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fawniswriting · 2 months ago

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After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time.

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become.

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action.

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand.

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on.

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent.

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth.

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs.

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin.

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard.

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground.

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.”

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation.

However, between every swift kick and precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red.

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle.

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.”

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe.

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.”

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind.

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes.

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that.

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat.

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips.

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…”

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here? Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice.

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend.

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it?

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered.

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.”

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

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burntoutdaydreamer · 2 years ago

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Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

#writing #creative writing #writer problems #writing advice #writing community #writing a book #writing problems #novel writing #on writing #writing tips #writing help #writers on tumblr #writers block #female writers #writers of tumblr #writers blog #adhd writer

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jaggedamethyst · 3 months ago

Text

not in that way (part two)

bucky barnes x fwb!reader

content: as both of your best friends, steve tries to get you and bucky to bond

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut in an elevator, fingering (r!receiving), discreet, mutual pining, angst, not proofread I'm lazy and tired

notes: thank you guys for the response to the first part...what the fuck?? everything i write for bucky goes insane and i didn't think people wanted more but i got too many messages not to keep writing for him.

ps: wanted to post this tonight… so it may not be seamless, but i will edit when im fully awake bc im half asleep rn

series master list

。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆　。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆

The next time you saw Bucky was the following day. He was seated next to Steve as the pair of them lounged in the grass at a park near your house. Steve and you came here a lot—him making a reason to escape Avengers duty and you simply living within walking distance.

“Hi.” You offered an awkward wave to the men, sitting down on the throw blanket they’d laid in the grass.

While Steve greeted you, Bucky hardly acknowledged your presence, averting his eyes to watch his friend next to him. Steve dug into a bag beside him and pulled out a few small notebooks. One of them was noticeably more worn; you recognized it as his own sketchbook.

In his free time since being off ice, Steve found solace in drawing the world around him. Between each image would linger small lists of to-dos, figures of speech he had to know, and bucket list items he hoped to complete one day. He was almost finished with this one, keeping it on him to use at his leisure. He wanted to offer the experience to you both as well, his best friends.

“I got you these,” Steve passed you and Bucky each a book. “I also have some of my favorite pencils here.” He grabbed a handful and let them fall in front of you. “Whenever I’m feeling...overwhelmed or anxious, I just,” he exhaled a deep breath, “I just put something in here. It helps.”

You and Bucky watched him intently, nodding at his explanation.

He continued, “We don’t have to talk—you guys don’t have to…but maybe we could just do this together?”

“I’d like that.” You spoke first, grabbing a few of the pencils and an eraser.

“Me too.”

Bucky spoke. It was low and filled with apprehension, like he was testing the waters of what it was like to use his own voice. You whipped your head to him at the sound, arching your brow as his covered hands reached for a book and pencil. He sat for a while, though, just looking between you and Steve without putting anything down.

As time passed, you chuckled at your paper a bit, drawing a rough picture of Steve’s concentrated face. He was quite fond of birds, you realized, and he would often draw them. Their presence was fleeting, and he loved that challenge, the idea that one moment they could be here and the next gone. It was similar to life in that way, how the people he loved most would be with him and then not.

The greatest joys of his life were when a bird would return, perched on the ground in front of him. He found that his life, in particular, was like that. Just when he thought Bucky was really gone, he came back. He was able to finish his drawing now, and you were an amazing addition to the artwork.

“So,” Steve clasped his hands together, “Who wants to show theirs off?”

You perked up and excitedly flipped yours with a laugh, pointing to Steve’s upturned face in the sketch.

He immediately laughed and snatched your book, eyeing the scratch before looking up at you. “No way we sat here for an hour and you drew me in your book.”

“Believe it,” you shrugged, “I’m an artist.”

Steve scoffed playfully before tossing the book back to you with a light underhand throw. “What about you, Buck?”

He’d been into it by then. You weren’t sure when he started to actually draw, but he wouldn’t look away. His brows were pinched, and he pulled at the inner skin of his cheek in concentration. You and Steve exchanged a look when he didn’t reply.

Steve outstretched a hand toward the book, “Bucky-“ The harsh movement of Bucky pulling his work back toward his chest cut Steve off—he held his hands up in a surrender. “Sorry, buddy. You okay?”

“I’m good just…got kind of invested.”

You nodded, observing the way Bucky still clutched the book. “It’s really relaxing Steve. This was a great idea. Right, Bucky?”

“Right.” He looked between you and Steve before closing the small book and tucking it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He moved to stand suddenly backing toward the road, “I’ll be in the car when you guys are done.”

He was always like this, pushed people away.

Steve looked to you when Bucky was out of earshot. “Did I say something?” The look on his face was one of pure confusion and concern.

“Maybe we shouldn’t push it. At least he actually put pencil to paper, you know?”

“You’re right—this is sort of a milestone if you think about it.”

“I agree, big step for him.”

On the way back to the tower you let your mind be on Bucky again—the way he so quickly let the good moments be pushed away by whatever small thing bothered him.

There wasn’t much talking as the group of you got into the elevator, save for Steve making a last-ditch effort to get you and Bucky to talk again.

“I have a few things to do, but feel free to wait around, and we can hang out again later.” He stood facing the elevator's closed doors with the stoicism he always had.

Neither you nor Bucky spoke as Steve stepped out of the elevator—his words seeming like an order rather than a random comment. He had that authoritative way about him.

A few seconds after, the doors shut and allowed the cart to spring into action. It made you wobble a bit, the startling movement making you both off-balance briefly.

When he regained his composure, Bucky finally spoke, glancing over at you. “Today was a good day.” His voice was filled with unease, not having had a moment alone with you since the day prior.

You nodded. “It was. I had fun.” It was fine, entertaining the small talk. “You have fun?”

He looked over to you as the tension he’d been holding slowly dissipated—you had that effect on him. Bucky was instead filled with nerves as your eyes rested on him. His lips parted to speak in response, but he couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him so fondly, actually interested in whether or not he enjoyed himself.

All he could muster was a tight nod, assuring you that he had enjoyed himself, before looking ahead to the elevator doors. Then they jolted again, this time stopping abruptly at the pull of the emergency stop button.

He looked over at you again but this time in confusion, concern even. “What are you doing?”

“Why are you being weird?” You tucked yourself into the corner, covering the button so he couldn’t try to leave. You knew, of course, that had he tried he'd be out of here faster than you could even process. But the fact that he hadn’t moved an inch said enough to you.

“I’m not. I’m being normal-“

“Normal for you isn’t…whatever this is.” You looked him up and down, “You’re more—more reserved, methodical. You’re not a jittery person, Bucky.”

He let out an amused scoff. “I’m only jittery because we’re stuck in an elevator. I'm claustrophobic.”

“You could get out and you know that.” You crossed your arms, “You just don’t want to.”

“That’s not it-“

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Move me.” You stepped off the wall and inched closer to him. “Move me out the way and press the button.”

He swallowed but didn’t move—like you expected. Suddenly, you broke the eye contact. He watched you turn and push the red knob back into place.

As the metal box started to move again you scoffed at him, purposely avoiding eye contact. His breathing sped up, suddenly enticed to prove you so extremely right.

“Fuck it,” he grabbed your hip with a single had a let his lips fall onto yours. He’d simultaneously pulled the button with a free hand, distracting you by how eagerly he’d started kissing you.

The startling jolt of the elevator and Bucky combined sent you back into the side wall, colliding with the long bar with a hiss. Bucky didn’t stop, swallowing the sound with his own mouth on yours. He was needy, pressing his tongue into and through your lips. He’d waited so long for this, and it was absolutely worth it.

You were completely insatiable. You let Bucky use you, a fondness for the feeling now. The both of you moaned into each other, carelessly wrapping yourselves in one another. You snaked your hands up to his face, pulling him in impossibly closer. You could feel his stubble on your face, suddenly smiling at the burn you’d have between your thighs with him settled there. He felt your smirk and pulled away to look at you.

Buck smirked, too. You were in a daze, swaying on your feet as your eyes pulled back into focus.

He watched you leaned into the wall, lowering his head. The layered top of his hair fell over, covering your view of his beautiful face. He stayed looking down but spoke in a low tone, “Take off your pants.”

“Make. Me.” You smiled, repeating yourself slowly.

He made a show of lifting his head and letting his hair settle back into place. He was in that damn jacket again, always was. You stayed watching him, tilting your head in amusement as he shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor. Even slower, he took off his gloves. You’d never even actually seen both his hands, only hearing of the metal arm that rested beneath his clothing.

He let his hand flex in front of you, gulping at how quickly he’d decided to show you this part of himself. Bucky didn’t think twice, actually, completely motivated by the opportunity to be close to you. He kept eye contact, hands on his hips and moving forward until your chests met.

“I have no problem taking matters into my own hands.” With that he simply moved a hand to your pants button. You could tell he was proud, bobbing his head lightly at the way he could so easily strip you without even looking away from your face. You cracked a smile at the way he slid your clothes off, leaving you bare on the bottom. He let you slip your shoes off too, still chest to chest.

He kept looking at you, spreading your legs with his thigh. He ignored the way you were dripping, sliding one of your legs up onto his waist. He kept his grip there, firmly holding you.

“Don’t move, I got you.”

He slipped two fingers into you slowly, pumping in and out at a torturous pace that immediately had your jaw dropping. The sight of you unraveling was amazing and he kept his eyes locked with yours until they fluttered shut.

You felt helpless, completely entranced by his fingers rubbing your walls. Your breaths came out ragged, “We just—we don’t tell him okay?” You shook your head, eyes opening slightly at Bucky.

“Mhm, yeah…no Steve.” Bucky looked at you, eyebrows pinched and whimpering. “It’s nothing-“

“Right.” You moaned between each word now, bouncing with his harsh movement. “Nothing.”

He kept going, speeding up at the squelching sounds that were now like music to his ears. He could tell you were struggling, teetering on the edge every few seconds but not quite exploding. The continuous heat made it feel like you could pop at any moment. It was too good. He was too good. It felt cliche to let this overtake what was blossoming for you both—the transition from acquaintance to friend.

But you couldn’t help it.

You’d been holding onto the bar on the wall, but the position was a lot. As he pressed into you over and over, you started to lose balance, hardly standing on the toes of one foot. He kept going even as you shook. He felt your body sliding, hardly keeping yourself up anymore. Your hand fell to the side and accidentally highlighted over a cluster of the floor buttons, illuminating them in an irregular pattern.

Bucky chuckled but quickly readjusted without missing a beat. He nudged your body into his arm more, completely holding you up with ease now. You felt like a ragdoll, and it reminded you so quickly of the sheer strength of the man that was in you now. You could tell with his hand jacking into you regardless, the flesh of him flexing into you so tastefully.

He suddenly stopped, slipping out of you as you gripped his neck for more leverage. He again moved you with ease, putting you into his right arm now. His head tilted, ready to see your reaction to his metal hand filling you.

You gasped at the cooled tips of his fingers teasing your hole, just barely entering before he pulled back out. He could tell you were sensitive now and savored it, only letting you feel him when you calmed down from his slow pumps before.

He let you whine like this for a bit longer before adding a finger, surprising you with three fingers ramming into you. He was completely soulless about it now, mouth agape at the way your body reacted. He knew you were close and urged you on.

“Doing so good.” He nodded. “You gonna come soon?” His tone was almost mocking, your condition evident. Suddenly, you snapped, head falling into his neck.

“Yes, yes, yes…” You couldn’t help but repeat to yourself, whispering through the writhes into his palm.

Your hips rolled, and he met you with a soft kiss into your temple. You slowed, then, coming down from the intensity of the ordeal.

You breathed into him without a word, smirking at the man in from of you. Bucky let you down, grabbing your pants for you and sliding them onto your now wobbling legs. He nudged your shoes with his feet before kneeling down and sliding them on, patting your leg when he was done. You were in another world, only slipping back to him at the sound of the elevator returning to motion.

You let out a laugh at the elevator slowly stopping on a random assortment of floors. At a higher one, Bucky finally stepped off, turning back to look at you for a second. You hadn’t expected anything more; he was often wordless, and he proved you right the night before…when he left so carelessly.

“You coming?”

With a ding, the elevator doors slowly moved to close. Through them, you watched Bucky, standing and looking at you expectedly. “Just did, actually.”

He choked at that but jerked forward, putting a hand between to doors to stop them. “So, is that a yes?” He tilted his head back, “Maybe watch a movie or something?”

You intended to head home at first, not expecting him to extend this hand. This wasn’t like him—his usual closed-off self. Admittedly, you enjoyed this better. He now had a willingness that never was there before. It was jarring—the way he seemed to do a 180 from last night.

You reasoned that maybe you could enjoy yourself and finally be the friend Steve needed you to be—to love his friend the way he did so many years ago. For Bucky, it was grasping at straws; he wanted to keep you around in any way he could. He would never be Steve—could never be the image of a perfect man that you deserved.

We’re better as friends.

He repeated the mantra in his mind, affirming himself despite part of him saying otherwise. He could stand to be this with you, friends with something more every once in a while. Hell, every day if you let him. He settled so you wouldn’t have to. You didn’t deserve someone like him, an undeniable shroud of darkness that clouded over your blinding light.

“You know what, why the hell not?” You stepped off the elevator cart and brushed by the man. “I get to pick the movie though.”

“‘Course, doll.”

part three

tag list (click to request to be tagged, please read tag list rules)

@crookedtimetravelheart @wintercrows @rimunagenius @gorgeouslylethal @taylormobley @fan4astic @chimchoom @lilulo-12 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @hrlzy @foxinthestreet98 @lostinspace33 @royallykt @sleepysongbirdsings @pickuptruck01 @unclearblur @mrsalexstan @akiyhara @spaceconveyor @winchestert101 @chinggay85-blog @misschicl3 @bbyboyycal @aurafite @scott-loki-barnes @the-sylver-dragon @bxtchboy69 @mrsnikstan @lilbloggs @ana-cxst @regics @oceanaroma @milaer @lexavalon052 @anonymously-buckys @maryevm @blazeflays @p1nkgirly333 @antiartemis @abitofblues @a-century-of-sass @mindsofjade @jumpingjackalope @smalland-angry @slasherbuck @nicolebarnes @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @bonnyclydecat @coutureisart

(for some of you it may not let me tag, check ur settings or if anyone has advice on how to fix it lmk!!)

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serxa · 4 months ago

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TELEMACHUS HEADCANONS — TWO — NSFW and SFW

General headcanons

This is just how he is when he's crushing on reader hdjfksjdh

Again, divider before the nsfw stuff

SFW

Crushing

- He would definitely find a reason to go around the kingdom just to look for you.

- Would definitely be so excited if he see's you in the kingdom's events and festivals that's held in the palace.

- When you first met near the palace, he was such a stuttering mess as he tried to ask what you were doing there. This like "Yeah-! I'm.. Pffsh, I've been here alot!" Which you thought was funny because he was being obvious.

- Would let you drag him anywhere in the kingdom, especially by the sea side, as long as he's with you.

- Whenever you two watch the sunset, he'd watch you instead. But quickly turn away when you look over at him, trying to be discreet.

- Didn't know you were oblivious to his feelings, that's why he tried to many times to make you see he likes you.

- Yet you still thought you were out for his league, that's why you kept denying it.

- The first time you complimented him with a simple, "that color suits you!" He turns into a stuttering mess.

- Ever since that compliment, he wore that color almost everyday, making his servants wash the cloth so he could wear it again.

- Little things he liked to do was help you put on your brooch. Sometimes you want to wear your chiton in a way it almost hugs your body, but not too much, so he gave you a cute little brooch that was metal leaf, and since you couldn't reach your back as well enough, he helps you fix it.

- Just a simple, "Telemachus, could you help me with something?" He would immediately rush towards you, saying yes without even knowing what you want him to do.

- Asked Athena LOAADS of times, how to confess to you.

- And Athena said over and over, "I'm not Aphrodite."

- Telemachus would ask about your hobbies and immediately start learning about them so he could relate to you on a certain level.

- Whenever he does do them, you get warm inside because he's committing to what you like.

- Would be a sucker and learn to paint just to paint you.

- Spoiler alert, he managed to learn with the help of his mother.

- There was a time when he couldn't get his feelings straight, he started to fully avoid you, not inviting you to the palace anymore, not meeting you at the side of the palace, to the point you just thought he didn't enjoy your company, so you stopped going also.

- When he noticed that you didn't try to talk to him, he immediately missed your presence and rushed towards the kingdom to find you.

- When he did, he apologized so many times, almost going on his knees on that point.

- He's just really sorry that he stopped talking to you without an explanation.

- That was also when he accidentally said, "You just kept ignoring my signs, and I thought you didn't like me, but in reality, I'm in love with you, Y/n!" Not being able to control his emotions.

- Was so happy he started to cry on your stomach when you told him you felt the same.

NSFW

- Definitely had so many wet dreams about you, to the point he's embarrassed to have a sleep over with you

- he once accidentally saw you bathing in the river where you two meet up in the forest sometimes, and he implemented that image in his head and masterbated to.

- Never told you about that since he was embarrassed, but whenever he felt needy while he was with you, he would start remembering wmehat your body looked like nude.

- He would definitely sketch you nude when you're not around, and hides it form Athena and his mother, cause of course, inappropriate.

- One Wet dream, he was moaning softly in his sleep, to the point Penelope had to knock on his door to see if he was doing the tango.

I'm sorry for my other followers that want my other works like creepypasta, I'm still in my epic the musical high🙌

#epic the musical #telemachus epic the musical #telemachus x reader #telemachus #telephone #telemachus epic the musical x reader #telemachus Headcanons #𝄞♩♪serxa posts

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manmuncher777 · 2 months ago

Note

hihi love your work in filthy with dante! wondering if I could request a tattoo artist!dante x fem reader? no specific request other than pure filth :))

excited to see what you cook up!! >;)

Hello my love!!! Thank you so much im so glad you liked it, and of course I can!! When I tell you I had so much fun writing this. I hope you enjoy xxx

FIRST TIME

Dante Sparda x reader SMUT MDNI

You were already regretting wearing a short skirt.

The leather of the couch stuck to the back of your thighs as you shifted, trying to sit like a normal, composed adult while he leaned back behind the counter, spinning a pen between his fingers like he had all the time in the world.

Dante Sparda.

He wasn’t what you expected when you called the studio asking for an appointment. The rough, husky voice on the phone matched the image in your head—sure—but seeing him in person? Way worse. Or better. Depending on how many brain cells you had left to rub together.

Silver hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. A cigarette behind one ear. Tattoos peeking out from the open collar of his black button-up. One ring on his thumb, one on his pinky, and a cocky smile that was probably illegal in several countries.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice like velvet-coated sin. “What are we thinkin’? Name? Flower? Something cute to match the lip gloss?”

You blinked, nearly choking on your spit. “Um—wha—no. Not a name. It’s… it’s just a little symbol. Something small. Meaningful.”

“Mysterious.” He grinned, sliding a notepad toward you, long fingers brushing yours. “Show me what you’re thinkin’.”

You handed him your shitty sketch, and he nodded like it wasn’t the most amateur thing he’d ever seen. His thumb dragged slowly along the edge of the paper, gaze flicking from the design to your bare thigh as you tried not to fidget.

“Inner thigh, huh?” he asked, like he already knew the answer. “Pretty bold placement for your first.”

You swallowed. “I wanted it… close. Private.”

“Mm.” His smile widened, eyes sharp beneath those lashes. “Let me guess—you like the thrill. Somethin’ that gets your heart racin’. Little danger, little pleasure.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out except a breathy “maybe.”

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, all inked arms and hungry eyes.

“Come in tomorrow night,” he said, tone lower now. “After hours. We’ll get it just right. Take our time.”

Your heart skipped. “After hours?”

“Sure. You’ll be my last of the day.” His eyes dropped to your legs, a glint in them you couldn’t ignore. “I like takin’ my time with pretty things.”

You left the studio twenty minutes later, heart pounding, thighs pressed tight, and your name scribbled in black ink on the studio calendar.

Friday, 8 PM. Dante—after hours.

You already knew this tattoo would ruin you.

The bell above the studio door jingled softly as you stepped inside, your sandals clicking against the worn hardwood. The place was dim, cozy—lit mostly by warm overhead lights and the glow of a neon devil sign hanging in the corner. The air smelled like clean leather and something smoky, something expensive.

“Evenin’, sweetheart.”

Dante’s voice floated from the back room before he even appeared. You barely had a second to prepare before he stepped out, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap. His black tee clung to him like a second skin, revealing the sharp cut of his torso, and his silver hair was messy in the artfully fucked-up kind of way.

“Y-you’re here alone?” you asked, setting your bag down on the little couch in the corner.

He smirked, locking the door behind you with a loud click. “Course. Told you this was a private session. You nervous, princess?”

Your stomach flipped.

“A little,” you admitted, smoothing your hands over the hem of your skirt. It was too short. You knew that. But you also knew exactly what you were doing.

Dante’s gaze dropped for a second—slow, deliberate—before he turned and headed for his station. “That’s normal. I’ll take good care of you.”

You swallowed hard, watching him move around the space with lazy confidence, setting up the machine, pulling out fresh needles, arranging the ink caps. He whistled as he worked, glancing over at you every so often.

“You bring the design?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping over and handing him the refined sketch he’d drawn up at the consultation. Your fingers brushed, just for a second, and his eyes caught yours with that same sharp, hungry glint.

“Perfect,” he murmured, lips curling. “Let’s get that stencil prepped.”

He took his time, dragging the design through transfer paper, swiping alcohol onto the inside of your thigh where the tattoo would go. His fingers were warm, gloved, but the touch was intimate—his thumb lingering longer than necessary as he looked up at you from his crouched position.

“This okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, heartbeat rattling in your ears. “Yeah. Just… sensitive there.”

“Mm. Lucky me.” He smirked again, standing back up and tossing the stencil paper to the side. “Lay back when you’re ready. Won’t bite.”

You weren’t so sure about that.

As you climbed onto the chair, lying back with your leg bent open just enough for him to work, you caught his gaze flicking back to your mouth, your throat, your thighs.

And when he leaned in with the stencil, brushing it carefully onto your skin, he whispered, “Gotta keep real still for me now, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna mess up my art.”

The air crackled with tension. Every breath felt too loud. And you knew—deep down—you were already in so much trouble.

You laid back on the leather chair, thigh slightly turned to give him access, breath catching as Dante sat between your legs, gloves snapping on with a smirk that sent heat straight to your core.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, flipping the machine on. The low buzz filled the room, making your spine tighten.

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, trying to look anywhere but at his face. His stupidly hot, sharp-jawed, half-lidded face.

“You’re doing good already, and I haven’t even touched you,” he chuckled, eyes dropping to your thigh. “This’ll sting at first, but I promise I’ll make it quick and clean.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Your heart thudded, and not just from nerves. The position—the way his body brushed against your knee as he leaned in, how his breath ghosted over your skin, how close his hands were to everything dangerous—was making it impossible to breathe.

And then—

The needle pressed in.

Your fingers clenched the edges of the chair as the buzz crawled up your leg. It wasn’t unbearable. But it wasn’t nothing, either. Especially not with the way Dante was holding you still, his free hand firm on your thigh, palm wide and warm.

“There we go,” he said, voice lower now, something smooth sliding beneath it. “Takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ. Told you you’d be perfect for me.”

A whimper crawled up your throat—choked down fast.

The buzz continued, dancing over your skin in a steady rhythm. Every time he shifted, every time his arm brushed your leg, you felt it. The vibrations weren’t just in your thigh now. They traveled. Warm. Deep. Aching.

“You’re shivering,” he noted after a minute, tilting his head without pausing his work. “That nervous still?”

You opened your mouth—yes, that was the safe answer—but he cut you off with a quiet hum, like he already knew.

His fingers tightened just slightly on your skin.

“Feels kinda good though, doesn’t it?” he murmured, not looking up. “Little vibration. Little pain. You’re squeezin’ that seat like I’m doin’ something worse.”

Your face flamed. “I-I’m fine,” you lied, breath coming quick.

Dante smiled lazily, tongue grazing his teeth as he glanced up at you. “Mmm. Sure you are.”

The machine kept buzzing. His hands never stopped. But now he was watching you more than the stencil, gauging every flutter of your lashes, every sharp breath, every twitch of your thighs.

And beneath it all, that cocky, teasing glint stayed in his eyes—like he knew.

Like he knew exactly how wet you were getting from this.

The buzzing finally stopped, leaving the room in a heavy, weighted silence. Your pulse still throbbed in your thighs, heart hammering in your chest as Dante leaned back to admire his work, tongue pressed to his cheek in approval.

“You killed it, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick, like he’d just smoked you in.

You tried to nod, tried to offer a smile, but your brain was swimming. You could still feel the echo of the vibrations deep between your legs. Still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel how close he’d gotten—how close he still was.

Dante set the machine down and reached for the wrap, leaning back in. His gloved fingers skimmed your inner thigh, brushing just a little too high on accident—or maybe not.

But it was enough.

You gasped. Sharp. Involuntary. A pathetic little moan bubbling out before you could swallow it.

And everything snapped.

Dante froze.

Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours. They were darker now. Hungrier. “…You moaned.”

Your lips parted, embarrassment flooding your face. “I didn’t—”

“Yeah you did,” he said, voice low, velvet-smooth and wicked. He stood, peeled off his gloves, and let them drop to the tray with a quiet snap. “You’ve been squirming in that chair for the past hour. I thought maybe you were just a little sensitive.”

He stepped closer.

“But now I know,” he murmured, hand coming to grip the edge of the chair beside your head as he leaned over you, “you’ve been dripping wet this whole time, haven’t you?”

You whimpered, back arching slightly.

His other hand trailed up your exposed thigh again, this time deliberate. Confident. Claiming.

“Jesus,” he hissed through his teeth when his fingers brushed the damp cotton between your legs. “You’re soaked.”

Your hands flew to his chest, but not to push him away. You tugged him closer, thighs parting instinctively.

“You gonna let me fuck you right here in this chair, baby?” he asked, nose brushing your cheek. “That what you’ve been wanting?”

You nodded fast—shameless, frantic.

Dante groaned, his mouth crashing to yours. His hands were rough now, hungry, pulling at the waistband of your skirt, yanking it down as you kicked your sneakers off the sides of the chair.

“Could’ve told me earlier,” he growled against your lips. “Would’ve had you sittin’ on my cock while I tattooed you.”

He dropped to his knees, dragged your panties down with his teeth, eyes locked on your soaked core. “Fuck. Pink little pussy—so pretty for me.”

Your fingers gripped the back of the chair, breath ragged. “Dante—”

He didn’t let you speak. He buried his face between your thighs, tongue working you over with such filthy, open-mouthed hunger that your head hit the leather with a loud thud. It was messy, wet, his stubble scraping your skin just right as his hands gripped your thighs like a man starved.

And when he finally stood again, licking his lips, undoing his belt?

You already knew you weren’t walking out of that shop without at least one more mark on your body—and it wasn’t going to be the tattoo.

The chair scraped behind you as Dante grabbed your waist and spun you around like you weighed nothing. Before you could catch your breath, he had you bent over the workbench—palms flat on the cold steel, tits pressing into scattered ink caps and a few loose sketch pages.

“Don’t move,” he said, voice a rasp just above a growl.

You didn’t even breathe. His hand slid up your spine, slow, rough, until he was fisting your hair and pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“God, look at you… still twitchin’ from the tattoo and now I got you bent over my fuckin’ table like a goddamn reward.”

You moaned, clenching around nothing.

Your skirt was already gone. Your panties? Still hanging off one ankle like some pathetic afterthought. And Dante didn’t bother taking his jeans all the way off—just enough to free his cock, heavy and leaking as he dragged it between your folds with a low hiss.

“You feel that?” he muttered, rubbing the head right against your soaked entrance. “How fuckin’ needy you are for it?”

“Please,” you gasped, the word cracking on your tongue.

“Yeah, baby? You want it that bad?” He pressed in—just the tip—and then pulled back, just to make you wail. “Then beg for it.”

“Dante, I—I need it, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, slapping your ass so hard it echoed off the brick walls. “You’ve been dripping for me since I turned the machine on. You can take every inch.”

And then he slammed into you.

Your cry was ragged, face twisted against the steel as he buried himself to the hilt, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other stayed tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, baby—tight little thing, grippin’ me like you own me.”

He started to move, and it was vicious. Deep, punishing thrusts that shoved the table an inch every time he bottomed out. The slap of skin was obscene. The sound of you whining his name? Even worse.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty bent over my bench like this,” Dante panted, hips snapping. “Makin’ a fuckin’ mess on my floor—gonna have to mop it up later.”

You sobbed, arching, body trembling from overstimulation and pleasure so intense it hurt.

And then his hand slid down. Fingers found your clit, rubbing fast, and you nearly collapsed.

“Yeah,” he hissed, “that’s it, baby. Come for me. All over my cock. Right here, where anyone could walk in and see you bein’ such a good little slut.”

You shattered.

Legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream as you came around him, thighs soaked and body limp—but Dante didn’t stop. He chased his own release, slamming into you harder, filth pouring from his mouth.

“Gonna fuck you stupid—gonna ruin that new tattoo—god fuck, I’m close—”

And with a low growl, he came deep inside you, holding you down to the workbench as he pulsed, cock twitching, breath hot against your neck.

For a long second, there was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and tattoo ink bottles rattling from the aftershocks.

Then his lips pressed to your ear.

“So… when you comin’ back for your second piece, sweetheart?”

#dante sparda x you #dante sparda x reader #dante smut #dante sparda smut #dmc dante #dante devil may cry #dante sparda #dante #dante x reader #devil may cry smut #devil may cry #dmc netflix #dmc #dmc anime #dmc smut

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hyunjinsmuze · 1 month ago

Text

Forget Me, Gently

warnings: Slight smut (one scene), car crash, head trauma, coma, memory loss

contains: Angst, light smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft romance

summary: They fell in love deeply, messily, completely. But after the crash… she forgot. And he’s willing to love her all over again, even if it breaks him.

words: 5.5k

pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

It was the sort of afternoon that hung in the air like a held breath—cloud-filtered sunlight and the faint scent of cinnamon and roasted beans drifting through the small café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. Y/N liked this one for its quiet corners and how the baristas never tried to rush you, even when you spent three hours rereading the same page of a sketchbook. The café was warm, lived-in, imperfect in the way real places are. Familiar.

She didn’t notice him at first. Not until the crash happened.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Her world jolted. The warmth of her just-bought vanilla latte spread across the front of her hoodie, soaking through in seconds. She gasped, startled more than anything, blinking up at the tall figure before her. He looked horrified. Apologetic. And annoyingly… beautiful.

“I didn’t see you, seriously, I’m so sorry.” He grabbed too many napkins, probably, but pressed a few into her hands with a desperation that almost made her laugh.

“I—it’s okay,” she said, more out of instinct than truth. “It was an accident.”

He nodded quickly, eyes scanning the mess he’d made, the liquid soaking into her sketchbook on the table. That made her flinch.

“Oh—your book,” he said, frowning like he’d just watched a kitten fall off a windowsill. “God, I’ll replace it. I swear, I’ll, can I… buy you another coffee?”

She raised an eyebrow, half amused. “You want to repay me by getting me another coffee after ruining my first one?”

A beat passed. His lips twitched into a crooked smile. “And I’ll even sit with you while you drink it. If you let me.”

She looked at him properly now—tall, fair-skinned, with soft dark eyes and a mouth that looked like it belonged in a painting. Something about him was too delicate to be real but not fragile. No, not fragile. Something else. Like art that knew it was meant to be looked at slowly.

“I’m Y/N,” she said, voice lighter than she expected.

He smiled. “Hyunjin.”

“Okay, Hyunjin. You’re forgiven. Buy me coffee.”

They stood in line together. Her hoodie was ruined, the sketchbook damp, her day derailed but she couldn’t quite stop the curl of interest low in her stomach. He had this way of being intensely present, even in silence.

As they waited, he glanced at her, then at her sketchbook. “Do you draw?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly for myself.”

A soft hum. “I paint. A little.”

Her heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “mostly oils or charcoal. But I’ve never really shown anyone. It’s more of a… thing I do to breathe.”

She nodded like she understood. Because she did.

When their drinks arrived, Hyunjin’s phone buzzed. He winced. “I have to be somewhere, but… can I text you? Maybe make up for the sketchbook with a proper coffee?”

She hesitated—only a little before handing him her phone.

He grinned as he typed, “See you.”

And just like that, he was gone, a gust of spring air with a paint-stained soul.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

It had been a few days since that unexpected moment, the spilled coffee, the nervous apologies, the way his eyes had looked at her like she was something fragile and important all at once. Y/N found herself replaying it over and over, the image of him lingering in her mind more vividly than anything she’d seen in weeks.

The little café had become more than just a quiet refuge; it now held the echo of his voice, the warmth of his smile. Even the smell of cinnamon and roasted beans seemed to carry a new meaning, as if the ordinary had somehow become extraordinary.

She was sketching there again when her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. She glanced down, not expecting much. But then she saw the name.

Hyunjin.

A sudden flutter warmed her chest. Her fingers hesitated, then she tapped out a reply, the simple act feeling like a bridge stretching between two worlds.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

His answer came quickly, and she felt her heart lift.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’

She blinked at the screen, a small smile playing on her lips.

‘What’s up?’

‘Would you like to come to an art studio with me? he asked. We could draw together. Just for fun.’

Her breath hitched. Drawing together. The idea was sweet, simple, yet it carried an unspoken promise of closeness. She imagined him, paintbrush in hand, his eyes steady and focused as he captured the light in a moment or the curve of a smile. Somehow, she thought, he would see her in ways no one else did.

‘I’d love that, she typed back, cheeks warming.’

Great. I’ll send you the details. Can’t wait, his message appeared, and a small thrill ran through her.

That night, Hyunjin sat alone in his room, his phone screen glowing softly in the dim light. The thought of Y/N smiling at the idea of drawing with him made his chest tighten with something tender and new.

He wondered how someone could feel so significant in such a short time. There was something about her her quiet strength, the way she looked at the world that made him want to show her all the colors he kept hidden beneath the surface.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When Y/N arrived at the art studio a few days later, the soft hum of music and the rich scent of oils filled the air. The space buzzed quietly with creativity. At first, she felt a little out of place, unsure about her own drawing skills among all the paint and brushes. But the light pouring through the large windows made everything look warm and inviting, like a safe little sanctuary.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Hyunjin had only mentioned his art in passing, over texts, but she’d never seen it for real. The idea of standing next to him, sketching together, made her nervous in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She wandered deeper inside, her shoes soft against the wooden floor. Then she spotted him—sitting on a stool near a blank canvas, pencil in hand, eyes focused like he was already imagining what the drawing would become. His dark hair fell in gentle waves over his forehead. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up in a way that made her stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he said, standing quickly. “So, you actually came.”

She smiled, feeling the warmth in his gaze. “You invited me.”

He motioned around the room. “This is where I come when I need to get away from everything. It’s peaceful here.”

She nodded slowly. “It really feels like a sanctuary.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, she saw something vulnerable in him—a side he didn’t usually show. “What’s your favorite thing to draw?”

“Flowers,” she said, smiling at him.

“Okay,” he said, a small grin forming. “Let’s draw each other’s favorite flower.”

Her heart jumped. “That sounds perfect.”

She learned his favorite flower was a black rose. She told him hers were tulips.

They sat down, sketchbooks in their laps. Hyunjin’s pencil moved with practiced ease. Every line was fluid and graceful, capturing the delicate beauty of the flowers with surprising depth. Watching him, Y/N felt mesmerized—not just by the art but by the calm way he worked. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about the process, the flow.

She felt that same calm slowly settle inside her.

“How did you get into art?” she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Hyunjin didn’t look up right away. His breath slowed, and she saw him gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t drawing,” he said finally. “It started as a way to escape. My family was always moving, always busy, and it was hard to find something that felt like mine. Art… it was always there. It helped me breathe.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten. He was sharing a part of himself he didn’t often show.

“That’s why I love it,” he continued, still avoiding her gaze. “It’s one of the only things that makes sense to me. The only thing that lets me really be myself.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say but feeling the weight of his words. “I get that.”

They worked quietly for a while. Occasionally, their eyes met and a soft smile passed between them small, genuine moments that said more than words.

Hyunjin stretched, breaking the silence. “How’s your drawing coming?”

She looked down at her sketch and smiled. “It’s coming along. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You’re good,” he said softly, meaning it.

She blushed, her heart fluttering. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “I mean it. You have something special, Y/N. You always have.”

After his words hung softly between them, she realized how much she wanted this—this slow, fragile connection that felt like it could break or bloom at any moment.

When they finally packed up hours later, the energy between them had shifted. They were still the same two people who had met by chance, but something new had begun—a closeness that neither could yet put into words.

As they stepped outside into the warm evening light, Hyunjin glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable for a second.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly. “I really enjoyed this.”

Y/N smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Me too. I didn’t realize how much I missed creating with someone.”

He nodded, and for a moment, they just stood there letting the quiet words hang between them like the last golden rays of the setting

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

A few days had passed since their last meeting, but Hyunjin and Y/N found themselves texting and calling more than either expected. It wasn’t planned more like a song that plays unexpectedly, yet somehow stays with you.

That night, they were on FaceTime, their faces softly lit by the glow of their separate rooms. Y/N leaned back against her pillows, fighting the heaviness of her eyelids as the night stretched on. Hyunjin sat on his bed, casual in a plain white shirt, his hair tousled but still perfectly styled.

“I still can’t believe you’re a K-pop idol,” Y/N said softly, disbelief coloring her tone. “Like, that kind of idol.”

Hyunjin chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… it’s kind of hard to believe sometimes. I don’t really look the part, do I?” His laugh was light but tinged with uncertainty.

She smiled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, it’s not that. You just seem so normal.” She flushed as soon as the words slipped out. “I mean, not that you’re not special—just... you don’t have that superstar vibe. You’re just you. And honestly, that’s nice.”

There was a pause as Hyunjin absorbed her words, his eyes softening. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, thoughts drifting. She had a way of making everything seem effortless. She didn’t try to impress. She simply was. And that was captivating.

“Well, that’s the hard part sometimes,” he said quietly, the playful tone gone. “People expect perfection when you’re in the spotlight. But I’m just me. And sometimes... that doesn’t feel like enough.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the raw vulnerability in his voice. “I get it. You’re more than what people see on stage. You’re a person. And that’s more than enough.”

His smile was soft, almost shy, eyes briefly flicking away before meeting hers again. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re one of the few who makes me feel that way.”

Her chest tightened at the honesty. How much of his life was public, and how little of himself he could share? And here, in this quiet moment, they were sharing pieces of their true selves.

She smiled gently. “I’m glad. You’re really important, Hyunjin. To a lot of people.”

His smile lingered, something unspoken passing between them—tender, intense. He wanted to say more but let the silence hold the space.

As the night deepened, Y/N grew sleepy. Her eyes drooped, struggling to stay open. Hyunjin noticed, his smile deepening.

“Y/N,” he said softly, voice low and soothing, “are you getting tired?”

She yawned, sheepishly. “Yeah... I’m sorry. I just can’t stay awake. You’ve kept me up too late.” She giggled quietly.

His lips curved in an affectionate smile, eyes soft. “It’s okay. You don’t have to stay up for me.”

She shifted under the covers, surrendering to the sleepiness. “I’m fine. I’m just really glad we’re talking.”

His smile softened even more, intimate. “Me too, Y/N. I’m really glad you’re in my life.”

And with that, she finally gave in. Her eyes fluttered closed as he watched her breathing slow. The sound of her soft sighs filled the quiet. She was asleep.

For a moment, Hyunjin stayed still, watching her peaceful face on the screen. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar but familiar all at once.

He reached for the sketchbook beside him, part of his nightly routine when his mind was too full. He hadn’t planned to draw her. Not consciously. But as his pencil met the paper, her image began to form.

He sketched her as he saw her—delicate features, lips parted gently in sleep, soft hair framing her face. There was a beauty in her letting go, a calm he admired. The more he drew, the deeper his feelings revealed themselves in every line and shadow.

He’d never drawn anyone like this before. It was like he could see her in a way words never could. She was warmth, light, and a breathtaking kind of beauty.

When he finished, he leaned back, staring at the sketch as if it held a secret. His heart ached with the truth it showed—his feelings for her, laid bare.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Days passed before they saw each other again. Though they spoke daily, a quiet tension lingered, something unspoken between them.

One afternoon, they sat together on a blanket at the Han River, the city skyline stretching beyond. The only sound was the gentle rush of water. The moment felt suspended in time, just for them.

Hyunjin watched her, a gentle smile playing on his lips, but his eyes held something else a hesitation, an unspoken question.

Y/N noticed and tilted her head. “What’s on your mind, Hyunjin?”

He blinked, shaking off the momentary trance. “I was just thinking about... how much I like being with you.”

Her heart skipped. She smiled warmly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too.”

They sat quietly before Y/N spoke again, curiosity flickering in her voice. “You never really showed me one of your songs. You talk about them, but you’ve never played me any.”

His expression softened. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been avoiding that. But... maybe you can hear one now.”

He handed her his headphones, their fingers brushing lightly, sending a shiver through her. She slipped them on, adjusting the volume as he pressed play.

Soft acoustic guitar filled her ears, followed by his smooth, tender voice.

The song was slow and full of emotion. His raw honesty felt like it was meant just for her—not flashy or loud, but lingering deep in the soul.

As the lyrics played, Y/N held her breath, her heart quietly hoping the song was about her.

“I don’t need anything but you,

I don’t need anything but you.”

The song ended. She took off the headphones, heart racing, looking at him.

“I... don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “That was... beautiful.”

He smiled softly, though his eyes held a guarded look. “I’m glad you like it.”

Her heart fluttered again. “Is it... about someone?”

He shook his head, brushing hair from his face. “Maybe... who knows.”

She nodded, hope quietly blossoming inside. Maybe it was her—the song, the feelings, the quiet confession.

Later, as the sun dipped and painted the sky pink and orange, Hyunjin drove her home. The car was filled with peaceful silence, heavy with unspoken words.

“I had fun today,” she said, turning to him.

He nodded, eyes flickering between her lips and eyes. “Yeah. I always have fun with you. You’re just... special.”

The silence grew thick, electric.

Neither knew who leaned in first, but their lips met—slow, deliberate, a kiss that didn’t last long but held everything.

They pulled apart, faces still close.

Hyunjin looked at her with a softness that made her heart thud painfully.

“Y/N... I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice low and serious. “The kiss... I—”

She blinked, surprised by the apology. “Hyunjin... you don’t have to apologize.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to rush anything.”

She smiled faintly, voice gentle. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay.”

He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. Leaning in once more, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving her standing with a full heart and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning between them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The next night, the apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Hyunjin stood in the center of his bedroom, taking in the scene he’d carefully prepared. Candles flickered along the windowsill, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the nightstand, their scent blending with the subtle vanilla from the candles. On the bed, his carefully arranged snacksthe ones he knew were her favorites—waited.

He glanced at the clock. She would be here any minute now. His heart pounded with anticipation, mixed with a flutter of nerves. Tonight was special. He’d planned every detail, wanting to create a safe, intimate space just for them.

When the doorbell rang, he hurried to open it. There she was smiling brightly, eyes wide as she took in the scene.

“Hyunjin, this is beautiful,” she whispered, turning to look at him.

He smiled, feeling a soft blush rise to his cheeks. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

They settled on the bed, wrapped in the warm candlelight, and started watching a K-drama. But Hyunjin found himself distracted by her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled—it all held him captive.

After a while, he turned to her, heart beating fast. “Y/N,” he said, voice a little shaky, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

She looked at him, curious and maybe a little nervous.

“I… I really enjoy spending time with you,” he admitted, searching her eyes. “You mean more to me than I ever thought possible. And I just wanted you to know… I like you. A lot.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was tender, full of everything neither had said out loud. They pulled back slowly, foreheads resting together.

“I feel the same way, Hyunjin,” she whispered.

Their lips met again, this time deeper, more hungry but still gentle. He pulled her close with such tenderness it made her chest ache. His hands smoothed over her back as he lifted her onto his lap, their bodies fitting together like two missing pieces of a quiet dream.

Slowly, he helped her out of her sweater, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, like speaking any louder might break the moment.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached for him, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt until it slipped off his shoulders. Her palms traced over the warm skin of his chest, learning him every curve and line.

They kissed again, deeper now. More sure. Hyunjin’s mouth moved down her jaw, over her throat, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses like he was memorizing every inch of her skin. She shivered beneath his touch as his hands roamed her waist, fingers curling around the waistband of her shorts, sliding them down slowly.

Everything about him was careful. Intentional.

No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of two people choosing each other.

When they were finally bare, skin against skin, he paused forehead resting against hers, breath shallow, lips barely brushing.

“If you want to stop—”

“I don’t,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He eased her back into the pillows, kissing her slowly, deeply, as he moved over her. His body slid against hers in a rhythm as natural as breathing, every movement slow, unhurried, like they were writing a love letter with their touch.

He stayed still after he bottomed out, holding close, waiting for her permission to move.

She nodded. His thrusts were slow, making sure she felt everything—and she did. Her legs curled around him, anchoring him to her, hands spread across his back as he moved inside her.

“Hyunjin… close,” she moaned, nails raking down his skin.

“Me too… it’s okay, let go,” he whispered, steady and reassuring.

She gasped his name softly into the warm space between their mouths. He kissed her through it, whispering promises how good she felt, how beautiful she was, how much she meant to him.

The pressure built slowly, rising like a tide, until they both unraveled together—quiet, breathless, trembling—holding onto each other like they never wanted to let go.

Afterward, they stayed still.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back.

She nodded, pressing a kiss to his skin. “I’ve never felt more safe.”

He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

In that moment, there was no past to fear, no future to chase—just this.

Just her.

He didn’t say “I love you.” Not yet.

But the way he held her said everything.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the candlelight casting gentle shadows around them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Their days blended into shared moments cooking together, late-night talks, spontaneous adventures. Hyunjin treasured every second, feeling more complete than ever before.

She loved him. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Even during practice, she would sit quietly in the studio, eyes always on him, watching him dance.

Over time, she grew close to the other members too. They welcomed her with open arms, sharing jokes and stories, making her feel like family.

He loved her more than words could say. She was his world, his muse, his everything.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

One evening, they went out for dinner. Afterward, under the shimmering city lights, they hailed an Uber and slipped into the backseat, hands intertwined.

“I can’t believe how happy I am,” Hyunjin said, turning to her. “These past few months have been the best of my life.”

She smiled, squeezing his hand. “Me too.”

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I love you so much.”

Suddenly, a blinding light filled the car, followed by screeching tires and a deafening crash.

She didn’t understand what was happening—one minute everything hurt, the next, everything went black.

Chaos surrounded him. The world spun. Pain seared through his body. He tried to move, to reach for her, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive.

“I can’t see her... I can’t move... I can’t hear her...” panic flooded his mind.

Summoning all his strength, he shouted her name into the darkness before exhaustion took over.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the hospital room as Hyunjin slowly opened his eyes.

The lights were too bright. The sheets too white. Everything too clean, too cold. His throat felt like sandpaper, his chest heavy, as if something invisible was pressing down on it.

He blinked slowly, groggy, and turned his head a little too fast. Pain ricocheted behind his eyes and down his spine. A nurse rushed over, her hand steadying his shoulder to keep him from moving too quickly.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, her voice fragile, like she was afraid he might break. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

Two days?

Panic thundered through him sharp, immediate.

“The car—Y/N,” he rasped. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

The nurse hesitated. Her eyes dropped, like she couldn’t meet his gaze. “She’s in a coma,” she said carefully. “There was head trauma. The doctors are doing everything they can… but it’s unclear if she’ll wake. And if she does, there’s a chance her memory may not return.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His stomach dropped. Everything blurred the beeping monitors, the cold walls they all tilted around him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. She—she was laughing. She was right there. She can’t—”

Tears came without warning. Hot, violent. His hands trembled as he pulled at the blanket, as if getting up seeing her would make this unreal.

But it was real.

And the guilt blossomed deep in his gut sharp, vile, unrelenting.

He was released from the hospital two days later with a few stitches on his forehead and a bruised rib. But he didn’t go home.

He went to her.

Every day.

Room 413. The numbers etched themselves into his memory, more permanent than any lyric he’d ever written.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

But Hyunjin did.

He sat by her bedside, holding her hand like it was the only real thing left.

“Hi, angel,” he whispered one day, voice raw. “It’s me again. You probably know that by now.” His voice cracked. “You always said I talked too much—that I’d ramble and never shut up. So maybe this will make you wake up, just to tell me to be quiet again.”

He chuckled through tears. “I’d take anything, Y/N. Anything at all.”

He brought her tulips—her favourite and set them by the window, even though she couldn’t see them. Played their favorite songs. Talked about the café, the night they painted each other’s favorite flowers. Told her their life’s story in color, hoping it would reach her.

One night, he brought his sketchbook and drew her lying there—so still, so quiet. Then he tore the page out and burned it.

Because that wasn’t her.

That wasn’t the girl who danced around his kitchen in socks, laughing until she cried. That wasn’t the girl who teased him about his dramatic monologues or traced his collarbone with sleepy affection.

That wasn’t his Y/N.

So he drew her again. This time as he remembered her in motion, laughing, eyes wide and bright. Alive.

Hyunjin pressed the sketchbook to his chest, exhaling shakily. “The doctors said… they said your memory might never come back. That if you wake up, you might not know me.”

His heart clenched. He’d played the thought over and over, but it still tore him apart.

“I don’t care,” he said suddenly, tears streaming. “You can forget every moment, every laugh, every look. I’ll remind you. I’ll do it all again. Just… stay. Please.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead gently, afraid even that was too much.

“I’ll forever love you.”

And he meant it.

The day she woke, he almost didn’t believe it.

He’d been sitting beside her bed, head bowed, sketching the curve of her wrist when he felt the slightest pressure on his fingers.

He froze.

Then her hand twitched.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Y/N?” His voice was fragile, barely a whisper.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted as she took a shallow, shuddering breath.

Then her eyes opened.

Confused. Cloudy. Empty.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered.

Hyunjin’s world cracked in two.

He felt his soul quietly tear apart.

But still, he smiled.

He smiled through the ache, through the heartbreak that tasted like blood and salt.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said softly. “Your boyfriend.” His heart broke with the words. “I’m the boy who loves you so much…”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She didn’t remember their first coffee date.

Or the painting studio.

Or the night he lit candles in his room and nervously asked her to be his girlfriend.

But she remembered the feeling of safety when he sat beside her. She remembered how her chest felt lighter when he smiled. How his laugh stirred something inside her something buried beneath the fog of forgetfulness.

He told her everything. Bit by bit.

The café. The way she teased him about his awful sock choices. Their picnic at Han River. The song he wrote for her.

He showed her pictures. Videos. Paintings.

Each one was a love letter.

Though she smiled, giggled sometimes, and leaned her head on his shoulder, something behind her eyes always flickered with sadness.

She was falling for him again.

But she didn’t remember falling the first time.

And that haunted her.

“I’m not her,” she said one day, voice cracking. “I’m not the girl you fell in love with.”

“You’re still you,” he whispered. “You laugh the same. You tilt your head the same when you’re curious. You care. That’s you. That’s always been you.”

“But I can’t remember loving you,” she said. “And it hurts to see how much you love me. Because I’m still trying to learn your name.”

They cried together that day.

Held each other like it was all they had.

She asked him to move on.

He refused.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve tried imagining life without you, and it’s just noise. You’re the only melody I’ve ever really known.”

That day, Hyunjin had to go to practice for the first time in weeks. The weight of leaving her alone tore at him, but she smiled and said she’d be fine.

“I’ll be here,” she promised.

He sent her a message before rehearsal: I’ll be at the hospital in 20. Bringing your favorite snacks. I love you.

But when he arrived, Room 413 was empty.

He blinked, stepped back into the hallway, and asked the nurse.

“She checked herself out about an hour ago,” the woman said gently. “She didn’t leave a number. Just said she needed time.”

Time.

Time had already taken so much.

His steps faltered as he returned to the room. He collapsed onto the bed, still holding the shape of her body.

There, on the pillow, was a photograph of the two of them. The one he kept in his wallet—the one they’d taken outside the bookstore, tulips in her hands, his arm around her.

Beside it, folded carefully, was one of the paintings he’d done of her. The one where she was smiling, eyes closed, bathed in golden light.

She took nothing else.

She didn’t say goodbye.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, clutching the photo and the painting to his chest as sobs tore through him.

“She left,” he choked out. “She left.”

The walls didn’t answer. The world didn’t stop.

He cried until his voice was gone.

Until his heart felt hollow.

Until all that remained was her scent, faint on the sheets, and the cruel echo of silence.

His love.

His muse.

His everything.

Gone.

426 notes · View notes

mariasont · 1 year ago

Note

not sure if you’re planning to write this, but smut with spencer & bimbo!receptionist!reader would probably fix my problems 😔 i feel like spencer would be praising her nonstop, while also being condescending & i fucking live for that‼️

Undo You - S.R

a/n: i love ur mind anon 😚 i hope this lives up to what you want 🫶🏼🫶🏼✨ thank you for requesting xoxo

anyway i kinda think this is bad bc i didn’t proofread but whatever ill prob go back and edit laters!

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

summary: bimbo reader and spencer doing the nasty

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fingering, degrading? (not really), spencer being slightly condescending, p in v, unprotected sex (BE BETTER!), creampie (STOP I HATE IT TOO BUT WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO CALL IT?!?!?! TWINKIE?!?!)

wc: 1.3k

Mustering the courage to ask you out was a feat in itself but getting you into his bed was a whole other ballgame. But here you were, fingers roaming through his hair and tracing the contours of his back. You were perfect, and you were in his bed.

The wasn't the first, nor would it be the last if he had anything to do with it. It's hard to fathom his good luck--to have you, breathtaking in every sense, under him, your fingertips gently grazing his waist band as you inch towards his cock.

Your makeup was almost artfully messy, with mascara delicately pooled beneath your lashes, rendering you devastatingly tempting. You had glittering eyeshadow on, and it was getting everywhere. Spencer felt the urge to undo you--to disrupt the pristine image you presented to the world, to make you uniquely his. Selfish? Without a doubt. But that didn't diminish the idea.

Your hands, with their perfect manicure, were now wrapped around his cock, tugging and pulling as if your palms were sculpted precisely for this purpose.

You were saying something, your lips a mesmerizing motion as he grasped the sheets beside you, each fistful a concerted effort to remain control.

"What, angel?" He was trying to be patient with you.

You talked a lot in general, but in bed, it only seemed to amplify. This was not a bad thing, not in his eyes, no, it was almost too much of a good thing. Each time your mouth opened and closed with another airy comment he found himself that much closer to spilling his load all over you.

"Your face is really red," you breathed out, nostrils flaring slightly, your eyes averted, engrossed in the sight of his length enclosed between your hands.

He stifled a laugh, resisting the urge to shove his cock into that pretty mouth of yours.

"Well, you see," Spencer starts, pausing as your hand presses to the tip of his length, "when someone is excited...or aroused, blood flow increases to the f-face, causing...vasodilation. It's... it's a sympathetic nervous system response."

"Oh, like when you get all red after running?" You tilt your head in that curious way of yours, your actions uninterrupted as words flowed from you.

"Yes, exactly like that."

He grabbed your hand, pulling you off of him and pressing that same hand to the mattress below him.

"And just like my face gets red, your pupils dilate when you're excited," Spencer explains, his hand poised just above your collarbone, sketching paths on your skin, "It's due to the release of norepinephrine, which is part of your body's fight of flight response."

Your lips were parted, pressing your body into him like you couldn't help yourself, hips squirming under his.

"So, what's the verdict, sweet girl?" Spencer asks, watching your gaze met his, lips parting as he dragged a hand over your clothed heat. "What's your body telling you? Fight of flight?"

You kissed him, gasping into his mouth as he pushed a finger into you. You were drenched. "Is submit an option?"

"That's my girl," he said, feeling his cock tighten even more, as if that were possible, almost moaning at the sight of your dimple being drawn out.

You whined, arching your back against the navy-blue sheets as your hands locked around his neck, pulling him impossibly close. He could smell everything about you from here—your coconut shampoo, your vanilla perfume, your lavender lotion. He wanted to inhale it, to inhale you.

He didn't even bother with your skirt, simply pulling your panties out from under it and lining himself up with your entrance. He watched, enthralled, as your chest rose and fell, holding your breath as you braced for his cock. You were so good for him, too good for him.

One hand clasped against your hip as the other guided his length into you, hissing as you tightened around him. It was a feeling that could never get old, like he was being reborn, like the world was ending and you and him were the only two people left. He would be fine with that.

Your face twisted up in pleasure as you began to rock against him, not giving yourself that chance to adjust. You did this often and it caused him to push down on your hips, stopping your movements. He could come if you kept doing that. He would.

"Patience," he hissed, but you were never one that was good with following orders.

You moved again, tits bouncing up and down your chest as you did. He stifled a groan, meeting your movements with thrusts of his own.

He imagined this is what Buddhists meant when they referred to finding the garden of Nirvana. This was it for him. The ultimate state of liberation and profound peace.

You were a blubbering mess, fingertips clawing down his back, surely to leave marks, but he couldn’t care less.

“Look at you,” he cooed, rutting his cock in and out of you. “You’re awfully quiet. Got something on your mind, baby?”

“N-No,” you stammered, legs wrapping around his waist as your arms went around his neck, clinging to him like a koala, your moans now pressed up against his ear.

“I figured as much.”

Your tits were flush against his chest, his breath stalling as he reached in the limited space between you, thumb circling your clit. Your whines intensified, just as his thrusts did.

“Spencer, please, yes, oh fuck—,” you paused, a gasp releasing from your lips as he felt you unravel on his cock, your wet cunt clenching around him in a way that made his legs shake.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just like that.” His movements were more desperate now, sloppily slamming into you without mercy. “You’re so fucking good, baby.”

He barely recognized your lips against his ear. “Will you come inside me please?”

That was all it took, those simple words, brushing against his skin and rushing all the way down to his cock. His thrusts slowing as he pumped himself inside you, the sound completely obscene, but it just made him enjoy it that much more.

You were limp against the bed, and Spencer was quick to follow, face finding the crook of his neck as he tried his best not to crush you with his weight.

He could feel your pulse against his lips, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your honey induced skin as he waited for you to return back to planet Earth.

He was well aware of the drill, pressing one last kiss to your sweaty forehead before prying himself out of your hands and making a beeline for the bathroom. He grabbed a towel and a glass of water before coming back to the bed, nearly fainting at your tired smile shining at him, at him.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

“I really love when you call me that,” you said, almost dreamily as you pushed your tousled hair into the pillow.

He laughed, placing the water on the table and moving your legs so he was between them.

“Gorgeous,” he repeated as he dabbed the towel to your sex, cleaning the mess he made on you. “Do I not call you that enough? Because I can certainly make it a more regular occurrence.”

“Well, I mean, it couldn’t hurt,” you said, giggling as you flinched away from the pressure on your clit.

He pushed your leg down, preventing you from squirming. “Let me clean you up.”

You pouted, and he had the sudden urge to bite your bottom lip. You gave him a salute, giggling before you could even get the words out. “Aye, aye captain.”

He tossed the towel to the side, climbing up your legs as he kissed you, soft and slow, murmuring into your lips, “come here, smart ass.”

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x bimbo!reader #spencer reid x bimbo reader #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #Reid #criminal minds smut #🌺 maria writes

2K notes · View notes

yakutarts · 8 months ago

Text

Nightmare and Dream but feral, non-skeletal body!

For the love of god PLEASE click on the image for better quality + close ups and clothed version under the cut!!

Would you kiss them?

Video process:

I made these using a specific context

A while ages ago I drew and posted a drawing of Nightmare and Dream on their light ball form but with some alterations/personal headcanons.

On the post, I expressed my desire to draw the twins in a universe were Nim didn’t need to give them bodies, and just let them grow naturally. And specifically give them an animalistic appearance, instead of a humanoid one like most artist do.

You can see on the process video that it took me 1000 sketches to make something that looked good and I was happy with, the video is obviously sped up, the total time it took me to make this was 28 hours and 15 minutes.

Now explaining some things:

Why are they so big?

I read on a post made by Joku that Nim, before giving them skeleton bodies, tried to make them human ones, but the pure amount of magic and power the twins had made the human bodies explode or some shit. So she picked skeletons since the magic could flow freely through the bones without being confined by muscle and flesh. That made me think if their power had physical forms, it would be gigantic. So I gave them gigantic forms to better represent their status of strength and power, beings made from raw magic to serve as guardians of all emotions throughout the multiverse, of course I needed to make them big and intimidating!

Why the horns?

Artistic design choice, I gave them little horns and a chubby tail in their light ball form to purposefully make them more animalistic, wanted to keep it while making these. Also just giving them a smooth head with nothing much going on looked weird and boring.

Why the draconian look?

Dragons had been created and depicted as symbols of pure power above humanity and worshipped as deities throughout several cultures around the world, different depictions of dragons has been one of the only things present among almost all cultures, like a default folklore creature. While I tried to incorporate other mythical creatures in the design, the draconic body plan felt more right due to the influence of dragons on human beliefs, and their representation as magical and powerful beings beyond human comprehension. Plus I just really love drawing dragons.

Why the clothing choice? Also why is Dream half naked while Nightmare has everything covered?

While designing the clothes for Nightmare, I used as reference clothing that usually royalty would wear, Nightmare has a really big ego and sees himself as a king, so he uses fancy, expensive clothing and jewelry, adapted and designed for his anatomy. Not practical for battle, but his corruption can go through the fabric without damaging it, and most people and monsters just run when they see him, so he doesn’t worry about it getting dirty or tearing, Nightmare just expects every soul to instantly submit when they see him, so he never worries about getting into a battle and getting dirty he has that big of an ego.

Dream is the opposite, his style of clothing much more practical for running, jumping, flying, fighting and general exercise. He has 4 bags in total, 2 on each side, inside them he keeps several items, be it healing food, magical artifacts, first aid kit, gifts he receives, stuff he buys or random things he finds and wants to take home with him. Dream’s crown is now a colar couldn’t figure out how to make it work with the head shape and horns, his cape is from his official design, but changed to white, was planning to make it yellow but when I looked at it my eyes hurt because there was too much yellow everywhere. I made Dream’s clothes with the intent to match his official design, I didn’t to the same for nightmare because a turtle neck with a hoodie on a dragon would make him more huggable than intimidating. Plus I like to think that the leg warmers was a gift from Blue, and the ring on his horn a gift from Ink. Didn’t add more stuff on him because I couldn’t think of something that would look good and match Dream’s vibe, the rest of his clothes on his official design didn’t translate well here. Oh, while I was drawing this, I drew the colar and the leg warmers first, without the cape, Dream looked like a twink with a pet play kink.

Side note; neither Nightmare or Dream see the use of clothes as a necessity or as decency. For them clothes are nothing but pure decoration and to show off status for Nightmare, they can wear full body suits, partial clothing, just jewelry, or nothing at all, which is what they usually go for when at home, wearing or not wearing stuff doesn’t make that much of a difference to them at all.

Do they act as animals or do they have human intelligence?

Despite me using the word “feral” all the time to describe them, they do not actually act as animals. I’m only using “feral” to describe their body/anatomy, Nightmare and Dream are fully sentient and have human level intelligence/awareness. They are capable of speech and have opposable thumbs on their front paws, they can grab, write, hold… do anything a human can do with their hands with dexterity. But they do have to use only hand one at a time, and balance themselves with the other. To use both hands, they have to be sitting, or be supported by something, they can balance themselves on their wings if they have to.

And now contradicting what I just said, they have some animalistic behaviors. The twins can growl, purr and roar. Despite Nightmare being able to use his tentacles and Dream being able to shoot magic arrows out of his wings, they to also scratch and bite while fighting. Since they are big and heavy, they can easily crush bone under their weight and their bite force is strong enough to split someone in half. If you need a reference, just use Smaug from The Hobbit, he has more or less the balance of animal behavior and human intelligence I’m looking for.

Expanding more on this, the twins stretch just like felines, and often sleep in positions usually cats sleep in (they don’t actually need to sleep but do anyway). Dream likes to go fishing, and by fishing I mean jumping in a lake and chasing the fish underwater. He finds it more fun than sitting around and waiting for the fish to come to you instead.

I guess you count their lack of necessity to wear clothes as animal logic too?

_________________

If you have any more questions about them, I will be happy to answer!

And yes, I do plan on making more drawings of Nightmare and Dream on this form!

Dreamtale belongs to @jokublog

Feral concept/design by @yakutarts (me)

766 notes · View notes

pretzel-box · 10 months ago

Text

—SCENARIO: Sebastian asks P.AI.nter to draw his spouse while delving in the memories of their sunkissed proposal.

Tags: Sebastian is agressive at the beginning, soft hours with p.ai.nter, fluff and comfort, Sebastian is married to gn!reader

words: 1,3k

“Like this?” P.AI.nter's voice broke the silence, and the image of a beautiful young person appeared on his screen. It was clear that P.AI.nter had put a lot of effort into the picture, every stroke and detail meticulously crafted. Sebastian, who was sitting across from his friend, lifted his gaze from the file in his hand to study the drawing. His eyes traced the lines and shapes before he shook his head, frustration bubbling up inside him.

“THIS LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THEM!”

Sebastian suddenly yelled, his voice echoing through the room. He threw the file he had been reading at P.AI.nter’s screen, the papers scattering across the floor. Gripping his head in both hands, he let out a groan of frustration. “It looks nothing like the person I married. Do it again. Paint them again, please.”

P.AI.nter’s screen shifted to display his familiar face, and he studied Sebastian carefully. The sea-serpent hybrid was visibly distressed, his normally composed demeanour unravelling more with each passing day. “Sebastian, maybe we should take a break,” P.AI.nter suggested gently.

“DO IT!” Sebastian snapped, his voice tinged with desperation.

P.AI.nter hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded, his screen flickering as he began the task once more.

Over the last few days, P.AI.nter had witnessed Sebastian’s steady decline. The crushing weight of hopelessness had begun to take its toll, especially as progress on his escape plan stalled. The fear of never seeing you again had driven Sebastian to the edge, and now he was clinging to the only thing he could—the memory of you.

Sebastian could describe every detail of your face as if he had spent a lifetime memorizing it. The way your smile lit up when you spoke to him, the warmth in your eyes when he returned home, the tentative yet eager kiss you shared on your first date, and the breathtaking moment when he proposed to you at sunset, in your favorite place.

But no matter how vivid those memories were, the thought of forgetting you, of losing even a fragment of what he remembered, filled him with a terror that he could not shake.

As P.AI.nter worked on a new sketch, Sebastian leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly. His mind raced with thoughts of you, the love of his life, the one he was desperate to return to. He couldn't bear the idea of those memories fading, of your face becoming just another blur in his mind. The very thought made his heart ache in a way that nothing else down here ever could.

“Please, P.AI.nter,” Sebastian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now, raw and vulnerable. “Just… make sure I don’t forget them.”

P.AI.nter glanced at him again, the sympathy in his digital eyes clear. He understood what was driving Sebastian, the fear and the love intertwined in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. “I’ll do my best, Sebastian. I promise.”

Sebastian nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to hold onto the image of you in his mind as tightly as he could. The thought of seeing you again, of holding you, was the only thing that kept him going. And he would do anything—anything—to make sure that happened. Even if it meant forcing himself to relive every precious memory, over and over, until the day he could finally make new ones with you again.

His mind was elsewhere, trapped in memories of a life he longed to return to. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from P.AI.nter’s screen as he quietly observed his friend.

“Tell me about the proposal again,” P.AI.nter requested gently, breaking the silence. He knew that Sebastian found solace in recounting these memories, even if they were tinged with the pain of longing.

Sebastian took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the memory flooded back. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he began to speak. “It was a perfect evening. We had been together for a while, and I knew… I just knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with them.”

P.AI.nter’s screen displayed a soft, encouraging expression as he listened and started to draw another sketch in the background, the digital companion understanding the importance of these memories for Sebastian.

“I chose their favorite spot—a secluded beach just outside the city we lived in. We used to go there all the time, just because they liked how the sun meets the water. The sun would set over the water, casting this incredible golden light everywhere. They loved it there.. We’d sit and watch the waves, talk about everything and nothing… It was our place,” Sebastian’s voice was soft, full of warmth as he spoke.

He paused for a moment, as if savoring the memory. “I remember that day so clearly. I was so nervous, even though I knew they’d say yes. I had the ring in my pocket, and I kept checking to make sure it was still there. My heart was pounding the entire time.”

P.AI.nter hummed in acknowledgment, his screen flickering slightly as he recorded every word, every detail. He knew how much this meant to Sebastian.

“We walked along the shore, just like we always did. I was waiting for the perfect moment, and then… then the sun began to set. The sky turned this beautiful shade of orange and pink, and the water looked like it was on fire. Their form got dived in a beautiful warm light, making their eyes shine so bright that it made me feel like I'm melting. That’s when I knew it was time.”

Sebastian’s smile widened, his eyes still closed as he relived the moment. “I stopped walking and turned to face them. They looked at me, their face in a cute little confusion t first, but then they saw the look on my face. I could see the realization in their beautiful eyes. I took their hands, and I told them how much they meant to me, how I couldn’t imagine a life without them, with words that couldn't even express a shard of the things I feel for them. And then… I got down on one knee.”

P.AI.nter’s screen now displayed a rough sketch of a beach, a couple standing in the golden light of the sunset. The image was simple, yet it captured the essence of the moment Sebastian was describing.

“I asked them to marry me, right there, with the waves crashing in the background and the sun setting behind us. Their eyes… They were filled with tears, but they were smiling, a genuine sweet one. And when they said yes, it was like the whole world just… clicked into place.”

Sebastian opened his eyes, and for a moment, it was as if he was back on that beach, holding your hands, hearing you say those words. His heart ached with longing, but the memory also brought him comfort.

“They hugged me so tightly, I could feel their heart beating against mine. We stayed there for a long time, just holding each other, watching the sun disappear below the horizon. It was the happiest moment of my life.”

P.AI.nter displayed the image of the sunset proposal on his screen, a small token to keep the memory alive in the dark depths of the Blackside. “It sounds beautiful, Sebastian.”

“It was,” Sebastian agreed, his voice softening. “It really was.”

P.AI.nter could see the emotion in Sebastian’s eyes, the way they glistened with unshed tears. “You’ll see them again, Sebastian. You’ll make it out of here, and you’ll have more moments like that.”

Sebastian nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or if he truly believed it. “I have to,” he whispered, more to himself than to P.AI.nter. “I have to see them again.”

P.AI.nter offered a comforting hum, the image of the sunset still glowing softly on his screen. “And when you do, you’ll have so many stories to tell them. They’ll be proud of how strong you’ve been.”

Sebastian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he allowed himself to get lost in the memory for a little longer.

#sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace fanfic #roblox pressure #pressure

597 notes · View notes

zarvasace · 8 months ago

Text

Whumptober day 18: possession. Image description under cut!

Edit: next>>

This comic is done in tall pages with a gray background. All the lines have a pencil-like texture to them, and it is not colored. Most lines and text are in black, with white and red being used symbolically and sparingly.

Page One

Panel one: A sketched landscape that evokes the Dueling Peaks of Wild’s world, lit in bright red by a full and bloody moon.

Panel two: A line of silhouettes, lit slightly in red light for some detail. They are walking toward the right side of the page. From right to left: Wolfie, facing forward. Time. Warriors, looking backward. Wild, looking up with his slate in his hands. Legend looking around. Hyrule, jogging to catch up. Wind, shading his eyes and looking up. Sky, glancing backward. Four, fully stopped and looking back down at his shadow on the ground. The text reads, in quotes as if recalling something from a memory: “Monsters stalk the shadows here, once they’re dead. Blood moons bring them back.”

Panel three: We see Four’s head and hand, reaching out toward something slightly below him. His expression is concerned. He’s lit in red light, including two little reflected red blood moons in his eyes. The text is not in any quotes or speech bubbles, as if they are Four’s thoughts: “...bring them [underlined] back. Could it?”

Panels four and five: Four, still in silhouette, kneels next to a puddle of bubbling shadow, lit in red light. First he reaches down toward it, and in the next panel, his hand pulls back suddenly as the shadow begins to extend upward. Flecks of red evoke the Malice in the air, and become more intense in the fifth panel. The fifth panel is interrupted by a large (loud) exclamation from an unknown source, with a dash before to indicate that the speaker interrupted themself: [all caps] “—FOUR!”

Page Two

Panel one: Four glances over his shoulder, still lit in red light with flecks of red flying around him. There are tiny tears in the corners of his eyes, and he’s smiling. He says: “Calm down, its [underlined] okay!”

Panel two: A copy of the previous panel, except for a few differences. Four’s tears are gathering a little bigger. The red flecks in the air have turned to flaming shapes. Four says: “It’s just my S—” but is cut off by the next panel.

Panel three: Four is still looking back, but a bright flash of red interrupts what he’s saying. His eyes go round, his tears fall, and he stops speaking. The red lights in his eyes are bigger.

Panel four: Four kneels down in the middle of the panel, while shapes that suggest the other Heroes gather around him, indistinguishable from each other. Red flecks fly around them all. Text fills the background, as if from the Heroes muttering, but there is now way to tell who is saying what: “FOUR! That doesn’t look good. What happened? He doesn’t usually linger behind. Give him some space. He said to calm down? That’s the opposite of what we should be— Who has the Ma— [cut off by shapes] He has a moon pearl, right? He never touches the thing.”

Panels five, six, and seven: These panels are a sequence left to right, separated by dotted lines instead of solid ones. In them, we see Four, but not any of his facial features. In panel five, he stands up (there’s a word to make it clear: “RISE”.) In the next, he raises his hands to look at them, and lines indicate that he’s wobbling. His feet are turned in ever so slightly. In the last panel of this sequence, he is still looking at his hands, but there is less wobbling and he’s standing more firmly. All through these panels, he doesn’t say anything, and red wiggly lines surround him.

Panel eight: A shot of Hyrule, looking grim with a shield already out, Legend, looking a bit worried with a hand on the hilt of his sword at his back, and Wild, who’s definitely worried. They’re all outlined in red light, but don’t have any red shining in their eyes. Wild, in a wobbly speech bubble, says: “...Four?”

Page Three

Panel one: This panel takes up most of this page, and shows Four looking up, with one hand on his head and a huge, maniacal smile on his face. His eyes are fully red, and he’s still lit in red light. Flecks of red fly around him, and the panel is shaded and has more detail than the others have had. A series of “AHAHAHA” laughing is repeated behind him. He says, in all-caps with a red speech bubble: “I KNEW THE LITTLEST WOULD BE EASIEST TO TAKE!!”

Panel two: This isn’t Four, but it is his body. Not-Four laughs, one hand up by his face, and keeps speaking with red speech bubbles: “The idiot let me right in! Me, his dead friend?”

Panel three: All eight of the other Links with swords and some shields out, making angry eyes as they stand in a line. The sky is red behind them. We see the top silhouette of Not-Four’s head, and he says: “oh… uh…”

Panel four: A copy of the last panel, except now each of the other Links looks either surprised or even angrier. They all shout: “STOP!” but the silhouette of Four’s head is now dissolving into red light. He says, “catch you suckers later!”

Page Four

There is only one panel on this page, and it is quite spread out to illustrate a lull in the action.

At the top, we see the moon outlined in red, but now with white on the inside and around it, as if the blood moon is disappearing.

Text, without speech bubbles but staggered so that each sentence seems to come from someone else, without any hints as to who says what: “Does anyone have any idea what that was? …nobody? Where’s Four? What was that? He’s possessed?!” And at the bottom of this block, there is more text: “Guys… Who’s that?”

At the bottom of this page, we see a Four-like figure lying slumped on the ground, a few sparkles of white around him. He looks to be asleep. The end of his hood is curled above him without a charm, as if floating with a mind of its own.

The very bottom has text in white, the artist’s signature: “mina @ zarvasace”

#my art #linked universe #comics #lu four #lu shadow #:)#long post #wt24 #ailesswhumptober2024

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chronologically-challenged · 24 days ago

Text

Final Bow pt1.

Summary: The Director is "defeated" in a sense. The party brings her to the well on zir request. Of course, Loop is there. Normal reactions happen all around.

@askoverkill

(This is a bit of a theory fic, but mostly "this image won't get out of my head, so I decided to write it down" sort of thing. Part 1 is Loop's POV. Part 2 will be dawn. Enjoy!)

---

You see him in person for the first time in several eternities.

You know what the Director looks like. Their shining face and night dusted skin all dressed up in a jester costume is blazed in her mind. If you give yourself a moment to think too long, you could pick out all the details the Director foolishly kept of their previous self that even they couldn't scrub clean. Their eyes, their brows, even the way the light that shines from their head gives an impression of hair left unbrushed in a certain way. But you don't look too long. You haven't in so many outer loops. In fact, despite the affectionate name that threatens to spill out of your traitorous tongue, you first and foremost see the Director as every other Siffrin sees them, a fool and an executioner in one, a malicious joke ready to put the punch in punchline at a moment's notice.

Now? It's difficult to see how they could ever be a threat at all.

The rest of the party leads the procession. Odile first, Isabeau second, with Bonnie sprinting past them the moment they see dawn already standing up to meet them midway. You watch them all impassively, only noting the two halves of the Director's cracked mask in Odile's hands.

No, while Lupus, dusk, and dawn run up to the party, your focus is at the entrance of the clearing.

Mirabelle trails behind, holding the Director's hand. Their face is free of the mask for the first time since it's mattered. Somewhere along the way they lost their jester's hat.

They have no mouth. They have no symbols across their cheeks. Only his eyes persevere through the harsh light.

Unbidden, the image of your stardust carefully trailing their finger in the dirt flashes bright in your mind. Their hat covered his expression, but you could still see just how careful he was to make each simple detail. Then with a small nod, they leaned back to show you, well you.

A shining head. Half crescent eyes. No clothes to speak of. A star in your chest.

That was you. This was what you looked like.

You asked for them not to loop too early. They hadn't. In fact, you think, maybe, they let themself linger for once. Gave you time to memorize it. How else could you remember even now? How else could you in your weakest moments, redraw the small sketch as clear as the day your stardust bestowed it to you?

The Director does not have crescent eyes. In fact, only one eye shines through the insistent light. It's an eye shape you knew all too well. Or perhaps, you never truly knew them at all.

The Director freezes when they see you.

Mirabelle tugs at their hand. “Siffrin?”

Three heads swivel towards her. Dusk, dawn, and the Director all at once head her call. Lupus clutches at both dusk's and dawn's cloaks, glaring up at the Director.

And you? You don't move from the steps of the well. You can't bring yourself to.

Even across these eons, you are just unhelpful, useless Loop.

“This is weird,” you hear Bonnie say. This causes a round of banter between the party. “No, it's not” “It kinda is.” “Well, you get used to it.” “That doesn't help, Siffrin.” and on and on.

The Director and you add nothing. After all, your current roles aren't fit for such antics.

“So, what're fae doing here?” Lupus eventually interrupts. They point to the Director with a sneer, pointedly bringing their ‘Siffernts’ closer to them the best they can with only two hands. “We beat you. Go away.”

“Lupus,” dusk warns, then looks back to the Director. They try to hide the child under their cloak.

Dawn only eyes the Director warily. You can tell they're waiting for a final twist, for the show to finally end with a “more fitting” tragedy. If luck would have, only you and the Director will be the tragedians in this version of this play.

The Director does not take the child's bait. They barely seem to acknowledge anyone else at all. Their grip loosens from Mirabelle's hand, sliding out almost unnaturally from her grip. She shouts out to catch them, but they've tucked their hands to their chest far too quickly.

Their eye still hasn't left yours.

Isabeau quarters dawn away from the path of the Director and raises his fists. Odile stops him a second before he strikes out. “Wait, a minute,” she hisses. You don't hear the rest of their arguing.

The Director brushes past them, unconcerned.

“No, wait, Loop!!! Get out of there! Run away from her!!!” Finally, someone, dusk you think, gets it.

You wonder if it's the way the Director stalks like a lion across the worn path. Or the uncanny silence the otherwise bombastic jester tends to have. Or maybe it was the way their previously dejected body shot up when they realized who was on the steps.

You knew because you watched them this entire time. It would be kinda hard not to realize.

But even if you hadn't, you'd be an idiot not to see with just one look how much they want to eat you alive.

This is your final stand in this concluding act.

The Director stops at the base of the steps.

Silence chokes the crowd.

“Loop,” they finally say.

“Director,” you call back.

The look in their eye has not faded.

“You must hate me.”

Obviously? You don't designate that with a response. There's no point.

They move again. They raise a foot and the heel clanks against the stairs.

“I deserve it. I know I do.” Their head tilts, and for the first time since they've seen you, their eye twitches. You realize after a moment, they're trying to smile without that mask for a mouth. “So say it. Say you hate me.”

They step up the stairs.

“Say it.”

Another.

“Say it.”

And another. They're close enough that you can feel their matching star pulse in their chest.

“No even better, kill me and get it over with! Not like you haven't tried already!!!”

Quicker than you can see, they grab your hands and clasp their around their own throat. Their fingers lock into yours, painfully intertwining them. The skies on your hands meld into one another into one starry canvas.

Around you, the audience gasps and then shouts all at once.

“Siffrin, that's enough!” “Gems alive.” “Please stop…” “I thought we were done with this.” “I knew this was a bad idea.” “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!!!”

You feel the heat of the Director's throat, and the subtle movement of their breaths, and the way their fingers tremble in yours, and their eye swallowing you whole as they wait for you to make the next move, and you wonder briefly if dawn rewound time in this frozen moment because it stretches on and on and on and on and on, as you memorize the Director's face the same way you did your own lifetimes ago.

You try to uncurl your hands from their throat. They latch on tighter.

“Come on, I know you want to! Or is it?” The Director gasps playfully, “Oh! Don't want to get your hands dirty, do you Loop? That's low even for you.”

That's enough. “Shut up, Director.”

“Aww, are you-” they try, but you interrupt their nonsense quickly.

“No, shut up. I'm talking now. You wanted to say something, I'm saying something.”

Their eye narrows. “Go on~,” they purr out, but with the way their nails dig into your hands, you can tell they wanted to snarl.

Their attention is all on you. Even with your hands on their throat, the stage set for you, and the audience watching for your next words, you never felt any less in control. Their nails claw into you, and even now you know this loop, this miracle could end any moment. One wrong thought from dawn could take this away from you. But you'd gone and done the stupidest thing and let yourself actually hope again. Hope that the party could get through to the Director. Hope that Lupus and dusk could keep dawn afloat long enough to get the party back. Hope beyond hope that there was enough of your stardust in the Director to end this play once in for all.

So you ask, hoping it to be true. “Is it over?”

The Director blinks, clearly not expecting the question. Their grip loosens ever so slightly around their own throat. “...pardon?”

“Is. It. Over?” you hiss. They know what you mean. Asking again, they eye flickers in amusement. You can practically see where their Cheshire grin should be.

“I doooooon't know,” they sing, “Is it?”

“Director.”

They look to you, then to dawn, and back. You don't miss how dawn flinches. The Director shrugs.

“I think that's a question we all want to know,” you hear Odile say.

You can feel the Director suppress a laugh. Their throat jumps against your fingers.

“What's so funny?” You ask.

“Oh, you know. Just! The irony! Asking ME for the answers when I can't know. Not really.” The Director rests their chin on your wound fingers and presses harder.

Bonnie, thank the Stars, interrupts this nonsense. “WeirdFrin stop being weird and answer their question.”

The Director sits back up. The light around their head dims the slightest bit. “If someone, not naming names, loops, then that's that! None of us will remember any of this. Except. That isn't the case is it?” They scratch at your hands. “We have, what do you call them, dawn and dusk? They'll remember. And of course, you Loop. You'll always know. So I'll ask you, what do you think? Is it over?”

You have to hope that the loops are done on dawn's end. That a promise of something after all this, a promise of the time after this is enough. You don't know, can't know if this is truly it.

Especially if the jester in front of you ruins it.

You ask, far too loud in the silent clearing. “Are you done?” You feel your fingers trembling.

“Yup! Done talking. Your turn~.”

“No. Are you done? With.” You look their costume up and down. “All this.”

Their eye widens, but the performance is back in a heartbeat, eye closing in a fake smile. “...........I asked first!“

“Actually I did!” you counter back. For good measure, you squeeze, just a bit. Two performers can play at this game.

And the Director is many things, but no one can say they do not play their part. “Ah! You did, didn't you!” They hum, long and loud. The sound buzzes up your hands into your arms, and almost all the way to your head. In the distance, you see the party tense. They're talking to each other, something about stopping this before it gets out of hand, which doesn't make sense. Nothing has happened yet and nothing will get done if no one says what they need to. Your hands may be around their throat, but the Director might as well be in the labyrinth for all it matters.

“In. A certain sense,” they say slowly. “If you look at a certain angle. Where I have any real control here… Then yeah. I'm done. Thegreatvillainhas finallybeendefeated.Hooray.Youdidit.Woohoo.Yaddayaddayadda. ANYWAY!” They clutch their hands against yours, and you briefly see a shimmer of a sharp toothy grin against the endless light of their face. If you squeeze any tighter, you'd block their windpipe. “Since you've finally won, why don't you just get it over with already and just kill me. Ya know. For old times sake.”

Your fingers press against their throat. A god's life in your hands. It probably wouldn't kill them if you finished choking them. Because of that, it would be cathartic just to squeeze, for everything they did to every other Siffrin, for what they did to the world, for what they did to you.

But…

But-

-It's over.

They tried to hide it behind a sneering veneer, but you got what you needed.

It's over, Stars. It's finally, finally over.

Why would you need anything else?

You squeeze once. The Director's eye widens, first in fear then into a feral vindication.

The look fades as your hands go to their shoulders, their back, and finally you don't see their expression at all, as you surely, fully press them chest to chest, star to star, breaths catching in the other's ears.

They flinch, of course. You pretend not to notice. You also pretend how despite how they try to not lean into your touches, they shiver as your hands run down their back.

“What are you doing?” He hisses.

You hum. “Isn't it obvious?”

They shiver. “Stop it. I-”

You wait for them to continue, but they don't. That won't do. “You?” you prompt.

“...You should hate me.”

“Okay.” You do.

“I hate you.”

“Okay.” You hold them tighter. Their arms start to waver, almost falling to your back.

You hate them, you should kill them, and it's tempting. But also why should you?

It's over. It's over it’s over it’s over-

“I put you through all of this,” your stardust tries to counter, “I hurt you, I hurt them, I'm a monster, you shouldn't be-”

“-I dont care.”

They try to push you back, but they end up flailing uselessly against your back. “What!?”

“You're done, right?” You press your hands against their back, and they let out a little gasp. They're trembling.

“...yes?”

“Then I don't care,” you repeat, resolute, “Stars, I don't even care anymore.”

They're here. They're done. That's all you need. That's all you've ever wanted.

They don't say anything for a time. You just hold them, far more gentle than they deserve, but you want to give them just the same. Slowly, his hands fall onto your back.

“...I didn't even say sorry,” they protest weakly.

You huff. “I didn't either. Would it help?”

They don't say anything back, only dig their nails into your back.

‘No.’ They don't need to say. ‘No, it wouldn't.’

It's for the best. You're not sure either of you would accept the other's apologies. No use ruining this with a harsh reality.

“Then we're done,” you say both for you and them. “It's over, stardust. It's finally over.”

“...Oh.”

You expect a quip. Maybe them to push you back. You're surprised, when they simply lean into you, and finally, finally hold you back.

Your own breath hitches at their warmth.

In a minute you'll need to let them go and ask them what the hell their plan is from here. Dusk, dawn, Lupus, the party, all of them will want explanations. It's inevitable this moment will end, as all moments should, even if they haven't for forever.

Until then, you hold your stardust tight. Becuase they're home here. They're here with you.

And with a miracle like that, who cares about anything else?

#isat #writing tag #overkill au #tw strangulation #luna writes #some things: yes loop only uses he/they for the director/stardust #subconciously they use only the pronouns they view them by despite saying they only see zem as the director #trying to make that a point by having everyone else use different pronouns #you can absolutley tell I have no idea how dusks story concludes #Im sorry dusk youre just kinda here ♥️#implication that lupus realizes what has been happening with dawn and how its the directors fault #goes from “toxic yaoi is entertaining” to “wait no protec ny sifferents-”#also yes implication that the party were told who loop and the director were and thats how they won #lots of little things #anyway part 1 was character study and part 2 is gonna be more of the REAL image that burned my mind #wasnt gonna be 2 parts but I realized they had two separate tones to them #will write the second part later anyway hope you enjoyed!

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