You can ignore this if you want—are you planning on exploring or developing your other alien sophonts, like the monoculi and swimslugs, in the future, or are you fully committed to birgs?
Worldbuilding for me is sort of a feedback loop: the more lore I have already established, the more conceptual launch points I have to build new ideas around. It took me years to reach that point with birgs, and swimslugs and monoculi just haven’t cleared that barrier yet. That said, I will no doubt revisit them when inspiration strikes; there’s plenty of ideas in the vault that I just haven’t gotten around to illustrating.
But yeah, I want hyperborea to at least feel as big and complex as earth, and I still sometimes think I’ve bit off more than I can chew by limiting the focus to two continents instead of one. I just don’t think I have the bandwidth to give that kind of scope to three entire species.
Warnings: Language, mild injury, accidental explosion (oops), chaotic energy, fluff so thick you’ll get a cavity.
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The first time you stapled your own hand to a mission file, Tony Stark banned you from touching office supplies for two weeks. The second time, which involved a malfunctioning toaster, a flamethrower prototype, and a perfectly innocent bagel, you were almost escorted off the compound by the fire department.
“Is she okay?” Sam whispered to Natasha, watching from the hallway as you tried—and failed—to walk through automatic doors that hadn’t opened yet.
“She tricked the doctor so bad, I don’t know how she even passed a psych eval,” Natasha muttered back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“I heard she once asked a Hydra agent if they wanted a Capri Sun mid-fight,” Sam said.
“That one’s true,” Steve added, voice low and deeply confused. “She handed it to him. He took it. They both just… drank in silence for a minute.”
“…Why hasn’t Bucky killed her yet?” Bruce asked, utterly baffled.
“He’s so calm with her,” Clint added. “It’s unsettling.”
And Bucky? Bucky just stood in the doorway with his arms folded and a small, contented smile on his face.
Because that was you. His little whirlwind. Chaotic. Clumsy. Utterly unhinged.
And he loved every second of it.
“Bucky, baby, you might want to come look at this,” you called sweetly from the garage.
The last time you’d used that exact tone, he’d walked in to find a robot vacuum trying to eat your sock while you were wearing it, a spilled jar of peanut butter on the floor, and you sobbing because you’d “betrayed your foot.”
He stepped into the garage with reasonable caution.
“What did you do?” he asked calmly.
You were standing in front of a very dead-looking motorcycle, grease on your nose, hair tied up with… was that a zip tie?
“I was trying to ‘soup it up,’” you said with finger quotes. “You know. Like Vin Diesel.”
“…You don’t know how engines work.”
“Exactly! I was learning! But then I touched this thingy and the wires sparked and now it smells like a marshmallow.”
The bike gave a sad clunk sound before billowing smoke.
You grinned up at him, sheepish and glowing. “Surprise?”
Bucky sighed, walked over, kissed your greasy forehead, and said, “You’re not allowed near anything with an engine again without supervision.”
“Okay, but what if I was the supervision?”
“No.”
At breakfast the next day, you walked into the kitchen with unmatched socks, sleep hair that defied physics, and a toaster under your arm.
You slammed it down proudly in front of the team.
“I fixed it!” you announced.
“No,” Bucky said immediately, standing to intercept whatever chaos was about to happen.
“Babe, trust me,” you said, hand to heart. “I rewired it using science and a little bit of hope.”
“That’s what you said about the Roomba that learned how to scream.”
“That was artificial intelligence gone too far, not my fault.”
Bucky very gently removed the toaster from your grip, handed you a plate of waffles, and said, “Sit down and eat before you set the fire alarm off again.”
Sam watched with wide eyes. “He’s so patient. It’s unnatural.”
The compound was full of chaos daily—missions, training, interrogations. But your kind of chaos? It was its own breed.
Like the time you brought home a baby goat because “he looked like he needed a mentor.” You named him Gary. Bucky helped you build him a tiny barn in your shared room.
Or the time you tried to dye your hair and somehow turned it—and Bucky’s beard—purple.
He’d just blinked at the mirror and said, “Well, guess we’re a matching set now.”
The rest of the team had started placing bets on how long it would take before Bucky cracked.
But he never did.
Not even when you burned a hole through your tactical gear by “testing the flamethrower glove backwards.”
Not when you broke three fingers trying to open a stubborn pickle jar by smashing it against the wall.
Not when you tried to learn archery and accidentally shot a flaming arrow into Tony’s wine cellar.
One day, you wandered into the living room holding a pair of scissors, a juice box, and a kitten.
No one knew where you got any of those things.
“Bucky,” you said, tugging at his sleeve, “can we get a trampoline?”
Natasha leaned toward Steve. “Do not let her have a trampoline. She will attempt flight.”
You blinked at Nat. “I literally already did. Last week. Off the couch. I wore the Captain America helmet and everything.”
“Why do you own that?” Steve asked, already regretting the question.
“To feel safe.”
Bucky was already pulling you gently away from the scissors and kitten, murmuring, “We’ll talk about the trampoline, doll.”
The second you left the room, Steve muttered, “She’s gonna kill him one day.”
But Bucky just wrapped an arm around you and kissed your temple. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s build a pillow fort instead.”
You gasped. “With fairy lights?!”
“Of course.”
Later that night, the two of you were tangled in that fort—blankets everywhere, your head on his chest, popcorn bowl half-empty between you.
“Why do you put up with me?” you asked suddenly, chin resting on his chest.
Bucky blinked, turning to face you, metal fingers playing lazily with your hair.
“Put up with you?” he echoed.
“I mean… I almost burned down the armory. Twice. I broke Steve’s shield holder thingy. I got banned from three vending machines this month. Everyone probably thinks I’m a walking hazard.”
Bucky smiled, soft and warm, like you’d just said the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
“Sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You bring life into every room you walk into. You’re unpredictable and bright and fearless in a way most people only wish they could be. You make me laugh. You make me feel alive.”
You blinked up at him, eyes wide and shiny.
He continued, “I spent so long with silence in my head. Violence. Routine. You crash through all of that. Like a wrecking ball.”
“Like Miley Cyrus?”
“Exactly like Miley Cyrus.”
You snorted, and he kissed the bridge of your nose.
“I don’t love you despite the chaos,” he whispered. “I love you because of it.”
The next morning, the fire alarm went off.
Again.
“I JUST WANTED TO TRY FRENCH TOAST,” you screamed over the wailing siren.
Bucky calmly walked in, lifted the smoking pan from the burner, and handed you a glass of juice.
“Drink this. I’ll make the toast.”
You pouted. “Was it that bad?”
“You buttered the pan with caramel sauce.”
“Oh. That explains the flame part.”
Tony stormed into the kitchen, hair singed. “How the HELL is she still alive?”
“She has nine lives,” Bucky said with a grin, kissing your cheek. “And she’s all mine.”
Later That Week
You fell down the stairs (again). The whole flight this time.
The team rushed in—Steve looking ready to call a medic, Nat pulling out a field kit, Sam shaking his head like of course she did.
But you popped up at the bottom of the stairs, hair a mess, socks on the wrong feet, holding up a thumbs-up.
“I’m okay! My butt broke the fall!”
Steve groaned into his hands. “I give up.”
And Bucky?
Bucky walked over, helped you up gently, brushed your hair back, and said, “Did you finally learn to wear grippy socks?”
“...no.”
He just kissed your nose.
One night, during movie night, you curled up on Bucky’s lap, a blanket burrito around you. The rest of the team was in varying states of exhaustion, watching you through tired eyes.
You turned to Bucky mid-film and whispered, “I love you more than cheese.”
Clint coughed. “That’s a serious declaration.”
Bucky smiled, looked down at you, and whispered, “I love you more than silence.”
Everyone went quiet.
Even Tony didn’t have a comeback.
You blinked, then whispered, “We’re getting married. Immediately.”
He chuckled, arms wrapping tighter around you. “I already bought the ring, baby.”
They still don’t understand how you’re alive.
They still whisper about your psych eval.
They still stare every time you run head-first into trouble and come back grinning like a maniac with soot in your hair and bruises on your knees.
But Bucky?
Bucky’s never loved anything more.
Because some people bring peace.
But you?
You bring joy—feral, messy, beautiful joy.
And in a world that tried to break him a thousand ways, that’s the only kind of healing that ever really stuck.
Yes, yes, Sanji letting Zoro help in the kitchen by letting him chop vegetables because he's good with pointy objects.
BUT. Have you considered?
They live in a world without most electrical appliances. A FUCKTON of physical labor goes into baking (and keep in mind how often Sanji bakes treats for the girls).
Sanji being tired (physically) and not feeling like taking 10 min to whip whipped cream. Being tired (mentally) of Zoro making fun of him for never working out. Sanji saying "fuck it" and just starts putting him to work.
The foccacia dough needs to be kneaded? "Have fun working a sticky mess for 20 minutes, asshole"
Need meringue? "No, STIFF peaks marimo. Don't tell me you're wimping out already"
"Are you even TRYING to flatten that steak Marimo?"
"Yes, it needs whipped cream. YES, I know you just made some yesterday. We need more"
Zoro's shoulders are burning but he's trying SO HARD not to lose face with the cook and meanwhile Sanji is silently losing it at Zoro's shock that cooking can in fact be a workout
you don't know true humiliation til you drop your sister Daniel photo card without realizing and then you have your teacher holding it in front of the whole class asking who lost this picture of a "nun...boy?"
see the problem with drunk face timing jlo on your family beach trip is that when thanksgiving rolls around your aunt will ask “what happened to your spanish guy” in front of everyone in the middle of dinner and you have to think of a polite way to tell your family he’s on a gay side quest using maverick viñales as a vessel to defeat the evil that is marc marquez’s insane pussy to bike connection
