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arieswritez · 2 months ago

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puppy love

puppy love | yandere!mark grayson x afab!reader | MULTI-CHAP: 4

chapter 3

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!!! MENTION OF ANIMAL DEATH, reader is neurodivergent, ableism, growing up is messy & adults suck, angst, niceguy™/slight incel mark, childhood friend/bully!mark, mark gets his powers sooner, teeny tiny implications of pseudo incest (blink and you’ll miss it), SADIST MARK, violent rape, threats of violence, & canon typical violence, so . . gore, stalking, implied murder, gender & body dysphoria, mentions/implications of disordered eating, mark teases reader about their body once, overall asshole mark, implied grooming (mark handles it but he’s a lil bitch about it later), so, victim blaming, misogyny, the inexplicable horrors of being afab, objectification, sexualization

about; [the fuckin' thought of you with somebody else, i don't like that.] . . actually, if you even consider leaving i'll lose a couple screws in due time, i'll stop breathing and you'll see the meaning of stalker when i pop out the dark to find you and that new dude that you're seeing with a attitude - IFHY (tyler the creator)

there was blood on mark's hands.

syrupy and wet.

the distinct stench of iron rot fogged up his senses.

blood clots stuck like soft gelatin between his fingers. stretching, snapping webs of gore whenever he opened and closed his hands.

still warm as he switched on the water from your sink.

the suds from your hand soap came up a copper brown, adorned by tiny rivulets of red as he dug beneath his fingernails to scrape away any remnants of viscera.

dna washed away by tap water.

his skin purified once again.

mark looked up and met the eyes in the reflection, making sure to pick off specks of skull fragment and the fatty tissue of brain matter from strands of his hair.

what a fantasy.

a blink and it's all gone.

just like you.

you and your attention.

your undying devotion. a huff and the flame gets snuffed.

better yet. . you light and pass the torch to someone fucking else.

it's no good.

there's no use being mad at you and your uninspiring devotion. how special is your love, really, if it is so easily obtained?

and why does the fact that it no longer belongs to mark so upsetting?

why'd the realization that anyone who called you pretty would have you fantasizing about baby's breath bouquets - something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in your shoe - make his blood run that much hotter?

why'd it make him stare down into the sink, faucet running, as he tried to slow down his breathing? gripping the edges of your porcelain sink until he heard it creak. counting forwards to a hundred, then back again.

he did all the things the therapist his mother took him to recommended he do when those feelings came up. things to see, smell, and touch, and taste. but the only thing that came through the ringing in his ears was the vivid fantasy of tearing your boy apart.

he could see the light leaving his eyes. he could smell the acrid stench of piss running down the coward's leg. and god knows he'd only ever touch him to dispose of his body.

and at the end, he'd taste the tears collecting at your cupid's bow when you sought comfort in his presence. just like the old days. it'd all be worth it in the end.

. . he shouldn't have read your dairy.

not because debbie raised him to 'respect privacy' - because who doesn't keep shit in their notes app in this day and age? - but because it put him in a shitty mood.

but he was also glad he did it.

it revealed what your problem was.

and mark's always been your problem solver.

mark was imaginative.

mark was smart.

mark was also patient.

surely, you'll get bored.

you'll preoccupy your mind with mundane things: how the world spins, for example. what you'll make of yourself. what people will think of you.

ouroboros: swallowing yourself whole trying to find the beginning to the end.

will you be loved? how will you be loved?

you're a glutton obsessing over not being enough in the first place. more, more, more.

you'll dizzy yourself.

come full circle, nausea and vertigo, habitually crawling back to him.

you're a distracted little thing.

you always have been.

it's in your nature.

mark tries not to be too hard on you about your romantic pursuits.

after all, you'll go after what you think you deserve.

and if that's dysfunction, then so be it.

however. . . your standards could be a little higher. had it been any other person occupying your mind. . mark wouldn't have cared.

oh, not at all.

he cares fuck all about your meaningless schoolyard crushes but the one thing that boils mark's blood is all of the abuse.

the hoops you have to jump through for the smallest shred of applause.

and really, how pathetic do you have to be? why can't you see that he's using you? as entertainment. as a pet. as a clown.

and what you don't understand is that deep down. . mark and your boy aren't all that different.

which explains why you like him so much.

mark and your boy were sharks.

your boy could smell your blood from a mile away; see the desperation in the way you sauntered past him, salivating at the thought of being the apple of his eye.

he saw you for what you were: prey.

and they saw right through your flimsy little costume of new clothing and perfumed wrists.

your boy and his group of cronies didn't laugh at your jokes because they thought you were funny. they laughed at the idea of you believing they found you entertaining.

your mediocre attempts at relevancy were funny - hilarious, even - because of how eager you were to impress them.

and the only reason why they hadn't used and discarded you like a plastic bag with warm dog shit inside of it was because they were more than happy tossing a coin into traffic, making you fetch just so they could entertain themselves watching you get hit by a bus.

but everything for your boy, right?

you and that fucking boy.

whatever it is, mark's more than willing to find a way to make all of that stop. he's devised some plans to make everything go back to the way they used to be.

it'd always been you and mark.

mark and you.

he planned to keep it that way.

and so, he was on his best behavior.

he'd let you have your boy.

he'd push down the bile that crawled up his throat whenever he imagined his hands on you. whenever he saw your face light up whenever your phone pings with a notification.

mark can be a very good actor.

he'd act as if his stares weren't deadly when you looked up and caught him looking at you. he could melt those icey eyes, the ones that glaze over in anger, and turn them into their usual warm brown.

he's on his best behavior.

attentive, even.

he's so, so interested in what you've got going on.

who are you talking to? yes you can tell me. no i won't get mad. yes. i promise. him? yeah, I remember. why didn't you tell me?

no, i'm not mad.

good for you!

no, i won't threaten him.

who do you think i am~?

mark knows better than to be outright poisonous towards you. not when there was another boy willing to stuff your pretty little head with cotton.

you are far too sensitive to hear anything that isn't a candied lie. if he plays nice, it gives him the upper-hand.

there is no need to vent to a diary when your best friend is sitting in front of you, doe eyed and innocent, the way he pretended to be when you two were twelve and his mom would check up on you in his room. or when teachers would walk past and he had to pretend he wasn't pressing the sharp point of his pencil into your thigh.

mark loves your parent(s).

they aren't that much different than you.

in fact, mark has come to find that there aren't many people that match him in terms of intelligence.

he can see why you came out the way you did. un-special, if he's feeling kind. the other word he'd like to use is not nice to call someone.

pining after approval, your parent(s) were very easy to like.

very easy to control.

"i just don't know if they've told you, yet. . it seems kinda unfair that i'll be the one to say." mark mutters under his breath, tracing shapes into the dining room table as your parent(s) sit across from him.

"mark," your parent reaches across the table, hoping to grab his hand, only for mark to pull it out of their reach. "if something's happening. . we want to know. we need to know."

"it's just that. ." mark pauses, gives a few seconds to really build the tension. "it's a bit embarrassing."

super.

he's worried about you, you see? there's a group of guys you've been chasing around in school. . and mark doesn't think they have your best interest in mind.

mark has heard. . things.

but you've gone cold on him.

he's worried you might be. .

well, he's worried you might be having sex.

with a few. .

. . all of them?

oh, who gives a shit? the more the better. and the more mark spills, plucks things out of thin air, the more petrified your parents look.

he makes sure to say it.

sex.

hisses, purrs it, whispers it like it's such a bad word.

he even wills himself to look embarrassed, averting his eyes like it's a shameful thing.

it brings him back to the day debbie caught him with some girl after a baseball game.

she had just been some random. a shiny object that called mark's attention. something he could put his dick into while he tucked his face into her neck and imagined the sounds you'd make.

his mom should've known he was already having sex. however, having been caught with his pants down and balls deep in someone wasn't necessarily the way he planned to break it to her.

he heard his mom and his dad arguing in the next room that night and, coincidentally, nolan came in and gave him 'the talk' to the best of his ability.

humans are fragile, mark.

yes, they are.

but the bruises on her were not his fault.

she was soft.

and she'd liked it.

nevertheless, your parents are not as forgiving as mark's.

they promise him it's not a big deal. that he did good. that he's good.

a good kid, a good student, a good friend.

but as soon as he's gone, he knows they are searching your room top to bottom.

he flies up to your room and peeks in through the curtains to watch them toss open closet doors, rummaging through clothing, bookbags, notebooks, whatever they can find.

and finally, your bed.

your diary with all the juicy, dirty - downright violent, jesus - fantasies mark wrote by forging your handwriting.

and your nightstand.

wherein tucked underneath your cute underwear lays a shiny pack of condoms.

at least you're being safe.

you'll never hear the end of it.

it's too good to miss and mark doesn't care if he has to wait all day for you to get home. he wants to watch your everything crash and burn.

not that he'll have to wait much, anyway.

your parent's on the phone, trying to contain red hot anger from spewing out like a backed up volcano, hissing at you to get home, now.

you poor thing.

you poor, poor, thing.

you don't know what to tell them when they toss the pack of condoms at your feet.

when they shove the journal in your face, showing you all the depraved things you wrote in that cute little scrawl.

the boys, the nights out in which you claimed to be at mark's: helping him out with a project.

yeah, right, stop lying, already!

"give me your phone. now."

fingers feverishly tapping and swiping, going through texts as tears stream down your flushed face.

you've got a date tonight.

and you hadn't told your parent(s).

what a coincidence, oh my!

your boy must've planned to seal the deal that night. and mark would be damned if he didn't have you first.

mark doesn't need to worry.

that's definitely not happening now, is it?

in fact, you won't be able to go anywhere that isn't class for the rest of the school year. not unless you're monitored by mark. and isn't it embarrassing, mark having to be some sort of guardian?

"I thought you were smarter than this."

and you're too good to yell back.

you're too good to argue and try to explain that it wasn't you.

you didn't buy condoms. you didn't write that. you didn't do anything.

but if it wasn't you, who was it?

who did?

you look every bit of a cornered animal. it's very you: to freeze in situations like that. back to the door, facing the window just enough for mark to be able to peek at every emotion going past your face through the crack of your curtains.

he watches it flicker past your eyes, the way the muscles in your neck tense up when you squeak out those ugly, strangled, sniffed out cries. the ones you try to hold back when you're crying alone in your room and you want no one else to hear them.

the ones you'd let out at your desk when you were itty bitty and your parent had dropped you off at kindergarten, promising you they'd be right back, but they never were.

you are so much like the way you used to be.

mark wishes things hadn't changed.

he wishes you were just as innocent, as good. he wishes no one would've turned you into what you are now.

he wishes you wouldn't have been stupid enough to let them.

you don't say anything.

you don't even push past your parent when they're done berating you, just stare down at the floor until their mouth has dried, and they shoulder check past you.

you only slowly turn to push the door closed, grab your computer and send a message to the only person you think you can confide in.

he arrives in ten minutes.

enough to make it believable, climb up a tree and sneak into your room.

you fall into his arms immediately, sobbing.

mark hopes you don't feel him smiling against your shoulder as he comforts you.

your boy has been different since the last time you talked to him. distant, distracted. different. you catch him zoning out whenever the two of you are studying in the library, not reciprocating when you try to play footsies with him.

you're not sure if it has to do with the night you had to cancel your date. sure, it was last minute but he'd told you that it was okay. but with everything going on at home, you don't have the patience to hear him lie.

"seriously, what's up?" you ask, kicking his shoe softly.

your boy looks up at you.

his eyes used to gleam with confidence. the type of cockiness that'd make your cheeks burn and butterflies flutter like mad in your stomach. but they looked empty then. he looked like he hadn't slept well. that night or the one before.

he looked around, making sure no one was within earshot. you leaned forward in response, your curiosity peaked.

"this is going to sound weird but. . do you ever get the feeling that you're being watched?"

you blinked.

"uh. . hm. ."

come to think of it. . sometimes you did. you've been sensitive to eyes on you since you can remember. the hyper vigilance is something you've grown accustomed to, making peace with the fact that it might not be a curse after all, and instead some sort of safety feature.

but it felt different.

not like the irrational tickle in your stomach whenever you think of a possibility. but the speckling feeling across your skin, crawling with a million legs, the kind that makes you hallucinate a breath against your neck. the type that has your head rolling, looking for an intruder.

nothing.

but you didn't tell your boy.

because your boy was talking about himself and you've learned to insert yourself into it could be rude.

you settle with saying, "what do you mean?"

he shrugged a shoulder. "i dunno. watched. I get that sometimes. see something from the corner of my eye. and when I turn to look it's gone."

you felt your heart pick up speed. strange. the same thing had been happening to you.

you let out a nervous laugh. "if you're saying this to scare me I'm gonna get really mad, y'know?"

"i'm serious." he said, almost urgently. "and here's this: i was walking to my car after baseball practice and found some weird red shit smeared across my windshield."

he's fucking with you.

surely, he is.

this must have something to do with the rumour circulating around school. the one in which they've seen a figure whizzing past. the one in which that figure is the reason in which some animal carcasses have been found in the baseball field, mutilated like some sort of fucked up science experiment. a villain that's found a hobby in terrorizing the town, perhaps.

"it's probably nothing." you whisper, unsure if you're trying to convince him or yourself.

"probably." he responds.

he doesn't look convinced.

and he doesn't reciprocate when you try, again, to get his attention.

your boy was gone.

gone, gone, gone.

word around the school was that he'd transfered.

but that started to feel suspicious when the students noticed the smell.

something easy to dismiss at first.

the kind of funk attributed to warm weather and not enough deodorant. growing boys and their scattered hormones.

and then it grew.

bold, loud.

ugly enough that it couldn't be ignored.

sour.

downright rancid.

and it was all coming from your boy's locker.

it got so bad a janitor had to pry his locker open.

and that's where they found a decomposed animal, tire marks through the middle of the delicate body. maggots swarming in the orifice where the eyes used to be.

you don't remember when the last time you saw him was.

you don't know if you ever will.

with his past time of mutilating animals and collecting roadkill, you're not sure you even want to.

and if you did, the only thing you'd ask is why?

mark seemed the least surprised about it.

he hadn't so much as grimaced as he told you the story of his locker being pried open.

the stench was the worst thing, apparently.

although, it wasn't enough to deter his appetite as he popped grapes between his fingers, making sure to squirt the juice onto you as he described fat, wriggling maggots falling off in swarming little balls off of the carcass.

you shiver, skin crawling, staring at the pile of homework before mark.

now that your boy had vanished into thin air, his entourage wanted nothing to do with you. you figured it was only normal. you were all preparing for finals, applying for college, planning ahead.

still, it hurt.

it hurt to think you almost had it, almost had him, but it was all taken away. you're not sure why you feel that way, but you do.

and the only thing keeping you afloat is the fact that you've found your way back to mark.

it reminds you, he'll always be there for you.

no matter what.

it's nice, you think.

spending time with your best friend.

even if it means doing mark's work again.

CHAPTER 5

#mark grayson x reader #alternate mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible #invincible x reader #yandere mark grayson #yandere mark grayson x reader #bpd king #he just like me #srry for my disappearance #i was going insane #it will happen again #sinister mark #sinister mark x reader #invincible variants

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intrepidacious · 9 days ago

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time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinky is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #time after time

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vivi-blue · 1 year ago

Text

IT IS FINALLY DONE!

God, this took me way too long...xD

After days of work I finally finished the challenge that I set for myself: Sending out props to a lot of artist here on tumblr that I really enjoy! (Actually there are way waaay more people, but I really had to set myself a limit, I'm sorry fellas ;w; I still love you!)

These people inspire me every day with their creative concepts, stories, humor and passion for art and give me the drive to continue drawing myself. With this little collection I wanted to say "thank you" for all that you do and create. You rock, guys!

(I really hope I didn't mess up any of the tags and I apologize if I might fu**ed up your designs/characters ;3; I know I'm not the best in proportions and all, but I really tried. <w<´´ Also I really hope Tumblr compresses the text by itself, so that you don't get smacked by this wall of text. I'm still a rookie on tumblr, so I don't know what to do ;w;)

Okay, heeere we go! THE TAGS!

@tv-tower / @uuberwachen - with PB aka Swap Pizzahead (I really love the idea of the au and adore the character designs. PB sure is one of my favorites -w- He is literally the most reasonable of them all XD)

@technically-a-kiwi - with Cosmic Peppino ( The design of Cosmic Peppino is simply beautiful and the idea that this chef has strong star powers and needs to take care of Cosmic Noises shenanigans is super funny to me XD )

@sirtotallynotatimetraveler - with Mel Sproutbloom / Sagebloom (I'm sorry, I wasn't sure which name is canon ;w;) ( I loooove Mel! He is such a gentle, colorful guy and looking at him makes me all happy <3 )

@alextydaisuda123 - with their version of Vigilante ( I can't repeat enough how much I adore their artstyle. I love Vigi's design the most. I don't know it's just...THAT'S Vigi for me, you know? Simply fitting, cool, but also stylish -w- )

@alice-the-demon - with Vittoria ( I was first thinking of drawing Archangel Peppino, since this guy is the softness itself, buuuut I have to admit that I love the lively and passionate personality of Vittoria. She is great -w- )

@misdreavusplush - with Eyelashes ( I can't help it. I saw that character and was in awe. How adorable can you be?? I was barely able to draw her eyes as pretty as they are xD <3 )

@creature-of-pizza - with Pepp ( Seriously, the idea to see a "Fake Peppino" with more cat dna is such a win for me. He is dynamic, sassy, derpy and so damn cool! >w< Also love how colorful their pictures are.)

@eskariolis-con-salsa - with Gnocchi (I was thinking about drawing their version of Fake Peppino first, but...*looks at picture* ...let's be honest, you can't get pass that little guy. ;w; He purifies my soul. Have some soap, little guy.)

@oddpizza - with Caramel Jam aka CJ (Such a creative and powerful character! I've seen so many artworks of them and I adore them. You need more joyful people like this ^^)

@pizza-tower-secrets - with Lycheecheechee ( A small, adorable bundle full of surprises and of course secrets! I love their drive and colorful design. Simply a delight! :3 )

@rhaytronik - with Red ( A dynamic and enjoyable character with their love for adventures! Not only a great character but also the Pizzasona of my best friend. Thanks to them I was brave enough to start a tumblr account myself. So thank you for being there for me <3 )

@cutechan555 - with Mage Gustavo (To be honest, I had a very hard time to pick a character here, since their account is full of stories and ideas. I chose mage Gustavo, since I love his design and story. I'm currently into "Delicious in Dungeon" and to imagine that he goes dungeon crawling with his bros to safe Peppino is such a cool idea XD)

@bigbeastcyruspt - with Trion (I have to be honest, at first I was very startled of Trion, since his design is very mighty and scary. I mean, it's his chase form after all. But the more I learned about him, the more I grew to like him. Very damn cool design! Also couldn't help to add dah baby ;w;)

@lunar-dal - with Pizza Cruise Peppino (Another au I simply adore! The design of the characters is colorful and bright, and to imagine Peppino as a singing gondolier brings me great joy. Also I'm a big fan of otter Brick ;w; )

@smalltimidbean - with Pea Pod, Sugar Snap Pea and Snow Pea (Believe me, I never before had such a hard time to pick ONE of so many wonderful Peppi clones! THAT was torture XD But in the end I guess I picked my favorite. Such a tired, but very cute one. Not to forget about the little ones <3 To draw a PT character with 4 fingers and 2 thumbs on one hand was quite a challenge lol )

@tinderboxofsillyideas - with Coffee Peppino (Probably one of the most adorable au versions of Peppino. Seriously, if I had the chance to get my coffee in his café, I totally would! Give that guy all the tips! <3 First thought of drawing their wizard Peppino version, but the adorable barista won lol)

@xbeih - with Metal Peppino (One of the first au's I started following. Seriously, how cool can one person be?? I mean, the whole au is amazing and I enjoy every person in it. But damn...Peppino takes the cake. ówo He is so badass, you can't imagine <w< Also I'm very sorry, it was my first time drawing a guitar and aaaaaaa )

.....*looks left and right* ...ok, we did it. Wow!

God, I'm exhausted now...XD

Well, thank you very much for reading and sorry for the wall of text ówq I can only recommend you to check these people out. They are all very talented and should be appreciated!

Have a pleasant morning / day / evening / night everyone. (Depending your timezone lul .w. )

See ya next time! Vivi out!~

#pizza tower #pizza tower fanart #fanart #pizza tower oc #art gift #god I hope the tags are ok like this #help I'm nervous to post this #ahhh #;w;

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mphoenix-7 · 1 year ago

Text

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 4: The Cabin: Day 1 (pt.1)

Summary: You and Soap leave for your week alone together. Your first day together goes about as well as you’d expect.

Word Count: 5,960

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, angst, slightly suggestive language, Scottish language usage, lots of arguing, strong language

A/N: See the end of the chapter for the inspo pics of the cabin!

Masterlist | <- Previous | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 4

The next morning when your alarm went off at 0330. You wished more than anything you could go back to sleep, but Price said the plane was leaving at 0400, and you didn't want to be late. You feared your tarty arrival would make him add another week on to your sentence. Dealing with Soap for one week was going to be challenging enough, you weren't looking to add on more time.

Luckily you were used to waking up at odd hours and getting up super early. The military work you did didn't allow for any semblance of a good sleep schedule. If anything, by now, you'd become accustomed to being able to sleep and wake whenever.

Despite that, you were still super tired as you pull yourself out of bed and turn off your alarm. You didn't have too much time despite being up thirty minutes before departure. All you could really do was clean your face, get dressed, and do your hair before you needed to go. You planned on eating on the plane.

Once you were dressed and had freshened up, you had about fifteen minutes left, which was plenty of time. You pull out your pre-packed duffle bag, sleeping roll/pillow, and backpack. It might have seemed excessive, but you didn't know what you needed. Price didn't give you any indication of what would be provided and what you needed to bring. It was fairly safe to assume nothing though.

So your duffle bag had all of your clothes for the week, a towel, hygiene products, and some things to shower with. Your backpack held the more basic survival items. Flashlight, water purifier, MREs, cooking supplies, a knife, a fire starter, first aid kit, and then some books to help you pass the time. You wanted to bring a pistol as well, but you had a feeling Price wasn't going to let you take a gun with you.

Looking down at your packed things, you sigh to yourself. Maybe Price would change his mind when you got there. Maybe it was punishment enough to think he was going to make you do this, and then you'd have to spend all day unpacking and then doing the real punishment he had for you.

You could hope.

Collecting your things, you head out for the hell that awaits you.

***

Ghost was walking through the hallways back to his room. He hadn't been able to sleep last night, which was sadly a bit normal for him at this point. He woke up around 0200 and couldn't get back to sleep. So he decided to go to his office to get some paperwork done. He worked two solid hours before he ran out of work to do and opted to go back to his room.

His room was right next to Johnny's. He could have had an officer's bedroom, one with its own shower, but he sort of liked being closer to his team. Everyone was here aside from States, who stayed in the female barracks. The barracks they had currently weren't too bad either. They were cleaner, more modern. Much nicer than some of the others. He couldn't really complain.

As he got to his door, moving to unlock it, he hear what he believed to be snoring coming from Johnny's room. He paused for a long moment, listening carefully. He was supposed to be up already and heading off with States for their week in paradise, not sleeping.

Moving to his door, he knocked, figuring it wasn't going to hurt to check either way. If Soap wasn't there, none would be the wiser, if he was, then Ghost was doing him a huge favor.

"Johnny? You in there?" He calls out, but gets no reply. The snoring seems to continue though. Ghost tests the handle, finding it does turn. Of course Soap didn't lock his doors. He peaks insides, finding a lump still under the covers. Soap hadn't gotten up yet, and it was well past 0400 now.

"Johnny!" He shouts, pushing the door open more and finally making the other man startle awake. "What the fuck are you doing? You're supposed to be boarding like five minutes ago!"

Soap sits up fast, staring at Ghost with startled and sleep filled eyes. It takes the Scot about three seconds to fully process what Ghost had said before he looked over to his tiny alarm clock, blinking the time at him in red: 0407.

"Aye, for fuck's sake! Whit the fuck! Ma bloody alarm didnae go aff!" He shouts, his Scottish tongue thick as he throws his covers off and bolts around the room. He was only in his boxers, yanking his dresser open to grab some pants and a shirt. "Did they send you to come get me?" He asks hurriedly as he throws his shirt over his head and struggles to get his socks on.

Ghost watches him, eyes tracking his every movement. "No, I just happened to hear your loud ass snoring."

"Oh, thank God." Soap seems to relax a little bit at that, though he still keeps his quick pace as he gets ready. At least they hadn't sent anyone looking for him. He was sure they would soon though. Hopefully Price wasn't going to be too mad either. The last thing he wanted was to have to suffer another week with States all because his alarm didn't go off. He’d never hear the end of it from her if that happened.

"Fucking hell. You think Price is going to kill me?" He asks Ghosts as he gets his duffle bag and sleeping roll and throws them by the door. He gets to work on yanking his boots onto his feet and hurriedly doing the laces up.

"States will probably kill you first." Ghost answers truthfully, moving out of the way as Soap throws his stuff.

"Steaming Jesus, don't even bring her up. I don't want to even think about that lass right now." He groans, pulling his laces tight and doing up the remaining laces in a bow knot.

"You asked." Ghost shrugs as Soap springs to his feet.

"I asked what Price would do, you stoter." He grumbles, grabbing his bags from the ground and giving Ghost a pat on the chest as he passes. "Thanks for waking me up, I owe you one!"

***

You'd been waiting roughly fifteen minutes now by the plane, bags at your feet, and watching Price pace angrily. He hadn't been happy the second it hit 0400 with the Scot still nowhere in sight. You worried what he was going to do. You desperately didn't want him to extend your stay. You were here, why should you be punished when you were on time? Then again, if bootcamp taught you one thing, it was that if one member of your squad messed up, you all messed up.

"Aye! I'm here!" You hear in the distance. When you look, you can see Soap sprinting across the asphalt, duffle bag in one hand, sleeping roll under his armpit, and his free hand waving. "I'm so sorry I'm late. My bloody alarm didn't go off."

Price is glaring at him. Despite being one of the nicer military captains you've ever met in your life, Price was still a leader and didn't put up with people not listening to him. "You are fifteen minutes late, Soap. You've made me waste fifteen minutes of my time waiting on your ass." His tone was deep and rough.

"Sorry, Captain." He apologizes, but it doesn't seem to be enough for Price. You watch as he turns and walks to the plane, pulling out a large suitcase and throwing it onto the ground in front of you. You and Soap both stare at it for a long moment before looking up to Price.

"Listen up. Both of you. You are going to start working as a team. One of you messes up, you both do. And you don't blame each other, you'll blame your lack of teamwork and work to make it better. I want you both to repack your things into this suit case. What doesn't fit doesn't get to go. Your sleeping rolls don't count. You've got ten minutes to work it out."

“Captain, you can’t seriously-” Soap starts before Price cuts him off.

“I’d shut your mouth, Soap! You’re already on thin ice.” He growls. “Now, start packing.”

"Price," you quickly start, getting an annoyed look from him. He lets you continue regardless. Probably because you’d been on time.

“What?” He asks.

"Can you tell us what's already going to be there at the cabin? Like is there food already there?"

"I left some supplies for you on the plane. Figure it out." He says, looking to his watch. "And go."

You and Soap share a look before immediately ripping into your own duffle bags open. Clothes made sense to by the first thing to go in. Anything else could just be thrown on top. Quickly though, you are realizing just how much space they'd take up.

"Steaming Jesus, States! Take some of your clothes out!" Soap is already grabbing at your things and tossing them out. You grab his wrist to stop him.

"Don't throw my clothes on the ground! Throw some of your shit out!"

"I packed four sets of clothes! You have fucking seven!"

"Cause I packed enough for a week. I am not going to wear dirty clothes."

"Well you're gonna have to cause there's not enough room!" He yells, pushing your hand away. He tries to pull more out, but you stop him again.

"Fine! Fine, just let me do it! I'm taking seven pairs of underwear though." You start to take some of your clothes, stuffing them back into your duffle bag and trying to count out four pairs of pants and shirts. When you get to putting your underwear into the suitcase, you try to do so quickly so Soap doesn't see. However, you must not have been fast enough, because Soap seems to stutter in his movements.

"You have fucking red lacy panties?" He asks, making you blush furiously. To be fair, they were all different colors and designs. He'd only managed to catch a glimpse of the red ones.

"Shut up!" You growl, getting a grin from him. He thought this was funny.

"Who the hell you trying to dress up for?" He teases, but it's anything but playful. He's just being a dick.

"I said shut up! It's none of your damn business! These were in my bag, you shouldn't have ever seen them."

"Seven minutes!" Price calls out, reminding you to hurry. You still needed to finish packing your basics and needed to check the supplies you had on the plane to see what you might be missing. Time seemed to be going down way too fast.

Soap quickly moves on, throwing in his towel and a few others things while you try to put in your shampoo, conditioner, and a bar of soap in. Soap quickly tries to take them out though.

"Oh no," He starts, picking them up and handing them back to you. "We are using my stuff. We are already short on space, we don't need these taking up room."

"I am not using that horrible shit you use." You counter. Before you can argue it, Price is stepping in yet again.

"Come on, guys! You're down to six minutes! Work it out faster."

"You can pack that," you motion to his body wash. "But I get my shampoo. I will forget the conditioner, but I get real shampoo."

Feeling the time pressure, Soap all but growls. "Fine! Just move your ass!" He takes the shampoo from your hands and packs it away roughly before shoveling other hygiene things in. You're glad to see he's bringing deodorant among those things.

One of the last items you throw in are some tampons, which had Soap making a face.

"Oh, gross." He groans. "Don't tell me you're gonna menstruate."

You glare at him. "I might. I want them just in case. What, would you rather me bleed all over the place?"

"That's so fucking gross."

"What the hell you mean gross? You are around blood at the time!"

"That's different." He claims, making you stare at him in utter shock.

"How is it- you know what, forget it. Never, ever, get a girlfriend, MacTavish." He rolls his eyes but offers no argument back. Or maybe he would have, but Price cuts in.

"Five minutes, move! Lets go!" Price yells at you, making you grab your backpack.

"Go check the plan, see what we have, I'll throw in whatever we don't." You tell Soap as you start to put things in just in case Price calls time and you don't have them packed.

"No, cause you're going to mess with my stuff." He accuses, getting a glare from you.

"Can you just fucking trust me!? I'm not going to do that! I need to survive too!" You shout back, which gets him, reluctantly, moving. He runs over and hops inside the plan, pulling out the crates that had your supplies.

"We've got food! And a few MRE's. Probably enough for a week." He informs you. You still add a few of the MRE's you had just in case. "Looks like we also have a pot and utensils, water tablets, ..." He went silent a moment as he continued his digging.

“Come on! What else?!” You yell to him, growing frustrated that he seems to just be taking his sweet time.

"I’m working on it! Don’t get your red panties in a knot.” He yells back, making you huff. “Uhh.. a med-kit, flares, toilet paper, and a flashlight. I think that's it."

With that knowledge, you pack a few fire starters and then your pocket knife. The suit case was bulging at this point, but you hoped it would zip shut. Soap comes back out of the plane and looks over the things you've added.

"You two have one minute. Close it and get it in the plane." Price tells you. You try to shut it, but Soap quickly stops you.

"Wait, I've got one more thing." He quickly starts to dig through his bag and pulled out two, somewhat thick, black journals and some pencils. He throws them on top, and you shake your head.

"Really? Do you really need that?" The suitcase was already bulging. You were worried it wasn't going to close without the two books on top.

"Yes. I need those." He growls defensively, trying to move them to a different spot so they'd fit.

“So I can’t have conditioner, but you can have two fucking thick books?”

Soap glares at you. “I saw you pack a book. I get these.” He flips the top of the suitcase down. "Just sit your ass on it, I'll zip."

You would have fought him more about the books, but you are very aware you are running out of time. You didn't put it past Price to not let you have the suit case if you couldn't get it to the plane in time.

So you do what Soap says, putting all your weight on the bag while he tries to force the zipper alone the track. At first, you are worried it's going to break at any second the way he’s pulling on it, but he manages to get it shut.

"Thirty seconds!" Price calls.

Once Price calls out that time, you are scrambling to get off it while Soap is lifting it up. He grunts as he does, and you have to pause and watch him a moment. The muscles in his arms are flexing beautifully as he lifts the suitcase up. It's-

Oh God. You could vomit. Did you really just describe any part of Soap as beautiful? To be fair, he was a very good looking man. A very in shape one at that. But he could be pretty to look at while also being a train wreck on the inside. Still, you made a vow to never think about him in that way ever again.

"States, get your ass over here!" Soap shouts at you from inside the plane. He's already lifted the case inside while you're still on the ground by your stuff. Price is counting from ten seconds, and you scramble to your feet, running to board before Price says zero. Lord knows if he was going to punish you more if you aren't on the plane in time.

You make it up with about four seconds to spare. You and Soap are both out of breath a little bit, and Price is giving you a slow clap as he walks over.

"Didn't think you'd be able to pull it off if I'm being honest." He admits. "Since you exceeded my expectations, I'll let you go grab your sleeping rolls." He says, nodding behind him to the identical rolls still laying by your things. You and Soap both let out a groan, and Soap instantly lays into you.

"You kidding me, States? I do all that work lifting this overpacked luggage bag, and you can't even grab our sleeping gear?"

You're embarrassed to admit that the likely reason you didn't grab them was because you'd been distracted by Soap's muscles and then the horror of realizing you'd been staring. Of course you aren’t going to tell him that though.

"Well you could've reminded me to grab them." You try to cover, choosing to just respond to him the way you always did "That's what a team would do after all."

"Oh don't get all high and mighty, kiss ass."

"Soap go grab them," Price orders sternly. "Before I change my mind and tell the pilot to take off without them."

Soap peels himself from his seat with that order, grumbling as he goes. You stay where you are, watching him pluck both off the ground. Price stops him a moment while he's on his way back. They talk for a moment, and you think Soap takes something from him, but you aren't sure. You don't see anything though as Soap boards again and tosses your roll at you. You hadn't been expecting it, and it hits you in the face a bit. You managed to get your arms up just in time to block most of the impact.

"Hey!" You grumble as it hits you. You send Soap a glare and then grab your roll, moving it under the bench next to a backpack. "Don't throw my stuff around."

"Need to work on those reflexes." Soap mutters to you as he places his own roll on the other side of the backpack. You roll your eyes.

"Alright," Price says. "One week. You kids have fun. Don't fucking kill each other, got it? I don’t want to have to do all that paper work."

"Aye sir." Soap agrees, while you answer with a "yes sir."

***

The plane ride over was filled with a long silence. You didn't look at Soap, and he didn't look at you. It went on like this for hours. Price hadn't exactly told you where you were going, and at this rate, you didn't even know if you were going north or south. The only thing you really did know was that there was miles of trees below you.

Finally the pilot spoke to you over your headsets. "Touching down in five. Need to touch down in a clearing, so it's going to be about a two mile hike."

"Of course it is." Soap gripes over the headset. It's the first thing he's said since you took off. You sigh deeply, already preparing yourself for all the whining he's going to do while you make your way to the cabin.

The plane lands in the clearing, and you get up to gather your supplies. For only two people, there was a lot you needed to move. The container your food came in was a wooden box, so it was heavy. The suitcase was also super heavy, and on top of that, you also had your sleeping rolls and the backpack of supplies.

"How in the hell are we suppose to carry all this?" You mutter to yourself as you look down at all the stuff. The pilot had left the cockpit and was in the cabin with you, glancing over all your things.

"There's a wagon you can take. Might be a pain to get up hills or over rocks, but it might help to lighten the load a bit." He offers. "I'll go get it for you." He gives you a pat on the shoulder, and you offer him a smile.

"Really? That'd be great. Thanks." You hum, watching him leave. He must not have gotten the memo you and Soap were being punished. Still, you weren't going to say no to a wagon.

"Sure thing." He nods. "Anything for a pretty girl like you."

You are blushing furiously now, not expecting the pilot to say something like that to you. The compliment was appreciated, of course, though with Soap being around to hear it, you're more embarrassed than anything.

Soap was rolling his eyes and huffing as he watched the scene unfold. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest. Once the pilot is gone, you are glaring at him. "What?" You ask sternly. What could he possibly be all huffy about?

"You always flirt your way into getting the easiest route possible?" He grumbles, a venom to his tone. You stare at him in disbelief, mouth hanging open just slightly.

"I.. are you joking? I was not flirting with him. He's the one who offered to help. All I said was thanks." You don't know why you feel the need to defend yourself. Soap was just being an ass.

Soap rolls his eyes like he doesn't believe you. "If you show him your red lacy panties maybe we can get him to help us carry some this shite." He adds further, rather loudly, making your cheeks turn just about as red as your underwear. You throw an MRE at him, hitting him in the arm and making him jump slightly.

"Shut up!" You growl. "I do not need the whole world knowing something like that."

"Oh just me then, aye?"

You throw another MRE at him, but he's more prepared for it this time. He tries to catch, but misses. It just hits his hand and falls to the ground alongside the first one you threw.

"Stop throwing those! That's our food!" He growls, and you prepare to throw another one, but then the pilot comes returns.

"Here we go! Think this will work?" He asks, unfolding a decently sized wagon. It was going to work really well and definitely save you some strain. You look over to Soap, who's raising a brow at you, giving you a suggestive look. God, he was a child.

"Yep. That's great. Thanks." You say hurriedly, your tone coming off a lot less grateful than that poor pilot deserved. You take the handle from him and rush to pack up your stuff. "Soap get your ass over here and help me pack."

"You got it, lass." He says way too cheekily. He's just trying to get on your nerves. The faster you pack up and get to the cabin, the sooner you could get away from him.

He comes up right behind you, his breath on your ear. "What would you like me to do, boss." You flinch away from him, rubbing your ear of your shoulder. He's like a mosquito you can't get to leave you alone.

"Can you back up!? I don't want your stank breath on me. Just-just go make sure you have all your shit and make sure the backpack has everything we need." You snap, making Soap defensively raise his hands in surrender and back off. But you had a feeling he was perfectly fine with getting out of helping pack the wagon.

"Fine. Anything you want, princess."

You hated it when he called you that, but you just ignored him. It was too early in the day to be this mad at him.

Luckily with him gone, it made it much easier to pack. You were still feeling stressed though. The suitcase is the first thing you put in, followed by just one of the crates of food. Already the wagon was pretty much full. You ended up dumping the other crate, just piling in food wherever it will fit. Hopefully the wagon would be just a little lighter without the extra crate.

The rest of the supplies was, hopefully, in the backpack. Given the fact Soap needed those things to survive too, you had high hopes he actually did a good job packing. When you regrouped, you forced Soap to pull the wagon, so he gave you the backpack to carry. You didn't argue that seeing as it was only fair.

The backpack was heavier than you thought it'd be, but not awful. As you walked down the ramp, you couldn't help but feel like you were forgetting something. With how rushed Price had you this morning, you hoped it wasn't something you left in your luggage back on base.

***

The hike to the cabin was worse than you thought it'd be. There was no cleared path that led to the cabin. It was all just woods. While the wagon seemed like a good idea, it got stuck on every rock, branch, and plant you passed by. You had to help Soap push it up the hills and get it unstuck so many times. It more than doubled the time it'd normally take for you to walk two miles. Every muscle ached by the time you reach the cabin, and tensions between you and Soap were running high.

When the cabin finally came into view, you were so excited. It looked so nice from the outside. It sat in the middle of a clearing, a big lake behind it, and sun beaming down on it. You swore it had a halo as angelic as it was.

That was until you stepped inside. The cabin you were staying in was tiny. It only had two rooms. Upon immediately walking in, you found yourself in the kitchen. It had an old wood fire stove for cooking in one corner, one cabinet for food, a few shelves, and a tiny table in the other corner. There was also a door which led outside to a small deck, and the lake was a good 15-20 meters away. There was also an old fire pit that sat between the deck and the water.

Off to the right was the bedroom. A wall with a door separated the bedroom from the kitchen. Inside was two cots, a dresser, and another wood stove between the cots. It was a really small room. The two cots took up a majority of the space.

"Where's the bathroom?" You frown, watching Soap from the kitchen as he stood in the middle of the bedroom. You hoped you'd just missed it somehow or it was hidden away.

"There isn't one." Soap grumbles, still cranky from the hike over. You were both pretty tired and hungry. It was around lunchtime.

"What do you mean? There has to be one. Where are we supposed to shower and-"

"Your eyesight's as sharp as a rubber knife, you know that?"

You were losing it. You'd just spend the last hour and a half walking two miles. You were sweaty, tired, and hungry. "Can you just stop being a dick and tell me?"

"There's an outhouse a few meters away from the cabin outside. You can shit in there. As for showering, you probably have to bathe in the lake." He answers finally.

You could die. Price was really pissed with you this time.

"Bathing outside. Just great." You mumble, looking out of the window to the lake. The water was probably freezing. Plus the thought of Soap seeing you naked made your skin crawl more than the thought of bathing with a fish.

While you'd been lost in thought looking out of the window, Soap came out of the bedroom to grab the backpack and the suitcase from the wagon. He wordlessly moves it into the bedroom, probably to start unpacking his things. Not wishing to be in the same room as him, you get to work on putting food away. You lift the crate of food from the wagon and set it on the ground then start to sort through the remaining food in the wagon.

A second later you hear a loud squeak. It sounded like the springs of the cot. Curiously, you looked into the bedroom to find Soap had sat on one. He shook his head and got up, moving to the other one.

"Hell no. Not dealing with that all night." He grumbles, sitting on the other cot, which was silent in comparison. You glare at him.

"Are you fucking serious? You're going to stick me with the bed that squeaks?" You stay in the doorway, watching as he unzips the backpack and pulls his sleeping roll from it.

"Yep. Snooze you lose." He says, unrolling his sleeping roll and laying it on the bed with his pillow.

You scowl are him from the doorway and storm over to grab the backpack from him to retrieve your own roll. Of course he was going to do this to you. "I fucking hate you, MacTavish. You're such an absolute child." You seethe, digging through the bag and not finding your sleeping roll in there. "Where's my sleeping roll?"

"Hell if I know." Soap answers, sitting on his cot and lying back while he watches you dig.

"What the fuck did you do with my sleeping roll, MacTavish?!" You shout this time, rage filling you. You needed that otherwise you were going to freeze every night.

"Christ's sake! I didn't touch your stuff! I don't know what the fuck you did with it!" He shouts back, matching your volume.

"You didn't pack my sleeping roll when you packed yours?!"

"Hell no! Why would I? I thought you'd have packed it in the wagon!"

"Why would I-?!" You take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. "So you're telling me my sleeping roll was right next to yours on the plane, but you packed yours, and left mine?"

"That is exactly what I am telling you."

"Why would you do that!" You growl at him as he sits up.

"Well for one there wasn't enough room in that bag for both with all the other shite that is in there. And I figured you'd grab your own bloody shite!" He growls right back, gripping the metal railing of the cot until his knuckles turned white.

"I was packing something else. I was distracted. You could have, I don't know, brought it over to me!"

"I thought you would have grabbed it yourself! You told me to worry about my own stuff, so I did!"

You groan aloud, running your fingers through your hair and pacing slightly. "Can you contact Price somehow and tell him to bring me my sleeping roll?"

"No." Soap answers, making you glare at him. "Don't you fucking glare at me! I don't have anyway of contacting him! Maybe you should have brought a radio if you were going to lose your stuff!"

"I didn't lose my stuff! My fucking teammate fucked me over and left it! You probably did it on purpose too!"

"Don't you dare fucking blame this on me, States!" Soap stands up suddenly, and he's right in your face. You find yourself taking a step back, but he just follows you. "I didn't do anything on purpose, so don't even go there! You did this to yourself! Fucking hell lass! Learn to take responsibility for your own actions, just like you should have at the debrief!" He shouts. "If you'd done that, then maybe we wouldn't be here! And you wouldn't be sleeping without your roll!"

You were shocked for a moment at his outburst, but quickly turn your gaze into a glare. The irony wasn't lost on you. He was demanding you take responsibility for your actions, but he wouldn't do that himself. Instead he just blamed everything on you.

"I should take responsibility? I should take responsibility!? You are always against me! Half the stuff I do is because I'm also being forced to work against you!"

"You're not being forced to do anything! You make your own damn choices and then blame me when it doesn't go the way you want it to!"

"You blame stuff on me all the time!!"

"Cause it always your fault! I tell you to do something and then you ignore me and treat me like I'm the enemy!"

"Maybe if you acted more like my teammate, I'd be less willing to treat you like the enemy!"

Soap's jaw clenched at your words. You stare at each other in silence. There's an intensity as you look at each other. You feel like at any moment, with a snap of your fingers, the tension is going to break. When it breaks, you're not sure what's going to happen. Before it can though, Soap finally breaks eyes contact with you.

"Fuck this and fuck you!" He snaps, stepping around you to leave the bedroom. His shoulder slams against yours as he does, and a few seconds later, you hear the cabin door slam shut.

Once he was gone, you feel your lip trembling. Already, one day in, and things were going terribly. You had to do this for six more days, and you weren't even halfway through the current one. You didn't know if you could do this.

Moving to your cot, you sink down and sob into your hands, the cot making a horrible creaking sound as you sit. The stress was getting to you and finally boiling over. This morning not being able to bring all your things, having no bathroom or shower, the long walk over, the hunger, the fighting with Soap... it was all too much.

After sitting for a while, and Soap not coming back inside, you wipe your eyes and get to work on unpacking. You unpack your stuff, hoping to find your sleeping roll hidden somewhere among all the clothes. You didn't find it.

You then moved on to placing the cooking supplies and food onto the shelves and into the cabinet. Price had left you with some good food. A whole box eggs, bread (which was crushed a bit), cans of soup, beans, and corn, a bunch of MREs, and salt. You also had a small pan, two bowls, two plates, and two sets of silverware.

Once everything was packed away, all that was left to do was to sit around and wait for Soap to inevitably come back. You'd take a nap, but that was unappealing without your sleeping roll. You wanted to eat, but you didn't need Soap blowing up again cause you were wasting the rations or excluding him.

He didn't come back though. Hours passed. You got hungry eventually and went outside to start collecting wood to cook with. You looked for him as you did, but you didn't find any trace of him. You made one of the cans of soup, ate it slowly, and watched the door, thinking he’d come through any second.

As the sun began to set, and it started to get dark, you were really, really beginning to worry.

***

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chronicallycouchbound · 10 months ago

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I want to share my favorite poem of all time, “I Know Crips Live Here” by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha. But first, I want to share this link for the crips for eSims for Gaza mutual aid fundraiser! If you can’t donate, please share! And here’s my favorite poem by Leah:

I know crips live here. A bathroom filled with coconut oil, unscented conditioner and black soap.

I know crips live here. Your Humira and T on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

I know crips live here. Only house on the block with a homemade ramp, property standards so mad.

I know crips live here. Big exhale at the shower chair, the slip pads and the air purifier.

I know crips live here. I see all the things in reach around your mattress of glory, the vibrator, the library books, the TV, the stuffed animals.

I know crips live here. Straws and Poise pads and crosswords and weighted blankets and stim toys.

I know crips live here. You've been home for a couple days. A week. That's the imprint of your ass in the couch surrounded by empty bags of food and plates and the Advil and the heating pad.

I know crips live here. 50 pounds of epsom salts, from the farm store, your painkiller display like an altar.

I know crips live here. I see your EBT card and your fought for DSHS care attendant.

I know crips live here. How you taught yourself to be an herbalist so you could afford to manage your pain.

I know crips live here. Everybody late.

I know crips live here. Your dogs, cats and stuffed animals are part of your family.

I know crips live here. Your disabled parking placard a candle in the window.

I know crips live here.

Welcome

You are home.

#chronically couchbound #disability #disabled #cripplepunk #cripple punk #disabled pride #disability pride #crip rights #crips for esims #free palestine #free gaza

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salternateunreality2 · 1 year ago

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AGSZC Deep Cleaning the Biohazard that is Zack’s Apartment

From the @strayheartless vault <3

—

Zack: It’s not a biohazard, that would mean nothing’s living there, and look, my pets are fine! *opens a drawer with a new litter of mice in it*

Genesis: AAAAAAA! Ahem. I mean to say: Zachariah McKinley Fair, a biohazard means it is unsafe for humans, and often involves dangerous non-human organisms. SUCH AS WILD MICE.

Zack: They’re not wild, they’re my fri-

Genesis: Zachariah. If you finish that word, I will firaga them immediately.

Zack: NO! *Hides the mice with his body*

—-

After Genesis’ 5th childish scream, Angeal’s 3rd round of dry-heaving, and Sephiroth and Cloud being found twitching near the entrance, Zack concedes that maybe he has some work to do.

—

Cloud decides to body-double for Zack by riding him like a backpack.

Zack: Maybe this sock is salvageable!

Koala Cloud: Nope, put it in the bag.

Zack: But I wanna-

Cloud: IN THE BAG, FAIR.

—

Sephiroth is in full-coverage PPE to protect his hair and senses, and is excavating the fridge with gloves.

Zack: But my pasta is in that tub of whipped cream!

Angeal, working at the sink and dry-heaving: I MADE THAT FOR YOU LAST MONTH.

—

They have to set up a rotating schedule of visiting Zack's apartment so he's motivated to clean everything at least weekly, but Zack is really grateful.

He never means for it to get this bad, it’s just…he makes friends with the critters! And, well, sometimes he forgets things. And…and sometimes he just gets overwhelmed. He looks at the pile of dishes and knows he can’t do them all today, so he doesn’t do any.

Or he tries. He starts by picking up the dishes in his bedroom, but trips over a shirt along the way. He sets the dishes down to take the shirt to the laundry, but his eyes catch on the dusty blinds, so obviously he has to clean them, but then he looks up and it’s 3 hours later and he’s dismantled the whole window dressing and is cleaning the grooves with a q-tip and everything is worse than when he started.

Zack breaks down trying to explain it, and Genesis is the first to tell him he understands. Genesis and Angeal sandwich him between themselves while Sephiroth puts a hand on Zack’s shoulder and Cloud starts worming his way into Zack’s arms.

—

Zack cleans for each of them all the time, but for some reason, he can’t understand why they’d help him too.

It surprises him when Angeal comes over and just. Does all his dishes. Or when Genesis comes over and "purifies this hellhole of a bathroom" (gives it a decent clean and fills it with good soaps/battery operated candles/fresh towels). Or when Cloud obsessively sorts and folds his laundry, or when Sephiroth puts everything through the wash when he's working from home one day.

Zack doesn't GET that he's done the exact same things for them, like the time he scoured Angeal's pots for half a day, or polished every metallic surface in Sephiroth's apartment, or dusted Genesis' place so thoroughly it gleamed, or put fresh sheets on Cloud's bed, bundled him up, and did all his laundry while he was dissociating.

He doesn't realize the insurmountable task of addressing The Chair is easy for Angeal (it all goes in the wash. It's all dirty enough.), but the same man finds throwing out socks with holes hard (but acceptable when Zack does it for him).

Zack forgets that he folded all of Gen's towels into swans when Gen’s parents were coming into town and is blown away when Gen leaves a simply folded towel on the rack.

He thinks the work he puts into adding color to Sephiroth’s spartan apartment is nothing, not realizing Sephiroth’s heart is warmed by each and every little splash Zack sneaks in.

Zack doesn’t realize that Cloud would rather do all of Zack’s mopping than address the sensory hell that is washing monster gunk off his own boots, which Zack does for him often.

#ff7 #zack fair #sephiroth #cloud strife #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #agszc #adhd zack fair #best boy zack fair #best pupper zack fair

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esoteric-chaos · 1 year ago

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What is Banishing? The How-Tos and Methods

Banishing is a direct form of expelling energy or spirit from your space. Used to get rid of a specific energy, spirit, or person. Can even be used to banish a bad habit if you really wanted to. It is a strong form of defensive magic versus cleansing which is more of a brush out the door. Banishing is you picking whatever up by the scruff like a wet cat and throwing it out the window.

This is not a gentle nudge. Banishing is firm, protective magic. It creates boundaries. It says “No. You’re not welcome here.” It's used when something or someone has crossed a line, overstayed their energetic welcome, or embedded itself in your field in a way that feels parasitic, toxic, or draining.

Unlike general purification rituals that remove stagnant or non-specific energies, banishing is targeted. You're naming the energy, be it a spirit, an obsessive thought pattern, a toxic relationship, a trauma loop, or a self-sabotaging behavior, and commanding it to leave. In this way, banishing can also be deeply psychological, working as a ritualized form of boundary setting and trauma recovery. You are reasserting sovereignty over your space, mind, and energy.

That said, banishing doesn't always have to be aggressive. It can be fiery or icy, wrathful or firm. The important thing is clarity, know what you're banishing, why you're banishing it, and what you'll do to keep it from returning.

You can absolutely combine cleansing and banishing into one ritual. Think of it as a one-two punch: banish the intruder, then cleanse the space to remove lingering residue and restore balance. Make it spicy. Salt and fire. Bells and smoke. Whatever gets the job done, thoroughly.

Here are some banishing methods drawn from my own grimoire. Use what resonates.

Spiritual

Smoke - Burning Dragons Blood, Hyssop, Rue, Cedar, Juniper, Blackberry Leaves and Pine are great herbs to burn for banishing and purification. You can also make a herbal spray as well.

Candles - Banish from your space using corresponding banishing candle colours like Black.

Herbs - Can be made into satchels, jars, sprays, spellwork and other items for banishing.

Sigils - Create a banishing sigil for your space, self or working.

Powders - Powders like GTFO powder are great examples for banishing's

Witches bells - Witches bells hang on your doorknob or on your door (inside the home) for protection and banishing. When someone comes into the home it rings, banishing negative energy.

Spells - Return to sender, uncrossings and freezer spells are good examples of banishings. Write the target's name on a black candle with intention, dress with corresponding oils, and write a petition to place under the candle to effectively banish them from your space/life.

Energy - Visualize a powerful bubble of protective light of any colour. Visualize it pushing out of your chest and visualize it burning up the energy and pushing it out of your space. Can be energy-taxing so please drink some water and eat a snack.

Black salt - Salt (I use sea) mixed with charcoal, eggshell powder and protective & purifying herbs. Used in warding, banishing and protection. Please be careful around pets with salt as they can get sick if eaten.

Physical

Baths/showers - Submerging yourself in water with banishing herbs and oils. You can also shower with banishing herbal soaps and hang a mesh satchel with purifying herbs over your shower head.

Physical - Literally taking pots and pans, screaming to get out of your house. Both annoying to the neighbors and effective for spirits.

Vocal - Prayer to deity/ancestors/guides/etc for assistance. Prayer from a holy book. Incantations are normally followed by another action like ringing bells.

Feel free to place your banishing methods below!

Looking for all of my posts in one place? Check out the Masterpost

Revamped on 5/4/25

#witchcraft #witch #electic witch #witchblr #banishing spell #banishing #beginner witch #protection magic #protection

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sealed-indigo · 21 days ago

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🔥 . “ ghost x soap — to purify or to fuel ”

the chapel was warm with the heat of the summer, polished stone and wooden pews gleaming. it was the kind of silence that made everything feel watched, judged.

johnny stood in the doorway like the sun itself, the first few buttons on his shirt separated, just enough to show the silver cross pressed to his chest, the sweat beading at his collarbone, the collarbones above chest hair. he looked untouched, angelic almost.

ghost sat on the altar with his legs spread lazily, head tilted, mask pulled just high enough to show the line of his mouth. it was dry, cracked, hungry. he watched johnny like a starving man watches the sun rise, knowing he doesn’t deserve to feel its warmth.

there was nothing innocent about the way johnny moved, slow and slick, each step a study in restraint. he wasn’t afraid, never had been, and he carried that calm right up to ghost’s knees. ghost didn’t move, didn’t breathe. the tension clung to his skin like sweat, like sin, like he'd break the moment johnny graced his skin with his fingertips.

johnny’s fingers brushed his thigh, not high, not yet, but enough to make the older man exhale like he’d been holding it in for years. that soft, saintly face tilted up toward him, bright irises peering through his eyelashes, eyes dark with something deeper than lust. a lesson, maybe. a warning.

he didn’t have to touch ghost to undo him, he just had to look. that look, half pity, half desire, sent heat spiraling down ghost’s spine. johnny’s voice came quiet, slow, but not sweet.

“you’re trembling.” and he knew he was. not from fear, not from shame, but from the unbearable weight of being seen, wanted by someone good. it was dizzying. he didn’t know what to do with holy things. especially not holy things that wanted to kneel for him. he gulped thickly.

johnny stepped closer between his legs, their bodies barely brushing, breath shared in the close, heated air between them. his hand came up to rest on ghost’s chest. not possessive, not forceful. just there. a reminder. a heartbeat. ghost’s own hand twitched at his side, aching to grip, to pull, to take, but he didn’t. he couldn’t. johnny’s touch was permission, but not an invitation to ruin. not yet.

their mouths hovered, unkissed but swollen with it. the moment quivered, ripe and forbidden. ghost felt it in his teeth, in the tips of his fingers, in the pulse beating hard beneath his skin.

johnny leaned in so slowly it felt like devotion, his lips brushing the edge of ghost’s jaw, not quite a kiss. not quite enough to relinquish that ache in ghosts chest. it would’ve been easier if he’d just taken what was there, but that wasn’t what saints did. they waited. they forgave. and they made sinners ache for the chance to be worthy.

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zstartrixxx · 1 month ago

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𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔊𝔬𝔡

ᵛᵃᵐᵖᶦʳᵉᵈᵉᵐᵒⁿꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ × ˡᵃᵗᶦⁿᵃꜝᵒᶜ

fanfic index!

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴 - 𝕻𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖉𝖆 𝕷𝖚𝖓𝖆

Noche divina, perfume místico / plegaria íntima de mi pasión / y sella un coro de mis cantares / cuando a mi amada en sueño santo / iba a turbar (palida luna, lydia mendonza)

𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱'𝔰 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: blood kink, some weirdness behaviour, and quotes from catholic/religious elements, heresy & profanation.

"You see!? This is what I always tell you, mi hija! The longer you take to marry and get pregnant, the more rules you'll have and the worse they'll become... It's in our blood. The curse of the Dollores women like you."

"Then why the hell was I baptized with that name!?"

"Watch your mouth, woman! And you know very well it was only because of a promise your father and I made—" Dulce watched with tired eyes as her mother's arms moved back and forth, pressing her nightgown against the wooden washboard, homemade bar soap foaming heavily as she threw handfuls of baking soda to bleach the red stain gradually dissolving in the warm water. Dulce's legs still felt weak, the cramps coming in waves that squeezed her uterus, blood trickling out hourly. She hated menstruating, hated the pain, hated having a uterus that bled monthly. But above all, she loathed the seven days of her mother's lamentations and reprimands while having to pray with her grandmother to purify the sins committed by Eve and all who shared her name.

The matriarch paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, and looked at her daughter with bitterness:

"The Dollores women in our family have not only borne the burden of being chosen by the Enemy but also the curse of infertility in their bodies. But it won't be like that for you, Dulce. For I pray to God every day that He sends you a good, decent, honest man who can break this curse and bring us—bring you—complete happiness."

"How altruistic of you, mami..."

"Don't you sass me! I didn't raise you to be rude. It's that Dakota girl and her crowd that's made you so rebellious," she sneered, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Dulce rolled her eyes, exhausted by how viciously her mother spoke of Dakota and her kind.

"Have you forgotten we're more outcast than them in these lands? We're invaders to the men you and Dad want me to marry. We're not welcome here, and acting superior won't make them accept you either."

She turned her back and entered the empty house smelling of dust and boiled corn. Passing through the hallway connecting the kitchen to her grandmother's room, she heard the old woman's frail, muffled voice calling her. Dulce walked to her room, flinging the door open to the stuffy air scented with talcum powder and burnt candles—her grandmother's signature smells.

The room was small compared to the others—once her mother and eldest sister's sewing room—a modest rectangle fitting only the grandmother's single bed (formerly Lupita's) with its carved wooden frame, a large leather chest dyed dark red at its foot, a small dresser by the bedside holding a candle lamp, a tiny Bible, and a plaster angel guarding the old woman's sleep. A simple two-door wardrobe stood a few feet away, and a single square window, always slightly ajar—never fully open to keep evil spirits out, nor fully closed to let divine light seep through the gap. The brownish-red curtains kept the outside light perpetually dim.

Dulce loved this room.

She loved its warmth, its smells, how it felt separate from the world. Most of all, she cherished her grandmother's company, even when the old woman was asleep or agitated by whatever troubled her mind. Approaching her now—white hair spilling over the bedside, wrinkled lips parted, black eyes wide open—Dulce sensed this visit would be different. She smiled gently, sitting beside the bed, taking her grandmother's icy hand in her own youthful softness, whispering tenderly:

"¿Qué quieres, abuela?" ("What do you want, grandma?”)

“Tú... tú lo dejaste entrar…” ("You... you let him in…”)

"¿Qué quieres decir con eso, abuela? ¡No dejo entrar a nadie aquí, y mucho menos a ningún hombre!" ("What do you mean by that, grandma? I don't let anyone in here, much less any man!”)

"Dollores... My sweet Dollores—" The old woman squeezed her hand, squinting to better see her granddaughter's face—"you were corrupted by the Devil the moment you let him into your soul. Now that he's tasted your blood, all he wants is to possess you. Us. The souls of those burned alive, who bled trying to escape men's horrors... ¡Brujas! ¡Brujas! ¡Brujas!"

Her voice sharpened into a frenzy. Dulce stifled the tears she hadn't shed during the dream—when pleasure had overridden grief.

"No! Grandma, stop! I'm not guilty! It was just a dream—" She tried to rise, but the old woman clutched her hand tighter.

"¡Bruja! That's what he wants! The Devil will come for you! ¡Bruja!" ("Witches! Witches! Witches!”)

"No! I didn't do anything wrong— I—" Her voice broke into a sob as the door flew open behind her. Her mother burst in screaming, separating them, glaring at Dulce:

"Look what you've done! Get out! OUT!"

"¡Bruja! ¡Bruja!"; "Mami, I didn't do anything, I just—"; "Leave, Dulce Dollores!"

Swallowing her sobs, Dulce nodded and turned away.

Her grandmother kept screaming "¡Brujas!" as her mother begged her to stop. Dulce stepped outside, legs unsteady, chest heaving in the too-pure air, cramps worsening. Before her lay the isolation of their property—surrounded by dense forest, the dirt road ahead, flashes of Remmick in her memory like an idyllic dream of a man who dances, enchants, is dangerous and malicious. Yet also the Beast who emerges from darkness, begs entry, drinks blood, and delivers pleasure through the pain of corruption. Dulce's heart clenched again, blood pulsing hot in her veins, fear swelling as the wind hissed whispers that perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was a wanderer with no destination, from nowhere, seeking to belong somewhere.

"What the hell are you thinking, Dulce!? Stop it." She hit her head once, twice, three times. She stared down the road, so tempting beyond their gate.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

"That man was truly strange, Doll. We never want him or his nomadic little gang around here again..."

"Absolutely! That kind of outsider comes and goes—we owe them minimal courtesy... But what were you saying about Sukie and her two cousins?"

"Well, after you left and Remmick returned minutes later, claiming he needed to check something, he spoke with them. Next thing we knew, all four had vanished. No word since..."

"You don't think—" Dulce's eyes widened. Dakota shook her head:

"Oh, no! We won't assume the worst... Maybe they gave him a ride. He said he was just passing through, heading to Nebraska."

"So Sukie and her cousins decided to go back there? Just like that? With a stranger?"

"Yes. That's what we choose to believe, Doll..." Dakota shrugged, pulling a hand-rolled cigarette from her yellow button-up shirt, lighting it with a match: "Mostly, I'm relieved he's gone and you're here with me."

Dulce smiled, accepting the cigarette, inhaling the sweet tobacco that further relaxed her muscles. At Dakota's house, sitting on the front porch steps, she sipped an aluminum cup of thick herbal tea Dakota's mother had given her for the cramps—already working. She'd also changed the cotton pad between her legs, feeling cleaner. As the sun set, uncertainty about the coming days weighed on Dulce. Breaking the silence, Dakota asked:

"Want to stay with me these days? We'll take my cousin's car, go out, have fun..."

"Better not—" Dulce replied sharply, exhaling smoke skyward at the orange clouds: "Mom will want me bedridden for menstruating."

"You're just bleeding between your legs—it's nothing."

"Not to her." Dulce met Dakota's gaze: "Things are tense at home. I should behave."

"So no dances or even services?"

"No clever lies," Dulce wrapped an arm around her friend, smiling fondly: "At least not yet..."

For a moment, Dulce considered sharing her strange dream, complaining about her superstitious grandmother, how everything felt upside-down in her stagnant life. But she stayed silent, deciding some things were better buried than burdening her best friend. They smiled, speaking volumes without words. With Dakota, Dulce found peace.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Sleep didn't come easily to Dollores that night. Legs tightly crossed under the vivid red quilt, night was no longer just darkness, cricket songs, or starlight. Now it meant nightmares, torment, calls from beyond. She feared closing her eyes—he might materialize before her—yet keeping them open risked seeing him lurking in her room. Even with a candle flickering weakly beside her, its flame trembling at her every move, she felt afraid. Perhaps light made the danger greater.

Then she remembered her grandmother's murmured prayers from childhood—kneeling before an altar of weeping saints with spear-pierced hearts, a twisted Christ crowned in thorns, blood dripping—as the younger grandmother prayed her black-beaded rosary while Dulce pretended to join. Now it was her turn to pray, or try.

Clasping her hands beneath the covers, she whispered:

"My good and merciful God, keep me from all evil in this world, keep me from the Devil, may my guardian angel protect me, and may I find freedom from my sins, please, please, please..." She repeated it until breathless, until her eyes grew heavy, until darkness enveloped her in dreamless sleep—a brief, death-like stillness where peace seemed to dwell in her body at last.

That night.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

On the second day of her period, Dulce woke up feeling more energetic. Before stepping into the tub filled with hot water for her morning bath, she noticed the blood was still abundant and bright red, and she still felt a dull ache in her lower abdomen. But just having had a peaceful night's sleep, embraced only by the darkness, brought her relief. Breakfast was immersed in silence between her, her mother, and her father—who was merely a visitor in her life, spending most days working under sun and rain, traveling to neighboring towns to sell his harvest, visiting relatives and friends across Alabama and Louisiana. Sometimes her mother would go along to visit their married daughters and grandson, while also gossiping about the stagnant life of their middle daughter, the unlucky one who hadn't fulfilled her natural destiny. Dulce was already planning to spend another afternoon with Dakota, maybe helping her with work on her property, when her mother's voice caught her attention:

"Tomorrow night, we're having a very special guest."

"Who's coming? Lupita? Or Lupe?" A flicker of hope crossed Dulce's face, but it was quickly replaced by suspicion when she saw her mother's stern expression. Her mother glanced at her father, nodding for him to take over. He cleared his throat loudly, sipped his hot coffee, and spoke while looking at his daughter:

"I met a good young man willing to marry a Tejana like you, daughter. Your mother and I talked a few nights ago, and after yesterday... we decided to invite him for dinner—just dinner, nothing more. But God willing, and He surely is, you two will marry soon... A fine young man, really. Decent. Even handsome."

"What?" Her voice was thin, a whispered breath, her eyes wide with horror. The matriarch spoke firmly:

"There's no more time for choosing, daughter. No more nights of fun. Now, more than ever, we must see you married, with children, moving away..."

"So that's it!? You just want me gone!? If this is about yesterday with Grandma, I swear it was nothing! She's been acting crazy—you know that!"

"There's no use arguing, Dulce Dollores," her mother interjected, arms crossed. Her father's eyes were distant, as if he weren't even there, just as exhausted as Dulce. "You will marry. That's final."

Dulce held back her tears, once again feeling herself detach from her own body.

As soon as she finished eating, she stormed upstairs to her room, throwing herself onto the bed and clutching a pillow tightly. Hot tears streamed down her face, repressed anger burning in her chest. She turned to stare at the ceiling:

"Weak! Weak! You don’t do anything! You just stay silent and take it! Stupid, how can you be like this!? God… Please, give me a sign. A sign of freedom—that I can be who I am, who I want to be, without being tied to anyone. To no man."

She squeezed her eyes shut, thick tears soaking her pillowcase. Gradually, her sobs subsided, her breathing steadied, and her twisted expression softened—until she was swallowed by darkness, a cold chill seeping into her flesh.

In the distance, laughter. The creak of wood. A metallic scent flooding her lungs.

She rubbed her eyes before opening them, lifting her head just enough to see him sitting in an old rocking chair—the monster he truly was. Blood glistened around his mouth, a cruel smirk revealing sharp teeth. His once-white shirt was now stained crimson, even the silver chain around his neck smeared with wet scarlet. Remmick was the Devil incarnate, come to claim her soul—Dulce felt it in her bones, in her flesh, in the blood pounding in her heart.

"I see you slept well last night, Sleeping Beauty. Dream of angels?" He tilted his head, those two red orbs glowing in the dark.

"Stop talking to me, Demon! I won’t fall for your traps!" Dulce sat up, eyes wide with fear and shock at the man’s deceptively sweet, calm voice. Beneath the lamb’s skin, the wolf revealed itself—a true bloodthirsty hunter. Where had all that blood come from?

"I’m just a projection of your desires, darling. A waking dream of your deepest yearnings… With me, you can break free from everything and everyone. Just let me in, and I will become you, and you will become me. Isn’t that wonderful, hmm?"

"No. It’s monstrous. I can’t—"

"Oh, but you can, dear Dulce. Just accept your true self, and I’m sure your prayers will finally reach your absent God."

His movements were serpentine—fascinating, terrifying. He rose from the chair with unnatural grace, his heavy footsteps bringing him to her bed, where the shadows swallowed him whole, leaving only those blood-glowing eyes. She was certain he was smiling, that thick saliva dripped from his lips, that his stench of dried blood was intoxicating. He paused beside her, watching in silence before sitting next to her like a mother tucking in her child. Half his face was faintly illuminated by the dying candlelight. Dulce recoiled, disgusted by the scent of blood and death, but Remmick didn’t pull away. Instead, his blood-crusted hand—claws sharp—drifted to her thigh, caressing her soft skin with eerie tenderness. His voice was almost affectionate:

"I know how hard it is to have your past violated by those who only care for themselves. I’ve walked this earth longer than your grandparents, your great-grandparents… But honestly, Dulce, when I first saw you, when I glimpsed your soul, I recognized something rare—something I deeply desire." His hand slid up to her knee, squeezing lightly as his darkened eyes locked onto hers. "This kind of supernatural power, passed from grandmother to mother, mother to daughter… so few possess it. So few souls truly connect to the gods of the past, the present, the unshakable faith of the future. And I want it. Oh, darling, you have no idea how badly I want it." His grin turned predatory. "You will be my divine gift."

Dulce stayed silent, her mind reeling, intoxicated by the scent of blood, the certainty that something worse awaited her. She felt Remmick—or whatever this was—lean closer, his rust-scented breath like sweetened liquor, inviting her to kiss him. His bloodied hand rose to her waist, gripping and pulling her in. His lips brushed hers in a shallow, dreamlike kiss—unnatural, stiff. Dulce closed her eyes slowly as his voice hissed against her mouth:

"Just accept my humble request, and I’ll give you the greatest gift this world has to offer, Dulce."

Being embraced by Death didn’t seem so bad. Not in that moment.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

The fateful day had arrived. Her third day of menstruation was usually calmer—yet her body seemed to have revolted against itself, torrents of blood between her legs, the cramping coming and going, twisting her uterus, while her mind remained clouded.

Perhaps she had merely suffered a wretched encounter with a stranger that night, internalizing the pain of her wounded ego and transforming the outsider into a kind of monstrous savior who now haunted her sleepless nights. She could still smell blood on her lips, a chill on her nape, a desperate urge to take refuge from the pitch-black night.

She considered visiting her best friend, but her plans were thwarted when her mother gently insisted she stay put, sewing the final stitches on a flared skirt for a dress—a classic Texan design. So, with the patience of Job, she rocked back and forth, watching the needle plunge into the cotton fabric, the red thread binding the pieces together, as her parents exchanged pleasantries: her mother bustling over the feast, her father leaning by the doorway with his pipe. Dulce’s chair rested against the doorframe leading to the hallway, the door to her grandmother’s room wide open, revealing the elderly woman seated with her back turned, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She hadn’t mustered the courage to face her grandmother since the incident. Yet she still stole glances, monitoring her condition from afar.

Her ears caught a topic of interest between her parents:

“I heard there’s been a wave of gruesome deaths around these parts. Entire families wiped out, bodies gone missing… A nightmare.”

“¡Por Cristo misericordioso! I pray we’re safe under Your protection… And how were these bodies found!?” ("For the merciful Christ! I hope we are protected in your safety…”) Her mother paused mid-potato chop, staring at her husband, who took a slow drag, his expression grim:

“Best not to know. From what I’ve heard, it’s the stuff of those lurid tales the local men love to scribble about…”

“You mean they were torn apart?” Dulce’s curious eyes locked onto her father’s face. “Like some animal—a wolf, maybe—slit their throats and drained their blood?”

“How’d you know that, girl!?” Her father furrowed his brow as her mother crossed herself, whispering, “Creo en Dios Padre…” Dulce shook her head and resumed sewing:

“Dunno. Just popped into my head.”

“That sort of thing doesn’t just ‘pop up.’ You been reading what you shouldn’t, missy? Or is Dakota filling your head with boogeyman tales?” Her father scolded, genuinely unsettled. Dulce sighed, closing her eyes, regretting her slip of the tongue. The name Remmick flickered in her mind, but she shoved it aside:

��No, Papi. Just heard some things at Dak’s place the other day… Thought it might be the same case.”

“Hmph.” Her father grunted, exhaling a long plume of smoke, exchanging a look with his wife. “All I know is it’s too dangerous here. That’s why we’re leaving for your sister Lupe’s at dawn. She’s due soon, and we want the family together. Safety in numbers.”

“So this whole dinner’s pointless?” Dulce’s question was genuine—a flicker of hope in her eyes at the thought of escaping the pressure to marry. But her mother’s voice cut like a blade between her pounding heart and tense lungs:

“No, Dulce. No. And even if tonight’s suitor doesn’t work out, we’ll find another. Whatever it takes.”

Night fell in its characteristic dark veil, pierced by sovereign stars. Dulce leaned against her bedroom window, praying the suitor wouldn’t come—that he’d meet some accident, some twist of fate. Or, in her most secret thought, that Remmick would appear and steal her from this bittersweet life. A knock snapped her from her trance, her waking dreams of a hopeful soul shattered by her mother’s voice announcing the guest’s arrival.

She descended the stairs, step by step, gripping the hem of her red-and-yellow floral chita skirt, listening to the animated male voices in the kitchen. Her mother greeted her with the widest smile she’d seen in months and led her to the kitchen, where her father sat across a blond-haired man, nearly white, his back to her.

“Mr. Saint Paul, this is our daughter, Dulce Dollores! Dulce, this is Jeremy Saint Paul.” Her father’s affected smile gestured to the pale man, whose large, glassy green eyes seemed drugged by the woman before him. With exaggerated flourish, he introduced himself, complimented her beauty, and mangled a Spanish phrase—grating to Dulce’s ears. Throughout dinner, his lingering stares clung to her.

Dessert arrived, and with it, the inevitable topic:

“I’m the son of a prominent Texas judge. Unmarried, no bastards—” He laughed at his own stale joke, echoed by her parents’ forced chuckles. “I’m a man of honor. I’d never lie with a lady without first making her my wife. Lawfully, before God and men. Veil, vows, and all.”

He waited for Dulce’s reaction.

She dabbed her lips with a napkin, staring at her mother’s cake, avoiding his gaze.

“What brings you to these parts, Mr. Saint Paul?”

“Oh, an unexpected question!”

“Jeremy, you needn’t answer. Our girl’s tongue runs loose—nothing a good correction won’t fix…” Her mother interjected, but the visitor’s eyes sparkled:

“No, no! I’d be delighted to answer.” He smiled cordially at Dulce, whose attention now fixed on his elongated face, thin lips, and narrow nose—the look of a man clueless about life. Unlike him. Jeremy puffed with pride:

“As I said, my father sent me as his attorney to investigate these… peculiar crimes across Mississippi and neighboring states. Strange deaths, disappearances—the sort.”

“And you’re not afraid? Traveling alone in God’s lands, hunting monsters?” Her mother’s genuine concern masked a plea for Dulce to feign interest. Jeremy smirked:

“Not at all, ma’am! With man’s law and God in my heart, no harm shall touch me.”

“Any suspects?” Dulce asked.

“Not yet. But soon, this fiend—whatever it is—will face justice.”

Dulce smiled.

Not because she believed the poor fool, but because she knew the monster haunting her would annihilate him. A icy breath crept up her neck, a whisper in a tongue only she understood: ‘I await you.’

That night, no infernal visitor haunted her dreams—not exactly. But in the shadowed corners of her sleep, she saw Dollores women weeping as the Catholic Inquisition judged them for unspeakable crimes: witchcraft, paganism. Children torn from homes, thrown into pyres. Their screams enveloped her as she walked toward her bed, lying in immaculate sleep. Outside, hidden, Remmick stood unwavering, waiting for a lost soul to claim. And ahead, in a not-so-distant future, after his travels from the Carolinas, banjo in hand, trailed by vampire kin, Remmick materialized at the sound of divine blood, screams, fire—saints and demons entwined as she walked away from herself.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

"I'm going to spend some time with my parents at Lupe's house, Dakie..."

Dakota looked at her with one of those sorrowful gazes, hands shoved in her fabric pants, voluminous loose hair framing her face. Dulce heard herself say these last days had been pure hell for her and her entire family; indeed, Sukie and her cousins had vanished, others from their assembly had disappeared too, and fear had left their community wary of continuing religious celebrations or parties in their barn. Deep down, Dulce knew who was responsible for such savagery. With a long sigh, Dakie leaned her head against the porch beam:

"First my cousins, now you're leaving me... History repeats itself, huh?"

"Don't be dramatic, Dakie—I'll just be gone a few weeks." She lied. Dulce knew her parents planned not just to relocate near her younger sister but to marry her off there. Dakota smirked skeptically:

"And what about their crazy plan to arrange your marriage?"

"Nothing came of it," Dulce hugged the opposite beam, staring at the horizon. "I think they've accepted I'm a lost cause."

"Well, then our promise still stands, right?" Dakota asked with genuine warmth. Dulce looked at her, lost in memory:

"What promise?"

"That we'd spend eternity together."

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Spending the day at her sister's house—eight hours from home—was easy. The hard part would be surviving the night, haunted by the latent fear of him appearing at any moment. She clung to her younger sister's skirts like a frightened child, eyeing every corner, especially the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, yielding to the dark night sky, the bright moon rising sovereign above them, distant howls and unrecognizable whispers. At the dinner table, surrounded by parents, grandmother rocking in her chair, Lupe and her husband, the conversation flowed pleasantly.

"Heard that gang of white men hunting Blacks and Mexicans vanished overnight recently."

"Well, whoever did it rid us of those bastard sons of bitches!" Her father spat, drawing laughter from the table—except Dulce, who tensed at the thought of the demon pursuing her even here. Lupe looked at her older sister, chin propped on her palm:

"I hear we'll soon have another family wedding!"

"Who told you that?"

"No one..." She winked at their mother. "Un pajarito cantó en mi oído por la mañana."

Dulce glared at her mother, cheeks burning.

Then she resentfully turned to the window behind the matriarch, where in the twilight she swore she saw two incandescent red dots fixed on her. Her chest froze as that familiar heart-squeezing dread returned.

Only this time, sharper.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Dulce spent that night pacing the guest room, trying not to wake the household. Every hour, she peered through the curtain crack at the closed window, searching for something—someone—behind the glass. But there was nothing. Nothing.

Her cycle was ending; her intrinsic blood grew frail, the pains had subsided, yet her vitality withered daily under this torturous yearning. Her soul begged for the infernal kiss.

She knew she was delirious—but where do delusion and lucidity meet until both become truth? Where was she truly safe? Were those bizarre dreams really the devil coming to tempt her, or was she so insignificant in her quest for freedom that she'd invented it all?

Her blurred reflection stared back from the window—shadowed eyes, lips twisted in a mournful smile. She whispered the prayer to herself:

"This god I invented doesn't answer. This pain won't release me. Everything is an illusion, and if I could, perhaps I'd truly accept belonging to death and the freedom it might offer."

The night stayed silent as the answers to her prayers.

That terrified her more than the devil visiting her room.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

"Daughter... Your father and I decided you'll return home."

"Just like that? I've barely been here two days—"

"Don't question. Just obey. It's for the best."

Dulce raised a skeptical brow but nodded vehemently, accepting her fate. Perhaps her whispered prayer had been heard, bringing peace through this sudden return. She packed her few belongings into her father's cart for the dusty, barren journey home. They arrived at dusk, and watching her father leave alone tormented Dulce more than traveling solo—knowing what might stalk those roads. Her grandmother retreated to her room, leaving the house drowned in hot, empty silence.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Slow, precise raps.

Dulce, waiting on the stairs, stared at the door. Her heart raced, blood pooling in her skull as if she hung upside-down. The knocks came again—louder, urgent. Trembling hands lifted her as she crept to the door, pressing an ear against it. Nothing. Just the vast silence of nowhere. Not even a breath.

Dulce closed her eyes, recalling the faceless shadow with ruby eyes from her waking dreams. Her sweaty palm gripped the icy knob while the other fumbled the key, feeling the metal's roughness. Her heart climbed into her throat; her ears burned from pressing against the wood—until a voice called:

"Dulce... Doll, it's me."

She didn't hesitate to unlock and fling the door open, relief twisting to horror at what awaited.

It was Dakota. But not her Dakie.

Standing with a distorted smile, fangs exposed, crimson eyes glowing under a bloodstained white shirt and black suit jacket. This wasn't her friend anymore.

"What did he do to you!?"

"So good to see you too, Doll!"

"You're not the Dakota I know— No—" Dulce shook her head. The creature before her clasped gloved hands, now stained with dried blood, and nodded:

"You're right! Since he promised me freedom—a world where we're all equal—I've never felt more alive!"

"Dakota, why let him do this!?"

"It wasn't exactly comfortable. Some died. Others converted. But now I see what human life could never show me."

"Dakota—"

"That I love you. So I want you to join me in this endless walk. There'll be blood, but you'll adapt. Just let me in."

Dulce faced Dakota's morbid grin. This wasn't the woman she loved—just a hollow husk mimicking her. She shook her head:

"If you think I'll surrender to lies, leave. I'll face death before becoming a bloodsucking monster."

"You were never a good liar, Doll. Now that he's bitten me, he knows you better than you know yourself. This time, he won't be gentle." Dakota slid hands into pockets. "He won't let you escape. Not now."

"GET OUT!"

Dulce screamed through tears. Dakota paused—a flicker of something human in those dark, pearl-red eyes—before smiling again.

"If you want it the hard way, so be it. See you soon, my Doll. Eternity together will be... delightful."

Dulce slammed the door, sobbing, back sliding down the wood as her grandmother's frail voice asked what happened. She could only shake her head at this nightmare, helpless. Curled on the floor, arms around knees, she listened to her own wretched whimpers and the voices whispering she'd invited this—let him inside her, let him drain her blood from within, haunting her dreams like Lucifer cast down to walk among men. Her sins personified. Or just a folkloric monster claiming what it desired.

Then she remembered the old book her grandmother gave her at seven. Stumbling upstairs, she rummaged through a chest of forgotten dolls and baby clothes until she found the black-bound volume, its cover blank. Dust and yellowed paper filled her nostrils as she flipped past handwritten notes and drawings of demons, Mexican gods, herbs—until landing on a bat-human hybrid illustration. A caption in Spanish described these blood-drinking demons gifted with stolen human powers. Her fingers found the key passage: ‘To annihilate them: silver, wooden stakes through the heart, holy water, or garlic. Night creatures—sunlight burns them to ash.’

Another page held a fresher note:

‘If you've let this vampire inside you, know there's little left to do. He's claimed your soul. One word, and you'll kneel to his will.’

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

"Father, I swear this is the pure truth! I swear on my very soul!"

"Don't swear such solemn oaths in vain, child..."

"But Father—" Dulce stepped between the priest and the small candle-laden table he was illuminating. Outside, night gradually embraced the sky, bringing an unseasonably icy wind to the spring evening.

"—you must believe me! If demons truly exist, these creatures walk among us, claiming victims, and it falls to us to stop them somehow..."

"Child," the priest began, placing his hands on Dulce's shoulders with a reproachful look, "you haven't been reading too many of those penny dreadfuls, have you? Hmm? I thought your Dracula and Nosferatu phase ended last century - or at the very latest, the beginning of this one."

"Please, Father—"

"Look, if it will ease your mind," he said, gently pushing her aside to reach the candles while pulling a matchbox from his pocket, "kneel and pray. But be quick - we'll be closing the church soon."

Dulce looked at him with anguish in her eyes, realizing she had no real escape. Defeated, she sighed and nodded, receiving a relieved smile from the priest. She turned on her red heels and walked to the front pew where she knelt – at least within God's House, the demon couldn't enter. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands where her black-beaded rosary hung with its silver crucifix, her red lips moving in prayer as she felt the night's chill touch her exposed back through the square neckline of her red dress. She pulled the scarlet lace veil over her eyes, finding courage to face God behind closed lids. Then she began to pray, her heart trembling along with the small sounds of the priest moving about.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

A shiver ran down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. The priest muttered "Who could it be at this hour?" as he walked toward the entrance. Dulce slowly rose, her wide eyes peering through the lace veil's patterns at the old man opening the door to reveal a male figure holding an oil lamp, grinning broadly, dressed as a local farmer. His gruff voice was unmistakable:

"Father, I know it's late, but I need a word with you..."

"No..." Dulce's voice was faint as she stepped out from the pew. The confused priest looked at her while Remmick behind him flashed his most victorious smile, his irises gleaming at the scene unfolding before him. When the priest turned to him, Remmick's expression instantly transformed - a look of pity, of near-innocence that wasn't his. Remmick spoke:

"Father, I don't mean to disturb anyone. I only wish to hear some words of faith and kindness —I've been struggling terribly these past days..."

"Don't listen to him!"

"Dulce, please behave!" the old man scolded, looking at the woman standing before him before rolling his eyes and turning back to Remmick's suffering expression.

"My son, this isn't the best time to visit our church. Perhaps return tomorrow morning and I'll be delighted to receive you!" He smiled. For a brief moment Dulce breathed easier, lifting her veil to fully see the vampire-demon who now looked almost dumbfounded at the priest... then at her. His charismatic smile returned:

"Father! I'm just a humble worker needing God's word like any other. Forgive the hour, but in your position would Christ turn away any soul—" he shot Dulce a provocative look, "—not even one already condemned to Hell, right?"

He raised an eyebrow, convincingly. Dulce summoned her remaining courage to speak over the priest:

"Don't believe him! It's him - he's the demon who's been hunting me!"

"Now miss, forgive me if I'm not the handsomest man, but honestly such words offend me as a gentleman..." Remmick began, hiding a devilish smirk. "I may be many things, but a demon isn't one of them."

He glanced at the priest with a sideways smile. The priest looked at Dulce leaning against a pew, then at the man before him wearing the pitiful expression of an abandoned child. Defeated, he sighed and opened the door wider:

"How can I refuse my Christian duty to welcome all brothers?"

Remmick's victorious smile widened as he remained in the doorway. The priest gestured inside:

"Come in, my son."

"With pleasure."

Remmick stepped one foot across the threshold, then the other, relishing the horror on Dulce's face. The priest smiled warmly, putting an arm around the newcomer's shoulders to guide him down the aisle toward Dulce:

"Now, what troubles you, my son?"

"Many things, Father... many things," Remmick said, his burning eyes locked like fangs on Dulce's throat. He turned his face to the priest, stopping just steps from the woman: "Chief among them... a love denied. It breaks the heart. Wounds the pride."

"I see... Then we'll need time for—"

"You've no idea." Remmick's mouth stretched - not in a smile but in hunger. The priest barely had time to gasp before fangs tore into his throat, ripping flesh like rotten fabric. Blood sprayed as the old man choked on his own lifeblood before Dulce, who stood frozen, warm droplets hitting her face. A crimson pool reached her shoe tips, her own face reflected in the thick blood. Horror filled her expression - yet beneath it, a strange calm.

Remmick pulled away with a guttural sound, tilting his head back, mouth gaping to display bloodied fangs, the metallic liquid dripping down his chin, neck, staining his light blue button-up shirt and silver chain. He smiled in momentary ecstasy:

"Like devouring one of God's lambs! Delicious!" His red eyes dropped to Dulce as a serpentine tongue licked bloody teeth. "But not as sweet as you, darling!"

His lips curved in that uniquely charming, diabolical smile. His eyes burned, his nails now sharp claws, the blood on his face as natural as breathing - while breathing was becoming difficult for Dulce.

Remmick was Death's face - but also that of filthy, wet, unholy lust.

And he knew it. Like the serpent tempting Eve, he approached Dulce with slow steps, blood-drenched hands raised, a thick trail of saliva at his chin's corner, his rough voice proclaiming:

"We have much to discuss, Doll!"

"Why are you after me!?"

"Come now... I thought you understood my message." He cocked his head, smiling slyly as she stumbled backward toward the altar – Remmick utterly mesmerized by his prey. "I only wish to give you this world's finest offerings, Doll! No more suffering, no more unanswered prayers—I've come to save you, my love!" His voice was so soft, so sweet that for a moment, she paused, looking at him with mingled anguish and pity.

Now face to face, fang to fang, his breath was metallic yet cloyingly sweet, his scent thick with morbid death. But his eyes glittered so brightly they nearly resembled twilight sky. Without hesitation, he cradled her blood-smeared face in his stained hands:

"I can't love you as humans do, not anymore... But I can free you from all pain and show you flesh's pleasures, my dear. I can make you love me in life, and in your brief death, we'll share each other completely. Just let me possess you, and we'll become one. Equal. One flesh, one spirit."

His gaze was gentle, his hands caressing the face no other man had touched as Dulce felt all strength leaving her fragile body. The desire to flirt with this demon was primal, overwhelming. Even covered in blood, reeking of death, Remmick smiled kindly – almost benevolently – as one hand slid to her waist, pulling her close until their lips nearly touched, whispering in that invisible kiss that now became real:

"We'll be one, sharing memories, free in the night. Free. Dulce, in accepting me, you embrace your liberation."

Dulce wavered when he finally captured her lips. Strange. Her eyes stayed open to watch him as his tongue pushed between her clenched teeth – mixing his bloodied saliva with hers. She gripped his forearms, torn between pushing away and pulling closer, finally closing her eyes as her lips and teeth parted for his tongue – and his fangs that scratched hers. Metallic blood welled; he licked it, held her chin to catch the trickle from her mouth before returning to the wet kiss of blood and saliva, claiming her possessively. A guttural moan escaped him as he lifted her by the waist with unnatural ease, carrying her toward the altar.

In that moment Dulce already felt surrendered to the vampire, to this demon conducting her corruption ritual, letting herself be kissed as never before, touched with such desire. Even knowing it was the Devil himself kissing her. Remmick mounted the altar's three steps, setting Dulce down and breaking the kiss with a needy sound, smiling to see her dazed, hypnotized by their dance. He loomed over her again, now at her neck, licking the sensitive skin as Dulce gripped his hair, arching against the altar, craving more.

And he would give her exactly what they both desired.

Like an offering before God, Remmick laid her on the cold marble surface, sweeping aside altar items with one arm. Heavy thuds followed – flying pages, metallic clatters, something large hitting the floor. Dulce didn't care, intoxicated by the bloody kiss, wanting only him. Something in him called to her like water to the dying. Remmick kissed her again, nipping her lips, trailing down her neck while she fumbled with his suspenders, her hands undoing his shirt buttons one by one – though Remmick grew impatient between kisses:

"Excuse me, Doll." His right hand grabbed her dress front, tearing buttons open to free her breasts. Dulce gasped, cheeks burning with shame. Remmick tilted her face up:

"No need for modesty while I fuck you in this church, sweet— it would only waste time..." He smirked, not hiding his devilish grin. For a moment Dulce considered resisting: fighting tooth and nail for her soul, trying to kill the vampire, escape his claws now at her throat where bloodied lips kissed with unusual delicacy at her pulsing jugular. But she was too weak, too guilty for wanting this, and simply yielded. She pulled him into a fierce embrace, pressing her exposed breasts against him, whispering in his ear:

"Please, possess me. Take me completely and end this."

"Why rush, sweet? We'll go slowly... I'll take you very slowly—" Remmick whispered back, pausing his lascivious touches to stare into her trembling, tearful eyes - like a weeping Mary before her crucified son. He glanced up at Christ's statue watching them with empty eyes, smiling with sugar-melting sweetness: "—I promise you'll feel every bit of me corrupting you, my love. My Dolorous Dulce."

He laughed at her expression – surprise, fear, passion and pity radiating from her. His right hand slid from her throat between her breasts, fingers pressing, claws pricking the velvety skin as blood welled: "This is where I'll take all your pain."

Dulce nodded.

Closed her eyes, waiting.Her heart pounded so violently she felt it leaping toward the vampire's mouth, as if surrendering itself. She expected fangs tearing flesh, blood leaving her body, her soul escaping. Would Heaven forgive her sins? Memories flashed – a happy childhood with her more able yet devout grandmother in Guadalajara, street games with friends, Día de Muertos cemetery visits, homecooked meals... Then crossing into the United States, the sadness, how colorful life turned dusty and dull. Everything brightening when she met Dakota in a cornfield, their easy friendship born from her broken English. Her greatest treasure. Dakota. A lifetime. Now she saw Remmick standing hands in pockets, bloodied, smiling at some horizon... And when she let him in, he turned with an "Oh wow, now we're talking" grin – the Devil before the cross.

But she felt none of that. Instead came something physical, solid, penetrating.

Inside her, breaking barriers, wetness between her legs, her core clenching and pulsing. Opening dazed eyes amid memories and visions, she saw herself truly surrendered to this ritual slaughter – or was it corruption? Remmick was penetrating her. Profane union that should wait for marriage, this spiritual wedding where the demon claimed her soul. Dulce gripped his shoulders, guilty pleasure taking her as he thrust, bestial groans coming from his throat while she clung to him, moaning prayers, thinking nothing. Burning. Her soul burned, her chest ached, her sex was aflame. Fire. Blood. Saliva.

Remmick drove into her, slow, feeling every part of her accept then expel him – a human pleasure he rarely shared; he preferred blood's taste, being a vampire who hunted for it, the bizarre pleasure of seduction and death. But here, in this carnal joining of human and vampire, he thought little. Only of possession. Claiming innocence, genuineness, purity. Virginal blood. Dulce neared that same sensation from her dream; this time she touched his face. Remmick felt her hands, meeting sweet eyes, dilated pupils, parted lips, her breath ragged, voice a thread:

"Don't stop."

Remmick thrust deep, pulling her closer. Her dragged-out moan met his rough voice: "Never an option, darling."

He looked down where her torn dress revealed her seminude body, cotton panties pushed aside, his cock glistening between her legs. He withdrew slowly, then sank back in. In and out, watching her writhe, beg quietly for more, deeper. Her exposed throat so fragile and tempting. Delicious. His mouth watered. Her breasts still bore his claw marks, everything inviting him to pierce her with fangs and venom.

He leaned down slowly, mouth open and salivating to bite her while thrusting deep, aiming for a fatal strike between her breasts–- but stopped. His cock twitched, clenched, his mind emptied and briefly – he felt human. Floating in dark skies, resting his head where her heart pounded and chest rose with ragged breaths. Where life he hadn't known in ages existed. Dazed, Dulce went limp in his arms, lying back on the altar, feeling like an offering to Remmick who collapsed atop her, still joined. They stayed in strange intimacy for minutes feeling like eternity until he finally stirred, met her eyes, and burned, his hand over her heart, voice low:

"I won't take you now. Only your pure blood, already corrupted by me... And soon I'll save you from all pain."

Dulce was beside herself, staring at the upside-down Christ statue, torn between laughing at her desecration and weeping for her easy surrender. Weak flesh, corrupted soul. She felt him withdraw from inside her, emptiness, then something cold and wet making her shiver – Remmick knelt before her, licking her sex. Symbolic virginal blood. Swallowing what her parents so valued, claiming her innocence before morality with such hunger – and she gave it with a small smile.

She closed her eyes, relaxed.

Darkness took everything, and she was grateful.

Perhaps now she'd have peace – some freedom in those shadows. Embracing them smiling, body bleeding and soul in fragments.

𝔉𝔬𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔯 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰: aaah, the sins of the flesh... in the end, Remmick claimed his prize—or so he believes. BUT Dulce? her fate dangles like a thorned rose. we’ll witness the final act. god, the corruption was perfect—visceral, morally murky, drenched in symbolism. unholy, yet irresistible." 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔊𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔞𝔯𝔶: "¿Qué quieres, abuela?": "What do you want, grandma?" "Tú... tú lo dejaste entrar…": "You... you let him in..." "¿Qué quieres decir con eso, abuela? ¡No dejo entrar a nadie aquí, y mucho menos a ningún hombre!": "What do you mean by that, grandma? I don't let anyone in here, much less any man!" "¡Brujas! ¡Brujas! ¡Brujas!": "Witches! Witches! Witches!" "Por Cristo misericordioso! Espero que estejamos protegidos em Vossa segurança…" : "For the merciful Christ! I hope we are protected in your safety…" "o holy night, mystic perfume, the whispered prayer of my passion— seal my songs into a chorus as I went, in sacred slumber, to stir my beloved. (pale moon, lydia mendonza)"

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱

#[★] zstartrixxx #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #remmick × oc #remmick x oc #remmick fanfic #jack o'connell fanfic #sinners fanfic

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