(1459-1524) “I have lived my life the best I could, not knowing its purpose, but drawn forward like a moth to a distant moon; I discover a strange truth. That I am only a conduit, for a message that eludes my understanding.” 

Rhythm - 5

(part 1) | (part 2) | (part 3) | (part 4)

summary: you want her, you need her, and i’ll never be her
warnings: swearing
word count: 1524
a/n: so i was going to call this an epilogue but that’s not really fitting, so here’s part 5. this is the absolute last part to rhythm. thank you!!

Three months. It’s been three fucking months and living with Bucky Barnes is becoming harder by the day because that idiot won’t stop staring at you. Even still, he’s got a different girl on his arm (non-metal, of course), almost every night, and you know he’s picking them up from some bar down the road. (He can’t even get drunk, so what’s the point?) You also know that he’s trying real damn hard to make you jealous. (So fuck him for that.)

It’s not working.

(That’s a goddamn lie, but he doesn’t have to know.)

And the worst part? His sex life is loud. Again.

It’s seven in the morning and you’re in the kitchen making your second cup of coffee already because you’ve been up all night, no thanks to the sharp jaw-lined, blue-eyed, absolutely gorgeous bastard moaning in the room across from yours.

Speaking of– he walks into the room, shirtless (for the millionth time. You’re considering buying him t-shirts for Christmas because he seems to lack them in substantial amounts). His hair is tied in a messy bun, wisps of hair falling out and framing his face. His sweatpants are sitting lazily on his hips and if they were any lower, you’d–

You clear your throat and look away. You’ve been avoiding him since the incident. This is the first time you’ve been in the same vicinity for more than ten seconds, but the pot of coffee isn’t done brewing, so you’re stuck waiting, leaning against the counter with a poptart in your mouth

Bucky shuffles behind you, opening a couple cupboards, and then–

“The fuck?” You whirl around to look at him. “Who ate the last poptart?” Your eyes cross to glance at the poptart stuck between your teeth, and then back up at Bucky.


His glare is piercing and you can see the twitch in his jaw as he takes a deep breath. You smile at him, mouth full. Except– it’s wiped off your face when he opens the cupboard again and pulls out a box of cereal – your box of cereal. Then he’s smiling at you as he pours himself a bowl– a large fucking bowl – until the box is empty and you’re clenching your fists.

The coffee machine beeps and you take your cup of coffee and turn to leave, but Bucky stops you. “Y/N?” Then he’s sauntering up to you so that your back is against the counter again and he’s really, really close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can smell his shampoo and his toothpaste and– (and the cereal he’s holding really fucking close to your face).

You square up your shoulders and straighten your back and then look him in the eye. “What?” (Your voice is indignant but goddamn, your knees are weak and you’re really hoping he doesn’t notice how shallow your breathing’s becoming.)

“There’s a crumb on your face.” You give him a blank look and he touches the side of his own mouth. “Right here”

You swipe your hand across your mouth, and then blink up at him. “You couldn’t have said that from over there?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s still there.”

You’re wiping again except Bucky’s eyes are on you and it’s making you really damn uncomfortable. “Is it gone yet?”

He shakes his head and lifts his flesh hand, fingers touching the side of your cheek, a feather light touch, and your heart stops for a moment, and then it’s beating twice as fast as his thumb swipes, so, so fucking slowly across the side of your mouth. You take in a shuddering breath as the tip of his thumb brushes your lips. And fuck, your mind flashes back to that night, when his hands were on your waist and his lips were on your neck and his hair was tangled between your finger and–

You push him back, hands lightly hovering on his hard, shirtless, warm chest, and then you’re pushing past him, finally leaving the kitchen with your cup of coffee in hand, leaving Bucky with his soggy cereal.

“He’s a dick, Nat”

Nat laughs as she gives you a hand and pulls you up. “Well I hate to tell you this, but I have to run and I asked him to finish training with you.”

No she fucking didn’t. “Are you serious?”

She laughs and nods. “Yeah, sorry, gotta go.” Then she’s booking it out of the room, not bothering to change, and you’re left in the sparring ring, groaning.

Barnes walks in, shirt tight as fuck (so he does own t-shirts) and you’re starting to think that he’s doing that on purpose, that absolute piece of shit. He enters the ring with that cocky walk that makes you want to do things to him that you really shouldn’t. You clench your teeth and tighten your gloves.

It’s different, training with him. He’s not as agile as Natasha, but he doesn’t fight defensive like her either. He’s quick to jab, quicker than you’d expected, and he moves forward so suddenly that your back is on the mat within minutes. You’re breathing heavy, sweating already, and Bucky’s standing above you with a triumphant grin. Except, he’s not much of a hand-to-hand combat person. He’s good, sure, but his arrogance is his weakness, at least in this situation. You glare up at him, and then–

Your feet swipe at his, and it seems to be almost slow motion: the surprise on his face and the widening of his eyes and the way his mouth opens when he falls.  On you.

His weight comes crushing down, pinning you to the mat, and fuck, he’s heavy. He’s warm and he’s breathing heavy and his face is in your neck and holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

Bucky lifts himself off of you, but only partially, so that he’s hovering over your face, resting on his elbow while his other hand encircles both your wrists, pushing them into the mat. His hips are still on yours and one leg of his is wedged between your two. You take in a shaky breath, because he’s closer than you can handle him and if he doesn’t fucking move you’re going to do something that you shouldn’t.

But Barnes is a bitch. He looks you, right in the fucking eyes, and then his gaze travels from your eyes, down your face to your lips, then back to your eyes. Then he leans in, and you swallow and you know that this is so fucking wrong and that you’ve told him that you aren’t going to be with him so soon and he has another girl waiting for him at the bar tonight but– your eyes close regardless, and your chest rises and falls rapidly, and you’re craving the feel of his lips, and–

“Two can play this game, doll,” Then he’s pushing up and off of you. He takes off his gloves and tosses them to the side before striding to the locker room.

For a moment you’re left standing there, watching his retreating back, then you’re throwing your own gloves off to the side and storming after him, walking at twice his pace. You grab his shoulders and jerk him around, roughly, then push him into the lockers.

He let’s out an “umphh,” but you muffle it with your lips on his, hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You’re kissing him with hot, feverish passion, and fuck, he’s kissing you back just as intensely, his hands travelling everywhere– your face, your hair, your waist – before latching onto the small of your back, thumbs digging into your hips as his pulls you flush against him.

He pulls away for a moment, surfacing to breathe, and he looks at you, really looks. Then he flips the two of you around, so that the lockers dig into your back, and then his lips are back, on your lips, then behind your ears, on your earlobe, down your jawline, onto your collarbone, and fuck. You swing your legs up and wrap them around his waist, hands circling his neck and disappearing into his locks and his lips come back to yours.

His teeth nibble on your bottom lip, fingers digging deeper into your waist, and you open your mouth with a gasp. It’s hot, in every sense of the word, and Bucky can feel it too, because his fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, and torturously slowly, he begins to lift it up.

You pull away, swatting his hands away. “Not–“ you’re gasping for air, leaning back against the lockers. “Not here.”

“Fuck, Y/N.” He’s breathing heavy, gasping as much as you are, and you look up at him. He’s watching you, blue eyes wide and trained you, gaze so intense that there’s heat creeping up into your cheeks.

You rest your hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Buck?” He raises his eyebrows in question,  “If– if we’re gonna do this,” you pause, looking away. “There’s something you should know.”

His lips latch onto your collarbone again as you speak, and your voice drops down to a shaky whisper.

“You’re still a fucking jerk.”

Keep reading

We regard reading the Qur’aan as a foundation for the heart.

The Messenger of Allaah -sallAllaahu alayhi wa sallam- said:

الرجل الذي ليس في جوفه شئ من القرآن كالبيت الخرب

‘A man who does not have in his inside anything from the Qur’aan is like a house that has no furnishing.

Collected by Tirmidhi[1]

[1]Shaykh Albaani declared this hadeeth to be weak in  ‘al-Mishkat’ No. 2135 & ‘Da’eef al-Jamia’ No. 1524. Albaani also said: ‘… meaning: had not memorised anything of the Qur’aan and I spoke about the hadeeth in al-Mishkat No. 2135 which indicates that it is Da’eef.’ [Riyadh as-Saliheen no.388]


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Signorelli’s drawings bear a close analogy to the method of Michelangelo. He aimed at powerful truth rather than nobility of form. He had a vast influence over the painters of his workshop, some of whom would have completed this work.