me.”

“And I would, if you were any other person.”

You scoffed. “Cut the shit, Childe. This isn’t you—“

“Tartaglia? It’s mighty quiet in there~”

The sing-song voice of Dottore cuts right through the wood, and the sound of keys jingling in the lock is cut short as a boot flies into your chest for the second time. Except this time, it’s Childe’s.

You cough and open your mouth to ask what the everloving fuck was his problem, but your jaw was suddenly snapped shut from Childe’s fist colliding with your face. Swearing you heard a crunch— your teeth could have been gone for all you knew— you went to reach up to cup your face, only to be stopped by the shackles.

Fruitlessly, you reached out a leg to try and kick him, but it didn’t work.

“They’ve got a lot of fight in them, that’s for sure.” Dottore was leaning against the doorframe now, smiling at the sight before him. “I’m glad you’re finally figuring it out— we have no room for mercy here, even for the innocent.”

Childe stops his abuse once Dottore closes the door again and kneels down, taking his thumb and wiping the blood from the corner of your lip. You jerk your head to the side in an attempt to get further away, but it doesn’t work.

“I’m sorry.”

You glared at him.

“If Dottore figured out I knew you— that I was being nice to you— you would’ve been dead for sure.”

“So what, you’re just going to beat me up every time they’re around? Childe, I want to go home.”

Looking around, Childe lowers himself even more until he’s centimeters away from your ear. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

[naddpod-encounter-tourney]

Broken Bonds:

for this, i will be copying the description from friend of the show tournament @chompe-diem’s comments on round one. they are as follows.

zirk and stella confrontation. ok i could go on about this for ages so let me just pull some quotes

> "when will it be enough!" (caldwell pcs yelling. mwah easy way to the heart)

> "You're stuck. i've spent so much time trying to fix things and you're the one thing that's always broken, and I, I just can't anymore; there's other people that need me, okay?"

just the move of fia's suggestion and then. man i fuckin love the way murph narrated stella in that. her just absentmindedly taking it apart as she keeps talking, it just,,, it does things to my brain

henry's obviously been a pretty shit dad so far, but the way hank/jake so genuinely and naturally acts protective of hank jr when he's chewing out stella. it's just a nice touch, it really adds

stella vervain. yes all the above points involved her but she's one of my favourite npcs and this ep is where u truly see all of her and what she is.

the reveal of big rex and little rex moxora and prophet cain

batilda's heartfelt moment with fia, the i love you

emily with the momentary stasis and pretty much saving batilda's life by incapacitating cain

zirk w the nat 1 death save

bukvar getting taken by moxora and having the form of a bookish little boy who could be fia's brother- *sobs*

and the whole philosphical/emotional ending w fia and the crew etc etc

Crown of Dreams:

The Duck Team races back to the Crick to track down the missing members of the Old Folks’ Circle!

Glen made his escape from the Time Out Tree with assistance from a grenade, which Callie assumed was the one she gifted to Cooter (Glen’s father).

After some investigating at Eloise’s (member of the OFC) stump, they see some suspicious tracks that lead them to Cooter’s stump at the edge of town.

In Cooter’s stump Frogson and Holmes find Glen’s old room, and his various journals. He had wanted to be a ranger captain by 50 and Peepaw of the crick by 100. [Fool.] He had books on Moonshine and Marabelle, and he idolized them. He had a note from Meemaw saying “we will not rain arrows down from our towers. we will always shine a light.” in response to him suggesting they go to war. They also discovered letters to Eloise and determined that she walked from her stump and was a co-conspirator.

The Duck Team was then met outside by Cooter, apologizing. He sent them into a trap, where Glen was waiting with the trapped Old Folks, the Evil Old Folks, and Meemaw (also trapped). After attempts that incapacitated most of the Duck Team, Glen attempted to wrench Ultrus from the helm while Calder was unconscious. Calder resisted.

Sol fell unconscious, and rolled a nat 1 on a death save (very on brand for caldwell). Callie got polymorphed into a nannerfly. Seeing this through a vision in his helm, Calder offered his body to Ultrus in exchange for the giant saving Callie and Sol. Calder just wanted to be useful. "Perhaps you have a giant's heart after all, Calder Kildé."

After slamming Glen against a wall, Ultrus caused the corrupt Old Folks to flee, and he, Callie, and Sol stood at an impasse. Calder apologized to his friends and Ultrus took him away, into the woods.

Glen then revealed that the only being that might be able to help with their problem of the trapped Old Folks was Mawmaw, but that was impossible, as he had sent his mind-controlled father to kill her.

But Cooter, ever the berry boy, used a goodberry to save Mawmaw, resisting the geas spell, causing him to go unconscious. Cooter's action confuse the hell out of Glen, who cannot believe his father would do that, knowing he would likely not survive it, proving his intense misunderstanding of the Crick and of his father once and for all. Callie and Sol helped revive him, and both he and Mawmaw were safe.

[spatio-rift]

Hiya there! I see a lot of your saiki k content, and I love it sm lol. Now, I'm curious as to what your fave ships are besides kubometo. >.< Considering your recent ask which encouraged me to do this, may I also ask what your least faves are? Also, I LOVE LOVE LOVE the takahashi squad with metori so much, mwa mwa kudos to you.

Hiii im glad u enjoy my stuff even when theres not much of it going around lately😢 when summer break comes i will make more.💓(maybe)

i will answer that question about my other fave pairings with an additional condition which is that they cannot include saiko ^_^ i wont have a looot to say about them because i have really bad tunnel vision but lets try.

i think the one i probably like the most after kbmt is kaiyume ^_^ not in a way where like the situationship is so hilarious that it compels me to write 15 posts in a row about them but i think they have a special kind of really funny like. early 2010s cringe highschool couple vibe. or something. embarrassing couple on the internet. blurry grainy matching profile pics. couple cosplay. the chuunibyou. LOL i do genuinely love their relationship and its evolution from the moment kaidou defended chiyo in okinawa to chiyos confession and the way chiyos feelings for him are so consistent despite being the 'girl who falls in love super easily all the time' archetype and shes so considerate in liking him and i think they fit really well together but most importantly the idea of their romance is so weird and embarrassing to me meaning theyll never be boring (which is as weve established a capital offense for a gag manga). i think it brings out so many fun parts of their character. chiyos unhinged but shes so caring. kaidous so pathetic but hes so brave and gentlemany. its great! 👍

wait hold on i just remembered i have a relationship chart. i couldnt for the life of me remember what else i liked LMFAO. lets see whats on there.

oh my god right i love satou and hii together. i dont care much for that whole thing about helping her guardian spirit so that shes not life-threateningly unlucky anymore i thought it was hilarious how satous normal powers cancelled her bad luck and they were very cute for the like 2 or 3 chapters they were around. <3 ive got a soft spot for them for real.

lets do a quick round. midori and chouno altered my brain chemistry in a way that i find a little embarrassing to talk about HAHA but its a dynamic i quietly Really enjoy the chapters that touch on it are favorites of mine regardless of the note on which it ends for them. lately ive been really enjoying imu and arisu together for completely baseless reasons i just think theres potential there for real funniness w both thinking the other is a creep. and of course you will always find me fighting on the front lines for kurumi and kuniharu.

as for my least favorite pairings.... i really dont want to be on peoples dash bashing stuff they enjoy so i will just let the chart speak for itself :') its just not for me!

and Lastly. im so happy my $quad awareness campaign is working <3 (gives u a big wet peck on the forehead) saiko and his idiots forever. peace &love.

[boobchuy]

Did you like the finale? I personally liked it, except for maybe a few things, but I’ve seen a lot of ppl saying they don’t like it on twt. I really like your art so I’m just curious lol

anon I'm gonna use this chance to brainvomit my thoughts about it I hope u dont mind but u gave me the opening so I MUST BITE IT LIKE A RABID DOG

but, tl;dr is that I loved the finale as a whole, w a few gripes here and there bc nothing is perfect and that's okay

To be more specific, here is me crying and rambling <3

Things that I liked :))

* first and foremost, this is the story that matt has had in his vision for years. this is what he wanted to do, what amphibia stands for, just a big metaphor for change, and just for that alone I love this finale to bits, and will hold it dear in my heart for many years to come.

* I got what I wanted and MORE, that is; rule of three anne dying. this has been something I've been looking forward to since I joined the fandom and saw a post abt how Marcy and Sasha almost died in season finales, and wondering whos turn it was next. just. The whump of it all, y'know. AND THE OUTCOME AND CONSEQUENCE, IS SO MUCH BIGGER AND BETTER TO EXPLORE THAN I COULDVE INITIALLY THOUGHT

I don't know about you but knowing that Anne's tied to this powerful entity, to see that scene of her talking with god, essentially, it just manages to scritch a really good part of my brain. There's just, so much to explore from that scene, and it was such a pleasant surprise even if it feels quite a bit sudden LOL. for all intents and purposes, the little kid in me is screaming that it's very very cool, and I can't wait to attempt and make it cooler. (Plus, the AUs of just this one scene can inspire are ENDLESSSSS, so excited to dig into it more)

* calamity trio fight scene. Need I say more. TJ hill I need the soundtrack of that it was so uplifting and cool and ughuh legend. You can tell the absolute fun and love that was put into it, from the character gestures, the expressions I fucking adore it so much. Easily the happiest part of the finale, a glimmer of light for how much the episode broke me :)

* ANDRIAS. andrias. Andrias... (Weeping). the reunion parallel. it broke me. and even though he's done a lot of bad things, and that's putting it lightly, I'm glad that he lived. I just can't help but feel sad for the kind of past he has, and I'm happy that he's given a chance to heal. that, along with the fact that just killing him off is the easy way out- make him do the work of trying to heal what he has destroyed; him being shown planting seeds and making things grow, with parts of his old friends attached on his person, it's a quiet, peaceful moment for him, and a very satisfying one for me.

* this is moreso a confession than me listing a pro. right up to the last few weeks of amphibia's finale, I had this really really really quiet fear in the back of my head that the plantars might get shoved aside in favor of calamity trio ToT, that's just the brain making up dumb problems, of course, and though as heartbreaking as it could be, I enjoyed that the show proved that wrong for me.

I fell in love with their characters, and the farewell scene with the plantars, it's so so so dear to my heart. Anne calling Polly her little sister, every word that hop pop said to Anne, the cut to sprig as he gripped his hat tight, tearing up. The way Anne's face was so scrunched up as she tried to comfort him. That last spranne hug, how it was animated so well, how heartfelt it was. God. I've been crying since I mentioned Polly while I typed this. That goodbye scene is everything, and even if people didn't like it for the sadness it caused, they shot it out of the park. Most emotional I've been in the show, tops.

* I went on a whole tangent about it on twitter yesterday, but Anne's death scene is equally as heart wrenching. I won't go over it like I did, but the two key moments that really broke me was when sprig and frobo brought her down, sprig was SMILING. trying to reassure himself and Anne that everything's gonna be okay, and there's this moment where he looks to the others as if saying 'its gonna be okay, right?', and the cut to Sasha and Marcy's heartbroken and horrified expressions. ITS JUST SO (pls excuse my language) FUCKING. FUCK FHCK FJCK. the the other moment, was Anne still managing to crack a joke and making her fam (AND MYSELF MIGHT I FUCKING ADD, HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME CRY LAUGH AS YOU DIE) laugh one last time before she turns into leaves

* the future time skip designs. *eats them*

my other feelings 👍;

* THIS MIGHT SEEM LIKE A CONTROVERSIAL OPINION. BUT. it felt, really off-putting and sad for me that Anne chose to be a herpetologist. IT FELT LIKE SHE WAS BEING STUCK IN THE PASTTTT, holding onto those memories for as long as she could. the strongest of feelings I've had w that has long since worn down as the hours went by, though. I want to believe that she eventually either grows to love this job genuinely for the sake of how happy it makes her, or she branches out more onto other things that aren't just related to frogs.

* I feelll like they could have done a better job tweaking sasharcys dialogue in the time skip. I don't mind that it was 10 years later, and IVE BEEN A FIRM BELIEVER ON SASHANNARCY GETTING SEPARATED SINCE THE VERY START, but, the part about how it's implied that once Marcy moved, they haven't kept in touch 😭??? hence her asking then on how Sasha and Anne have been doing only 10 years later??? I know we grow apart but I don't think it'd be that quick ... I think, I'll just chalk it up to them having not that much leeway on how to stir the conversation in that direction. Otherwise, sasharcys job careers make my heart feel full, they've really grown into themselves, into people that we didn't expect, and I think that that's wonderful.

* I don't really feel all that negative about the fact that the portal between worlds doesn't work anymore, mostly bc, I refuse to believe that it isn't possible ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

canon didn't even really imply there being one, but that didn't stop them from encouraging it a little bit. the stone guardian giving anne those last crumbs of power to go home is an orchard ripe for picking that says just how much more could be explored. And I wasn't as devastated because genuinely, I do believe there's a day where they will see each other again, whether that gets confirmed or not, it's something I'll hold to dear to myself til I eventually, move on from amphibia too.

[ravenloftbythelamplight]

what're some fun facts and/or dreadful curses about your party? i wish to hear as many juicy details as u got about these poor unfortunate souls O:

Ohohoho we've only had three sessions but I very much so have thoughts to say regarding the party of four that my players have handed to me. Possibly, too many thoughts, but nevertheless! I'm gonna go through in order of the introductory vignettes from session one for the sake of convenience, talk about my thoughts on each so far, and give some fun facts (and dreadful curses) along the way.  I originally spent a day typing this out in a document on my phone and oh lord this is way longer than I thought it was, apologies in advance for the wall of text-

Kestrel: Out of all the members of the group, I as the DM know the least about Kestrel. This is due to factors mostly out of game, but in game I too would say this is the result of our desert-wandering tabaxi cleric being the most (I say this lovingly and this is the best word I could think to use) "average" among the party. By that I mean he could've very easily been put in with the PCs of a non-Ravenloft campaign and would fit right in, likely even more so than the actual group he's gotten himself saddled with. I, personally, think this is a stroke of genius for a number of reasons. They're the everyman archetype as someone who neither lives in and has thereby adapted to the nature of Ravenloft nor someone not tied to the setting but is still horror-based; a regular, unwitting person with no expectations for the terror that awaits. Kestrel's average-ness, in fact, makes them stand out amongst the other party members. He both sharply contrasts with and balances out fellow setting outsider Lemeia; a contrast that makes their dynamic and fast friendship such a blast to watch. I'm also excited to see how his dynamics with the other two evolve in the next session. So far Kestrel has stood as a neutral anchor-point amidst Brynmor's fear-driven worry, Nocturna's jovial indifference, and Lemeia's eerie fascination: understandably afraid in the face of their current predicament, but for the most part remaining level-headed and curious. I would not boil them down and describe them as "holder of the sole brain cell" because that just wouldn't be true, but he has been a grounded and often inquisitive facet of the group; not quite the voice of reason just yet. They haven't had any particularly big moments to themselves asides from discovering the dismembered mannequin in the kitchen, but I hope to ensure that such won't be the case for long. Fun fact time! Kestrel has an interest in plants! His character sheet has the herbalism kit and a journal of notes on plants and herbs listed in his inventory, and his player inquired on if The House had any potted plants to study during session one. Planning on having them get some in-world translated books on domain-native plants and seeing what they're able to do with that. Unsurprisingly for a character decidedly not steeped in dread like a nightmare-themed tea bag, Kestrel lacks a great deal in possible dreadful curses. However, they were the only member of the party to have been, uh, gently pushed in the direction of The House by shadows rushing past at the corners of his vision. This could come back as something of note, but as of now I'm not exactly sure on a good plan for that. His backstory is likely to, maybe literally, haunt him as well.

Nocturna: Nocturna… ooooh boy oh boy where do I even begin? The party's Lepalï (homebrew from somewhere online I was sent by player) warlock hailing from The Carnival as the child of two illusionist performers is a character that I and their player had discussed many 'a time prior to the beginning of the campaign proper. They are… well, they're a lot, which is quite fitting. If it gives any strong indication: with no prompting or prodding from me, the player had Nocturna sprint head-first into the mists completely ignoring the immediate concern of the other Carnival residents and this act was entirely on brand for both player and character. Additional note, as relayed to me by their player, she has also definitely done this more than once before. Yep. A never-ending fountain of whimsy and mischief, Nocturna has taken the situation in stride; seeing the investigation of The House as a fun adventure rather than a omen of ill occurrence. They've ran off from the party to explore, drawn on the walls, tore a hole in another wall, and solved a major puzzle without actually fully solving it; they're just hear to have fun! Incredibly reckless fun! The whimsy, however, belies the single-minded determination that she has found herself gripped by on multiple occasions over the course of the time spent in the house. Putting others at risk, literally knocking Brynmor over and trying to dig through his equipment, in a desperate bid to pry a basement door open. This aspect of her character hasn't been explored in a lot of detail yet, but it's something that might prove interesting later. Speaking of Brynmor! I could and probably will make a whole post of its own just to ramble about the two's dynamic. Seriously. Solo moments of note include stealing the mask of one of the dining room mannequins, and then a session later punching said mannequin to the ground. Also, the entire mini-saga of double nat-1'ing on trying to open the basement door. Fun fact: They're not only a magician, but also able to draw and play multiple musical instruments well. A performer of many trades! I have a hunch that they might be multiclassed into bard at some point later down the line. Potential dreadful curses, at least at the moment, are more so in line with her patron than anything else. This isn't to say The Carnival doesn't have anything in store, but the most obvious of the warlock business will likely come first. At the moment we're at in the campaign, Azalin Rex isn't actually aware of the fact that he's got an unaccounted-for warlock running around with an object he had intended for someone else to have. This is the lord of Darkon we're talking about though, and he'll have some sort of scheme in mind for her in no time. Whether or not Nocturna actually cooperates is yet to be seen, and the king isn't in much of a position to seek aid elsewhere.

Brynmor: Going in I had little to no expectations for what Brynmor was going to be like. To my absolute delight he has very quickly become a wonderful piece of characterization from his player and an absolute treat to behold. Dragonborn ranger born in Barovia to a mother known in the village of Krezk as a defender and protector against that which lurks in the night, Brynmor has made it his goal to follow in his mother's footsteps and face monstrous threats with strength and courage. He is also an absolute dork and very afraid of the possibility of actually stumbling across something that could harm him or those he intends to help; qualities which are very understandable for an ambitious 18 year-old who's never really left home until now. This guy left Krezk and immediately climbed the goddamn Balinok Mountains in the middle of fucking winter and now he'll never live decision down and I love him for it. In stark contrast to Nocturna, Brynmor has taken every step of the party's exploration of The House incredibly seriously: arguably, depending on your own view, too seriously. He's extremely fearful about whatever it is that must have brought them all to the house, and especially paranoid about it being in the house with them. Incredibly cautious and equally as concerned for the well-being of his newly-found compatriots, but still trying to lead the charge. He's no leader, though, especially not where he's at now. He's reached beyond his means, and I'm excited to see where his ambition might lead him; for better or for worst. Our boy here has had a few good solo moments, of note being his realization that the strange set of stairs at the back half of the house lead nowhere and make absolutely no sense physically, and the absolute terror that realization caused him. Also, just, the way his dialogue is phrased a lot of the time is really fun. Final fun fact: One of the times in Brynmor's inventory is a old, worn book of nursery rhymes (via the horror trinkets table in the 5e VRG). The player and I have decided that this was a book that his mother would had read to him often as a child, and that he brought it along on his journey up the mountain as a keepsake. Dreadful curses is the name of the game when it comes to the mists and for Brynmor this is no different. Knowledge of undead creatures and sinister forces has been passed down through his family and onto him: one such piece of knowledge being the true scope of Strahd von Zarovich's status and power as a vampire. What Brynmor doesn't know is that his family has been a mild thorn in the lord of Barovia's side for some time, his grandparents having been the sole surviving members of an adventuring party pulled into Barovia by forces unseen many years before the beginning of the campaign.

Aaand that's it that's the whole post-

[degrees-of-fuck]

good day lilac, how r you, can i get more clara fun facts, she cutie 🤲🤲🤲

Good day 2 u Also and thank u ugyhkjn <3 <3 I'm pretty bleh and tired lately tbh, but very much in the mood to go on a ramble about my brain blorbos

You Sure Can ✨ puts her into your open hands

Clara has high purity due to her just kind of. Continuing to be a virgin I guess. And because she's gotten very good at Distracting things from penetrating her in any sense. As a result, she's Occasionally spotted with a faint halo - something she considers to be a sick, sick joke at her expense. She knew god had a cruel sense of humour, but damn.

I feel like maybe one or two people are capable of telling whether she's joking or serious most of the time, unless she's actively forcing herself to emote for some reason. So she says a LOT of out there shit with a look of total sincerity. This may or may not be one of the reasons her peers generally dislike her. She's fuckin weird and hard to read. (Not to mention a Nerd)

I once had the mental image of Clara filling milk bottles with her tit milk and selling them - which led to the mental image of Bailey using her milk for Orphanage Food Stuff rather than having to buy it, because why the fuck wouldn't they save money by exploiting their charge? (I mean she's already their cashcow)

One time in my game she tried to stand up for Sydney with 0 intent of getting Physically involved, but this 'somehow' lead to her getting beaten up. Which lead to particularly violent molestation, predictably. Right in front of Sydney. They did not notice and were just sort of acting like they were fighting and never seemed to really Notice what was actually happening there?? I guess their glasses were broken? Either way this really does feel like the perfect instance to describe the thought process that lead Clara to want to corrupt them

Botany Nerd Botany Nerd Botany Nerd Botany Nerd

While I think Closetgoth Corrupt Sydney has a pretty different aesthetic to her, I do imagine it has the odd shared element and I like the idea of them sharing certain accessories, or Clara giving them a couple things to get their collection started.

Fun Fact: u should pick her up and fling her into the ocean

Because she cares about fashion (or rather, her own fashion. not much one to keep up with what anyone else is doing) I feel like she has a slowly, but constantly growing collection of cowbells.

At the moment I saw this ask I was looking for sims cc to make her in my game again. Not really a fact about her, I just thought it was neat.

Her ears and tail are the most expressive parts of her I think? With their flapping and twitching. Even then though, she keeps them under good control around most people. (First time Robin was immediately able to tell she was lying about some dumb shit due to the movements of her tail giving it away, she had a big old panic attack. She REALLY relies on Dishonesty Powers. Had to re-learn a bit when new tics showed up.)

Even with her glasses she has pretty bad vision, tbh. She's not super near or farsighted, it's just... Bad. General low vision.

For Sims Reasons, I’ve been trying to think of what surname the orphans that have always been at the orphanage might have (So not Robin in my head. I imagine they came later, thus seeing PC as ‘older’ despite being the same age.) I thought for a while, before just deciding to go off of the fact that the forest is nearby, which is apparently a fairly common basis on which to name an orphan hoard. So Clara’s full name is Clara Woods.

[writer-and-artist27]

[Image Description: Three screenshots from Fate/Grand Order, showing in order, (1) the Level Limit Reached screen for Archer Robin Hood, where his level has gone up from 101 to 102, with him saying "Level up? How splendid," with a smile; (2) the Bond Level Up screen for Robin Hood, where his Bond Level has gone up from 12 to 13 and the game’s reward of 30 Saint Quartz and 20 Servant Coins; and (3) the Bond Level Limit Released screen for Robin, showing his Bond Level Limit having increased from 13 to 14. End Description.]

Even though I'm still reeling from my second family death (I lost Di Thuy in Robin's month of May in 2020, why did my grandpa have to follow her in June 2022? I'm scared for my grandma now...), it seems the Servants in my Chaldea just want to make sure I'm going to be okay. And, of course, it all comes back to my best and favorite Archer.

Thankie, Big Robin. Just, thankie for being there for me again.

And even though my writing muse has been down from the grief processing, I can still do something for the May King who keeps giving back to me, right? Especially to get out of the numb feeling still occasionally popping up on top of my heart when I'm alone.

I couldn't help but listen to Hanakotoba from Yuki Yuna is a Hero, simply because an AMV version I found of the song really covers the absolute mess of emotions I've been feeling when trying to write again.

Please enjoy.

Oh, and content warning for implied cutting. Note that no one actually does this in-story, but the implication/fear is there and I want to make it clear.

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

Robin wasn't unfamiliar with the telltale signs of exhaustion. Hell, he knew what they felt like because of his war, once upon a time in a forgotten village, way before the shitstorm with Goetia and the Foreign God. Stiffness in the fingers, constant fatigue nipping at the corners of one's vision, and even the lack of moisture in the back of the mouth — all stemming from how much was still not done. That didn't mean he had to like it when witnessing it slowly creep up on his little sparrow. That he had to accept it as an inevitability like some of the Chaldea staff did when he had first been summoned in the original observatory, years ago.

Vy didn't deserve that. She deserved more than averted eyes and feigned ignorance. Even if it was coming from a dirty rogue like him, who never really saw light until he met her.

But if there was one thing he could take comfort in— just one thing — it was that Vy's smile was still the same bright, warm sight just like when they first met. Toothy, proud, and so, so kind. Even the Bond Chalice's rainbow flame seemed dim in the face of it, and for a moment a dark part in the back of Robin's brain wondered if it was alright to take such a thing from her. To take more of her feathers, her light when she only had oh so much of it to give.

I'm not tainting you with these corrupted hands of mine, am I, little sparrow?

Despite those thoughts, he immediately squashed them once his gaze fell onto the bandages covering some of Vy's arms past what he could see through her sleeves. He couldn't linger on those self-deprecating thoughts when the new ideas swarming in his mind were already worse from seeing the bindings that just weren't there the last time he saw her. "...Master?"

Vy made a confused noise in the back of her throat in response, tilting her head at him in confusion.

"What have you been doing?" Horror was already starting to seep into his voice as he reached past the gold cup in Vy's hands to tug at her sleeves, and despite Vy's nonverbal squeak of surprise, she didn't resist him as he slowly pulled the cloth down to expose more of her arms. "You haven't been—"

"U-Um. Before you say anything else," Vy said hastily with a shy toss of her head towards her exposed elbows and more of the bandages that were covering her forearms and some of her wrists, "this is from defense training with Chiron, Martha, and Art-san, Big Robin. I'm not..." Robin tore his gaze away from the gauze in time to see Vy swallow thickly, an embarrassed yet indignant flush starting to climb up her neck as she did so. "I'm not intentionally hurting myself, for what it's worth."

Even then, Robin could feel the nugget of doubt start to weigh down his thoughts as his fingers gingerly traced the first outline of skin he could see past the first roll of bandage. "That doesn't mean you haven't hurt yourself before, little sparrow."

At that, Vy had the awareness to flinch, her smile dropping entirely as the rainbow flame from the Bond Chalice still clutched between her fingers dimmed. "...I've been trying not to," comes out of her mouth in what sounds like a cross between a whimper and a confession, Vy's glasses slowly drooping down the bridge of her nose as she ducked her head. "Hurt myself, I mean. I know you and everyone else worry about me, so I've been trying to be better. But..."

I'm not—

"But what?" Robin said gently, leaning in as much as he could without being too intrusive and tugging at her hands so that he could bring her closer. Somewhere away from the dark thoughts that started to leak into their bond. Do something to save her from falling further into another spiral.

Still, Vy doesn't meet his eyes. If anything, her gaze flickers between the rainbow flame keeping them in the room and his face awkwardly, rather nervously too, before she apparently decided to study the sides of her shoes, looking tiny in her new black and white battle uniform from Sion. "...I don't wanna fail you," she whispers in a soft high-pitched voice, almost like it was another vow. Another promise that she can't afford to break. The pink flower from the ring on her left middle finger seemingly glows at the same time as her Command Seals once she tentatively grips his hands in return. "I wanna work hard enough so that I'm good enough for you and everyone else who chose to stay with a Master like me. So that... so that..."

So that I can help you like you helped me when I didn't deserve it. It's the least I can do for you as a little girl who still wonders if she's worthless in the face of her childhood hero.

A lump immediately surfaced in Robin's throat once the words registered in the back of his brain, and he retracts one hand to tug at the clasp of the No Face May King. "Vy."

The little sparrow pursues her lips, closing her eyes in what is the closest he's seen to legitimate fear.

Goddammit. Robin tugged his mantle off his shoulders quickly enough for Vy to barely let out another surprised squeak in response to his wrapping her up in the green cloth before pulling her in by his grip on her arms. Her thin shoulders merely shook past his Noble Phantasm once he successfully tucked her into what warmth he could offer, the Bond Chalice falling to the ground near their feet as he kept her close to his chest. "You've never failed me," is all he finds himself choking out into her hair, ignoring the blurriness starting to arise in the corners of his vision as he pressed a fierce kiss to her temple. Vy squirmed, an embarrassed noise left muffled into his shoulder, but Robin didn't mind. The lotus ribbon clip in her ponytail was still there. "Just let me help you for once, little sparrow. Just give me the word and I'll save you."

It's the least he could do for a little girl who still saw him as a hero.

He could try to be her childhood hero. Even if he still wondered if she was okay with him too, every now and then.

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

"...It's not a problem?"

"Never. Don't say that ever again, Vy."

"...Okay."