#TW: 3B

[honeypiehotchner]

i'm returning to my rewatch of criminal minds (i paused ages ago to watch teen wolf) and now i'm on s2e9 "Last Word"

the NOISE i MADE when Hotch popped up in the GREY SUIT AND RED TIE

i need to be sedated

[allisaacs]

god loves you, but not enough to save you. ↳ sun bleached flies, ethel cain

[bellzsad]

i’ll never forgive teen wolf for getting rid of so many characters and plot lines after season 3b all because of allison

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Time to Go

isaac lahey x reader

summary: isaac's not quite sure what to do with himself after your death

tags: angst, hurt/ some comfort, implied character death, aftermath of war, work contains no violence, anxiety, awkward conversations, small mention of sex, unrequited love, heartbreak, title from a taylor swift song

word count: 762 | drabble #1

a/n: allison erasure; reader is in her place

The memory plays over and over in his head. The soft mutterings of those around him don’t block out any of the ruminating thoughts. His mind is cluttered and heart is heavy. A thousand people surround him, and they have no idea of the pain he carries. 

A soft appearance competed with a fiery personality, but you made it work. You were gentle and loving, but you could protect yourself and your friends like hell. In his eyes, you are just nearly perfect. 

Were. 

You were just nearly perfect. Because three days ago, a brutal fight took you from him. 

It took you from this world, and from your friends. A seventy year old ghost story ruined his life and ended yours, and now he’s trying to pick up the pieces to move on. He can’t. 

Yesterday was your funeral. They kept it low-key and between friends and what little family you had left. You were buried beside your mother and aunt in a small cemetery on a private piece of land. It’s all the same soil, though. The same earth. The same ground in which his own family is buried: his mother, his brother, his father. 

He hopes you can find peace, wherever you are. That you’re not hurting, nor mourning for your life like your friends will mourn your death. You deserve peace. 

⋯

After too long of a silence, Isaac grows restless. Any minute now, they’ll be called to board their flight, but between the waiting game and the chatter of those around them, his anxiety builds. Throat dry, he prepares to address the man beside him. His knee bounces quickly and he glances up twice before clearing his throat. 

“I, uh, I slept with her,” he blurts out, “with Y/N.” 

Chris tenses, but doesn’t reply. He narrows his eyes at the boy, previously nervous but now racked with worry. 

“I just thought you should know.”

In any other circumstances, he’d be whopping him on the ass right now. One for doing it; a second for catching him off guard with it; then a third, for his daughter, whom he’d never hit. But these are not normal circumstances. This is a boy, scared, and hurt, and in obvious pain. Chris sympathizes with him; his heart aches for him. “I know.”

Isaac looks up again, seemingly surprised. He doesn’t address that, though, and is quiet for a minute more. When he’s ready to talk again, his voice is shaky with threatening tears. “I loved her.”

Now it’s Chris’ turn to be surprised. He opens his mouth to respond, but comes up with nothing. Instead, he places a hand on the knee of the boy, trying to both settle and comfort him. It works a little. Isaac nods, lip trembling. 

You loved your father. You used one of your last breaths to say it, to beg your friends to make him sure he knew it. Isaac doesn’t mention to the man that you didn’t love him back. He doesn’t know if he could even admit it to himself. 

“I smell a strong emotion here.”

“Fear?”

“Anger.”

“Sounds like Lydia.”

…

“Did you wish it was someone else?”

“No. No, of course not.”

The girl hid slightly behind the hair blocking her face. Isaac couldn’t place the emotion he smelled from her. He couldn’t read her face. 

“Flight 130A to Paris, France. Boarding now.”

The flight attendant’s voice snaps him out of the memory. Chris turns to him, a sorrowful look on his face. “You sure you want to do this?”

Isaac hesitates. No, he doesn’t want to leave Beacon Hills behind. He doesn’t want to leave his pack, nor his friends, nor the family that took him in when he was desperate. He finally started to feel like he had a family, a real family. Isaac would give anything to stay. 

Yet, at the same time, he can’t stay. The memories are too painful and too vivid. They sting like daggers in his chest, like poison running down his throat. He’s lost so many people in that town; he’s due for a fresh start. 

And, even though he loves Scott and would protect him with his life… he hasn’t been able to look at him straight since hearing your confession that night. Knowing you never loved him. You were in love with your ex, his alpha. And while none of that was Scott’s fault, it hurts him too much to stay. 

So, he leaves. 

“Yeah,” he finally replies, looking out to the plane from the window, “it’s time to go."

[christinesficrecs]

do you have any recs for fics post 3B or post season 4? Thank you!! Love your blog 💜💞

I'm so glad you asked! 🩷 This is my "omg, this was so good" list. 😊

Written in the Scars by dr_girlfriend | 15.3K | Explicit

Stiles stared into eyes that were just a little lighter than even the day before, looking almost beta-gold in the harsh lighting. His nose was just a little less uptilted, the moles on his face not quite where they used to be. The scar on the bottom of his chin from when he fell off the swings in third grade was just gone. He seemed a little bit taller, his shoulders a little bit wider.

With trembling fingers Stiles folded his left ear forward, craning his neck. A wheezing breath escaped him, his legs suddenly feeling weak with relief.

The mark of the Oni was still there, the one that meant self.

Stiles was still himself. For now.

The Walls Are Breathing In by secondstar | 41.8K | Explicit

Nothing could go wrong. It was just supposed to be a safe trip to the Nemeton. But this is Beacon Hills and things are rarely that simple. Welcome to the life of Stiles Stilinski.

Or, that time that Stiles accidentally became a sorcerer against his will.

Someone Else’s Dream by theroguesgambit | 36.6K

Post-3B. Derek has gone missing, and Stiles’ dreams might be the only way to save him.

out of the nightmare, into your arms by  tryslora | 6.4K

Stiles wakes up in the bathtub. It’s the third time sleepwalking this week, and at least this time he’s in the house. Ever since the Nogitsune, he’s had nightmares and nothing, and no one seems to be able to stop them. Until Derek.

Full On Rainstorm by BarlowGirl | 10.5K | Explicit

He catches Derek by the arm and Derek lets himself be turned, surprised when Stiles shoves a small box into his hands. “I don’t know if you still celebrate it or what but… I wanted you to know someone was thinking about you. Happy birthday.”

Then he squeezes Derek’s arm and bolts, gone before Derek can think to stop him.

He opens the box standing there, only to find one singular, misshapen, sloppily-frosted, cupcake, with a candle in the box next to it. It’s kind of squished despite the paper towel all around it to keep it from banging around in the box.

If You’re Going Through Hell (Keep Going) | 48.5K

Stiles thought everything leading up to Allison’s death was hell, but he was wrong. Spending senior year dealing with the pack’s dismissal of him while secretly training to be Deaton’s replacement was hell. Feeling guilty and hating himself for what the Nogitsune did was hell. Being in love with someone who would never love him back was hell. Well, if you’re going through hell, keep going.

Not Quite Lost (Not Quite Found) by alocalband | 25K | Explicit

A year after the nogitsune is defeated, Derek is living a quiet life in the mountains above a small town in Colorado.

Then Stiles shows up.

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions) | 13.4K | Mature

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Saturday Night At The Movies by aussiebee | 7.3K | Explicit

After running into Stiles at the late night movies, Derek realises just how badly Stiles is handling the post-nogitsune fallout. He knows the feeling.

Sense of Home by siny | 53K | Explicit

Home can be a place, but it can also be a person.

After the events with the Nemeton, Stiles starts suffering the consequences of their sacrifice. A journey he attempts to make on his own, but only becomes worse with every step he takes. In the process he seeks comfort in an unexpected place and it draws him toward an unexpected person.

Illuminated by ZainClaw | 5K 

“Because I’m falling in love with you and it’s scaring the hell out of me.”

Start Small, Like Oak Trees by SmallBirds | 24.2K

The months following Allison’s death have passed Stiles by in a haze of monotony. He sleepwalks through days that seem to lose their color, an unwilling passenger in a body he no longer trusts. Eventually, he thinks, he’ll just fade away. He isn’t sure anyone would notice. Then, during a spur of the moment grocery run, he stumbles upon Derek Hale attempting to console a lost child, and for the first time in recent memory the world doesn’t seem so awful. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting when he eventually convinces Derek to move into the Stilinski’s spare bedroom, but a newfound passion for weeding and topsoil certainly isn’t it.

Nitesky by  thepsychicclam | 7K

Stiles has trouble dealing with the after effects of the nogitsune, and Derek finds him sitting on his roof.

Honey, Can’t you See (The Bloodstains on my Teeth) by  Loup_Aigre, TroubleIWant | 44.9K

“Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”

Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it.

^^^technically not post-3B but soooo good!

[prince-honeypaw]

WARNING: This post contains mentions of terminal illness and parental death! Proceed with caution.

♡ There are no secrets kept between Tamaki and Mirio. They've grown up together since they were just developing their quirks and have been attached at the hip for just as long. Where Tamaki went, Mirio was never far behind! They're in perfect tandem.

♡ Up until their first year at UA that is.

♡ Going to a prestigious hero school was already very stressful for Tamaki, but that wasn't all that bore down on his frazzled mind. Not long before he was accepted into UA, his grandmother had passed away. She was his only living family member after his mother passed from a terminal illness when he was rather young, which meant that he was hopping from foster home to foster home his entire first year. It was terrifying for him!

♡ He was so afraid of being alone again.

♡ Mirio was at a loss on how to help his closest friend. He knew that Tamaki was struggling with moving every month or so, but nothing he tried seemed to alleviate that stress. From putting time aside to help him try to regress or taking him out to do something fun, it only ever ended in Tamaki going home in tears.

♡ It wasn’t until he started his work study with Fatgum that someone finally found the solution to—at least one of—Tamaki’s anxieties. He was adopted by the BMI Hero and finally had that stable living situation that he desperately needed in order to thrive! And, with that settled, Tamaki’s little slowly started to come back out one step at a time. He was hesitant to let Taishiro know about his regression, but Taishiro is one of the most understanding and open minded heroes out there. Different strokes for different folks!

♡ And, while happy that Tamaki was starting to feel better enough to regress again, Mirio couldn’t help but feel this little twinge of disappointment. Disappointment in himself for not being able to help his best friend when he needed it most. He tried his best to not let it get to him, but oh did his smile not quite reach his eyes for a time afterwards. He was afraid of not being needed anymore.

♡ Soon after, things went back to how they used to be! For the most part. New routines filled the cracks and became the new norm... Up until another wrench was thrown in the cogs a year and a half later.

♡ UA's dorm system was implemented for the safety of the students, but Tamaki feels like it was an attack on him personally. He had gone through so much to settle in with Taishiro! He paced and fretted over the new stressor for days upon days before it was time to move in. Taishiro promised that everything would be peachy keen, and that he'd always have his home in Esuha when all was said and done! It wasn't like he was being exiled.

♡ His words went in one ear and right out the other the moment he had to pack away his regression gear, squawking and fretting that someone would find out! He couldn't- He shouldn't- He WOULDN'T! And, regretfully, he didn't. Taishiro said that if he changed his mind, he'd have it all packed and ready to go when he saw him next, but Tamaki was stubborn in his decision.

♡ Moving into the dorms was suspiciously simple to Tamaki. He didn't drop anything, didn't trip up the stairs, didn't spill water on the new carpet in his dorm- And having dinner with the rest of his class wasn't a disaster either. It was actually... Very fun! Nejire was in the dorm across from his own and Mirio was just a floor away, so he didn't feel as alone as he thought he would be.

♡ It was nice. Something he would have to tell Taishiro about later.

♡ However, he hadn't noticed just how much later it had gotten! The sky had grown darker and most of the class had already disappeared into their dorms, leaving a chilling quiet to bear down on his mind. He'd been so content with the company of so many familiar faces that it never occured to him that his schedule had been thrown off entirely.

♡ First was brushing his teeth. Then was taking his medication with a bottle- A bottle he didn't have. That was fine, it was fine! There was no need to freak out, okay... He could just skip that part and take his medicine with a glass of water. Then he could get dressed and get Lilliput r- Lilliput was still at home. Okay... Okay, that would be harder to do without, but he didn't need to freak out! He... Papa could fix it-

♡ Like the shatter of glass, Tamaki's already slipping headspace crashed to the floor with that realization. Papa wasn't there. He was all alone now, all alone without the comforts he'd grown to rely on when the world felt so much bigger and he felt so... so small. Tears fell hot and thick, hiccups burning his throat. He was alone, he was alone, he was alone, he—

"Tamaki?"

♡ His breath caught and he snapped to attention. Mirio, suddenly understanding the situation with only a look, wore an expression that was as warm as sunlight, reaching out and taking Tamaki's hands.

"Hi there, sunshine! What's going on up here?" He asked with a gentle tap of his fingertip to the baby's forehead. Tamaki blinked through the tears and immediately jammed himself into Mirio's comforting presence and fit against him like a puzzle piece, hiccuping when he managed to speak. His words were jammed together between panic and his headspace, but Mirio nodded along as though it was just another conversation.

♡ Because, to him, it was! He knew baby Tamaki just as well as he knew big Tamaki, through timid mumbles and teary babbling, Mirio understood him. Rough thumb pads gingerly wiped the still falling tears off his ruddy cheeks, and Mirio spoke in a soft voice he knew was just for him.

"Okay, I gotcha, I gotcha! I still have some of your stuff on hand, remember?"

At the slow nodding, Mirio smiled, "That's right, so we can text your papa that you need your stuff and go get it after class tomorrow, 'kay? It's no big deal."

♡ Tamaki, still sniffling, echoed the words, "No big deal...", before letting Mirio guide him through his nighttime routine with what they had. A sippy full of water and a puppy plush suited him just fine, but following Mirio to his room was just inevitable. He felt so much less lonesome with him there and Mirio couldn't find it in himself to take Tamaki up to his own room.

♡ So, they settled in for the night in Mirio's dorm. Tamaki picked out a story on his tablet while Mirio washed the spare pacifier he kept around for Tamaki when he would stay over. With the pacifier clean and the sippy refilled with fresh water, Mirio returned to tuck in under the covers and pop the soother in Tamaki's mouth. They were in for a night of reading fairy tales and just being together.

♡ Tamaki barely lasted more than five minutes before he dozed off, his head resting against Mirio's chest. The thrum of his heartheat against his ear was like a lullaby soothed him into letting out a murmured, "N'ni, Mewi..."

♡ While holding Tamaki in his strong, scarred arms and stroking calloused fingers through indigo blue locks, feeling Tamaki's breathing slow into a gentle purr of sleep... Mirio wonders what he ever had to worry about in the first place.

[sterek-unhinged]

Methinks it’s time to get high and rewatch teen wolf for the 12th billionth time

[endiness]

prime's interface and the way they list tv seasons is such ass

[sorrymcm]

in the year of our lord 2024 i am tempted to pick up my t.een w.olf muses again ...

[asexual-levia-tan]

watched 8 episodes of hgs last night and honestly would've finished them off if it hadn't gotten so late, thats how much i'm enjoying it

its definitely rough (both in animation and in writing) and sitting through some extended scenes of dialogue was actually excruciating (not in the fun-bad way but in the boring-bad way) but honestly. its pretty cute and pretty fun.

this coming from someone who kept watching teen wolf after it got bad, so take with a handful of salt

[kurthorton-moving]

fuck it tiktok has convinced me to make the worst decision of my life (rewatch teen wolf)

[dunbalpha]

no one knowing a thing ab tw..... a blessing (you haven't suffered thru it) and a curse (you haven't gotten to experience it)

[lokigodofaces]

May I suggest a third potential?

The formally brainwashed party specifically breaks rules/laws. Even things they don't really want to do. Could be wearing atrocious color combinations. Could be being needlessly rude to someone. Could be speeding. Running red lights. Stealing random crap. Breaking random crap. Getting into fights.

From this you get two options for the motive: are they refusing to follow rules again and trying to prove to themselves and others that they're free? Or are they desperate for order and for someone to control them that they start breaking rules and laws to try to get someone to tell them what to do/arrest them?

I think characters who have been brainwashed should have absolutely bat shit insane trauma responses about it. Because you can do so much with it, y'know? It's so versatile.

On one extreme end of the brainwashing trauma response spectrum, you have someone who has the worst impulse control you've ever seen, like this person is prone to spontaneous behavior like no one has ever been before. They would drive into oncoming traffic just to prove that they're in control of themselves.

On the complete opposite extreme end, you have someone who needs to micromanaged, down to the minute details. It doesn't matter that they're in control of themselves again, they need someone telling them what to do, borderline at all times. They can't function without it. You could think the word jump and this person would already be in the air.

Please is anyone picking up what I'm putting down. There's potential here I think. Like. In general.

[camellcat]

anyways, if you haven't heard this song before, you should add it to your void stiles playlist

[kneworder]

love season 5 they're like remember that stiles has severe anxiety? we do. now. after forgetting for like a whole season. anyway.

[deja-you]

Starling: Act IV

bucky barnes x reader

masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

word count: 3.2k

summary: You break into Bucky’s apartment to retrieve your cat and uncover your trauma file on his kitchen counter. An undercover mission ensues. 

TW: Trafficking (past, referenced), sexual assault (implied)

The last couple days, things have been weird between you and Barnes. 

He’s been keeping a closer eye on you and you pretend not to notice. Quieter, too, and he’s been avoiding looking you in the eyes. It’s been weird, but you don’t address it, sure that he’ll bring up whatever it is that’s bothering him eventually. 

Your main concern right now is tracking down Alpine. You’re crouched in your doorway, peering down both ends of the hall, calling her name softly under your breath. 

“Alpine, c’mon, you little war criminal. I fed you today. Don’t do this.” 

Mr. Keller steps out of his apartment and eyes you warily. 

“That cat’s a spy,” he says.

You don’t miss a beat. “Yeah, probably Russian. She’s got that dead-eyed stare.” 

Maybe she learned it from her father. 

“Microchipped agents, the lot of them,” Mr. Keller continues. “That’s how they’re watching us now. Through those furballs.”

“I believe it. I caught her listening to my therapy podcasts yesterday.”

“And she’s got diplomatic immunity, y’know. They all do.”

And with that, he shuffles down the hall muttering under his breath about how you can’t arrest a cat, no matter what you see. 

You sigh. She’s not in the vents. That leaves… Barnes. 

You glance toward 3B. The door is shut. It’s been like that the last two days, which is unusual, but you don’t question him about it. Maybe he needs a break from you. 

Suddenly a crash. Something heavy. Alpine’s distressed yowl. 

You’re at his door in seconds. You knock. Nothing. You knock again. Silence. You try the handle. Locked.

You frown and crouch down, pulling a bobby pin from your sleeve like a conjuring trick.

“This is still technically neighborly concern,” you rationalize. 

A click. You push the door open. 

“If you’ve hurt her, I swear to God–” You stop. 

Alpine is perched on the fridge. She meows sweetly like she didn’t just stage a hostage situation. Sam is sitting at the kitchen counter with a spring roll in one hand and chopsticks in the other, his mouth slightly agape at the sight of you. Bucky sits at his table frozen like a raccoon rifling through confidential trauma.

“Oh good,” you say, “a party.”

Bucky stares at you incredulously. “You picked my lock?”

A wide grin takes over Sam’s face.  “So this is the famous neighbor?”

“Famous?” Your eyes narrow. 

“You came up in therapy, apparently,” Sam tells you.

“Sam–” Bucky starts.

“Barnes, are you emotionally processing me behind my back?” You ask.

“With guidance!” Sam cuts in. 

Bucky, again, more firmly this time, “Sam.”

You ignore the two of them and turn to Alpine on the fridge. 

“You’ve got one job, and it’s not espionage. Get off the fridge.”

She does not. 

“You always pick locks with that much flair?” Sam asks.

“Only when I’m rescuing a stolen cat or defusing emotional bombs.”

“You’ve got good instincts. He’s been brooding since Tuesday.”

“Oh, I know. He left me groceries and wouldn’t make eye contact for 48 hours.” 

Sam says quietly to Bucky, “She’s cute.” 

You hear it.

“You flirting with me or trying to make him jealous?” 

Bucky shifts in his seat. “I should’ve tried harder to keep you two from meeting.”

Sam ignores him. “How long you and Barnes been exchanging sad eyes and groceries?”

“Not long,” you reply, “he still pretends it’s not happening.” 

“Why do I hang out with either of you?” Bucky is talking to himself at this point. 

You turn to face him and notice that Bucky’s still not looking at you. You follow his line of sight. 

On the counter, a file marked ASSET: STARLING – RECOVERED PROPERTY. 

Your photo. Grainy. Labeled. Stamped. 

The smile drops from your face and when you speak again your voice is much lower. 

“What the hell is that.” 

The room falls silent. 

Sam’s face tightens, he knows he should’ve said something.

Bucky’s voice is quiet and cautious. “It’s… not what it looks like.” 

You step closer to the file. 

“It looks like my trauma. On paper. In your kitchen.” 

Sam gathers his phone and takeout and walks to the door. 

“I’ll give you two a minute, but I’ll be downstairs if either of you self-destruct.” 

He’s gone and you continue. 

“So you’ve been collecting my file like a baseball card?” There’s venom in your voice.

“It wasn’t like that.” 

“My face is on your counter!” Your voice raises, but his volume doesn’t rise to match it.

“You’re part of the op. I needed to know.” 

“Was I part of it before I made you pasta, Barnes?” You let out a humorless laugh. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to pretend I was some footnote?” 

And then you catch the name on another file. And the same one on another. Every file in the kitchen has one name in common: Lucien Virell. You freeze.

Bucky sees the subtle expression change and his voice softens. 

“You know him?”

A long pause of silence. When you speak again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“He’s the one who put me in the cage.” 

Something flashes across Bucky’s face… pain, anger maybe. 

“You should have told me.” 

“So you could add it to your casefile?” You bite out, voluming rising again. 

“I was trying to protect you. You shouldn’t have to relive this.” 

“You don’t get to decide that for me!”

“You don’t understand–”

“I understand perfectly. I know what they take. I know what they break.” 

The volume escalates. You both say too much. Not enough. Everything in between. 

A pounding on the wall and Mr. Keller’s muffled voice.

“Some of us are trying to rot in peace!”

You and Bucky settle into silence, the tension failing to dissipate between the two of you. Eventually Sam re-enters, less smug, now carrying himself with the seriousness of a soldier. 

“I got the call. It’s official. Virell’s running a new op in Queens. We need to move soon.”

“Then I’m going,” you say flatly.

“No.” Bucky says firmly. “You’re not a part of this.” 

“I was. And I still am.” 

“You don’t have to prove–”

“This isn’t about proving anything. I know how they think. I used to be one of their trophies.” 

Silence settles into the air as Bucky and Sam take in what you’re telling them. You continue.

“Let me finish what they started.” 

Sam nods. Doesn’t argue. 

Bucky says nothing. He’s angry, maybe not at you. But he knows you’re already going, and there’s no changing your mind.

Alpine jumps down from the fridge and you pick her up like a shield. You leave the apartment and don’t look back.

The file still lies on the counter. Unclosed. Unforgotten.

-

Your bare feet slip against something you hope is water. It isn’t. 

The hallway hums with fluorescent light and silence. Forced silence. You can still hear it. 

The lock on the door was old and simple. You had watched him punch in the code too many times to forget. You don’t have a plan, just a sharp piece of wire you’d hidden in your waistband and a window where no one was looking. 

Your heart beats violently against your rib cage. Not brave – just done. Done waiting. Done praying. Done surviving on scraps of hope and someone else’s idea of when you deserved air. 

You don’t look at any of the girls in The Menagerie. They don't lift their heads. Not anymore. Except one. 

She was new. Young. Reminded you of yourself several years ago. She had whispered her name to you in the dark. You whispered yours back. You promised you’d take her with you. 

But the alarms sounded too soon. 

The hallway door slam shut, and you scream. You had blood caked under your nails for days after clawing at the door trying to get back to her. 

You don’t know how long you run after that, but eventually your feet hit the cold pavement. A hand grabs you as you fall. Not to help. To return you. 

You scream, stabbing them with something sharp. 

When you wake up, you’re still screaming. 

It takes you a moment to calm down. To remember that it was over. Just a nightmare. A memory.

-

Bucky hates the plan, but Sam signs off, knowing you’re the only one who can pass unnoticed. The only one they’d want to collect. 

Things between you and Bucky have been tense for days, stretched so tight even the silences feel sharp. He’s leaning against the wall as you get ready, arms crossed, eyes heavy. Brooding. Watching. Waiting for you to change your mind. 

“You sure you want to do this?” 

It’s not a challenge. He’s giving you an out. He’s holding it out like a parachute. Hoping you’ll take it.

“I’ve done worse,” you say without turning. You mean it. 

His jaw clenches. A flicker of guilt in his eyes. His response is quiet.

“You shouldn’t have had to.” 

It’s not anger in his voice. It's regret. Like somehow, all of this is his fault. 

You don’t respond, stepping into your closet to change. When you reemerge, Bucky’s entire demeanor shifts from quiet dread to active protest. He is ready to call off the entire mission.

“You’re not wearing that.” There’s a low growl in the back of his throat. “We’re not doing this.”

The dress is tight, black, unapologetically revealing – strategic cutouts, a plunging neckline, and thigh-high boots that click against the hardwood like punctuation. He rakes his eyes over your form once more before forcing himself to look away.

“I’m dressing the part,” you say evenly. 

“Not like that, you aren’t. This was a bad idea. We’re not doing this,” he’s pacing now, thumb already halfway to his phone, “I’m calling Sam and telling him to find someone else–”

“Bucky.” Your tone is stern enough to snap him out of his spiral. You wait until he meets your eyes. 

“I’m doing this. You’re not changing my mind.” 

He takes a deep breath. His hand falls away from his pocket.  

“Trust me, okay?” 

Your voice softens to meet him where he’s at. 

“Besides… you’ll be there the whole time in case anything goes wrong, right?”

You’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself. 

“Right,” he confirms. 

-

The club is all shadow and sound. Basslines vibrating through the floor, velvet booths, Flickering lights that don’t show you clearly unless they mean to. It smells like perfume and sweat and cologne trying to hide the rot underneath. Men in expensive suits pretending they aren’t monsters. 

You blend in with the club goers here, and you slip into the role like it’s muscle memory. The dress fits you like it was made out of silk.  But this time you have comms in your ear and a super soldier at the bar watching you closely.

“Tell me you brought backup and not just your disapproval,” you say casually into your comms.

“Sam’s in the van. Torres has eyes on the back exit. I’m watching your six.” 

“Try not to stare. People will talk.” 

Silence on comms for a minute and then you hear Bucky once more. Low and tense.

“He’s making his way over to you.” 

You don’t need to ask who.

A man slides in beside you. Mid-tier, but arrogant. The kind of man who feeds off power he didn’t earn. He orders you a drink without asking. You sip it like poison, smile like it doesn’t burn. He’s shamelessly flirting with you. You swallow the bile rising in your throat and flirt back. You can feel the heat of Bucky’s stare on your back. 

You give him a name that isn’t yours. He gives you one you don’t care to remember. The handler grazes your arm with the back of his knuckles. You don’t flinch. Bucky’s grip tightens around his drink, you swear you can hear him breathing more heavily under the sounds of the pounding base. 

His breath reeks of alcohol as he leans in closer to you. 

“You have the look,” he says, hand sliding down your back, “Like the old collection. That’s rare now.” 

Your stomach drops but you smile anyway. 

His hand trails down your back. You grip the lapel of his jacket, running your hands up and down the fabric. That’s when you feel it–the subtle outline of a flash drive in his jacket pocket. 

He leans in closer, lips against your ear as he whispers. 

“I remember one like you. We called her Starling.” 

A pause. He continues, voice lower this time.

“Had the prettiest screams.” 

Your body stills and the blood drains from your face. Across the club, a stool scrapes. Somewhere in your periphery you can see Bucky moving from his spot. 

“What’s your rate?” The handler murmurs. “Or are you one of those they keep for private buyers?”

You don’t have to respond. He notices something in your face, or maybe the handler has noticed The Winter Soldier closing in and realizes something is off. He pushes you off him roughly and makes a beeline toward the back exit. 

He doesn’t get far. Vibranium finger close around the back of his jacket. 

“I don’t know who you think you are–”

“I know exactly who you are,” Bucky cuts him off, “and I’ve met worse men. Most of them are dead.” 

Sam and Torres show up just in time to pull Bucky off him. He’s quickly arrested and dragged out of the building. 

Bucky turns back to go find you but you’ve already made your way to his side. He breathes–maybe for the first time that night. The two of you step out into the alley and he’s quick to examine you. 

“Are you okay?”

You nod, exhale. 

“Yeah.” 

It’s a lie. He knows it. 

He feels a pang of guilt. He should’ve tried harder to keep you out of this. 

“I’m sor–”

You throw your arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of him. You’ve run out of armor. He catches you, just barely, and holds on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.  

Neither of you say anything. He tugs you tighter to his chest and decides he never wants to let go of you.

When you finally part, he notices it. The black flash drive you grip in your hand.

“What’s that?”

“Insurance.” 

He watches you. 

“You don’t have to steal anymore.”

You shrug. “Old habits.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re good ones.” 

“They kept me alive.”

There’s a certain hardness in your voice. Exhaustion in your eyes. He doesn’t say anything out loud, but you can read his face: you shouldn't have had to learn those habits at all. You shouldn’t have had to survive anything at all. 

You press the flash drive into his hand.

“Was all that necessary?” He asks.

You stiffen. Just a little. “You think I wanted to touch him?”

“I think you wanted to hurt him.”

You don’t deny it. 

“You shouldn’t have to be bait,” he says quietly.

“And you shouldn’t have been turned into a weapon,” you say sharply, “but here we are.” 

The words hang in the air long and heavy. The alley is still. Until, finally: 

“This is the only way I know how to burn them down.” 

 He nods once. He knows the feeling. He hates that you share it. 

-

It’s late when you finally get home. The door closes behind you with a finality.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He just locks the deadbolt with a soft click, and you both stand there in silence, holding something tight behind your ribs that neither of you can name yet. 

Alpine meows once, trotting into the room, but you don’t even move. You don’t bend down to greet her, just wordlessly unzip your boots and toss them toward the door. Bucky toes off his own boots. 

You move toward the couch but you don’t make it that far. Your knees hit the rug and your back slumps against the couch. Your breath catches, trembles, breaks. 

And then you start to cry. 

Not a single tear, but a broken open sob. It’s not cinematic, it’s ugly and raw. One hand grips the couch like it will keep you tethered to the room. Bucky’s at your side before he can think about it. He doesn’t touch you at first, just there, letting you unravel. 

“I–” you choke out. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. “I left her–” 

His brow furrows and he leans in. “Hey, I’ve got you, slow down–”

You shake your head violently. “She was just a kid–I told her I’d take her with me. I didn’t. I ran.”

You’re swallowing a sob, hands pulling toward your chest, your ribs, looking for a way to get your heart to stop beating, just for a moment. 

“I didn’t look back.” 

Bucky reaches for you slowly now, speaking softly.

“Hey, hey–look at me.” 

You meet his eyes. Barely. 

“You got out,” he says. “That wasn’t betrayal. That was survival.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head again. 

“If you hadn’t gotten out, I wouldn’t be here. Sam wouldn’t be here,” his voice is low and steady. “That bastard tonight wouldn’t be in cuffs. You survived. That counts.”

Like a wave finally crashing, you collapse forward into his chest. It’s not graceful, like a tree giving out at the roots. 

He catches you. Of course he does. You’re crying so hard your whole body shakes. He wraps his arms around you, slowly, tightly, as if putting your pieces back together with his bare hands. 

“I hate them,” you say quietly. “For making me like this. Broken.” 

“You’re not broken,” he murmurs into your hair. 

“Then why do I feel like I don’t even fit in my own skin?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds you tighter. A hand curls at the base of your neck. A vibranium hand, no glove this time. His thumb rubs soft circles into your skin, quieting the storm. He doesn’t try to fix you, just makes sure you don’t fall apart alone. 

Eventually, when your sobs begin to dull, he gently helps you to your feet. He doesn’t say much, just guides you to the bathroom, turns on the light, and starts the water for you. 

He picks a candle off your shelf labeled Weightless. Sea salt, bergamot, neroli, smoke. Bucky lights it and leaves it on the edge of the sink. 

You’re peeling off your dress when he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him without a word. He checks the lock on your front door, refills Alpine’s food, and folds the blanket on your couch. 

When he knocks on the bathroom door an hour later, he doesn’t expect a response. He opens it gently to find you dressed in oversized pajamas, hair damp, legs curled up by the side of the tub – like you slid down the wall and just couldn’t pull yourself back up. 

You don’t flinch when he lifts you. He carries you like you weigh nothing, arms secure around your back and thighs. 

“This is not how I imagined you carrying me to bed, Barnes.” 

Your voice is hoarse but there’s a flicker of humor at the edge of it. 

Bucky almost smiles. “Another time, Birdie.” 

You don’t hear him, already gone. He tucks the blanket around you, cheek pressed into the pillow, breathing soft and slow. Alpine curls up at your side like a guardian. 

Bucky stands there for too long. Watching. 

Finally, he moves to the couch, exhaustion sinking into his bones. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. 

True to his word, he stays. And falls asleep to the soft sound of your breathing.