#(that one's sergeant sprinkles)

[i-may-be-an-emu]

I can sense the locomotion energy

[mindonmymoneyandmoneyonmymind]

Do you know what is romantic?

Security!

[beiyuanism]

ough the effect during tagging out in today's freeze tag was like fucking me up a little for some reason and it's so unserious but i finally realised. i recently edited sorry about my nan and cdiyw. with that same blue curtain background. and i put the same desaturation on everything but red in the colouring. and it was the shade of that desaturated blue curtain that was just straight up messing with my brain somehow. i have been defeated by a colour.

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[thedevilsoftruth]

Fade Into You

B. Barnes x f reader

Tags: sensual stuff mostly. Suggestive content. Praising. Bucky needs love. Tiny drabble bc I'm sad rn.

Your hands cuff Bucky's wrists as he cups your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. You melt into his touch, letting your face rub against his palm. He brings your head forward just a bit, and he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Like this, everything feels so simple and so right. Like this, there was no question on wether or not you could trust each other. Because like this, you could be vulnerable. You could be honest to each other without the fear you'll be judged.

His hands drift down to your thighs that are opened around his lap. His palms opens, and his fingers drag across your leg, one hand warm and the other cold, causing goosebumps to rise at your skin. You place a hand on his chest, and he ever so slightly grips the base of your thighs with his hands.

He then leans in to kiss you, his lips soft and warm, wrapping around yours almost like you were the most delicate thing in the world. His metal hand drifts under your sweater, his hand lulling up and down your back, fingers lazily tracing your spine. Your left hand snakes up to his jaw as his lips part from yours. Your eyes meet, and he kisses the palm of your hand.

" You are so gorgeous. " You whisper to him, your thumb moving up and down the strands of facial hair that sprinkled his jaw. He almost winces at that. He was never good with compliments or praise.

" I should be saying that to you. " He says, his hands working to unclasp the hooks of your bra under your sweater. He gives you the best smile he could muster.

" No, " you stop him. His fingers still on your back, and his smile fades. " You really are gorgeous, James. " You tell him, your voice so quiet that it's nearly a whisper. He feels a pang of something in his chest as you call him by his first name.

" I love everything about you. " You tell him, kissing his cheek, moving down to his neck. Your hands roam down his torso, feeling his dog tags under his shirt, the way his muscles feel so defined, even beneath fabric. " I love everything you've become. So strong and handsome. So good to me. " You whisper, kissing the crook of his neck softly. He moans, and he instinctively grips your hips with his strong hands. His mind is racing. He wasn't sure if he was worth the praise.

Your fingers curl at the dog tags under his shirt, making them jangle together softly. His metal fingers go back up to the clasps of your bra. He holds you closer with his flesh arm, and now it's his turn to bury his face in your neck.

" Easy there, sergeant. " Your voice comes out wobbly with a light giggle that warms his soul. He practically melts at mention of his old title, and as he's slipping your bra straps down your arms under your sleeves, he's staring at you with heart eyes. " My handsome man. " You say one more time, kissing his cheek. He takes your mouth In his own again, this time a bit rougher than before, and he's tempted to just throw you down onto the bed. Only if you'll let him, and only If you keep talking to him sweet like that.

He tilts his head, kissing you deeper as he he finally slips your bra off your body. He lets it fall on the floor next to the bed with a soft thud. He pulls away from your lips again, and he leans back just to get a good look at your body. He takes in the goosebumps on your skin, the way your body hair sticks on end, the way your lips are now shiny with a thin layer of saliva, the way your nipples press against your shirt, hardened from the cold air. Bucky moves his hands across your stomach and let's his hands fall on your hips once more.

And then, he whispers it. He whispers the words he's never spoken to you before, and it comes out subconsciously and just barley audible and very scratchy. By most of all, he doesn't even think twice before the words come spilling out of his lips,

" I love you. "

[thedovesaredying]

Werewolf!141 x F!Reader | Sneak Peek

You've been assigned to Task Force 141 as their designated Werewolf Handler. It will be your job to ensure that the pack work together as coherently as possible through any means necessary. You think it will be an easy enough assignment, just help out the Task Force and then move on to the next one. Unfortunately for you, the rest of 141 aren't so willing to let go of their new human.

A/N: Just a little snippet from an AU I'm playing around with. It'll mostly be a smut-based fic.

Warnings: Mentioned Child Abuse (Simon's Past)

Masterlist: CoD Masterlist

Next

Out of every member of Task Force 141, Ghost is the only person you’ve struggled to get along with. That isn’t to say he’s rude or deliberately trying to make you feel uncomfortable with them, he’s simply not as welcoming as all the others. He has his reasons for that, you know, probably some kind of attempt at keeping you safe, but it’s beginning to get on your nerves.  

You’re a human, the rest of your team are not. A whole pack of werewolves with you right in the middle of it. While normally you would be touched that someone cares so much for your welfare, you’ve spent years learning how to handle werewolves and you’re far from a rookie. It’s gone from being sweet to being nothing but irritating.  

You’re their designated handler, so it’s vital that all of you can work well as a team. You’ve met three of the wolves – Price, Gaz and Soap’s - and for the most part they’re good fun to work with.  

Soap, by far, has the clingiest wolf. He follows you around base, tail wagging and tongue lolling as he acts like your own personal shadow. He’s playful and loves nothing more than to run circles around you while you’re trying to work. According to his file, he comes from a large family of other wolves, so he’s well socialised and both halves of his personality, human and wolf, work together in perfect harmony.  

Gaz’s wolf is a little more reserved when it comes to spending time with those outside of the pack, but he’s just as friendly toward you as Soap, if a little less excitable. He has a beautiful, sleek black coat, unlike Soap’s shaggy brown mop of fur. You’re the only human who can run your fingers through his soft fluff without potentially losing a finger for disturbing his luscious locks.  

Your Captain has the typical grey colouring, with some white sprinkled across his muzzle. He’s the very picture of a regal, perfectly poised wolf. The two sergeants might be unruly when playing together and enjoy riling up one another, but both heed Price’s commands without fail.  

Ghost, however, is an unknown.  

During the full moon your pack run out across the field on base, play wrestling and doing their best to smother you with affection. It’s an evening of fun and a perfect way for the group to destress every month. But Ghost? He’s never there with you.  

While Gaz and Soap grew up with other werewolves teaching them how to behave and coexist with their inner wolves, and Price has had decades of working in the military to develop a vice-like grip on the control over his own, Ghost never had such an opportunity. He wasn’t born as a werewolf, rather turned into one.  

Werewolves born from others of their kind have good relationships with their wolf halves, having existed together even within the womb. Those who are turned suddenly find themselves with a whole separate creature suddenly inhabiting their minds and bodies, and the results of having their psyche torn to pieces so violently can be horrific. You’ve seen firsthand what kinds of aggressive, murderous beasts can be born from a newly changed werewolf rejecting their other half.  

Ghost is one such beast. Turned as a child by his own father in an attempt to make him bigger and stronger, only for it to backfire and create a terrifying monster instead. Instead of learning to embrace his wolf on a full moon and finding others of his kind to play and grow with, a young Simon’s wolf found himself locked up in a metal cage. He would be muzzled and beaten during his father’s attempts at “training” the wolf, then left either chained to a pole or in the tiny cage without food or water for the remainder of his change.  

And that’s merely what Ghost’s medical file is willing to disclose, the majority of the rest blacked out completely. You’re fortunate enough to have access to the highly classified documents, but even they give you very little to work with.  

Price has told you just how difficult it is for the other wolves to work with Simon’s wolf. He never learned how to socialise with other wolves, and it took months before they could all cohabitate without fights breaking out. But still now, years on, Ghost still refuses to spend the full moon with the rest of the pack.  

You were requested specifically to work with the pack to try and help Ghost open up a little and learn to accept his other half. No doubt it’ll be a difficult task given Ghost’s history, but this isn’t your first rodeo. By the end of this you’ll have Ghost’s wolf rolling over for belly rubs like the good boy you know he is.  

[thenightshadowqueen]

I adore absolutely everything about the Case of Sergeant Sprinkles—the pride flags, the queer community overthrowing the American government (good god, please (joking for legal reasons 👀))—but I think my favourite thing is how offended Sam was when Tom ended the play without a kiss (and how he gave us one anyway; he knew they couldn’t leave us without one)

[channiesluvrclub]

sᴀғᴇᴛʏ - ᴄʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ ʙᴀɴɢ

A/n: Hey loves! Sorry if this isn't the best. It was really rushed considering I'm doing exams at school. This also isn't proof read. Please enjoy!

Info/TW: Police Sergeant!Chan, Drunk!Reader, Afab!Reader, Unprotected Sex, Handcuffs.

WC: 1.4k

Your ears rang as you stumbled out of the club, eyes squinted as the bright city lights blinded you. You were flooded with the sounds of the loud new york atmosphere. You were in a short dress, painful heels that made you regret your decisions, and an extremely uncomfortable thong. It was 1 a.m, definitely not safe for a woman to roam around a huge city at this ungodly hour. You had slowly made your way to your apartment, but not before eating some shitty convenience store pizza, being catcalled multiple times, and best of all… getting flagged down by an extremely handsome police officer. And with your luck it just had to be the sergeant. He flashed his lights at you, slowly driving up next to you. He rolled down his window, watching you for a second before calling out to you.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” He looked mildly concerned, one of his eyebrows raised, one arm raised on the steering wheel the other hanging out of the window.

You looked over at him, a drunken smile on your face. “Yeah, I’m doing so great.” Your words were slightly slurred, he could easily see right past what you thought was a good facade.

He let out a silent chuckle to himself. “You know I could detain you or fine you for being intoxicated in public?” His voice was tinted with a thick australian accent and sprinkled with a hint of irony.

Your eyes slightly widened at his statement. You had just had such a great night at the club and now you were about to get arrested? You couldn’t help but try and pull your pretty girl card. 

“But officer, I thought you didn’t give pretty girls tickets?” You slurred out with what you thought was a seductive voice. The officer just smirked.

“Who mentioned a ticket?” He asked, looking through his windshield to the rest of the city as he listened to you. He turned his head to look back at you. He inhaled deeply as he stared at you, standing there with your bag clenched tightly in front of you. 

At this point you had no response. You were frozen in your movements on the sidewalk, clueless and not able to think straight. The officer sighed before getting out of his car and walking up to you. He was now standing right in front of you, bodies almost touching. He carefully grabbed your bag from you and planted his hand on your back. 

“Let’s get you to my car, yeah?” The officer asked as he guided you to his car. He opened the door to the backseat, gently sitting your small clutch bag down on the seat. “How much have you been drinking tonight sweet girl?” He looked at you with a curious gleam in his eyes.

“Uh… maybe 5 or 6 shots?” You slurred out, trying to recall the memories from earlier. The officer let out a sigh. “That’s a lot… How about you wait for a bit in my car? I want you to sober up a bit, you can’t be walking the streets like this.” He spoke to you in a gentle tone.  You nodded as he carefully grabbed your wrists. “I’m gonna cuff you sweet girl, I can't have you running off or anything.” He smiled, gently clipping the cuffs around your wrists. “Not too tight, right?” He asked as he gave the cuffs a small tug. He carefully helped you into the car and sat down next to you before closing the door. “So, I assume you had a fun night?” The officer asked, looking over at you. You nodded tiredly, eyes barely open. You were close to falling asleep but instead you have one thing keeping you up. The heat emitting from your dripping core, you find yourself intensely aroused by being cuffed by this handsome officer. 

Before you know you’re scooting closer to him, gripping onto his shoulder with your chained wrists, and looking up at him with love adorned eyes. The officer gazed over at you, a small smirk falling across his face. “Looks like someone is head over heels for a man in uniform?” He teased you, his voice dropping an octave. You almost whined pitifully at his teasing whispers. He snaked his calloused hands around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. As soon as you were seated on his thigh he could feel your slick seeping through the small thong you were wearing. “Look at this, sweet girl is all wet for me?” He teased quietly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You looked down at the tag on his uniform, it read “Sgt. Christopher” You took in a sharp inhale, completely unaware of what was happening. While you were in a different world reading his badge he had managed to slip his hand up your thigh. The feeling of his warm and calloused hand against your thigh only turned you on further. You let out a quiet moan in response to his hand. You could practically feel his smirk. Christopher ran his hand further up your thigh, his fingertips painfully close to the seam of your thong. “Gonna be a good girl and let me treat this pretty pussy right?” His voice was low and raspy. You nodded, whispering out quietly. “Yes Christopher…”

His fingers immediately moved to slide your thong down your legs. “Oh, sweet girl uses her manners and said my name? I like that, keep it up.” He ran his fingers through your folds, teasing you. The friction of his fingers against your clit caused you to jolt forward, your torso up against his chest. You could feel his smirk by your ear. “Calm down sweet girl, I can make you feel so much more than that.” His voice teasing yet tender.

He carefully unlocked your cuffs, placing them to your side on the seat. “Just hold on sweet girl.” Christopher then carefully unbuttoned and unzipped his uniform pants, pulling his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring out. He was hard, his tip tinted with an angry red color. He gave himself a few strokes, coating himself with the pre-cum that leaked from him. “Gonna make you feel so good. I don’t have a condom, is that okay?” He looked at you with asking eyes, his hands now moving to rest on your hips as he awaited a response. You nodded, eyes barely open. Christopher let out a sigh. “I need words sweet girl, I need verbal consent.” You muttered out a few words quietly before laying your head down on his shoulder. “Yes.. Please Christopher?”

With your given consent he pulled you closer to him on his lap. He ran the tip of his cock through your folds before lining up to you. He then carefully guided your hips down onto him, his cock sinking deep in you. “Feel good sweet girl?” He asked, staying still so you could adjust to his size. He wasn’t too big but he definitely wasn’t average. He filled you up perfectly, not too long, and not too thick. You let out a moan, throwing back your head at the feeling of his cock stretching you out. He began to move after he traced your face for any signs of pain. Christopher began to carefully thrust up into you, his tip just gently kissing your cervix at every thrust. It didn’t take long for you to lose all of your senses. Your body felt like it was convulsing, your vision was blurred and hazy. Before you could even stop yourself, you were creaming around his cock. He moaned at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. “Christopher…” You muttered out, unable to even finish your sentence before slumping onto him. “It’s okay sweet girl, I’m gonna get you home safe now, okay?” His voice was softer this time, he was looking at you with eyes of sincerity. He was your sense of safety.

He did the best he could to clean the both of you up with the towel he kept in his car. “And… don’t worry, you won’t be getting a ticket, pretty.” He pressed a small kiss to your right temple. He then zipped and buttoned his pants back up before getting in the front seat. “Are you gonna take me home?” You managed to slur out. Christopher nodded. “Of course sweet girl, just tell me the address and I’ll get you there safely.”

[wherearedagrapes]

@ficsinhistory I started to reply to you and then it got way too long, so I hope it’s okay if I do it this way instead! Sonic has reservations about revealing himself as an alien. But I definitely think Tom’s (initially kind of hidden or downplayed around others ig) silly, eccentric side appeals to Sonic, among other things.

Before they meet, Sonic gets to see Tom’s most authentic self — who Tom is when no one else is watching (that Tom knows of). And what Sonic sees is someone who’s not always cool, sarcastic, and witty but goofy and… weird? Loony? Embarrassing? Like I said, there’s talking to donuts, and then there’s creating characters out of them, crafting little arms and legs, and playing pretend with them lmao Tom has a donut buddy named Sergeant Sprinkles, and he eats the other donuts “when they get out of line.” (Think about how regularly this must occur for Sonic to define Tom by this, comparable to Maddie doing routine yoga on the back porch… 💀)

We see Tom acting like a goober when he (thinks he) is alone in other ways too, like pretending he’s catching speeding cars with his radar gun before accidentally hitting himself in the face or joking around with the turtle crossing the road or just loudly proclaiming, “I’M BORED,” to no one. This is how the movie introduces us to him. Our first impression of Tom is a Tom that thinks he is alone, a Tom that only Sonic sees: A goofy, restless guy that’s bored with his job, that wants something exciting to happen.

I’ve no doubt that Sonic seeing that side of Tom makes Tom feel approachable and safe. Sonic admires Tom because Tom looks out for the town. He’s strong, brave, and compassionate, heroic, “defender of creatures big and small.” But Sonic wants to be Tom’s friend because Tom’s funny and weird and cool (and they both like action movies!) I think — much the way Sonic calls Maddie “Pretzel Lady” because they do yoga together and she’s flexible — the same is true for Tom being the goofy and weird “Donut Lord.” These are things that Sonic both finds funny about them and likes about them, and it’s how he connects with them.

Tom and Sonic share the same values and they have similar personalities. Sonic can certainly relate to a guy that goofs off, makes bad jokes, and talks to himself when he’s bored lmao (and in the novelization, I heard Tom acknowledges that Sonic reminds him of himself when he was a kid). In the following movies, those similarities become more pronounced imo, as Sonic matures and as Tom leans more into his inner cartoon. Which is another thing I love. Sonic awakens Tom’s paternal instincts, but he also pulls Tom’s existing silly, eccentric “Donut Lord” side out.

Tom goes from being embarrassed and irritated to embracing the nickname and his connection to Sonic. He’s still a little embarrassed at the end of the first movie, as he refuses to elaborate when Maddie questions why Sonic calls him “Donut Lord.” But fast-forward two movies and Tom’s knitted a goofy sweater with the title spelled proudly across the front. He’s graduated from Sergeant Sprinkles to Little Tom, a weird puppet he teases his family with. That silly, eccentric side of him is not so hidden or downplayed anymore, and he’s never seemed happier :) But anyway.

This is all a long-winded way of saying I agree with you! lol I think Sonic relating to Tom is the biggest reason Sonic grows emotionally attached to him over all the other people in Green Hills. Basically like ‘that guy’s so funny and weird. He’s just like me fr’

[babylacedream]

you asked why I crossed the line

i always find myself back to you જ part 1 of ?

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 info

pairing: soft yandere!bucky barnes x f! autistic reader

warning: ableism, overprotective!bucky, yandere themes, anxiety, misogyny, sexist, implied lovemaking, abandonment, bittersweet, angsty

summary: you and bucky are childhood friends. after bucky returned from the army as a sergeant, he wanted to tell you something over milkshakes before he leaves you yet again.

notes: what can i say? i like a man in uniform.

inspired by pinkpantheress unreleased song called y2k, I recommend listening. have to support my girly!

please remember i am autistic, so i will be writing my personal experience with my autism. thanks!

"Freak!"

You were pushed into a corner, harshly against the hard concrete wall, a slight pain on your wrist as the impact caused you to slam onto your left arm. Your coworker, Charles, loved picking on you, especially since finding out you were different from the rest.

"To think that someone like you is working alongside us men." He grabbed your collar, pulling you to him and tightening his grip.

You tried removing his hand from your collar, overloading your senses, but he wouldn't budge. You breathed in and out and chuckled before provoking him, "And to think I have to work with a bunch of males who struggle with such fragile masculinity."

Charles fumingly lifted his hand; it would only mean one thing, that being the usual stinging ache on your cheek, you would feel again. You closed your eyes, awaiting a smack, but it never came.

"Hey!" Someone shouted from behind, catching his arm and pulling him away from you as he stumbled. The towering uniformed sergeant stood in front of you, his back facing you as he kept you from a safe distance from your abuser.

"Pick on someone your own size." The sergeant sauntered menacingly to the now scared Charles. Charles thought he could overpower a sergeant but he only received a punch to the face and a kick to his butt making him scram.

While the sergeant cleared the coast, you were occupied brushing the dirt off your blouse. You didn't even realize he got close to you, grabbing your bruised wrist and examining it.

"Hey, that hurts..." You winced, "Bucky!"

James Buchanan Barnes is your most precious childhood friend. The person who protected you and the only one who didn't discriminate against you. He was back from the recent war, you wondered why he came here...

"It wouldn't hurt if you were smart, dollface." Bucky playfully expressed this before taking out a bandage and wrapping your wrist gently.

"Hmph, why are you here?" You expressed yourself back at him.

Bucky chuckled, finally compressing your wrist. He looked proud of his own work. You pulled your wrist to get his attention. Bucky's attention from your wrist went to your skeptical expression.

"You want a milkshake?"

A diner, you and Bucky shared lots of endearing moments that gave you nostalgia. The jukebox playing in the background, the murmur of customers, and the overall atmosphere in this diner felt just right for you.

Bucky pulled out the chair for you to sit down. "You know I can pull my own chair, right?"

"I know you're capable of doing so. I just wanted to spoil you a bit today."

You sipped your milkshake. It's surprising he even remembered the specific way you like your milkshakes. Vanilla with extra whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and one cherry on top. You thought he forgot all about you...

"Dollface," he called out as he studied you purposefully, "I wanted to confess something to you."

"Mm?" You uttered, your attention on the straw in your mouth as you bit it.

"I wanted to apologize. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have crossed the line that night."

You released your teeth around the straw and questioned him, "You say cross the line, but what line are you referring to? The line of you embracing me... or the line of you not telling me you were leaving for the army that night?"

You knew all men were expected to enlist, but the thing that ticked you off was the fact he never mentioned he was leaving a few hours after that. You wouldn't have been so angry if he told you.

"Leaving you."

In fact, he had his reasons for embracing you that specific night. He wanted to be your first; he didn't want some scrawny man to have his way with you. It was certainly cruel, but he wanted to make sure if he died, he would be your first.

You sensed the regret in his voice and the occasion, rubbing his leg against your knee under the table.

"Do you know how I felt after waking up to an empty bed? I thought that you possibly didn't enjoy it with me..."

Bucky clenched his fist. "Are you kidding? That night was the best..." He stopped himself; he didn't want to cause a scene in your favorite diner that you enjoyed coming to.

Bucky took out a ten-dollar bill, placed it on the diner table, grabbed your right hand, and led you outside.

"Bucky, please don't hurt me... I don't think I can put up with it once again."

You knew he would return again to the army. The uniform said it all. He became a sergeant. You placed your hands on his chest and fixed his collar. "Congratulations on becoming a sergeant."

Bucky grabbed your right hand, removing it from his chest, gently wrapping it with his own, and placing a kiss on it.

"Doll, am I selfish for asking you to wait for me?"

"Yes, you are selfish." Bucky chuckled at your quick response. Bucky leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek.

"Indeed, I am."

"If you pinky swear to come back to me. Perhaps I will wait for you."

Bucky grinned when you lifted your pinky finger, waiting for him to do the honors. It made him reminiscence. The times you would swear if he didn't pinky swear with you, he would surely end up with the flu.

Bucky lifted his pinkie finger, linking it around yours.

"I pinky swear."

[gatorbites-imagines]

I think we have a lot of wriggle room lore-wise with the twins!

There’s that time in that one town over where they were pretty isolated or at least unwanted by the mayor.

Of course Chicago, where they could’ve the ropes of the town and were taken under our wing as the resident gang/mob boss.

There’s even their military time! With basics and sergeants. Inspections and training and missions! Am I hearing a top barrack bunny? 👀

It would be pretty funny if the reader was like, double-crossing the mafia as well, and realized the twins were, so it kinda became “hey, all three of us are doing something real bad right now, so, you dont snitch on me, I dont snitch on you two”.  

But it would be even better if reader was one of the leaders, or like, one of the sons of the mafia bosses. Ive seen people saying Stack worked for the Italians, because of his hat and outfit, and Smoke the Irish, for the same reason, so readers probably with the Italian family. You can be adopted too, to not limit the reader and stuff. 

Maybe you've always hated your family, so when these cuties show up, clearly trying to mess around, you just grin and decide to help them out. Makes sense the only reason they get so far is because you help them, because they're obviously twins and all that. 

To sprinkle some angst. Imagine you need to stay back in the big city to wrap up loose ends, and you told the Smokestack twins you'd meet them in Mississippi in a week. And when you arrive, all you have is the burnt down juke joint, and rumors of how everyone that night went missing. 

Stack would have buried Smoke during the night, and I imagine he sticks around the area because you are all he has left, you know? Being undead is probably a real mess, so Stack would stumble to you at night, and then there would be a whole angsty thing about him trying to explain what happened, what he is now, and what that means. 

[i-may-be-an-emu]

so excited for the case of sergeant sprinkles :))))

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Be Mine

Falling into bed with the handsome Sergeant hadn't been on your bingo card. Then again, falling in love with him certainly hadn't been either.

Pairing: Hunter x f!reader

Rating: 18+ MINORS DNI!

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: unprotected PiV, a sprinkle of a praise kink, pet names, friends to lovers, a sprinkle of a scent kink, soft aftercare.

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment, you’d been stood at the back of the Marauder with Hunter discussing food rations and when the rest of the Batch would be back from their exploration.

The next, you were face down on a bottom bunk, naked from the waist down, with his rough hands hauling you backwards onto his cock. “That’s it, cyar’ika.” The smokey smoothness of Hunter’s voice cut through the sounds of your whimpers and skin meeting skin. “Wanted this for so long. You have no idea.” He grunted, tightening his grip on your hips. You’d have bruises shaped like his dexterous fingers tomorrow, a delicious reminder of this moment.

Hand flexing against the flimsy sheet, you vaguely registered that it was Echo’s bunk you were face down on. “Tell me.” You whined, gasping as a fluid roll of Hunter’s hips made his heavy balls slap against your clit.  

“Canto Blight.” Hunter gritted out, slowing his thrusts so he could languish in your warmth. He wanted this to last. Needed it to. “That blasted dress. I wanted to drag you back here, hike up the hem, and have you until dawn.” The memory lived rent-free in his mind. It had been your second mission with them, and the Sergeant had already found himself enamoured with you, so when you’d stepped out the fresher dressed to impress, he’d never been more grateful to be the only one able to hear his racing heart.

“Mhmmm. I still have the dress.” You purred, enjoying that he’d lusted after you for so long. Releasing the sheets, you reached a hand down to rub your clit, but Hunter pushed it away. You didn’t have time to let out a whine of frustration before he pulled all the way out of you, strong hands moving to grab your thighs so he could flip you over and pick you up, your legs and arms automatically wrapping around him.

“Next time. Oh, Maker, next time.” Hunter promised, capturing your lips in a fiery kiss as he moved you across to his bunk. He needed his sheets to smell like you – he wanted to bury himself in them later that night and bathe in your scent. The damn scent that had been driving him wild since you’d set foot on the Marauder many moons ago at Cid’s behest.

His roughness abated as he slowly settled you down on his bed, making sure you didn’t bang your head on the metal frame or hurt your back. It made your heart clench. Finding his eyes in the darkness of the ship, you watched as the fierce hunger from moments before dissipated, and a softness crept over the usually stoic man’s face. “Next time?” You questioned quietly, lifting a hand to run your fingers across his tattooed jawline as he settled above you, caging you in. His weight was comforting – solid and steadfast – but it was hard to miss the firm press of his erection.

“If you want?” Hunter’s hips started to move, pressing himself against you, eliciting a small mewl from your parted lips as he tried to play it cool. He could get drunk on your sounds, on the feel of your soft skin beneath his calloused fingers, of the warmth in your voice and the sweet ways you showed affection. He noticed every time you stole a glance his way, how you stepped forward to protect him when he was in danger, and that his clothes were always neatly folded on his bunk with a piece of his favourite candy on top after laundry day. He’d been sceptical when Cid had insisted you go along with them as another set of hands, but he couldn’t think of the ship anymore without your presence, your scent, or the sound of your laughter as you tormented his siblings.

“Oh, I want.” You agreed, exhaling shakily. The slip and slide of his cock through your folds was delicious but not enough. “Hunter. Need more. Need you.” You begged.

The hunger from early roared back into life, igniting Hunter’s blood. Pushing away the softer feelings to focus on later, he focused on your current situation. How he longed to bury his face between your thighs and eat you out, slide his fingers and cock into you, pull orgasm after orgasm from you, and fill you with his release. Spurred on by his thoughts, he wasted no time reaching down to align himself with your entrance, and in one steady push, he settled himself back inside of you, marvelling at the way your mouth opened in a silent gasp at the sensation.

Every nerve in your body was alight. Senses overwhelmed by the man on top of you. While Hunter was average in length, his girth led to the most delicious stretch as your body accommodated him. Feeling him fully sheathed inside of you was heavenly, and in your delight, you clenched around him, watching as his eyes screwed shut while his deep groan filled the air. “Keep doing that, and I won’t last long.” He warned, making you smile. It didn’t matter how long he lasted, so long as you both got to experience your highs – you couldn’t imagine how overwhelming it must be for him, with his heightened sense of touch, to feel you so thoroughly.

Leaning up to close the small distance, you captured Hunter’s lips in a kiss, your left hand reaching up to caress his face while the other slipped under the top half of his blacks, tracing every strong muscle you found.

Feeling less like he was going to blow his load any second, Hunter surrendered himself to your kiss and picked up the pace, snapping his hips against yours, driving himself into you over and over, relishing the sweet drag of your walls around his cock. Hunter felt light-headed; he could spend an eternity tangled up with you, which both thrilled and terrified him. Though the space was limited in his bunk, he shifted to rest all his weight on one hand, breaking your kiss while maintaining his thrusts. Sliding a hand between you both, he honed in on his target. You wouldn’t go without. He’d make damn sure of it.

Fingers finding purchase on your clit, he spent a moment figuring out what you liked, vision and hearing focused on the myriad of expressions that crossed your features and the sounds slipping from your lips. It only took a few tries before he had you whimpering, his grin of satisfaction blinding, only ceasing as you stretched up to capture his lips in a heated kiss once more.

“Fuck, Hunter.” You panted, breaking the kiss as your back arched. He was relentless, sure and steady fingers circling your clit with the perfect amount of pressure, and you drew a low moan from the exquisite man above you as you tightened around him. The familiar tension was starting, seeping through your body and overwhelming you.

Enraptured as he watched you chase your release, Hunter slowed his pace and angled his hips, grinning at the sound of your gasp. The way his name sounded tumbling from your lips was simultaneously heavenly and sinful – either way, he couldn’t get enough. “That’s it, cyare. I want to see you fall apart. Can you be a good girl and do that for me?” He whispered, testing the waters. You always responded well to his praise while out on jobs.

It was all too much. The weight of Hunter above you, the sweet drag of his cock in you as he kept hitting that perfect spot with each thrust, and the sound of his deep voice in your ears. You wanted to please him. Wanted to fall apart at his behest. Wanted to be a good girl. Hands scrambling against the sheets for purchase, you bit down on your lower lip. You were close. So close. The tension in your body was almost unbearable, your pussy clamping down on him, making every push and pull feel even more exquisite. Hunter gave a few quick circles on your clit, and your body tingled, the tension snapping as you cried out. You trembled through the waves of your orgasm, the pleasure overwhelming and all-encompassing.

Pulling in a shaky breath, you meet the hungry gaze of the man above you.

“Where?” He asked once he was sure you were back with him. He was close. So close. You’d tightened around him, gripping him like your life depended on it. You could make or break him, and he’d thank you either way.

Releasing the sheets, you grasped at Hunter’s shoulders, giving yourself some leverage as you met his thrusts with each rock of your hips. “Inside.” You insisted.

That was it. You would be the death of him. And he would gladly go down with the ship. His lips met yours, and with one final, sharp thrust, he grunted, letting go. Thighs quivering as he crested over the edge, he spilled himself deep inside you.

Neither of you spoke for a second, trying to catch your breath as you came down from your highs. Resting your foreheads together, eyes closed, you relished the closeness, basking in the afterglow. “Mesh’la…” Hunter’s low voice broke the silence as he moved to nuzzle his nose against your neck, inhaling deeply.

Everything stilled as he breathed you in, focusing on the thud of your heart as its pace slowed to your resting rate. It brought him a great deal of comfort in an increasingly shifting galaxy. He hadn’t meant for your first time together to be like this, hadn’t dared to dream it would ever happen if he were being honest with himself, but he didn’t regret a second of it.

“We should’ve done that sooner.” You whispered, feeling more in control of your racing heart. Hunter’s warm breath fanned against your neck as he chuckled, the deep rumble stoking the warmth in your heart.

You stayed that way for a while before shifting into a more comfortable position, Hunter’s head resting on your chest. Basking in each other’s warmth, you relished the quiet moment of peace; the only sounds were your soft breaths and Hunter’s light hums of appreciation as you scritched his scalp, running your fingers through his mop of brown hair.

“Be mine?” Hunter asked suddenly, shifting to prop himself up so he could gaze down at you, committing the sight of you in his bunk, smelling like him and sex, to memory. “I'd...” He pauses, gaze flittered away momentarily. "I'd like there to be an us." The admission made him feel strangely vulnerable. He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but he didn’t want to hold back anymore.

This time, you dragged your fingers across the uninked planes of his handsome face. “As long as you’re mine in return.” Your words had his gaze snapping back to you, hope sparking in his eyes as his lips curled into a smile.

[raven-dor]

this fic is getting posted this SATURDAY at 1pm EST, so make sure to keep an eye out!!

until then, here's a sneak peek of jealous...

You stood beside Bucky, looking over his shoulder at the now extremely crispy bacon. “You’re going to burn them.” 

“They’re good this way.” He muttered. “Besides, Steve and I like them this way. No one’s complained so far.” 

“Well said.” You admired the way his sleep shirt complemented his frame, smiling to yourself before you remembered where you were. “I like them that way, too.” 

“I know.” Bucky smiled. 

Without thinking, you reached up, pushing a strand of hair out of Bucky’s line of sight. “Rather unsanitary, Sergeant Barnes.” 

“Thanks.” He whispered, cheeks pink. “We should invest in hair nets.” 

“Just teasing you, don’t worry.” You laughed, hand still lingering on the side of his face. “I wouldn't want to hide your beautiful hair.”  

“ETA-” 

You whipped around so quickly you swore you had whiplash, both yelling at the unfortunate soul who had interrupted your moment. “Two minutes!”

“Okay, jeez.” Rhodey raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the kitchen as if he were being held at gunpoint. In his defense, if two of the world's deadliest assassins yelled at you with that look in their eyes, you’d be wary too. 

Nabbing a piece of bacon with the stealth of a super spy, you relished in the perfect texture (at least, in your opinion) that Bucky had achieved. “So good.” 

Bucky shook his head, a humble smile gracing his lips. “It wasn’t done.” 

“Tastes perfect to me. I think it’s crisp enough, honestly.” 

“Alright then.” He turned the stove off, placing a paper towel on the bacon’s plate to soak up the grease. “I trust your opinion.” 

“That’s a good man.” You grinned, balancing a pitcher of orange juice and a tray of cinnamon rolls on one arm. “Shall we?” 

He held the door open, taking the cinnamon rolls out of your grasp. “After you.” 

Your cheeks felt hot, attributing his kindness to nothing more than his wanting to be helpful. “Such a gentleman.” 

“Finally.” Peter groaned, practically frothing at the mouth as he stared at the food in your hands. “I’m starving.” 

“We’re all starving,” Sam grumbled, cradling his coffee with the care you would typically reserve for a newborn baby. “You’re not special.” 

“Sam.” You sighed. “He’s a kid.” 

Peter smiled, glad of the support. “Yeah, Sam-” 

“Peter.” You gave the teenager a pointed look, effectively silencing him. “Don’t push it. You know how grumpy he gets in the morning.” 

The spiderling winced, nodding in understanding. “Sorry.” 

“I’m impressed.” Tony leaned forward in his chair, eyeing the array of food you’d made. “Normally, it takes an arm and a leg for this one to stop talking.” 

“What?” Peter frowned. “Mr.Stark, I thought that was just-” 

“Guys.” Bucky groaned. “Can we eat in peace, please?” 

Steve laughed, grabbing the last red, white, and blue sprinkle donut from the box. “Don’t think we’ll ever achieve that, Buck.” 

“We have our own kind of peace.” You smiled, grabbing a couple of pieces of the bacon, much to Bucky’s delight. “Let’s be honest with ourselves, if we were completely quiet at any meal, would we feel peaceful?” The table grumbled, all shaking their heads, none of them having enough energy to argue this early in the morning. “Exactly.” 

“Well said, Doll.” 

Your cheeks felt hot as you smiled quickly at the super soldier sitting beside you. “Thank you, Bucky.” You ignored the pointed looks aimed in your direction, wishing your legs were long enough to kick Natasha and Bruce in the shins. 

Natasha leaned forward in her chair, a smirk on her face. “You two are behaving like we’re your children.” 

Before you could even respond, Bucky muttered under his breath. “Maybe if you stopped acting like children, Natasha, we’d stop treating you like it.” 

We. He kept saying we. You couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere but your lap, heart skipping at the thought. 

We.

taglist: @milesdrift @eddiemunsons-lover

LET ME KNOW IF U WANT TO BE ON THE TAGLIST!!

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

au where ghost, by recommendation of his therapist, starts writing as a hobby. its not very helpful, at least at first. it feels like a chore, but ghost is nothing if not tenacious. hes going to prove the doc wrong and show them that he cant be helped. his journals (because he was going to give this thing his all, and handwriting everything was the best way to do it) are mostly a lot of angry scribbled thoughts and self loathing. but slowly, over time, things start to shift. more positive things start peppering the anger and the melancholy. the whole process feels less like a burden and more like a release.

then he starts writing less reality. more little anecdotes sprinkled with a smidge of hyperbole. some outlandish dreams he had the previous night. small fictions that still act as an outlet for his feelings.

as his skills grow, his therapist suggests writing a novel. something long term and sustained to put his little hobby to the test. its a commitment, sure, and a lot of work to get there, but hes never shied away from a challenge before. like with everything in his life, he dives in chest first.

the doc wasnt wrong, writing the thing was rough. borderline impossible sometimes. but slowly, storylines rise and fall. characters grow and change. the manuscript begins, and just as uneventfully it ends. he wrote a novel. now what?

nothing, he decides. it was catharsis, nothing more nothing less. but then some little shits (roach and gaz) find the bound stack of papers in his office (purposefully hidden under some overdue paperwork) and BEG him to let them read it. he isnt sure at first, but the puppydog eyes work and he reluctantly relents.

hes expecting ridicule, maybe some teasing compliments or even critiques. he wasnt expecting the two of them to ambush him the next day, half feral and wanting more. they spent the entire night reading it, nearly missing the start of breakfast because they were too engrossed.

somehow, they convince him to try for an agent. somehow, he manages to snag one. somehow, that agent loves his work enough to pitch it to several publishing houses (under a pseudonym, of course). and somehow, it gets picked up for publication.

holding the glossy hardback all that time later, ghost isnt sure what happened. he isnt sure how in the world he went from alone and angry, grieving and isolated, to this. the book is somehow a bestseller, with rave reviews all over the place. its honestly kind of nerve wracking??? the only people who know about him and it are his team. (price definitely didnt shed a tear when presented with a signed first edition copy. the sergeants absolutely did.)

he isnt sure how to feel when the new sergeant joins, all knife smiles and cutting words, waltzing into his base with a battered copy of that very book under his arm. a battered copy filled to the brim with red pen and tabs, scribbled criticism that cuts the story to the bone and picks apart every little failing scrawled in every margin. it should annoy him. it should make him hate the man, one john mactavish, all that much more.

he cant help but find him fascinating.

(maybe he might even get some ideas for the next book. thats the only reason he cant stop seeking his opinions.)

[senka-mesecine]

I wanna reverse the roles a little bit but what if during the war the reader was presumed dead by barnes after a huge battle, and was never seen again, only for him to meet her again like a figure in a dream after the war?

I’m all for sappy reunions but sprinkle in a little angst ✨

The Ghosts of Ia Drang.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

The wide, dry grassland grew nothing but the dead.

It's been miles and he's gone about the business of turning each carcass sprawled out on its belly, its side, its face towards the sky, towards himself, so he could get some small measure of identification and try and assess who it was, gender, rank, serial number included, or a vague idea of age and even those with their features barely recognizable, deformed and mangled after meeting the flying end of an explosive shrapnel, a bullet straight to the mug or white phosphorous that still burned and sizzled in the hollow of a skull blasted apart, leaking into the red dust, frying their brains even as they lay butchered, necks tangled into the chains of their own dog tags, Barnes still checked, his own face split open like the side of a milk carton, the flesh of his cheek hanging limply, the wet meat slapping against the red hot meat beneath the layer of his face as he look and looked and looked; the women always outnumbered in every platoon at least ten to one, so the task of finding a female among the hundreds of piled up dead and thousands from the enemy's side shouldn't have been a difficult task from a technical point of view, but the particular deceased he was scampering over eluded him all morning, nowhere to be found. Not out in the open. Not piled up under the corpses of the men. Not impaled, bayonetted. Not shot. Not burned. The smoke filled dawn offering no answers; only uncertainty that bubbled into terror and wrath.

Thing was, you were lost.

Took a feat of willpower to stand up and collect himself after whatever piece of shit hovered above him and blasted him straight in the fucking kisser, putting one in each shoulder to top it all off, leaving him for dead; Barnes was certain, in fact, he could still feel the bullet lodged in his forehead, pulsating there like a stray, sharpened nail lodged into his bone and brain matter --- but that could be lived with. Fact that he couldn't find your remains? That he couldn't live with. Thing was, however much it filled him with primal despair, he prefered you confirmed to be KIA; clean and straight to the point. The idea you'd be MIA? Captured? Perhaps a prisoner of war, right now, as of this very moment? It made him want to rip off the remainder of the excess, malformed skin hanging off his face and throw it to the vultures and the buzzards circling the field right along with so many Hueys circling overhead; it was a victory, but he didn't feel it. In fact, when they found him, he was kneeling among the dead, a step away from peeling his own self off like excess paint. He'd be at least content finding a blown off limb of yours; an arm. A leg. So he could embrace it like a life raft and hold it for a while. Have some measure of certainty you at least bled out to death overnight somewhere in some bush. That you at least had enough intelligence to die. November 18th, 1965.

-"Barnes?"-

Someone yanks the sweat-drenched collar of his uniform.

He is immediately, on instinct, ready to fight it.

For a brief second, shorter than a blink of an eye, he hoped it was you and your dumb ass; the sunup overhead is sharp and dazing, obscuring the face in a halo of blinding light and buzzing flies; rescue evac. His head is split open, from his forehead to the side of his mouth; a piece of his lip hanging and hobbling in his mouth dripping saliva, making it too painful to swallow. Like water filling his ears, the deafness clears and the once the voice that was trying to get to him becomes more tenacious and vehement.

-"Sergeant Barnes!?"-

A soldier, that couldn't have been older than himself was squatting beside him, grabbing his dog tags and giving it a turn, inspecting his face, halfway trying to pull him towards the chopper that just landed in a windy flurry of turning propellers, swaying the stench of blood westwards. He digs his heels into the mud, like someone unwilling to go. It wasn't shellshock. He wasn't fucking leaving here without finding what he set out to find; was that simple. -"You need to get that shit fixed! Need to get flown out overseas for that; you'll be on a long R&R."- The voice practically yells over the loud, whirring sound of the Huey's spinning blades and once the attempt at dragging him to evacuate failed, Barnes doing nothing but stare off, trying to make them wordlessly understand what he's lost, another man joins in on the effort of hauling him. Then four more. He kicks. Bites someone at one point, the sack of shit who's hand he graced with his teeth marks yelping in surprise; he felt himself as more animal than man in that moment, communicating displeasure with grunts, with snarling, with kicks, with hand grabs. -"They'll add another chevron to that uniform; you made it, now get going!"- One of them tries for flattery, voice strained as they dragged him, struggling, the five of them; he headbutts a man at one point, gripping the back of his neck and lodging his own forehead, split at the seams into the lump of shit, sending him thumbling back, causing them all to pile on him, practically wrestling him forward along with the groaning wounded; those lacking half of their everything. All except you. You where nowhere to be found and he felt like someone who's brain's been zapped by electricity at the prospect that evac would head out with you. You could've still been out there. He was willing to walk back to base. On his own two feet, crawling, dragging himself forward by his nails, if only there was a chance to ---

-"A serious case of CSR. Pacify him. Don't want him jumping from the chopper to his death."-

The syringe flashes in the hands of one of the team members giving the diagnosis flatly, matter-of-factly, produced like a saber of bolting thunder in his eyesight widened against the sunlight, cold and metallic; by the time Barnes turns to fight it, break the arm of any motherfucker that dared to touch him, the needle jabs, impales and breaks inside of his neck from the suddenness of his movement and he's hauled into a chopper by countless fingers, kicking and screaming; the morning, battle-borne sun is relentless and searing, obscured by the colored signal fog of aerosol particles and red and orange pigment dye, offering no respite as he lays limp on the side of the chopper held down by two orderlies, dangling his own mud-crusted, bloody hand from its side, mid-air above the field, the vista disappearing underneath him in a blur, hoping, somewhere, somehow, in his folly that you'll reach out from the ground, taking it, coming with him.

Barnes's grip remains empty, tormented by a phantom hollowness.

Nothing but crimson smoke passing through his fingers.

---

A year in recovery has him hitched.

Yeah, he got married in Japan during a springtime that wept.

Figured a balm was needed, like an antidote to a gaping, gangrenous wound that called out to him with your voice; anything to avoid him going mad and smashing up the hospital or tearing the hair from his own scalp, killing people with his bare hands, ripping up the building one brick at a time, looking for someone to blame, turning every sick bed until he saw a mere shadow of your face, even if by accident, half-dead, as mangled as he was --- anything except being out there, out of his reach. Nobuko was a good woman, might've even said he'd relate to her and that she related to him, half of her family as bent out of shape and as cancerously disfigured from the blast of '45, making his ugly mug seem good by comparison while she treated him, stitch after stitch, operation after operation, reconstructive surgery after reconstructive surgery, metal plate after metal plate --- a sort of life could be made here under different circumstances, perhaps --- but he laid awake at night in his own marital bed, his framed wedding photo on the nightstand, with half of his face practically mummified on it, as a stark reminder he didn't have as much as a pocket picture of yours, unblinkingly staring up at the dark ceiling, overtaken by six months of nonstop insomnia and post-recovery pain, kept up an almost otherworldly adrenaline, thinking of you in some animal cage, bamboo drilled under your nails, emaciated, raped ten times a day, weeping in some pit, crawling with shit, piss and insects and he gets up one morning with his shit already packed like someone who's insides were tied with a metal wire dragging him forward not unlike a force stronger than earthly gravity itself. All he tells Nobuko is that he'll be back in some indeterminable time when he's done fighting; what he truly meant was that he needed to find you, alive or dead, even if it's the last thing he does in this lifetime. Even if he needed to turn every square meter of the landmass you got lost in, border to border, into to a glass garden wasteland.

---

July 4th, 1969, the ripped off page of the calendar revealed the print.

What could be called a makeshift office at the back of the barracks, halfway above ground, all concrete and brick and halfway dug below ground, a foxhole's soil lining the groundwork instead of a floor, a low window against an even lower ceiling looking out towards basecamp, its glass flashing, on occasion, illuminated with zaps of light emanating from the fireworks above, blinking throughout the night, darting through the night sky like an angry fire southwest of the Cambodian border --- a dented metal cup tray doubling as an ashtray overflows with crushed cigarette buts as he mules over stacks of papers; One folder box, two folder boxes, eighteen folder boxes later and still scouring ever missing persons report in the last in five years; the one lonesome positive about Lieutenant Wolfe was that he was so easily intimidated with nothing but a lingering stare when push came to shove that getting him to use the outreach of his rank to give Staff Sergeant access to this material was easy pickings --- what Lieutenant Wolfe could not do is do the work of a miracle and produce a paper with your name, anything that got stacked in some archive confirming you died somewhere, in some hospital, in the back of some military vehicle, in some chopper en route to somewhere else, that someone found you, years ago, months ago, any time at all. The fact that the ground seemed to have swallowed you that day has been like a leech attached to the back of his spine, where he couldn't rip it off, getting fat on sucking his blood. He hears O'Neill coming down the steps, recognizes him by his general sound, but chooses not to react, looming over the desk, the oil lamp flickering beside him, the long shadows of his face swallowing up the mountains of paperwork.

-"Hey-a, Bob-o, what'cha up to there, huh?"-

The Irishman tries with humor, on hand leaning over the table sheepishly.

Barnes says nothing. Sees no point in saying anything.

As if it was not abundantly clear what he was doing.

What he was doing for years now.

-"Not gonna come out with the fellas, uh-oh? There's gonna be broads!"-

Red offers with some vestige of insecure hope in his voice and Barnes looks up at him, merely shaking his hand as a negative. Didn't even want to dignify it of a full answer, even though this was retort enough. -"Eh. Nah."- More of a sound that a response; the only grace he accepted from O'Neill was the cigarette he handed him along with the service that came with operating a zippo; the footsteps that follow are hasty, overly eager; he instantly recognizes them as Wolfe's. The Lieutenant appears in the dim, orange light of the lamp like a mouse carrying a bite of cheese too big for its own mouth, placing a manilla file on the table, next to all the others. That would be the nineteenth one in a row. And that was just today alone. -"The folders you requested, Sergeant."- Wolfe fidgets setting the documents down, like he wasn't sure what to do with himself afterwards, now that his usefulness for the task at hand has briefly concluded, so anticipated, he tries for pleasantries, decked out in his college casual wear, he looked as out of place a weasel stuck in a chicken coop; Barnes was seldom in a mood for this nonsense. Now, less than ever before. -"You men shouldn't work so hard. Bad for morale."- Wolfe quips jovially, climbing out of the foxhole and it takes a world of willpower for Barnes not to visibly roll his eyes at the man's attempt at poster platitudes, so much so that his bitterness, however unspoken seeps through to Red who grumbles into his chin, once the Lieutenant is out of earshot, giving him a long, sour stare. O'Neill knew. O'Neill was about the only one Barnes told. He knew for years now. -"Sorry fuck in his sorry fuck sweatshirt from the Ohio college of sorry fuck sciences."- Red mutters venomously and something about those choice words felt like indirectly support for Barnes's cause juxtaposed against the clueless notion he should just unwind; not that Wolfe understood just why Barnes needed these stacked up documents in the first place.

Red places a hand on his shoulder, the shadow it casts over his torso as long as a veil.

Barnes stares the gesture down, contemplating it.

The sounds of blasting fireworks outside cutting through the silence.

He catches a fidgeting O'Neill longingly staring between the window and him.

He knows the words that were going to be spoken before Red ever opens his mouth.

-"So, Sarge, you mind if I ---"-

Red wanted to leave him alone as much as Barnes wanted to be left the fuck alone, the cementing of the agreement wordless and mutually understood once O'Neill removes his hand from his shoulder, taking a hint and scurrying up the stairs, no doubt feeling eclipsed and out of his depth down here, leaving him with his paperwork and lit cigarette for company --- every minute spent down here was a minute he was weaker for leaving you out cold to suffer; every minute spent here was a minute where you could've been alive yet better off dead and he didn't know which of the three evils he prefered less out of the 43,830 hours contained within five years you were missing.

Yet, despising the idleness like a mortal foe, he opens the file Wolfe brought him.

Starts reading over the sound of music and ruckus taking precedence outside.

Tonight wasn't going to be a night he slept, like many more before it.

Not that Barnes minded the nightmares.

At least in them, he could see you.

---

Buôn Anh of the Chư Prông District spread out northwest.

Go west enough and march long enough, Barnes thought, and he could walk back into it like a grocery shop; slam open the glass door and demand what's his --- the scene of crime and death - Ia Drang Valley on the outskirts of many villages, some eighty clicks from their current position while they were carried airborne over the vast, open grassland riddled with holes in the soil filled with water like a land of countless artificial, newly formed lakes caused by bombardment meant to extinct; he kills his own burning impatience by imagining you standing in the swaying, yellow plains covered up to your waist, your hand raised to wave the Huey off with a smile like a bride anticipating her groom to return, looking up from a rice paddy in place of the straw hat broad with a baby on her back that stares up at their chopper; You weren't there, but his mind could still paint you there like a specter brought on by the blinding mirage, not that he ever forgave your folk for allowing you to come here in the first place. Your pappy, your ma' and the rest of your blood relation should've all been stood up to attention and spat in the face for not locking you into your room the second you got the bright idea of enlisting. He squeezes the handle of his own M16 at the notion until he could feel the blood circulation in his gripping fingers practically cut off. The villages in the district were suspected of harboring NVA and all sympathizers along with a contingent of Soviet arms. He wouldn't deny that what they were about to do would be a pleasure. One American life was worth a village of these pieces of shit to him. Your life was worth the whole fucking country. Fuckin' apeshit, his brain chastises him, a married man goin' AWOL over a dead woman. What were you gon' do when you find her? Alive or dead.

If you were dead, he'd kill these sons of bitches right back so long as his arms and legs could serve him, and when they were done serving him, he'd kill them with his fucking teeth until they break.

If you were alive ---

-"Sergeant ---"- Lieutenant Wolfe interrupts his reverie by pointing to the village down below, huddled in the back of the chopper; the sudden flash of adrenaline Barnes felt at the prospect of all the possibilities of you being living causing him to shoot the college boy a haunted look he was well aware looked half crazed because he could feel it, his eyeballs painfully wide; thankfully, the men were used to that by now. Wrote it off to him simply being him. -"Up ahead. Elias's squad will meet us at the vantage point on the other side of the river."-Wolfe stands up, half bent at the spine, his head reaching the ceiling of the helicopter's interior as he laid down the law with the firmness of a limp dick; sometimes, admittedly, Barnes envied the snot nosed kid --- his weightless stupidity and clearness of mind. Nothing bogging that brain down but his own flaccid self importance and a rank bought by daddy's money. He wishes he was that young and that dumb; so that he could walk out of here with you in tow. Life and its fucking complications; he probably wouldn't have even had a chance of meeting you if it wasn't for the war the same way he wouldn't have lost of you if it wasn't for the war. -"No rough stuff this time; we just get in and out. Confiscate the arms if we find any and get a move on! Understood?"- Wolfe explains, almost yelling over the sound of a helicopter in flight, sheepishly grazing Barnes with his rapidly blinking, squinted gaze, like these words were intended for him and his men in particular. -"Sure, top dog."- Barnes mutters in confirmation with all the acidic sarcasm of a viper concealed as respect as the Huey flew low, the close proximity of Ia Drang Valley still smelling the same as it did five years ago and before the chopper even hits the ground, Barnes finds himself being the first one jumping out.

His hand isn't as empty as it was half an eternity ago.

Dangling bleeding fingers out of the chopper, grasping at the smoke.

This time, he comes totting an M16.

---

-"What you did in that village was unforgivable, Barnes."-

Captain Harris leans back, away from the tidiness of his desk, while Barnes stood on attention, arms crossed behind his back, legs akimbo; he didn't think what he did two weeks ago was unforgivable, even though he didn't intend to argue his point with a superior officer. If anything, his actions were tit for tat. Not that anyone here would understand that. The payback of it all.

-"And this isn't the first incident ---"-

The good Captain comments, looking at him square on, with fatherly concern.

Wouldn't be the last incident either.

-"But, I keep putting this off because you're a talented soldier and the field needs talented soldiers."- The older man's index finger points at a folder containing what would've been a report leading to a court martial as emphasis just what he meant by 'putting off this' and Barnes stares, profusely, chin raised, at the manilla file; What difference did it make? He wasn't going to be stupid and pretend he wanted to land himself behind bars, but would a genuine life ever really even be possible even if he played the game clean, finishing his tour of duty and finding himself relieved? Would he ever be able to exist normally again? Put him in front of a firing squad and it would've made no difference. -"You and Elias keep this squad at a balanced equilibrium like two pillars; remove one and the whole shebang crumbles and we'll have fifty caskets flown out of here within a week. You think I want that for these poor kids?"- Captain Harris's wrinkled brow furrows and the man crosses his arms on the edge of the table, his ring studded fingers entwining. Nah, Barnes didn't want no poor kids to die; just the pieces of shit who stole you from him, along with every cow, every hen, every old honcho, every old haggard woman and her bastard, barefoot brat in tow. That's all. The Captain stands up, something weary about him, and Barnes's eyes follow him, standing still to watch the man take position in front of the window, staring out into the barrack's courtyard only to turn towards him, chastisement peppered with honest concern. -"But, I can't have you waging a holy blood crusade unchecked and unchallenged when there's protestors on every street back home threatening to knock down the doors of the White House."- Barnes frankly didn't care if they set the darn place on fire and he decides to say just that, with all his chest, off the records. Any country that sent off women to get lost in the jungle, never to be found again, instead of rightfully staying home and raising youngins, making some sack of shit happy, deserved at least some of his ire. -"Let 'em, sir, all due respect."- Barnes retorts flatly, looking on straight ahead, towards the white wall and Lyndon's framed, monochromatic photo hanging on a screw. -"But, why?"- Captain Harris comes inquiring with genuine confusion, a moment of silence, the older man's mouth opens and closes into a hard pressed line, like he got it.

So, he's heard the story then, huh?

Barnes had to wonder just how the Captain found out.

Probably through O'Neill, who told someone else, who told someone else.

And here Barnes was, planning to take this to the grave with him.

-"You'll find, Sergeant that five years is a long time to survive, for anyone."-

Harris remarks, the empathy in his voice undeniable, but Barnes, concludes the flash of brute realism to be stinging, leaving a hollow pit in his stomach, finding the irony of it all by itself profoundly ironic; yeah, it was believable that you died, but he wanted some confirmation and concrete evidence. He didn't want to keep living with questions unanswered. How could he? Then again, was it wrong to hope you could still be alive? People can survive things. -"I did, sir."- He remarks openly, using himself as an example. A man shot seven times technically shouldn't exist as a possibility, yet here he was, standing and still in commission, watching the older man lean over the work desk, taking a hold of one of the documents there, scribbling something at the bottom of the paper --- could've been a dishonorable discharge, could've been prescribed visitation to the army shrink. Either or, Barnes didn't think anything could or would stop him. -"Don't consider the R&R a reward; consider it a forced leave for everyone's sake. Yours included."- Captain Harris stares him down through greying ashen flaxen eyebrows and Barnes's shoulder's drop; he had to find some humor in the situation --- Rest and Recreation was never something he indulged in so much so that this was more of a punishment than anything else; would've prefered it he was given a beating than this shit and he wondered if Captain Harris knew. Saigon, the paper says, once Barnes takes it from the man. He was given seven days in Saigon. Fuck's sake; what the fuck was he going to do there seven days away from all the action? Seven days away from the front where he could've been more use to everyone; more use in looking for you. -"And Barnes?"- The Captain's voice stops him while he's in the middle of turning on his heel and saluting himself out of the office. What was it? A warning for him not to waste any friendly civilians meanwhile? Barnes clicks his boots together. -"Yes, sir!"- He stands back on attention, crossing his arm behind his back again, as per habit, his other arm pressing the folder detailing his leave to his chest, squeezing it a little too hard for comfort and catching himself doing it. Unexpectedly, there's something unspoken in the Captain's eyes, like he meant to say something grand or impactful but choose not to, gulping down any and all niceties. This was, after all, a disciplinary measure. Not a picnic.

-"Godspeed, son."-

Is all the older man settles on.

Robert Barnes was fine with that.

---

Monsoon season, Saigon, and he still doesn't sleep.

The buzzing air is as hot as an oven.

Insomniac reveries in front of the lowered shutters of his hotel room turn into binge smoking and binge smoking turns into binge drinking only for him up and leave in the middle of the night, breaking house conduct, deciding to wander the rain-drenched, stormy streets at like someone forcibly removed from his natural habitat, a fish thrown out its waterbowl, left to flap around aimlessly on a carpet until it suffocates and dies. Unlike the likes of Bunny and O'Neill, reason why he never liked R&R is because he simply never knew what to do on R&R, finding the idleness stupidly murderous and weirdly degrading, and in several years of active warfare every time he was sent anywhere was because he was sent there by force by the higher up, a sort of cooldown when things got too hot, the establishment getting involved, convinced it's not good PR for a soldier to be continuously on the battlefield 365 days in a year after 365 in a year without break; not without his brain getting fried --- Barnes figured it was the opposite for him, going out at night into the sprawling neon labyrinth of the city, when all the animals like him came out as well was enough to melt his grey matter. All the whores eying him carefully, the swaying drunks parting like the red see upon sighting him on street corners and the pimps plying their wares from open bar diners that worked 24/7, blaring music late into the night, the occasional pedestrian's face in the blur of the crowd reminding him of yours. A moment's flash, Barnes imagines himself seeing someone with your hair, your nose profile in stride, a movement of hand, maybe your voice as you shout to someone else, only to pinch himself mentally, reminding himself it was just some hooker calling for her John. Degenerate sacks of shit. Barnes bitterly reminds himself, in a bleak sort of confront, begrudgingly; this wasn't a complete waste of time, though --- seven days of this trip. The first three alone he's spent looking through every hospital in the vicinity, every asylum, every morgue, every homeless shelter, every graveyard depo, every sanatorium in the vague hope you could've gotten found and ended up admitted somewhere, that someone knew something, that someone has seen you in the mass of people pouring in damaged from the frontlines, amnesiac, addicted, broke, handicapped, heads broken in, their minds lost.

He supposed he might as well turn to God.

Barnes thinks, eying the old, abandoned Catholic colonial building converted into an Christian Missionary Alliance church looming large on the end of the street, crushing the cigarette underneath his bootheel in a puddle of muddy water reflecting moonlight and the obnoxiously flickering street signs and walking into the stony, partially flooded courtyard, his footsteps coming down in loud thuds against the overgrown green moss shiny and slick with water, the sounds of music, rickshaws bouncing against the wet cobblestone streets, bike bells and motorcycle engines revving up along with the general chatter from down the block echoing through the bowels of the heavy, stony walls enclosing the open hall that's seen better days approximately a century ago, when the goddamned French were still around and running the show. The fuck was he expecting God to do for him that he couldn't do for himself? Reality was, and he should've fucking faced it by now, that you died somewhere as a POW and that your demise was long, gruesome and torturous and the he could do nothing about it except continue living with that fact for the rest of his life before the machine's that he was started breaking down and he ended up putting the barrel of a gun into his mouth or goading someone else to do it for him. Thing was, this war was on the verge of ending; he could feel it in the air, the general attitude, the sensation on the streets and what then? If he couldn't keep killing these motherfuckers who took you, what else was there to do? Maybe go seek out another war and keep killing them there, by proxy, because someone somewhere had to do pay; Barnes looks up at the dilapidated, shelled out ceiling dripping rainwater adjoined to what seemed like a church sanatorium or a Friendship Monastery, alerted by the footsteps of a lone, aged nun walking down the midnight corridor beside the form of a woman sitting on the ledge of a cracked cement balcony alive with the sounds of them crazies making a mania-filled ruckus in their rooms, overpowered by the distant shouting of what he could only assume was a night-shift doctor; the woman in the sack-like, old sick gown looks at him for a moment, catching his form down below and there it was, that zap again. The zap he felt in his brain five years ago while he was turning the wounded and the dead at Ia Drang Valley, looking for you, as feral as a kicked dog.

The woman's shocked face twists in confusion and she practically cries out.

Incomprehensibly.

-"Robert? Robert!? Is that you!?"-

You shriek off the veranda, and yes, you, it was you, that or he has gone completely dinky dau and he was flat out imagining you or hallucinating you in a maddened after nights spent not sleeping, face and voice and all; before he can even take in the fact, you've already jumped into action like someone stabbed by a bayonet before one of the patrolling nuns could even stop you, practically running down the foyer in a fever, disappearing behind several orange lightbulb lit pillars in a flash, only your footsteps audible in the darkness, leaving him convinced he could tear the building apart one brick at a time by the time you land on the bottom of the steps leading up the second story; an asylum above a church; a misshapen hospital patient gown slightly too big on an emaciated body, an old pair of clogs on your bare feet seeming like they were borrowed second hand from someone or found in a charity bin. Your hair cropped short choppily, in a haste, randomly growing in all sorts of directions like someone who was shaven at one point to prevent lice only to start healing back into themselves, both literally and figuratively. Your sunken eyes that seemed like they've seen some shit still undeniably yours, though and shiny with tears as you halt in the humid courtyard, taking him in as the orderly nun tries to grab you by the shoulder, causing you to flinch forward, back towards him. If someone had a feather, he thought he could be flat out knocked out with it. There's a loud, deafening fast train running through his head, cutting a bloody valley through his brain with its whirlwind speed, causing the plate lodged into his skull to vibrate in his brain.

Barnes sees red.

The ghosts of Ia Drang coming alive.

-"Bobby!"-

Your voice cracks, halfway a whimper, halfway a scream.

He doesn't even register when you lunge yourself into his arms.

He only speechlessly feels grabbing you hard enough to break bones.

So, this is where you were? For five years?

From hospital to hospital, sanatorium to sanatorium?

-"Your poor face!"- You remark at one point, hiccupping with distress, having gone through fuck knows what, the contemplation of that rendering him more animal than man as he wondered if you'd still want him like this, causing the whole world to fall off from its own axis as you were cradled against his heavy, labored breaths, sweat against sweat, overtaken by sobs and faltering knees, all skin and bones in his embrace, reaching up to touch his scars for the first time, hovering your fingers mid-air in contemplating and flinching away, like you didn't dare caress him there, not without permission or the understanding it didn't hurt when it hurt every day since he was blasted in the mug; fuck hesitating with anything right about now. He grabs your fingers hard, needing a confirmation that they were flesh and blood and not a goddamned mirage, placing them on himself, holding your hand to his face; the old, sour-faced Quaker nun is out of breath behind you, mere steps away, like you've put there through an actual ordeal, making her chase you, obviously angered by the presence of an uniformed soldier on the premises; fucking peace-loving hippie. -"You know this man?"- She asks with subdued niceties, outraged and ignored, ready to reprimand and you sink deeper into his arms like something a part of his own ribcage; the floodgates desperately opening in a sound that revibrates across the hall, rendering you a weeping, shaking, shivering mess.

Yeah, you knew him alright.

He knew you too.