#graphite aches

[dustoftheancients]

my hand was made for your knife. Please do not remove captions.

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The only thing you register is the murky darkness beneath you and the ice above your head. It's calm for a long moment before you feel the twinge in your lungs and your body lurches with a suffocating need. You pound on the ice ceiling, acheiving nothing but bruised palms as the air bubbles leaving your mouth accumulate on the ice.

Then suddenly a sallow hand reaches up from the depths and grabs your leg. The knight’s dead eyes scrutinise you from below, as if offended that you would struggle against this well-deserved fate. Your scream is drowned by the water as you're pulled down, further and further into the icy abyss.

You jolt awake, breathing harsh and eyes frantic. You look around the room, brown curtains shut out the light of the moon, high in the sky. Thick sheets cover you, yet you're still cold, ever aware of the vacant spot next to you that wasn’t when you went to bed. Your heart aches, with longing or exhaustion, you're not sure.

Light emits from the ajar bedroom door. You climb out of the large bed, shuffling away heavy sheets and fixing your thick winter nightgown. You tiptoe down the short hallway, cold stone ground chilling your nerves through your socks until you reach the thick carpet that covers most of the living room.

Your orc sits in the middle of the room, hunched over the dining room table. A candle on the table casts a warm glow, you can hear graphite against paper, the movements slow and deliberate. He only notices your presence when you touch his shoulder. The orc looks up at you from his seat, and your eyes must have been red or puffy because he immediately knows something is wrong. He pushes out his chair so that he’s facing you and gives you a worried look.

You shake your head, trying to ease his concerns but knowing it won't work. He plays with the sleeve of the loose tunic he must have slipped on when he woke up and then reaches out to softly wrap thick fingers around your wrist, sliding them down until he holds your hand in his. It’s warm and grounding, his thumb slides over your knuckles, questioning but never demanding. You sigh and say,

“I had a nightmare.”

You place your hands together and rest your head on them, closing your eyes, trying to convey the action of sleeping and then you shoot your head upright, trying to convey shock. His face lights up in recognition and even though the hasty gestures are a little embarrassing, you still feel…proud when he understands you.

He says a string of orcish and you only catch the words, “I’m sorry.”  He then gestures to himself and nods sadly.

He had a nightmare as well?

You feel foolish for not considering that, extremely foolish for feeling disappointed when you noticed he wasn’t in bed with you, as if he isn’t dealing with his own troubles, as if you’re the only one who’s looked death in the face. Your eyes flick to his chest. How long has it been since you’ve cleaned his wound? Are you really so selfish you can’t remember to clean the fresh wound of the one you call your lover? You look from where his wound should be then back to his eyes, silently asking for permission to touch. He nods and you lift his tunic up his chest until you reach the wound, a wound covered by fresh, clean, white bandages. You scrunch your eyebrows and look back up at him, he looks back with a proud smile, almost smug, you’d say.

You scoff, drop his tunic back down and look away, irritation flowing from you. You’re glad that he knows how to clean his own wounds, you never doubted he couldn’t but you're responsible for that lifelong scar and you feel an obligation to help take care of it. You just want to make up for the pain you’ve caused, why isn’t he letting you? Not only have you not thanked him nearly enough for saving your life, but you've only made his life worse by being in it.

Your lover notices your mood and reaches for your hands again, leading your eyes to meet his, when you do, you can’t help but let the pain flow freely onto your face. The self-loathing finally too much to try and hide it from him with a tight smile. He sighs and brings your hands to his shoulders, pulling you gently until you’re sitting on his lap, head placed right next to his beating heart. He whispers something in orcish, rubbing your back. You know he doesn't see it the way you do, he doesn't see you as a burden but that doesn't negate the fact that you are burdening him. And yet, despite knowing this, you cling to him so tightly, wholly unwilling to let go. When did you become so selfish?

You look away from him and notice the loose pages on the table. There are loose pages with scribbled orcish and human common, some messily scratched out while others are crumpled into tight balls. You reach for one of the loose pages unthinkingly, but your lover reaches them first and pushes them further away. You're slightly startled by the action and look up to see him turned away, cheeks dark and eyebrows scrunched. He's angry or maybe embarrassed? Maybe he's angry because he’s embarrassed? You reach for his cheek to make him look at you and when he does, you lightly nod your head, trying to convey that you won’t peek at what he’s writing if he doesn’t want you to. You think he understands as his shoulders ease up and his hand comes back to your waist. You rest your head against his chest and let out a tired breath, closing your eyes. His fingers comb gently along your scalp as he eases back against the chair, with you nestled comfortably in his arms. You didn't intend to fall asleep but sleep comes anyway, it always seems to come so easy when you're close to him like this.

When you’re nudged awake, you can see out the window that some time has elapsed since you fell asleep, but not enough that the sun has come up yet. You rub your eyes and look up at the lovely orc who woke you. He looks down at you apologetically and nods his head towards the paper on the table. You reposition yourself and reach for the page, straightening up when you realise just how much is written on it, more than either of you have written before. You thoroughly rub your eyes clean of sleep and with one more glance towards his nervous face, you begin reading.

“My name is Շɿoþƚɿiǫ.

Please tell me your name.

I can’t might not be able to pronounce it but I want to try.

In my mind I have been calling you Ꮦлαᗩ, I think it will mean “My Love" in Human.

I’m sorry it is this way. Sorry you have to leave home. Sorry you had to kill that man those men. Sorry that you lose sleep. Sorry your life has changed so much. I want to I will make it better for you.

When you said you love me, do you mean it in the way I mean it?

Orc courting are different from humans, so I will explain.

I think of you when you are not here, I want to touch you when you are close, I want to make you smile and laugh. I want to make my home feel like your home.

Orcs don’t have marriage but we do have courting. This is what I want with you and I deeply wish that you feel the same.

If this is not what you meant then I'm sorry for misunderstanding.

I still love you.”

You read the letter once, wipe your tears and then read it again. He only looks back down at you when he hears your wet sniffle. His hand massaging your thigh stops moving, he looks at you with worry. You don’t know what else to do, so you nod your head and cry, pulling him into a hug. You hold him close, not knowing at all how else to respond besides burying your head in his neck and nodding, a poor attempt at an affirmation. He rubs his hand down your back, hugging you back, clearly hesitant but it seems like a weight has been lifted from him.

It takes you a few minutes to calm down. You thought you were good at hiding your emotions and being stoic but it may just be that you’d never actually felt such strong emotions in the first place, and now that you do, you have no idea how to hide or even manage them, it’s incredibly embarrassing.

Even more so when he is so patient with you, letting you melt into him, letting you wet his shoulder and hiccup into his chest. You curse yourself, he must be so nervous, anxiously waiting for a clear response to his carefully crafted words but all you can do is cry and nod.

You pull away, wipe your raw eyes and hiccup one more time before turning around and grabbing the thick graphite pencil. You sit on his lap and begin paging through the dictionary. He sits patiently, arms around your waist, resting his head on the back of your shoulders, giving you the same privacy you gave him to write your thoughts out. You struggle immensely with choosing the right words, there’s so much you want to say but it doesn’t need to be a poetic love letter, it needs to be clear and understandable. Even though he deserves all the most beautiful poetry the world could craft.

You are, unfortunately, not a world-renowned poet. You feel so exposed and it's ridiculous, honestly, trying to channel your most intense emotions into graphite lines on a page. You're not even sure any medium, language or alphabet could truly express these feelings but you have to try for him. You write until dawn is approaching, looking down at the orcish words your own hands have written, you sigh to yourself wearily.

You nudge the orc behind you and he simply hugs your form tighter. The man fell asleep around halfway through your painful writing process, back against the chair with his arms never leaving your waist. He breathes in deeply, sleep melting away slowly as he comes to.

You gently unwrap his heavy arms from around you and stand up, placing your letter in front of him on the table before he can argue about the loss of contact. He rubs his eyes and stares down at the page, you try not to stare at him while fidgeting to the side. He glances at you for a second and then pulls his chair in a little, picking up the small page.

“My name is ______

I would love to hear you say it.

This is difficult so I will be direct.

Please don’t be sorry for me. I killed for you because I love you and I don’t regret it.

That is what I mean when I say I love you. It means I want to protect you, clean your wounds, make food with you, help you when you can't sleep.

These are things I have never felt before you.

I don't know why you saved me from the ice, but I will live my life trying to thank you for it. Even if you say I already have.

I have never dreamt of marriage but I dream of you. I want to live with you next to me, I want you to be my home. We can call it courting or marriage, as long as I get to love you and feel your love in return.

I think you understand me perfectly, My Lover”

At least that's what you hope it says. Taking into account punctuation, tense and grammer issues, it probabaly reads very differently.

Your stomach churns when you remember all the sincerity that went into those penciled words, and still it isn't half as thoughtful as his. His was so beautiful and concise, while yours feels not nearly as put together. He deserves better. What if you translated it so badly that he doesn’t understand? You realise that he must have been feeling this exact same way when you were reading his letter but that thought only quells your anxiety a little.

You feel like hours go by in just those few minutes. You can't decide if you want to watch him read it or avert your gaze, so you do both, glancing back at him every few seconds while trying to give him the patience and privacy to read in his own time. You can’t help but watch how he rubs his eyes and sniffs quietly, you want so badly to console him but you just stand there and wait.

He wipes his eyes once more and stands up from his chair, moving closer to you, reaching out his hand for you to take. You do and he brings you into his hold. You hug tightly as he bends down to fully engulf you. He whispers something into your shoulder and gives the skin a little kiss over the material of your nightgown. You try to separate to ask him what he’s trying to say but he squeezes you close, nuzzling into your neck. He mutters in orcish and kisses your neck, repeating the process all the way up your neck until he reaches your lips. He looks into your eyes and it seems that whatever he was looking for in them was found when he leans his head onto yours.

You lean forward just a bit to kiss him, the same as your kisses have been before, slow and deliberate, meant to convey as much as possible. When you can’t convey something with words you have to convey it with actions. You separate from the kiss and he breathes out a soft word in orcish which you can now identify as “My love” and he blesses you with another searing kiss. You kiss back, feeling his tusks on your cheeks as the kiss deepens.

His hands smooth down to your thighs, where he picks you up slightly and places you on the dining table so he doesn’t have to bend down so far, you assume. He still kisses you so lovingly, whispering soft orcish. You try to decipher his words but your thoughts are quickly led astray by his lips on yours and his hand gently intertwined with your hair, holding you as close as possible while leaving room to move away if you please. You don’t.

As you kiss, you wrap your legs around as much of his waist as you can, just trying to get as close as possible, your chest presses against his and you're grateful for the scant layers between you. You can feel the fabric of his tunic dampen with sweat, the downsides of running so hot, you suppose. Though it doesn’t feel like such a downside to him as he feels your hand trail up under the tunic, feeling the thick fat and dense muscle of his stomach, he shivers at your touch but the cold doesn’t stop him from reaching back and yanking his tunic off, tossing it aside as if it offended him.

You stare at your lover, now able to appreciate his physique with all your attention, nothing to distract you from following his chest hair down to the trail that disappears into his sleep pants. His chest moves up and down with every breath as your gaze lingers, you bite back a grin when you think you can see him flexing his arms. You like that he can feel your eyes on him.

Your gaze meanders back up to his face, framed by messy strands of black hair contrasting strongly with his cream-white tusks. You want to feel those pretty tusks on your neck again, grazing against the soft skin there. He can clearly see you staring at them and he bends down to your height, resting his hands on the table on either side of your thighs. His face is inches away from you, his amused grin mirroring your slightly more nervous one. You lean forward and kiss him flat on the lips, then kiss both his tusks, your way of letting him know you accept him as he is, in the same way you know he does. A way of saying you love him, not despite the fact that he’s an orc or because he’s an orc but that you love him as whatever he may be. You hold his face in place while you attack him with loving kisses and pull him into your neck, not so subtly encouraging him to lay his own kisses on the recently discovered, very sensitive area. Your hands travel down his broad shoulders, feeling up the large expanse of muscle and skin.

He finally moves his hands to cup both of your thighs, touch burning hot, you let him trail his hands up your thighs until he’s massaging the fat around your hips. Your thighs squeeze around him as you shiver, the fabric pooling at your hips. You can see his eyes linger where your nightgown pools at your hips as your legs wrap around his waist. After debating a bit in your head, you make the decision to shift and shuffle your nightgown up and off your body, the action making you feel much more vulnerable than you expected, even in the heat of the moment. He stares unabashedly, trailing his hands up and down your waist. You can’t help but cover your breasts from him, it’s not that you’re shy, that’s not the word for it, though you’re clearly overwhelmed and a little out of your depth.

Luckily, it seems he understands. He places a kiss on your lips and then trails a few down your neck, making sure to nudge his tusks against the skin, it looks like he's figuring out exactly what you like. He then places kisses all over your neck and shoulders, he kisses as if he's blessed to even get to offer his affections at all. You breathe deep and let yourself feel his warmth, slowly taking your arm away from your chest and sliding the hand behind his head. You lead him down and he follows, trailing kisses down your chest until his hot tongue makes contact with your nipple, and you downright moan.

He moans back in return, suckling so sweet and gentle. He brings a hand up to your other breast to feel the weight of it in his hand. He pulls your hips closer to his, at the edge of the table, he has to bend down a considerable amount to reach your tits and have your hips meet his, but it’s clearly worth it for him.

You can feel how big he is through his sleep pants, and you know he can feel your heat through your underwear. You press even closer, wanting to feel more of him, and you grind your clothed cunt against him. Just that little friction has his grip tightening and his breath hitching. At the very least, you can be assured that your lover is probably as experienced as you are and will probably last just as long as you if you both keep getting so worked up so easily. You grind forward again, pushing his head into your breast, scraping his blunt tusks against your plush chest as he laps and sucks the soft skin. He suddenly grabs your hips with both hands and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist tighter and holding you close with one hand on your back. You look each other in the eyes, you're getting really good at assessing each other's feelings through body language. You don’t need to tell him you want him, and vice versa, you can convey that with your bodies.

He places a hand on your ass and you pull him into a searing kiss as he grinds his hips forward, making both of you moan. He leans on the back of the couch next to the living room table for support. Clearly very sensitive himself, he slowly sinks to the ground, with you in his arms, still keeping you as close to him as possible. Now that he’s sitting on the floor, back against the back of the couch, you have more freedom to move how you want, now actively grinding into each other, searching for the incoming climax.

It feels so good, even through the layers. You can't help but murmur praises at him and he seems to like this very much despite the fact that he can't understand most of it. When you stop your praises to suck in a breath or moan, he whines softly and looks at you with a pleading expression that only melts into pleasure once you start talking again.

It just feels right, not too much too fast and yet the most pleasure you’ve ever felt. You can see him getting closer, hands clutching you tighter, moving you against his bucking hips. When you can feel yourself getting closer, you pull him into a passionate kiss. Your lips fit together so well, and so do your bodies, pressed as close as possible, save for two layers of cloth. You release the kiss only to rasp out his name and the words "I love you" in his mother tongue as you reach your peak. He groans out what you're pretty sure is a swear word of some kind before kissing you so deep you feel your lips might bruise. He kisses you through his shuddering climax, and you stay connected like that well into the come down.

You rest on top of your lover, feeling his heart beat alongside yours. Any attempt to move your lower half sends pain towards your most sensitive parts, having been rubbed raw against your soaking wet underwear. You shift a little and he sucks in a breath, the hand rubbing your back moves to still your hips. As if you needed any more evidence of his enjoyment, his thin sleep pants are absolutely soaked, you're not sure where his wetness ends and yours begins, but you find the sight oddly endearing. You look up at him and grin, he grins back and you both snicker at yourselves. It must be a funny sight, two star-crossed lovers, former lonely wood dwellers, cumming in their pants the first time they get even slightly intimate with each other.

Your lover only releases you from his embrace when you shiver from the cold night air, though not without a few more kisses and whispered endearments. You slowly lift yourself up, stretching and grabbing your nightgown before walking, only wobbling a little, to the kitchen to make you both some well-deserved tea. You can hear your lover trail into the bathroom, probably to get a fresh pair of pants and you know you'll have to do the same when you feel the wetness slowly cooling uncomfortably between your thighs. The stupid grin on your face stays there the entire day, only matched by the equally stupid grin worn by your lover.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

<- Previous

Next ->

[gremlin-girly]

From the Ashes

Whisk & Whimsy Part 4

Dividers by: @/bernardsbendystraws | Banner by me, made in canva, images from canva and Pinterest (credit to the original creators)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: violence, injury, blood, fluff, miscommunication

Summary: You kindly offer to help pick up the pieces. Even if that means letting Bucky stay with you for a while.

Word count: 7k

A/N: Very sorry who saw this prematurely post last Sunday - but I hope you enjoyed reading through the notes 😭💀

I want to give this series the attention it deserves so I'm taking a two week break to get my brain back on track and then we will be back to weekly postings. Thank you for all the love on this series so far! X

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Collection

Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The reactions of the bikers were instantaneous.

They each sprinted to their bikes and hurriedly packed away things. Bucky's face was like a storm as he barked out orders; Sam to go straight to the hospital and give updates on Hoskins and Joaquin, Alexei and Natasha to find Piertro, Wanda and Yelena and for Punisher to go with Clint to hunt down Walker and find whoever did this. Steve was to go straight to the club and meet Bucky there.

"What about me?" You asked teetering behind Bucky, gasping as he half threw you onto the back of his bike without warning.

"It's not safe for you, Cupcake. 'M taking you home." Bucky left no room for argument as the engine roared to life and he peeled away from the off-road with White Wolves in tow. "Now, hang on!"

You curl into Bucky, the wind howling in your ears and whipping your hair wildly. You clutch at him tightly, your mind flitting to young Joaquin's smiling face, his polite yet playful demeanour towards yourself and his superiors, and dread settles in your stomach. You didn't know Hoskins well, but liked him well enough; he was friendly and helped ease Walker's apprehension of...well, everyone.

You hoped, wished, prayed that they would make it through.

When Briarridge came into view, all of the bikers wordlessly split off to complete their tasks. Bucky kept speed, barrelling through the quiet roads until he pulled up outside Whisk & Whimsy. You hadn't even realised you'd stopped, eyes squeezed shut. The smell of smoke was strong, settling like a fog over the rooftops.

"Come on doll, hop off." Bucky says stoically.

"Take me with you." You say firmly, not removing your hands from his waist. The fire and stabbings had nothing to do with your beef with Bucky, and you wanted to help the friendly bikers that had been nothing but nice to you. "Let me help."

Bucky's chest heaves, you can feel the push of his ribs against your hands, his frantic heartbeat. "Fuck doll - I can't be wastin' time like-"

"Then DRIVE!" You growl at him and he starts the ignition again with a sigh, turning back on himself and heading in the direction of the club.

What should take thirty minutes takes ten with Bucky's driving and when the bike skids to halt beside Steve, Steve gives you a curious glance.

"Hello again," He says before looking at Bucky with the unvoiced question; you brought her with you?

Bucky shrugs. "She wouldn't get off the damn bike."

The three of you look to the remnants of the club and you can see Bucky's shoulders visibly slump in defeat. The club is still being doused with water from the fire engines but there are no more flames, only smoke and ash. The building is black, everything inside from what you can see is smudged in hues of charcoal and graphite and your heart aches for Bucky and the White Wolves.

The neon sign exploded from the heat, and the glass has melted into the entry way. No more dubiously stained carpet. No more bar. No more more club. No more home.

"Fuck." Bucky sighs, dropping his hands to his thighs. "This ain't good."

"You're telling me, pal." Steve looks forlorn as he looks at the building, or what's left of it. "This was premeditated."

You're still clinging to Bucky and rise up slightly, feeling a little dazed. "I'm so sorry."

"What are we gonna do Buck?" Steve asks, folding his arms firmly. You're not even offended that the two men ignore your apology.

"We're gonna find who did this and make 'em pay." Bucky growls. "Insurance'll cover most of the damage and thankfully nothing important was kept in the club but-"

Bucky takes a deep, long breath and you can feel the anger - the rage - brimming underneath the surface of his skin.

"That's not the point. Whoever this was attacked our own." Bucky kicks a stone near his boot. "They waited until we were out of town. This was personal."

"You can stay at mine tonight. I'll take the sofa." Steve offers dutifully to Bucky who contemplates his offer before you chime in.

"Stay with me."

Both men's heads whip towards you and you feel a little out of your depth for a moment before shaking it off; the image of Bucky's uncomfortable cot in his office plaguing ypur mind.

"You're gonna need all the rest you can get." You say, fixing Bucky with what you hope is a stern but sympathetic look. "I have an air mattress and a spare room."

Bucky's rage dissipates for a moment to blink at you before looking over at Steve, who's smiling with surprise.

"Careful there, Cupcake." Bucky teases softly. "People might actually think you like me. Now, where's that useless sheriff?"

An hour later Bucky's slumped into your couch, tattooed hand over his face. Your heart aches for him, losing so much in such a short space of time was incomprehensible. Your belongings, your home, a friend. Maybe even two if Joaquin didn't pull through.

The loss of the club you could chalk up to karma for threatening your business and others but the rest? That was plain unfair. Kindness was a virtue you had yet to reign in and your brain, bless her heart, tried to rationalise Bucky being on your couch. You hated him, didn't you?

So why did you offer him your couch when he could've stayed at Steve's?

You try not to grumble to yourself as you bring two mugs over to the small couch. You curse yourself for cheaping out now that your legs are pressed against Bucky's and you can't sit at least an arm's length away from him.

"Hey," You say softly, holding out a mug of tea. "Here."

Bucky peeks out from under his hand and blinks tiredly at you before taking the mug from your hands, ringed fingers brushing yours. Tingles tan up the expanse of your arm as you pulled it back towards you, trying to suppress a shiver.

"Thanks, doll." He says gruffly, looking into the ripples on the tea surface.

The only sound you can hear in your heart in your ears, thudding hard and fast. You should say something... but what? What do you say to a man who's lost everything in less than a day?

"I'm..." you start speaking before you can stop it and you feel Bucky's eyes on you. You roll your shoulders anxiously, fighting to try and find the words, before settling lamely on a "sorry."

"For what?"

You expected a grunt and a nod not a conversation. You shrug helplessly.

"Uh, well, everything - I guess?" You stammer out, dropping your gaze to the mug in your hand. Wisps of steam rolled over the surface and you took a deep breath, prolonging the sigh for as long as you could.

It still didn't help.

"I really had fun today until... you know, it wasn't." You clear your throat. God, why was this so hard? Why is your heart beating so fast? Is it because you're trying to comfort the man you're supposed to hate?

"I can't... I can't imagine being in your shoes. With everything that's happened today and - yeah - I'm sorry." You rush the end out quickly and, noticing Bucky hasn't spoken for a while, look over at him with a weary but sympathetic smile.

Bucky's only looking at you. He nods and says nothing for a few moments, just looking. You want to look away but something stops you. Your chest is tight with anxiety, you're only comfort is the warmth of the mug permeating your palms as Bucky looks - no, gazes - at you like he's a million miles away. His blue eyes are locked onto yours, and the more you focus, the more you see.

His eyes aren't just blue; they're periwinkle with with flecks of a misted green close to the iris. Where you'd thought, or better yet assumed, they were cold and cruel you now see that they're soft and worrisome. At the corners of his eyes where thick, dark unkempt eyebrow taper, you can see the faint crinkles of smile lines. It wasn't a surprise to you that he was attractive, you noticed that the first day you'd met him. But in the midst of a tragedy and him not even a foot away from your face, on your sofa no less, you've only just made the realisation that perhaps you've made one too many assumptions about the biker before you and had ignored the fact that he wasn't just attractive; he was soul-destroyingly beautiful.

"I could... put on a movie? You ask after clearing your throat, hoping the silence would be a little less awkward and help you to ignore your new-found revelation.

"Yeah, sure." Bucky murmurs, tearing his gaze away from you to look at an interesting piece of wall and sip his tea.

You turn on the TV and boot up Netflix, flicking to the movie section and eyeing up the genres.

"Guess you'd want an action movie huh?" You joke, hoping to get a rise from him to ease the strange feeling hanging in the room. It works - he bites.

"What's with the assumption?" He raises an eyebrow at you, smirking slightly. "Maybe I'd kill to watch - what was that one? Go back... Maybe I'd like to watch 13 Going on 30."

You snort. "I apologise profusely for thinking the only two movies you'd like were Mad Max and Mad Max Fury Road."

"You forgot Furiosa too." His eyes twinkle and he hides a smirk behind his mug as he takes a sip and despite the day you'd had, you find yourself smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Bucky Barnes, biker leader and film connoisseur." You chuckle. "Quite the title."

"I wear it with pride." He grins. "But I'll settle with something I don't have to think too hard about."

You manage to find a light-hearted action-comedy to stick on but Bucky only makes it through the first forty minutes before his head slumps against your shoulder. You startle and go to move him when you see how soundly he's sleeping, not a peep escaping his pink lips, long lashes curled against his skin. He looked like a cherub; round-faced, innocent and angelic. Such a contrast to the man that he is. However, you don't move him, letting the leader of the White Wolves rest his weary head on your shoulder for a restful while.

You don't remember seeing the end of the movie or feeling your eyes grow heavy. All you remember is that by daybreak, when the orange sun peeks it's way into your living room and the birds begin their morning sonatas, you wake up on Bucky's chest with a blanket draped across you both... and willfully close your eyes and go back to sleep.

The incessant beeping of a fire alarm jolts you from your slumber. Panic clutches at you as you think your home, your café, your dream, is on fire. You're on the sofa - alone - and fight your way out of the blanket cursing Bucky for leaving you, falling to the floor with a thump. The floor creaks unsteadily and you curse. You should have gotten that hole fixed.

You can see the grey smoke descending and the smell of burning....

Bacon?

"Doll, are you okay?" It's Bucky's voice. You rub at your eyes and clamber to your feet, ready to run.

What you see, instead of a burly man fighting his way through fire to rescue you, is Bucky waving smoke away from the detector. He curses loudly and looks behind him to the stove where more plumes of smoke rise whilst you make sleepy sense of the situation.

"I tried making breakfast." Bucky says, slightly panicked, giving you a sheepish smile. "But I think I ruined it."

You really, really want to frown but instead a laugh sputters free from your throat, your heart taking its time to settle to a calm pace. Bucky's face lights up and he chuckles softly giving you the sweetest puppy-dog eyes he can muster. Had he always looked at you like that? Lips perfectly pouted, eyes gently pleading for your sympathy? Surely not.

"Perhaps I should've left the cooking to you."

You find yourself smiling - still not frowning - when your eyes meet his. "Perhaps you should've. What havoc have you wreaked on my kitchen?"

Thankfully, the only damage Bucky had wrought was on the bacon; utterly singed to black curls in the frying pan. You shoo him away as you scrape the remains into the trash and start afresh with a pot of boiling water and a now bacon-ash free frying pan.

Four small, colourful sllicone bowls get a swipe of olive oil on a ball of kitchen roll before being filled with one egg each. Bucky watches on, fascinated with your fluid movements around the stove. The fresh bacon sizzles softly in the pan and you place the egg bowls into the boiling pot before clanking the lid on top. Bread gets thrown into the toaster - four slices - and you shoot Bucky a smug smile as you flick the kettle on.

"I take it you like your bacon crispy?" You tease and Bucky chuckles sheepishly.

"I do like it to have some crunch." He says, reaching up to the cupboard you point to and pulling out two mugs. You try not to let your eyes linger as his shirt lifts as he reaches for the mugs and focus yourself on pulling out the instant coffee, sugar and butter from the fridge.

The toast pops and the sound of cold butter scraping along the crisped surface fills the space between you and Bucky while he adds coffee and hot water to your mugs. As you pull the bacon to lay it across the toast you instruct him on how many teaspoons of sugar and how many dashes of milk you take. The next step is removing your eggs from the pot, slowly, carefully and using a spoon to carve into the curvature of the silicone; removing a perfectly cooked, runny poached egg. Once two of the eggs are placed on one plate, you hand it to Bucky before repeating the same onto your plate. You slice open your egg yolk with a knife and let it run over your toast before pushing a piece onto your fork but before you take a bite you glance to Bucky and find he's braving his breakfast with his hands and a dream.

"This is delicious." He says around a big mouthful, a stray golden tear of egg yolk escaping the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, doll."

"Don't mention it, fire hazard." You chuckle and inwardly stall. Talk about insensitive on your part. "I'm not just a pretty face."

"Mm." Bucky nods, licking away the yolk from his chin, unperturbed by your terrible nickname."You're not."

As quickly as heat begins to bloom in your stomach, you squash it back down. Just because you fell asleep on him - technically twice, but who's counting? - and made him breakfast didn't mean things were different now somehow. You let him stay and made breakfast because you're a good person.

And because you're hoping Bucky will appreciate your kindness and not extort you. Right?

Right.

"I hate to ask this but I'm going to have to call a meeting today," Bucky says, thumbing away yolk residue and cleaning his thumb with a kiss. "Could we use the café as a meeting point?"

You make a sound of uncertainty and ponder his question. On the one hand, you'd miss a day of business and have your café filled with upset and frustrated bikers. On the other, there's the whole not being extorted thing and you can catch up on inventory, stock and prepare anything else.

"Alright." You half-sigh. "I'll get some admin done and give you guys lunch."

"Doll, you don't-" You hold up a hand and his mouth snaps shut.

"I insist. If Joaquin and Hoskins are awake, I'll get Sam to take theirs to them." Your eyes meet his and you smile. "But you're doing the dishes."

Seeing the White Wolves look so upset made your heart break, though you weren't surprised to find that once they'd all arrived, most of your floor space had disappeared too.

Sam had arrived first, tired and worn after spending the night sick with worry at the hospital. Both you and Bucky had cornered him the moment he stepped foot over the threshold.

"Are they okay?" Both you and Bucky say in unison. Sam looks between you both and shakes his head.

"Joaquin is stable and under supervision." He says and then looks to his boots. "Hoskins is in ICU."

"What about Walker? Maximoff?" Bucky asks.

"Piertro got the girls to safety thanks to Joaquin, Hoskins and Walker. Walker was trying to fend off two attackers." Sam gives Bucky a concerned look. "However, Walker is AWOL. He's not with his family or in the usual spots around town."

Bucky grumbled and shook his head shooting you a "you shouldn't hear this" look, prompting you to announce you were going to make a start on lunch. By the time everyone else had arrived, lunch was ready and waiting and Bucky took the opportunity to update them on whatever he and Sam had spoken about while they ate and you busied yourself in the store room. Eventually, you stepped back out to your serving counter to do basic inventory (and sneakily listen for updates) while they discussed next steps.

"Steve, call the Destroyers and Panthers. See if they've heard anything." Bucky scratches at his stubble thoughtfully. "Meanwhile, I want someone around Torres and Hoskins twenty-four-seven. If they were cowardly enough to attack the younger members when we were out of town I wouldn't put it past them to try and get into the hospital."

Everyone nods in acknowledgement.

"Punisher and Clint, you both find Walker, if you can. I have questions that need answering. Alexei, you stick with Steve. Anything happens I want updates."

Yelena pipes up. "What about me and Wanda? We have school and work to go to."

"Take sick days." Bucky huffs impatiently. "You're always playing hookie Lena, that shouldn't be too hard to do."

Some of the bikers chuckle and Alexei pats Lena's shoulder and she looks sheepish. There's a few more questions about Hoskins and Joaquin, their injuries and about their families before Sam asks the million dollar question.

"Where are we gonna congregate now that the club is gone?" Sam glances over to you and then back to Bucky but before Bucky can come up with an answer, you're already speaking.

"Come here. I may have customers some days but you can come through the storeroom out back." You point through the open door behind you. "It leads up to my apartment."

A few of the bikers and do a double take and glance at Bucky as if to make sure they're hearing you correctly. You're not even sure if you're hearing you correctly.

"You heard the lady." Bucky shrugs, crossing his arms, leaving no room for negotiation. The surge of pride that swelled in your chest at the acknowledgement and respect made a little voice in your mind nag - but you chose to ignore it. "Come through the storeroom. As for the club, Nat, I need you to call the insurance company and get that sorted out."

When the Wolves disband, more focused when they entered, Bucky sighs heavily sagging against the counter. You slide him a mug of fresh coffee with a sympathetic smile and he looks up at you, looking ready to melt into the floor.

"You okay?"

Bucky's eyes are tired - even though he'd had a full eight hours the trauma, stress and general discomfort of sleeping on the sofa had done a number on him.

"I just... hate the waiting." He says quietly after clearing his throat, sipping the coffee. "I don't know what to do with myself."

"There's a hole under the sofa that needs fixing, if you want something to do." You joke but Bucky's eyes light up with purpose.

"I could fix it."

"A-are you sure?" You stammer awkwardly. "You don't have to, I was kidding."

"Least I could do, Cupcake." Bucky purrs back with a smirk. "I'll get some supplies. You said the air mattress is up in that spare room too?"

You nod, feeling a little dumbfounded. You'd given up your apartment without a second thought but at least Bucky was making himself useful. "In my office. Sheets and spare comforter are in the closet."

Bucky nods back, stealing your notepad and making a short list of some items in a scrawl you almost can't decipher. He tears out the page and tucks your pen behind his ear, winking at you as he heads towards the entrance of the café.

"I'll be back soon. The boys won't need to meet until maybe tomorrow unless anything happens so feel free to re-open."

Soon, as it turns out, was almost two hours later. Bucky had borrowed Alexei's truck - a beautiful, beat up red flat bed - and had returned toolbox in hand and a plank of thin plywood over his shoulder.

You're busy serving customers but everyone stops to watch him saunter behind the counter and disappear up the stairs, whistling a made-up tune.

"Was that-" The customer your currently serving points to the back of house where Bucky had been moments prior.

"I'm just getting some work done." You say quickly, handing her her coffee. "He came highly recommended."

Throughout the day you can hear various bangs and clashes from upstairs and, finally, after closing you make your way upstairs to your apartment, fearful of the mess that may await you.

You're pleasantly surprised to find the place is as you left it. The hole under your sofa has been expertly repaired, the plank of of plywood serving as a mis-matched replacement. Bucky rounds the corner from your bathroom cleaning a wrench with a rag and huffs in surprise when he sees you before breaking into a grin.

"You done for the day, Cupcake?"

You realise you've been staring and blink owlishly at him. "I - uh - yeah."

He points behind him to the bathroom, tossing the rag over his shoulder. Your pen is still tucked behind his ear, keeping hair from his face. Maybe you should let him borrow a hair tie.

You kick the thought to the curb as soon as it enters your head. You're not roommates. You're not friends. You're helping out... an extorter?

"You had a leaky faucet that was driving me nuts." He says nonchalantly. "And the water pressure in the shower's fixed too."

"I - well, thank you." You knew the bothersome faucet well, as well as the finicky water pressure. Bucky had just saved you at least a few hundred dollars instead of calling out a plumber. "You didn't have to."

"Eh, well," Bucky shrugs, giving you a boyish grin that made his eyes sparkle. "We'll call it even after I get us dinner."

"Dinner?" Your stomach growls on command. After re-opening you didn't get the chance to eat real food. "Please don't tell me you're going to cook again?"

Bucky chuckles and leans against the wall, making it harder for you to concentrate for some strange reason.

"Ha Ha, real funny doll. No, there's a great pizza place in town that delivers." He raises and eyebrow at you. "If you're okay with pizza?"

"Who isn't okay with pizza?" You challenge playfully and Bucky's grin widens.

"Good. I'll put an order in and shower." He heaves himself away from the wall. "I'll let you choose the movie again, but this time make sure it's good."

Bucky disappears into the bathroom and when you hear the water running, you're surprised to find your heart is fluttering wildly in your chest and you're smiling again.

Despite it not being a good sign in the slightest, you have to admit that Bucky's handiness has saved you money and his company isn't an entirely abhorrent experience. Plus, you're now getting free food.

Begrudgingly, you give Bucky a point his own tally; making you even.

You - One.

Bucky - One.

After enjoying a delicious pizza and a terrible movie you actually managed to watch this time, you'd both headed to your separate rooms to retire for the night relatively early. You were glad Bucky had chosen not to tease you about the sofa-sleep-cuddle situation; you'd think you'd combust if you spoke about it out loud but it played on your mind the entire night.

The following day, Tuesday, was an errand day. Which meant mostly shopping. You were prepping an itinerary on the sofa, comparing it to your stock list you took the morning before when Bucky emerged from the spare room. Despite being on an air mattress this time, Bucky looked even worse than the day before.

He wasn't just tired, he was zombified. No amount of caffeine could fix that.

"You sleep okay?" You ask, voice laced with concern. The last thing you needed was him to be grouchy.

Bucky shakes his head, brown hair falling in front of his face, before yawning loudly. "Just restless."

You hum disbelievingly but your mind flits to the cot in the club, to the sofa you're sat on and then finally to the air mattress. None of these were entirely comfortable.

"Sleep in my bed tonight." You offer with a soft smile. He definitely needed the sleep and a small comfort in this trying time.

Bucky seems to do a double take, tripping over his words. "Are you - you want - you're okay with that?"

You snort a laugh, confused but still trying to be a gracious host. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Bucky blinks and beams at you. "It - nothing."

You shake you're head with a smile. He really must be tired - his brain clearly isn't functioning properly. "Oh! I'm also going shopping today so if you want anything just text me."

"Alright. Thanks doll." Bucky smiles before padding to the bathroom. "I'll see you later?"

"Yep. I should be home around three."

The stores were busier than you'd anticipated and instead of being home at three like you'd wished, you were home around four-thirty.

You had, in fairness, taken a bit of a detour stopping at a department store to pick clothes up for Bucky.

Bucky had been wearing the same clothes for two days now and you had come to the sinking realisation that all of his clothes must have been at the club and he didn't think to buy himself anymore when he went out Monday. Besides, the last thing you needed was Bucky walking around naked while you washed his clothes.

No lights were on when you entered the apartment which was odd. No TV, no sound, merely the drip of the kitchen sink.

"Bucky?" You call, wandering into the living room and flicking a light on. Most of your groceries had been packed away downstairs in the bigger fridges but you'd brought the new clothes and the more immediate-use groceries upstairs in carrier bags. You dumped all but the clothes-bag next to the kitchen counter and wandered to the rooms.

"Hey, I'm back."

You wonder if Bucky is napping or if he'd gone out since the shower wasn't running, but there's no light from anyone of the rooms.

With a hapless shrug, you open the door to your bedroom, flooding it with the warm light of your living room, only to be greeted with Bucky smirking over at you, lying on his his side looking so very damn seductive it should be a crime.

"Making me wait all day for this," he purrs. "You're cruel, Cupcake."

You stagger back with a shriek and cover your face, dropping the bag of clothes at your feet. You can feel the burn of a blush scald your palms. Bucky was in your bed. Naked. His bare, beautiful ass on your bedsheets.

"Ohmygod!" You breathe, but his image has already been burned into your retinas.

"I haven't even done anything yet, Cupcake." Bucky teases smugly and you can see him move to flex his abs between your fingers. "Why don't you come over here an-"

"You pervert!" You shrill, kicking the bag over to him. "Why would I- you- urgh!"

"Pervert? I-" Bucky's cheeks burn bright when he opens the bag to find new pyjamas, jeans, shirts, boxers and socks neatly folded inside it. "Oh."

"Oh?" You squeak, glaring at him. "OH?!"

Bucky looks up at you with wide eyes, looking incredibly sheepish. "This morning you said I could sleep in here tonight."

Your eyes bulge at him. "And I would take the air mattress?"

Silence falls as you both stare at each other; realisation of what you had meant turning Bucky's face into a tomato. You don't like how the air thick and stuffy, nor do you like how your eyes are desperate to look down at his bare torso or study the tattoos on his left arm.

Would it be so bad? He's been a perfect guest, he's attractive and those abs - no.

No.

No no no no no.

After a few more moments of staring, and worrying another organ that wasn't your brain was about to make a terrible decision, you turn on your heel and walk briskly from the room, slamming it shut behind you.

"Goodnight Bucky." You squeak out and you can hear the creaking of springs from your mattress as Bucky shifts and your face heats up even more as images of what could have been appear in your mind's eye.

No!

"Doll, wait-" You can hear Bucky scrambling, feet hopping around your bedroom floor as you sprint to the sofa. "Hey!"

Bucky emerges from your room clad in a new pair of boxers following after you. The boxers are tight in all of the wrong places and you look to the cieling hoping some higher power will smite you on the spot.

"I didn't know!" Bucky's face burns red with a thousand suns. "I thought we'd -"

"Don't finish that sentence." You shriek desperately. He can't put it into words. Not now. Not ever.

"I- I thought...." Bucky stammers and swallows thickly. Then he looks at his feet with a small shrug.

"Uh, is this a good time?"

Both you and Bucky's heads whip around to see Steve standing in your doorway. He's smiling and rosy-cheeked, obviously trying to contain his laughter.

"How the hell did you get in?" You snap and Steve, still smiling, shrugs.

"Door was open." Before you can argue with him, Steve gestures between you and Bucky. "Chris and Curtis think they may have found something. Am I interrupting?"

You clamp your mouth shut and glower at Steve, embarassment overpowering you as you storm to the bathroom. "No, you're not! Take him! I'm having a shower."

You slam the door and turn on the shower, your heart hammering so hard you're sure it thuds against the door. You can still hear Bucky and Steve over the water.

"Don't you dare tell Sam about this." Bucky growls.

"Oh, I am so telling Sam about this." Steve laughs back and you can hear hushed muttering and Bucky padding back to your room. After a few minutes, you hear Steve laughing again and you bury your face in your. However, when you glance to the mirror, you can see that you're smiling despite the embarassment.

The whole thing was pretty funny if you thought about it hard enough.

Although, you'd almost let yourself be tempted by Bucky and that was dangerous, in the grand scheme of things, Bucky was ultimately more embarassed than you, so that was a point in your favour.

You - Two

Bucky - One.

Moments later the front door closes as Steve and Bucky disappear into the night.

The door slams open hours later, startling you from a light slumber. You'd been watching trashy TV, unable to settle once Bucky had left. The longer the hours dragged the more worried you became and the more frustrated.

Frustrated that Bucky made you worry about him.

You jump to your feet seeing a figure half slumping in your doorway and in the dim flicker of the TV, periwinkle blue eyes with flecks of misted green meet yours and you rush over to Bucky.

You smack on the light switch and Bucky winces at the sudden blinding light. His left eye is red and swollen, ready to bruise to a plum over the next few days. There's a cut to his right cheek, his lip is split and bloody and there's blood seeping between his fingers that are clutching his right bicep.

"What the fuck happened to you?" You yell

"Good evening to you too, doll." Bucky groans, shuffling his feet inside your apartment. Your face glowers up at him from his armpit as you wrap your arm around his waist and take his left arm in the other to hurriedly guide him to your sofa.

He collapses onto it with an "oomph" and much to his surprise, and yours, you begin to focus your attention to his injuries. It's like a switch has flipped - you're concern for the injured trumping your alleged hatred. Your mind races with what you can see. Swollen eye. Cuts. Stab wound.

"Keep pressure on your arm. I'll be back." You order, flying past your door and locking it before heading to your bathroom sink and ripping out its contents like a wild animal. You wade through plasters to find a long-lost surture kit and a tiny first aid bag before sprinting back to Bucky.

Bucky's breathing is laboured, teeth gritted in pain as you settle on the floor beside him, pillow under your knees for a small comfort while you try to remember your first aid training.

Blood supply. You needed to slow the blood flow.

You don't even ask permission as you begin to remove Bucky's belt. Bucky's eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

"Woah, if I knew getting stabbed would have you this feral, I would've-"

"Shut up." You hiss at him angrily as the belt slithers free from the loops. You wrap the belt tightly around his shoulder, just above the entry wound, and pull it tight. Despite Bucky's curse of pain, the wound pulses under the strain and the skin surrounding slowly goes white as blood slowly stops flowing as fast.

You're quick but clumsy, ripping open a sterile antiseptic wipe and cleaning around the wound so you could see it without blood getting in the way.

"Have you ever done this before?" Bucky asks as you toss the wipe in favour of a new one.

"Nope." You reply, eyes not leaving the wound. Bucky growls as you drag the wipe over the wound finally, and can see what damage has been done. "Talk to me about tonight. What happened?"

Bucky braces as you wipe at some congealed blood gently, inspecting further, but begins to rattle off the events of the night. He and Steve had managed to find a lead that led to a bar on the outskirts of town but when they had got there it was empty. However, upon leaving they'd been ambushed in a brawl.

"Came outta nowhere." Bucky huffed. "Luckily, Alexei and Sam had disobeyed orders to follow us so they were outnumbered. But not before I got this souvenir."

You glance up and see he's looking down at you, trying for a smile with his bloddy split lip. "But you shoulda seen the other guy."

"You're lucky it's only a few centimeters deep and not serious." You huff with a frown, releasing the skin in favour of a third wipe. "I'm glad Alexei and Sam were there too. I like that you all look out for one another."

"They're family. Family takes care of eachother." Bucky grunts before hissing as you drag an antiseptic wipe over the cut again.

"By extorting people and not getting a real job?" You snap, raising a challenging eyebrow at Bucky, who only grins back, infuriating you further as you work on his arm.

"I guess you could say that." Bucky half shrugs. "I could see why an outsider like you would think that."

"An outsider?" You press, anger brewing as you inspect the now-clean cut. Bucky winces when you pry it open slightly, double-checking for any debris that may have lodged itself in his flesh. "Oh please elaborate."

"Everyone in Briarridge pays the fee - if you haven't noticed, the police around here don't do much." Bucky huffs hair from his face. "We are the law. This place used to be decrepit. A festering pit for illegal activity. We had to do something. I had to do something."

"So you're a hero?" You scoff, opening the suture kit. "Some hero. If the people of Briarridge are so thankful, why did one of them stab you in the arm?"

"I said everyone pays, not that everyone is happy about it." Bucky sighs, bracing as you push the threaded needle through his arm. "We still have enemies."

"That narrows the list of suspects." You grit out, all of your focus on haphazardly stitching the wound together. Bucky's bicep twitches, his jaw sets from the pain but he refuses to make a sound. When you're done, you tie and snip the thread, sitting back to wipe away the sweat on your brow with the back of your hand.

"At least they didn't get my tattoo arm." Bucky jokes.

You glare at Bucky's playful expression and you're sure that when you sigh through your nose, smoke billows out. Irritating. Smug. Asshole.

Yet, the corner of your lips still curl upwards.

"Asshole." You mutter, getting to your feet. "Stay there I'm not done with you."

"I think I like you being my nurse, doll." Bucky calls to you as you pad to the bathroom. "You're a lot gentler than Steve is. That punk damn near gave me sepsis last time he fixed me up."

You chuckle to yourself as you grab the petroleum jelly and a large bandage from the bathroom cupboard stepping over your earlier mess, imagining Steve's giant, grubby pastry-crumbed hands trying to fix Bucky up. You wash your hands quickly and try to hide the blush that graces your cheeks at Bucky's compliment before you step back into the living room.

You sit back down next to him, crossing one leg underneath you and popping the lid of the jelly. Taking a dollop onto your fingers, you drag it over the fresh stitches you placed.

"What are you doing?" Bucky whispers, watching your fingers cover the wound in the cool jelly.

"This will keep dust out," you tell him, wiping your fingers onto your pyjama bottoms. "Help it heal over instead of clotting. Hopefully, you won't have much of a scar but you should still see a real nurse."

There's a loud pop as you open the bandage packet and begin to unravel it.

"How did you know to do that?"

"I've worked in more than one kitchen," you glance up at him with a sarcastic smile. "First aid is important."

Bucky nods and swallows, moving his arm outwards slightly when you tap it, allowing you to wrap the bandage around his thick bicep with ease. Even if you were adding a bow a little smugly.

"Thank you." Bucky says after a few moments, staring at his arm, then at you, eyes brimming with sincerity. "For everything."

The suddeness and sincerity of Bucky's words have you doing a double take and you roll an awkward shrug. "It's no problem."

"You're something else, you know that?" Bucky murmurs, leaning closer. "You're tougher than you look."

To your inner most horror, you start to lean in too, mesmerised by those blue eyes that are full of playful sincerity and plump lips that are just begging to be kissed.

"You're an asshole." You murmur back, but there's no venom behind it.

"I don't doubt it." Bucky chuckles lowly. "But you like it - if you didn't, you wouldn't have offered to let me stay."

You didn't like the accusation - the call out - and open your mouth to protest but Bucky continues.

"And," His breath is warm against your lips as he crowds you, his tattooed hand cradling your face; not to stop you from pulling away, but holding you suspended in place. "If you didn't like me just a little, you wouldn't have picked my bike to ride on. Picked me to cling to for a day."

All the air in your lungs has dissipated. You don't pull away, you're speechless, voiceless; lost in a moment. But Bucky has tethered you, he is a lifeline, and with a gentle caress of his thumb you breathe again.

"Well, Cupcake?" Bucky presses, eyes boring into yours. "Cat got that whip-smart tongue of yours?"

You blink and try to think of an ample excuse, a quip, anything but Bucky. But there's nothing and you knew there would be. Since moving to this town and meeting him, he'd consumed your thoughts, your dreams, every waking moment. You had tried to scheme, to plot, to ploy and yet all you had done was deny the inevitable. You'd tried to fight it. But goddammit, he was infuriatingly sexy and he knew it.

Knowing when you'd been beat was a lesson that most people learned lying down, and you were no exception. When Bucky had no answer, an answer in and of itself, he'd pressed his lips against yours.

His hand moved into your hair; a warm comfort against your scalp, urging you further towards him. He was gentle, unlike how you'd imagined (or pretended you didn't) over the last few weeks, his lips his lips slowly moving against yours like he was preparing you for ruin, despite the fact you were melting like butter in a hot pan to his touch.

You'd argue that he caught you off guard. You hadn't expected an attack of passion at all. An unplanned attack that, even if you gave yourself a point for fixing him up, you remained even.

You - Two.

Bucky - Two.

Chapter 4 - END

A/N: ohoho it seems the enemies have become lovers 😏

Taglist

Add yourself here

@irishhappiness @awkwardgiraffe726 @dugiioh @cieraboobear @bridgetina @vunblr @pickuptruck01 @yenzys-lucky-charm @mercurial-chuckles @mrs-elsie-barnes @looking1016 @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @railmesebstan @pandaxnienke @kei943 @norseloki26 @wintercrows

[esotericsorrow]

hold my hand until we turn to ashes - jean kirstein x reader

wc: 1k, post-war, death mention

it’s over.

war. bloodshed. death. it was all over.

but his heart hung heavy.

“jean.”

his grip on the pencil was rock hard grip and aching, as if letting go meant losing something else. again. the sketchbook on his lap blurred, and for a moment, he thought his vision was failing. then something warm and wet slide down his face. ah. he was crying.

he turned towards you and watched as you gently knelt in front of him. your hands, soft and careful, cupped his face, wiping away his tears. he gazes up at you, vision hazy from the tears welling up in his eyes but he was still able to make out the warmth in your expression. the softness in your touch felt so foreign after everything—after the screams, the endless battles, the weight of bodies falling around him.

jean swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. he hadn’t even realized he was crying, hadn’t noticed the tremble in his hands until you steadied him. his sketchbook rested in his lap, smudged with graphite and the faint indentations of pressure where he had gripped his pencil too hard.

jean shut his eyes, exhaling shakily. the war was over. the fighting was done. but the ghosts still lingered, etched into his mind as vividly as the sketches on the pages before him.

“jean,” you repeated, softer this time.

he reached for you without thinking, fingers curling around your waist, pulling you closer. you let him. he pressed his forehead against your chest, tears soaking your clothes. you let him.

you let him fall apart.

in your arms, his body trembled with the weight of everything he had carried for so long. the war had taken so much from him—his friends, his innocence, pieces of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back. but here, in this moment, he wasn’t a soldier, a fighter, or a survivor. he was just jean. your jean.

his breath came in ragged gasps, muffled against you, and you simply held him, your fingers threading through his hair, grounding him. he clung to you like a lifeline, as if letting go meant losing himself completely.

“i can’t sleep.” he admitted.

your fingers still run gently through his hair, slow and soothing. “i know.”

his grip on you tightened again, his breath shaky against your chest. “every time i close my eyes… i see them. marco. sasha. eren.” his voice was barely a whisper, raw and broken.

the names were heavy, like lead on his tongue.

you held him closer, resting your chin on the top of his head. “i see them too,” you murmur. “eren was my closest friend. my partner. my confidant. my other half.”

a pause. a shaky breath.

“sasha was my sister. we look nothing alike. we have different parents. but she was.”

jean stiffened slightly in your arms, his breath hitching at the names—at the weight they still carried, even now. he lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes red and filled with something fragile, something aching.

marco’s smile. sasha’s laughter. bright and unshaken, as if untouched by war. but they all had. and eren… jean had spent so long resenting him, chasing after him, only to lose him in the end.

you swallowed hard, blinking against your own tears. “i think about what they’d say… what they’d want us to do now.” your hands find his again, lacing your fingers together. “and i think they’d want us to keep going.”

he exhaled slowly, his body still tense, but he listens. he focuses on the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the warmth of your hands against him, the quiet comfort of your presence.

“don’t let go. please.”

the desperation in his voice breaks you and you let the tears you’d been trying your damned hardest to hide fall as you pull him into a messy and clumsy kiss. nineteen and you’ve just given away your first kiss to the man you know you’d love till your dying breath.

he kissed you back with equal eagerness and fervor. nineteen and jean had smiled for the first time since he was fifteen because now he finally knew the taste of the lips he’s been craving since he saw you on the training grounds.

cherries.

you tasted so sweet and so fleeting in a world that has only ever been bitter. it’s intoxicating, dizzying, and he drinks every second of it, afraid it might vanish if he hesitated.

the kiss was frantic, unpolished, filled with years of unspoken words and aching longing. your hands clutched at him desperately, as if afraid he might slip through your fingers like everything else you’ve lost. jean held you just as tightly, as if this moment—this feeling—is the only thing keeping him from breaking completely.

when you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, breathless, tear-streaked, but somehow lighter than before. jean exhaled shakily, his lips curling into something small, something hesitant, but real. a smile. his first in years.

“nineteen,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek, as if memorizing the moment. “and i think i’ve finally found something worth living for.”

you giggled and pressed a kiss on his left eye, then his right, then his nose and soon enough you’re peppering his entire face with kisses. and although your movements were quick and hurried, jean noticed. he always did with you.

he cupped your face in his head and kissed at the falling tears you wanted to hide. “i lied. i’ve been living for you since the day i saw you.

your breath hitched, heart stuttering in your chest. jean’s eyes held nothing but raw sincerity, the kind that makes your chest ache. his thumb brushed over your cheek again, gentle, reverent, as if you were something fragile—something precious.

“you idiot,” you whispered, a watery laugh slipping past your lips. “you should’ve told me sooner.”

jean huffed out a small chuckle, resting his forehead against yours. “would it have changed anything?”

you shake your head, smiling through your tears. “no. i think i’ve been yours just as long.”

his grip on you tightened for just a moment before he kissed you again—slower this time, softer, like a promise. a vow.

and though the world was still heavy with grief, though the wounds of war are far from healed, in this moment, there was only you and jean.

for now, in this this fragile fleeting moment, that was enough.

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 13: Joy Is a Rehearsal for Ruin

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different from in-game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

It feels like slipping into someone else’s heartbeat—familiar in the way the first drops of rain feel on skin. You don’t enter the vision. You are unwritten by it, slipped into her shape.

She moves your mouth and borrows your breath. You step into her footsteps as if the ground demands it, each motion choreographed, watching from within the cage of bone and blood.

There’s a cruelty to the intimacy of it all. How even her pain fits you. How you feel the weight of a promise made, the ache of a goodbye you’ve yet to live.

The past doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It only offers her heartbeat and requests you wear it like your own. Between one blink and the next, you are nothing but her memory trying to recall the taste of being.

The heavens surge not down but skyward, as though gravity has knelt to wonder. Clouds drag their bellies along the ceiling of the world, like time rehearsing itself backwards.

You’re cradled in a silhouette with wings too vast to measure. His shape stretches and collapses like water in a god’s cupped hand.

One second, he’s drawn in smoke-thin graphite lines trembling at the edge of vanishing. Then, he’s a spill of light without centre or edge, slipping through the hour before form.

Always almost, never whole.

“Have you ever dropped someone from this height?” You shout, voice swept sideways by the wind.

“Yes."

You glance below. The world is a scroll unwinding, mountains turned to smears of ink. “Remind me not to become dead weight.”

A low sound rumbles from his chest. It’s not quite a laugh, more like distilled bemusement.

“If you do,” he muses, his tone calm in the way graveyards are, “I’ll aim for the rocks.”

You giggle in spite of yourself. “Do all your death threats come with this view?”

He hums like he’s considering it. “Only for the ones I like.”

You think that might be his version of flirting. Isn’t it strange how your heart prefers to trust the wolf that bares its teeth than the one that smiles? Maybe that’s the tragedy: you learned to find comfort in claws because holy hands always came holding chains.

He banks downward without warning, and the clouds unravel like paper, swirling around you as you plummet through a sky made of silver. You shriek in surprise, gripping tighter. His laughter thrums through his body, felt more than heard. You’re not sure he’s used to joy, but it fits him well.

Talons skim the surface of the rose-gold sand, stirring it into soft whorls that shimmer like powdered dusk. The shoreline drinks his weight like it was always meant to hold him.

When he sets you down, your feet sink into the warm blush of the earth—sand kissed in hues of peach blossom and burnished gold, like the beach has been forever caught in the moment the sun first fell in love with the world.

A pale seam cradles the tide, neither land nor sea but something that forgets how to choose. The ocean stretches infinitely, each wave stitched from turquoise sighs and sapphire silence.

Your shoes scatter behind you. The sand is cool as moonlight, delicate as powdered pearl. The first touch of the tide arrests you with a jolt of cold clarity. Your feet vanish beneath the skin of the sea that is so clear it might be radiance made liquid—a transparency that feels impossible.

Water made of sky-filtered silk caresses your calves, brushing warmth from your skin until you forget the sun ever touched you.

“This is incredible, Sy,” you chime, turning to look at him.

His outline still shimmers faintly, as if the world can’t quite decide what shape to keep him in. The light begins to bend around him differently, like the universe is recalibrating its curve.

There’s a quiet inevitability to it, like watching a constellation fall into alignment.

Like the tide deciding, at last, to return, he comes into focus. Sylus sharpens into something caught between divinity and wilderness—silver hair tousled by the wind’s temper and eyes the colour of forbidden fire that remembers the first spark of creation.

The scales wind along his limbs like a curse made beautiful, shards of dark glass sewn into skin, catching the sun as if they remember the dark too well to let it go.

He stands at the shore’s edge, existing like a myth told backwards—sacred, yet disguised as a sin. It makes you question what beauty ever meant.

You trot toward him, soaked to the knees, and grab his clawed hand without thinking. “Come on, you have to feel this!”

He doesn’t move. The sudden resistance nearly pulls you off balance, a jolt that halts you mid-laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a bit of seawater?” You tease, brow arched.

“I cannot swim.”

You blink. “You’re over a thousand years old, and you don’t know how to swim?”

“Seventeen hundred and eight,” he corrects flatly.

You extend your hands, not demanding, just an open invitation. “May I? I won’t let anything happen to you,” you assure. “If you want to try.”

“I am not made for floating,” he grumbles, the edge in his voice dulled by hesitation.

“You’re not made for hiding, either.”

After a moment, his heavy hands settle into yours, and you take a step backward, keeping your pace leisurely.

When the tide tastes him for the first time, he doesn’t recoil, but tension spiders through him. His wings press closer, claws twitching in your palm, and his tail gives a single lash behind him, the way someone swallows a flinch.

Without a thought, you begin to sing the way moonlight touches water: without weight, without warning, and only where it’s welcome. The song doesn’t ask him to be calm. It simply waits for him to breathe.

He takes a few more steps as if drawn toward you. When the waves slosh against his knees, he halts again.

“This is sufficient."

“All right,” you whisper.

You stand together where the sea's endless breath cradles you. The sky wears its softness in bruised colours, the skyline still blushing with the fading amber burn of the day.

You reach up, fingers sweeping some damp strands that cling to his forehead. Each movement is deliberate, as though you’re trying to map the path of his stillness, searching for the space between the words neither of you speaks.

He leans into your touch, slow and uncertain, like he doesn’t yet know how to want gently but wants it all the same.

“I would not do this for anyone else,” he states, raw as gravel smoothed by waves.

You smile, soft and steady, as if the sea itself is holding the moment still. “I know.”

There is no edge to fall from, only a moment that opens and swallows. The pool’s water rocks you gently out of it, as if even the past knew when to let go. When your eyes open, the sky is flushed dusk, a bleeding palette of rose and slate, smeared wide above Sylus’s ranch.

You blink, and chronology buckles, unsure in what direction it’s meant to run. How long have you been drifting in the pool? The sky overhead could be a minute old or a hundred years asleep.

Sylus lingers at the lip of the water like a shadow that’s forgotten its body, head cocked slightly, evaluating you the way one might study a star fallen too close, curious if it’s still burning or just pretending to be.

The ends of his hair shimmer with daylight’s last breath, as if the sun, on its descent, reached out to touch him and forgot to let go. He smiles, but it’s not the dangerous one, not the public one, but the rare, quiet one. The one he doesn’t know he’s wearing.

You’ve never trusted the idea that the universe keeps a ledger. There is no unseen loom, no celestial cartographer. The notion of destinies feels like a tale told to children who fear the dark, not a truth meant for your hands. You’ve built your life around what holds its shape under scrutiny—pulse, gravity, the language of equations.

But no theorem can prepare you for the ache that unfurls when he smiles with the calm of someone waiting for you to catch up to a moment he’s already lived.

If this is madness, let it be your gospel. You’ll gladly drink it down, so long as it sounds like your name in his mouth.

You used to think you were simply made wrong—too sharp, too soft, too much, too little. A celestial misfire. Then his presence grazed against yours, and all the gaps you’d learned to live around sang with sudden wholeness.

Not as if he completed you, but as if you’d been built with his gravity in mind. Your edges stop fighting themselves when he’s near. As though you are not a paradox to be solved, but a myth that only he was ever meant to read.

“What’s with the existential float?” He asks, voice skimming the surface of you, casual as a ripple.

You drift toward him with the idle ease of someone who knows they’re being watched. Arms cut through the pool in slow arcs. He’s seated at the edge, one knee drawn up, the other foot slicing lazy circles into the water. Evening clings to him in pieces—light dusting his shoulders, shadow curling beneath his ribs.

“Reflecting on your fashion crimes, mostly. Who wears all black to a pool?”

He gives an exaggerated shrug. “Mourning the death of subtlety. You killed it the moment you cannonballed into my peace.”

“Please. I glide.”

“Like a duck with taxes due.”

You laugh, tipping your head back. “Is this your idea of flirting? Because I’m not sure it’s working.”

He leans forward, hand braced casually beside his knee. “And yet you’re still swimming toward me.”

“That’s because I’m hoping to drown you.”

“I’d let you,” he says, soft and certain. “But only if you stayed close enough to finish the job.”

Your pulse stumbles. You mask it with a splash. “Try not to sound so romantic about it.”

“Who said anything about romance? This is a perfectly reasonable murder fantasy.”

A small, crooked smile quirks his lips, the one that always feels like it’s about to tip into trouble.

You rest your forearms on the ledge beside him, chin tilted slightly upward. “Did you ever learn how to swim?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

“You used to flinch when the waves touched your knees.”

His smirk falters, just barely. “Ah. Remembered that, did you?”

You nod slowly, unable to look away from the place where warmth halos him. For a breath, light contorts strangely, and you see the faint glint of a red gem nestled into his chest, caught in a fringe space between oblivion and recollection.

“I remember teaching you. You were… wary, but you trusted me.”

His eyes flick to yours. “Sounds like a foolish dragon.”

You smile, the ache blooming in your chest. “Maybe. Or maybe he just didn’t have anyone else he wanted to learn for.”

Sylus rises, unfolding with deliberate ease. “Let’s put the question to rest then.”

His form unspools, mist curling like smoke from his skin, unmaking him into wind and feathers. He reforms mid-air and dives with impossible grace, slicing the water clean—no splash, no sound, just the quicksilver shimmer of him cutting through the deep.

He surfaces beside you, slick and grinning. That infuriating, roguish smirk tugging at his mouth like it’s never left him, not in this life or the last.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Show-off.”

He swims a lazy circle around you. “You expected less?”

“No,” you admit. “I expected exactly this.”

He hums low in his throat, pleased, and before you can prepare for it, his arms sweep beneath your legs and back in a sudden, fluid motion. You gasp, caught mid-laugh as the world tips, sky spinning into water, water spinning into him.

“Sylus—!”

“You said I trusted you once,” he murmurs, voice velvet-drenched and rich.

You open your mouth to reply, but your voice doesn’t make it past your lips. He kisses you like he’s failed you in a hundred lives, lips tracing yours like they’re reading a promise that was never kept. There’s a fracture beneath the gentleness, a hush that tastes like an apology.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours, breath warm, eyes half-lidded.

“I do trust you,” he confirms no louder than a sigh, as if the truth could bruise the air. “Not just then. Now. Here.”

If you could freeze this moment in amber, you would trap this fleeting illusion of safety and the vow of eternity folded between his breath and yours. Here, where he���s still just Sylus, and you’re still just a woman in a pool with stars winking overhead and the ending hasn’t yet arrived.

This must be what peace feels like, and you remember what always follows peace.

Time, like the tide, does not care for your aching. Joy doesn’t come clean anymore. It arrives with a pulse of dread, a sweetness laced with the flavour of ending, where every beautiful moment feels borrowed, and you’re terrified of the debt coming due.

The worst part isn’t knowing the fall is coming. It’s knowing you will keep falling anyway. Hoping, somehow, that rock bottom will be kind when you finally hit it.

Stories like yours are never allowed to end gently.

You’re curled sideways on the couch, one leg hooked over the backrest, a book open but barely turning pages. Firelight drips down the walls in fractured amber, as if time is burning slow.

Across from you, Sylus paces like a storm bottled into a man, his phone pinned between shoulder and ear.

“I don’t give a fuck who they think they’re working for,” he barks with the mercilessness of a guillotine mid-fall. “You fix it now, or I send Kieran. You know what that means.”

You try not to listen, but it’s impossible not to track the sharp shift of his body, the kind of tension that only builds in someone used to being obeyed. Glancing toward the dark pane of glass, you trace the distant peaks smudging the skyline. Unbidden, a flicker of memory cuts through.

A city of shadow-forged spires stitched from volcanic glass, each one a needle threading heaven.

Tarus.

You do not remember learning the name, but it lives in your mouth like a ghost.

Sylus’s voice cuts back in. “I don’t care if their guy got picked off by wanderers. That’s your fuck-up, not mine. If you can’t handle cleanup, I’ll have Luke take your whole operation apart and repurpose the bones.”

Tarus. Philos. You cradle the names in thought, turn them gently, searching for the groove they once fit. But the architecture of your past is missing its spine, and nothing slots where it should. Your mouth opens on instinct and then clamps shut again as the dots connect in a line so sharp it stings.

Philos isn’t Earth.

You blink. Then blink again. Your lips twitch, your stomach folds in on itself like origami, and your entire chest caves in around a laugh that sounds like a dying kettle.

“I swear, if you don’t get it done—” Sylus turns mid-pace, mid-threat, the expression on his face somewhere between suspicion and overt concern. “I have to call you back.” He hangs up without hesitation. “What is so funny?”

You curl over your knees, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “Oh my god.”

“Did the book kill someone?”

“Tarus? The strange constellations, the water, the gravity. I should have noticed. How did I not notice?”

You’re wheezing into the cushion like a deflating balloon while he stares at you, like a man who’s just realized he may have broken you permanently.

“Sylus.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not from Earth.”

Sylus blinks once. “Correct.”

There is a sacred silence. That is, until you detonate like a dam under divine pressure, bursting into laughter. You crumple like a heretic at the altar of unholy hilarity, snorting through your fingers while your spine attempts escape.

“You said that so casually,” you choke out between breaths. “‘No.’ Like you’re not about to break the fundamental laws of biology. You’re an alien.”

Sylus leans his chin into one hand, watching you as though you’re a particularly strange bird. “This feels personal,” he murmurs.

“I’ve slept with an extraterrestrial mob boss. Do you understand how bad that sounds in a police report?” You throw your hands in the air for emphasis.

He gives a faint smile. “You think there’ll be a police report?”

You freeze, moon-eyed, hand to your chest in mock horror. “Oh, my stars. You’re right. They’d never believe me.”

He leans back, lazy and smug. “You’re going to be like this all night, aren’t you?”

You fling yourself across the cushions toward him, choking on air. “You’re a cosmic war criminal with a six-pack.”

Sylus makes a noise like a laugh but deeply offended. “Kitten.”

“I have committed interstellar sex crimes. Do you understand?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You bury your face in the pillow, scream-laugh into it, then come up for air like a possessed sea otter. “If we get caught, I’ll be arrested for xeno-loving degenerate crimes, and you’ll be classified as a biohazard with excellent bone structure.”

He covers his face with one hand and sighs. “Please stop talking.”

You crawl into his lap, still cackling, and cup his cheeks reverently. “I have tasted the forbidden space meat. This is going in my memoir.”

A soft, incredulous sound escapes him, one part protest, two parts disbelief. Another follows. Less restrained.

And then, he cracks.

Laughter spills from him like a fault line giving way, sharp and full-bodied. It shakes through his chest, rattling loose whatever impossible restraint he’s always wrapped around himself like armour. He leans back, head tipped, teeth bared in something wild and unguarded.

It’s beautiful.

It’s yours.

Even if he’s laughing at you, you’ll take it like a benediction. Like a crown. Like a goddamn medal of honour.

You freeze, then gasp. “Holy shit. I did it. You’re laughing.”

He tries to glare at you. Fails. “This is what psychological warfare feels like.”

“I broke you,” you beam, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I broke the big scary crime dragon.”

He drags you closer by the hips, slumps his forehead to your shoulder, and groans like a man whose crimes have finally caught up to him in the form of you.

“So.” You clear your throat and wiggle your eyebrows. “Now that we’ve confirmed you’re a space lizard—”

He closes his eyes, resigned. “We haven’t.”

“—I have a few follow-up questions.”

He lifts a hand. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I need to know. Could you—can you—fly during sex?”

His eyes snap open. “What—”

You whisper, deadly serious, “Do you lift bitches into the upper atmosphere and fuck them among the stars, Sylus?”

A shadow sparks behind his eyes. Not rage.

Worse.

Ego, freshly fed and dangerously amused.

You slap his chest, scandalized and delighted. “YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU’VE ACTUALLY DONE IT.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Sylus looks haunted, like a man run over by your sense of humour and left twitching in the dust.

Naturally, you decide to ruin him further.

“Are you blushing?! Oh my god, is your face turning red? This is it. This is my legacy.”

He emits the noise of spiritual defeat and drapes a blanket over your face in a loving act of vindictive suffocation. “Isn’t it your bedtime?”

You peel the blanket off your head like a dramatic unveiling, hair static-stuck and eyes wild with victory. “Follow-up: in dragon form—did you have a knot?”

He chokes on air. His jaw unhinges slightly, then remembers it’s not a hinge at all. His hand flinches with the tragic grace of a man who wants to toss you through the window, but with tenderness, of course.

A devotional launch.

“This is important! It’s relevant to my interests!”

Sylus sits upright like his soul is trying to escape through his eye sockets. “I am not engaging in this conversation.”

“Classic knot-haver behaviour.”

“I will drop you into low orbit.”

“While knotted?” You gasp as if the words themselves are a spell that has summoned your truest joy.

You wriggle free from his grasp and bolt around the couch. You’re going to die. You’re going to die stupid and happy, choked to death by your alien-dragon-boyfriend while screaming, ‘do your balls retract when you transform?!’

Your feet slap against the hardwood like a feral child high on spite and cosmic knowledge. Behind you, Sylus growls with a rumble that promises unspeakable violence and, probably, cuddling after.

“You’re not denying it!” You crow over your shoulder, dodging the kitchen island with the agility of a cat on caffeine. “The people deserve answers! Is it scaly all the way down? Or do you have, like, a smooth undercarriage? For…aerodynamics?”

A calculated pause. “Smooth,” Sylus calls out, voice mild. “Less drag when I’m fucking a little human who asks far too many questions.”

Your knees buckle mid-run as laughter punches the air out of your lungs. “You’re deflecting!”

“I’m threatening.”

He’s on your heels now, but you’re smaller, nimbler, and currently motivated by the overwhelming need to die laughing.

You ascend from the armrest like it’s a launchpad, gravitational laws irrelevant, couch physics be damned. In the air, you spiral with the elegance of a possessed towel, a blur of limbs and glee. Your landing is slightly less graceful—your elbow clips the table—but you scramble upright before he can grab you.

Sylus is breathing through his nose. The kind of breathing that happens before murder or a marriage proposal. “You are a menace.”

You spin and shout, “You like it!”

“I like silence.”

“Do you have a prostate?”

He fakes left. You dart right. “I swear on the stars—”

“You came from the stars, you beautiful, knot-hiding bastard!”

He dives. You duck. He nearly catches your ankle, but you twist away again, barefoot and breathless with laughter, half crying at this point.

“You’re going to kill me,” you gasp, bracing against the wall. “Death by dragon dick discourse—what a way to go.”

Sylus stalks toward you slowly now, eyes narrowed. “You’re done.”

He lunges. You shriek. You’re airborne a second later—caught. He lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, spinning you around with alarming force and slamming you down onto the couch in a heap of tangled limbs and gasping laughter.

You’re crying now, whole body shaking, helpless in the cradle of his arms as he tries—and fails—not to smirk.

“You know,” he intones huskily, “there’s a very short window between you saying these things and me shutting you up.”

You snort. “With your alien dick?”

His mouth twitches. “Oh, I am going to ruin you.”

His weight settles around you, both of you still catching the tail-end of breathless chaos. One of his hands slips around your waist, lazy now, like the fight’s gone out of him.

You shift to look up at him. “You ever do this before?”

“Let someone outrun me?”

You smile, small but real. “No. This.”

His eyes flick down to where your fingers are absently drawing lazy shapes on his chest, tracing the edge of his collarbone. The mood has changed again, quieter now, but not sombre.

“Not in this lifetime,” he admits.

You blink, but don’t press. You’re not sure you want to pull on that thread yet. Still, something in your chest opens and stretches, like it remembers being full once and forgot what that felt like until this very second.

Your fingers wander, drawing idle shapes on his skin, the way you’d trace constellations you couldn’t name. He watches you do it, unmoving.

“Feels like cheating,” you murmur, not looking up. “To be this happy.”

His answer isn’t words—it’s the slow, warm press of his mouth to your forehead. It’s such a stupidly gentle thing, considering who he is.

Maybe it’s the quiet tenderness woven through the echoes of your laughter that lands with the sharpest weight—the sudden pulse of truth that this isn’t a fragment of a fevered dream. That somehow, against the shatter of worlds and the ruin of endless wars, you are granted this fragile breath of now.

You shift enough to press your cheek to his chest, listening for the slow, steady rhythm of a heart that shouldn’t beat in this world but does.

Tomorrow can break your heart.

Tonight, it just beats.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming, @morrigan87, @babyx91 Hi kittens and/or sweeties! I hope you're all still enjoying. This chapter I meant to get into the angst, but then had a change of heart because I really, really needed them to have a chapter where they are just mostly at peace with each other. So, this chapter is very self-indulgent, but I hope it's still good!

As always, your comments and support are so treasured, and rereading them has been getting me through some rough times. ❤️💖

PS ‼️: OH! I'm also wondering how much of this story you want to see. Would you like to get a little into their life as a couple before we return to the plot and completely drop the next bomb on their head? Would you prefer I keep it condensed to mostly chapters that are concise and have purposes? Because I can think up about a million scenario that these two could get into that would have zero relevance to the plot, but I also don't want to drag it out and bore everything.

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 13

Summary:

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Words: 9,914

Tony scribbles feverishly into his notebook, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the quiet room. His Art and Duty of Childrearing textbook lies abandoned on the floor beside him, pages bent and cover askew.

A casualty of negligence.

Propped up in bed, he leans against his and Arnie’s thin, mismatched pillows. The faint yellow glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered surface of his nightstand, highlighting the smudges of graphite staining his fingers.

He nibbles on the end of his pencil as his eyes flick between messy calculations and intricate sketches.

The thing is, he had sworn off this nonsense weeks ago.

It had been a fucking headache, if anything. A dead end, something better left to time and the patience he didn’t possess.

Besides, the memory was still fresh—sharp words, sharper fists, and an ugly, lingering threat that Tony couldn’t dismiss, no matter how hard he tried to shove it into a deeper crevice of his mind.

And yet, here he was, defying all logic and better judgment, pencil in hand, letting curiosity pull him back in.

Because, like all bad ideas, this one had resurfaced with a vengeance.

(And had been sparked, no doubt, by both the mind-numbing drudgery of his current coursework and the glaring absence of a certain Alpha to distract him.)

His notebook is a chaotic sprawl of equations and diagrams, the pages covered in his usual chicken scratch, lines overlapping in a barely organized frenzy.

At the center of his muddled, distracted focus was the concept of a crystalline core—a theoretical medium to focus and amplify the radiation. Around it, he had scrawled potential materials, rough calculations, and the faint outline of a containment chamber: lead-lined walls to shield against leaks, an observation window made of reinforced glass, and a rudimentary control panel. The dials for adjusting intensity and duration are painstakingly labeled, though their precision remains theoretical at best.

In the margins, as if shouting at him from the page, he had scrawled the words “BIG RED BUTTON” in blocky letters, a failsafe to terminate the process in case of catastrophic failure.

The numbers sprawled across the page are rough, a messy mix of intuition and rapid estimations, but they start to form a picture.

He jots down an energy output estimate of 12.7 kJ/kg, scribbling question marks beside it, and notes that such an output might just activate Erskine’s super secret magic serum. The challenge, he knows, will be distributing the radiation evenly across a six-foot frame.

As he flips back through earlier pages, more questions fill the margins: What’s the long-term stress tolerance of synthetic quartz? What happens if the subject’s heart rate spikes? Could sub-threshold pulses mitigate the worst of the unintended effects?

He bites harder on his pencil, splintering the wood further as his scowl deepens. The textbook he’s supposed to be “studying”—yeah, right—mocks him from the floor, its neatly printed title a sharp contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last hurried calculations, he underlines a phrase he’s written in bold, steady handwriting—a mantra that’s guided him through countless inventions and disasters alike: "Stark Rule #1: Always build it twice. The first one’s for the mistakes.”

He stares at it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets out a guttural groan, the kind that could rattle the hinges off the lab door. With a flick of his wrist, the notebook sails across the room, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor with an unimpressive thud.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Very mature.”

Fingers rake through his hair, tugging at strands as if loosening them might untangle the chaos in his head. He doesn’t even notice the caffeine buzz anymore—too much shitty dining room coffee, not enough food, and exactly zero good ideas.

“Some mastermind you are, huh?” He laughs, short and humorless. “Mastermind of digging your own grave, maybe. Idiot.”

A mastermind who will inevitably end up disowned, or worse, a victim of casual manslaughter, for this brilliant little detour.

He drops onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. The mattress groans beneath him in solidarity—or maybe protest. Above, the ceiling stares back, its cracks and water stains sprawling like some ancient, forgotten map. He traces the imaginary continents with his eyes, trying not to notice how the edges seem to blur.

"This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done," he announces to the empty room. His voice sounds small, swallowed by the radiator’s low, steady hum.

Hopelessly foolish endeavor or not, the itch won’t leave. It burrows deeper, demanding attention, like a stubborn splinter lodged under his skin.

The crystalline core. The perfect medium. The impossible dance of energy and matter, balanced on the razor’s edge of genius and disaster. It taunts him like an ancient spell, daring him to solve its riddle or perish painfully trying.

He turns his head toward the notebook lying facedown on the floor, pages splayed like a wounded bird. The edges flutter slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. For a second, he considers leaving it there—letting it rot alongside the other half-finished ideas that litter his life.

But a stronger, more reckless impulse wins out.

Tony rolls off the bed with a graceless grunt, landing in a crouch on the floor. He snatches up the notebook, ignoring the torn page at the corner, and flips it open to the most recent entry. His eyes scan the scrawled notes, his brain already working to untangle the mess of ideas.

"Okay," he mutters, dragging the pencil back to his mouth for another absent nibble. This is what happens when he skips supper—he starts eating his stationery. "What’s the play here, Stark? You need power—stable, scalable, non-lethal power. Sure. That’s easy. No problem at all. Just rewrite the laws of physics while you’re at it.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out against the uneven surface of the bed.

"Step one," he says aloud, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the core’s containment unit. "Figure out the heat dissipation. No point in building a glorified bomb. Step two..." He pauses, pencil poised mid-air. "Find someone stupidly altruistic enough to let me test it on them.”

That thought makes him pause, his posture deflating as his expression twists into something sour. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, and for a moment, his hand hovers uncertainly over the page. He knows better than most what unchecked ambition can lead to. The wrong hands, the wrong intentions, the wrong test subject—it could all go sideways so quickly.

He sets the pencil down and exhales, his breath shaky.

"Stark Rule #2," he says quietly, repeating another mantra he’s lived by since childhood. He thinks of flying cars. Stolen glances at classified files on his father’s desk—nuclear bombs. "Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. But even as they settle, his eyes wander back to the notebook. The diagrams. The equations. The tiny, insistent kernel of possibility that won’t let him walk away.

Tony knows himself too well to believe he’ll leave it unfinished. He never does.

He lies sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, the growing ache in his neck a distant afterthought. His mind hums with restless energy as he conjures equations from nothing, the numbers unfurling like spectral ribbons. They stretch toward the ceiling, forming intricate patterns—floating variables that shimmer and shift, like constellations only he can decipher.

The ceiling becomes a canvas for his imagination, an infinite expanse where equations morph into possibilities. Variables twist and curve, dancing in a chaotic ballet as he tries to tease meaning from the mess. His lips move silently, murmuring numbers and theoretical principles, the words barely audible over the soft creak of the radiator.

A sharp knock breaks his reverie.

“Go away,” Tony grunts, rolling onto his side and sliding his notebook under his bed with a sharp shove.

The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. Tony scowls, sitting up on his elbows and glancing warily at the door.

It’s past curfew. Room checks were hours ago.

It’s clearly not enough to stop Tompkins and his pathological need to catch Tony in some imagined act of delinquency and debauchery.

Well, maybe not so imagined, not anymore. To the trained, prying nose, his sheets most definitely still smell like Bucky.

Tony had been writhing in his lap only twenty-four hours earlier, after all, before Bucky had so graciously flipped him around and pinned him to the mattress, spread Tony’s hips with his thighs, sucked a bruise to his collarbone, and rocked him to a swift, messy orgasm before Tony could even unbutton his pants.

“So easy, doll,” Bucky had laughed into Tony’s throat, squeezing Tony’s hip as Tony’s pleasured aftershocks ebbed into a more heated type of mortification.

“Gonna have to hand wash these, you animal,” Tony groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hiccuping weakly as Bucky punished him with another slow drag of his hips, relishing in Tony’s overstimulation.

“Not my fault you’re on a hairpin trigger, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’ when you just made me blow a load into my pants, Barnes, gross.”

It’s too late now for Tony’s sheets. Besides, until Tompkins catches Tony ‘in the act,’ so to speak, Tony has just been heavily relying on his best friend—plausible deniability.

Straightening his tie (askew since breakfast) and brushing graphite smudges from his hands, Tony clears his throat. "I'm studying," he says, loud enough for the words to carry through the door. “You know, like a model student.”

There’s no response—no impatient drawl, no snide comment about Omegas needing discipline. Just a muffled sound that sends a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Byron?” he tries again, this time more cautiously. His hand hovers over the doorknob. “If this is another surprise ‘search and seizure’, you’re too late, sir. My harem’s already disbanded for the night.”

Still nothing. He presses his ear to the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, a sniffle.

Tony freezes.

He finally swings the door open, the sight on the other side rooting him to the spot.

Becca Barnes’s shoulders tremble under a plain uniform sweater, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she clutches a crumpled telegram to her chest, fingers gripping it like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Tony,” she whispers, her voice cracked and broken. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his, filled with a grief so deep it takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Becca? What—” He stops short, stepping aside to let her in. She sways slightly as she crosses the threshold, and Tony catches her elbow, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed.

Her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs, and Tony drops to his knees in front of her, uncertain, his mind racing.

Tony, historically, doesn’t do well with tears. Other people’s or his own. He doesn’t know how to handle them—what to say or where to start—but something about the way she trembles makes his stomach twist.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the telegram clutched in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling.

“It’s Joey,” she finally chokes out, barely managing the words before her voice breaks.

Tony’s brain stalls, caught between relief that it’s not Bucky—it’s not Bucky, he hasn’t gotten his orders yet—and a sharp pang of guilt for the thought. His eyes flick to the telegram in her hands, and though he doesn’t ask for it, she thrusts it toward him like it’s burning her.

With hesitant hands, Tony unfolds the paper. The words hit him all at once, stark and clinical against the cheap yellow stock.

“We regret to inform you that Private Joseph Proctor is missing in action. Further updates will follow as they become available.”

Missing in action. The phrase lingers in his mind, carrying with it the weight of all its implications. Not dead, not confirmed—but not safe, either. Not home.

“Becca,” he says carefully, setting the telegram down on the bed beside her. “I—” His voice falters, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Her shoulders shake harder, and before he can figure out what to do, she collapses forward into him.

Tony freezes. She’s clutching at his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder, and he’s absolutely, completely out of his depth. He sits stiffly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, panic rising in his chest.

What is he supposed to do? Hug her? Say something? He glances around the room as if the peeling wallpaper might offer some guidance.

“Uh, hey,” he tries, his voice thin. “It’s—uh—okay?”

She doesn’t stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder, her entire frame trembling against his. Tony’s heart hammers in his chest, and finally—finally—he manages to drape one arm around her shoulders in the most awkward, tentative hug imaginable.

“There, uh… ” He clears his throat, patting her back stiffly. “There, there?”

She doesn’t respond with words, just cries harder, and Tony’s awkward pats slow until he’s holding her in a loose, uncertain embrace. The position feels strange, foreign, like wearing a suit two sizes too big.

He doesn’t... comfort people. He’s not good at it. But Becca is falling apart in his arms, and for once, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It’s… it’s not over yet,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, less stilted. “They said he’s missing, right? That means there’s still a chance. He’s probably out there thinking about you. About how much he wants to get back home to you.”

Becca hiccups, her tears slowing enough for her to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his. “What if… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Tony’s throat tightens, and his own breathing suddenly feels constricted in his chest. He forces himself to hold her gaze as he says, “Then… you’ll deal with it when you know for sure. Until then, don’t let yourself lose hope, okay? John wouldn’t want you to.”

“Joey.”

“Joey wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony’s grip on Becca spasms momentarily, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cardigan, before he loosens his hold again, uncertain. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into him, her weight anchoring him to the moment. Her breathing hitches, soft hiccups breaking through the stillness, and Tony focuses on those tiny sounds because they’re easier to manage than the chaotic storm brewing in his own head.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Comforting people, sitting with their pain—it’s all alien to him. It feels like trying to hold water in his hands, everything spilling through the cracks no matter how tightly he tries to hold on.

He’s failing, isn’t he? He must be. Becca’s still crying. His words hadn’t helped. His presence hadn’t helped. He’s just a placeholder—just here because she needed someone, anyone, and he happened to open the door.

She’s trembling in his arms, hiccupping breaths that shake her small frame, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—with her grief, with her fear.

Because it isn’t just her fear anymore, is it? It’s his, too.

The thought twists something sharp and bitter in Tony’s chest.

He’s spent months shoving it down, locking the fear away behind the endless buzz of equations and ideas and the warmth of Bucky’s grin, the way his voice drops when he teases Tony, the way his hands linger like they never want to leave.

Tony had told himself that was enough. That as long as Bucky was still here, still with him, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Do you ever think about the war?”

The crumpled telegram sits on the bed beside them, the stark, clinical language burned into Tony’s mind.

Missing in action.

It’s Joseph Proctor's name on the paper, not Bucky’s, but for the first time, Tony lets himself consider—really consider—that it could be.

That one day, some faceless messenger could knock on his door, hand him the same slip of paper, and tear his entire world apart in one word.

He swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. The thought feels too big, too heavy to hold in his chest, and yet it’s there, pressing down on him all the same. He’s spent weeks pretending the war was something far away, something that happened to other people.

Other Alphas. Not Bucky.

Not his Bucky.

But the war isn’t far away anymore. It’s here, in his room, in Becca’s shaking hands and tear-streaked face. It’s in her sobs, and the weight of the paper she’d handed him like it was burning her alive.

It’s in the question he’s been too afraid to ask himself: What if?

Becca shifts slightly against him, and her words pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to… to sit here and not know.”

Tony closes his eyes, gripping Becca a little tighter. His breath feels too fast, too shallow, and he forces himself to focus on her instead of the spiral pulling at him. She’s here, crying, looking to him for something—comfort, answers, anything—and he has nothing to give. Nothing that doesn’t sound empty or wrong or too much like a lie.

“You just… keep going,” he mutters, his voice thin, shaky. The words feel foreign in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. “You block it out. You don’t think too much. And you hold onto…” He trails off, his grip loosening as he glances at the telegram again. His throat tightens as the words hang in the air between them.

Because he doesn’t want to imagine the empty days and nights Becca will have to face, the silence stretching on without answers. He doesn’t want to imagine himself sitting in this same position, staring at a piece of paper with Bucky’s name on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t let it in. That’s how he’s survived so far, isn’t it? By not letting it in?

Becca pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes full of a quiet kind of devastation. “Is that what you do?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Tony’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t meet her gaze.

The truth sits bitter and heavy in his chest, impossible to spit out. He’s been doing exactly that—blocking it out, refusing to think about the letters piling up in mailboxes, the names of boys shipped off to fight wars they might not come back from.

Refusing to think about Bucky and the unspoken inevitability hovering over them both. Because once he lets himself think about it, there’s no turning back.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe.”

Becca’s hand brushes against his, tentative but steady, and it jolts him like a live wire. He glances down, startled, as her fingers curl lightly over his. “Tony,” she says softly, her voice still trembling, “Bucky’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words hit him square in the chest, a mix of comfort and something sharper. Not yet. It feels like a countdown, like the moment the other shoe will drop. And yet, it’s also true. Bucky hasn’t left. He’s still here, sneaking through Tony’s window, teasing him, stealing kisses when no one’s looking. He’s still here.

Tony nods slowly, forcing himself to meet Becca’s gaze even as the weight of everything presses harder against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, the word barely audible. “Not yet.”

Before Tony can fully process the weight of his own words, the air shifts around him, subtle but inescapable. He feels it before he understands it—a presence folding into the room, slipping between the stale heat of the radiator and the sharp tang of Becca’s distress.

And then, it’s there. Firewood and snowfall.

It wraps around him in a way that’s both grounding and unbearable, soothing and terrible all at once. It floods his senses, pulling him from the moment even as it tethers him more tightly to it. Tony’s breath catches, his pulse stumbling over itself as the scent settles deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

The window creaks.

Tony stiffens, his heart kicking hard against his ribs—equal parts anticipation and dread—as Bucky hauls himself through the narrow opening. He moves with the same practiced ease as always, his boots landing softly on the floor, his shoulders rolling loose as though the weight of the world has never once touched him. His hair’s mussed, wild from the wind, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing arms dusted faintly with soot. And then there’s the grin.

Lopsided, easy, and warm, like the night is his to command.

Tony can only watch, frozen in place, as Bucky brushes dust from his shirt and casts a glance around the room, oblivious to the weight pressing down on it. “Evening, sweetheart,” Bucky greets, his voice rich with its usual warmth as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Know I wasn’t supposed t’stop by tonight, but…” He shrugs, his grin widening. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

For a moment, Tony feels like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, every part of him stretched thin under the collision of two worlds. Bucky, carefree and teasing, full of life and ease. Becca, trembling in his arms, her grief still a raw, open wound. The contrast is jarring, the shift too sudden to reconcile, and it leaves Tony paralyzed under the weight of it.

Bucky doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still unwinding his tie, pulling it loose with a casual flick of his wrist. “Miss me?” he teases, stepping further into the room.

Then he sees her.

Bucky’s steps falter, the grin freezing halfway across his face before it dissolves completely. His gaze sharpens as it locks onto the bed, his brow furrowing deeply as he takes in the scene: Becca, curled tightly against Tony’s chest, her face blotchy and red; Tony, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, his body wound so tight it might snap.

“Becks?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, sharper now, tinged with alarm. He steps forward, his movements slow but purposeful, his steel-grey eyes darting between Becca and Tony. “What’s going on? Why is she—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingers on Becca’s trembling frame. “Why is she crying?”

Tony tries to respond, but the words catch in his throat, jagged and unsteady. “It’s…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “It’s Johnny.”

“J-Joey,” Becca corrects between hiccupping sobs.

Bucky freezes, his entire body going rigid. The name seems to hang in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, his expression shifts, the confusion melting into something darker. “Joey?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, lined with a growing edge of dread. “What about Joey?”

Becca doesn’t answer. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she presses her face harder against Tony’s shoulder, her sobs rising again, fractured and uneven.

Tony swallows thickly, his gaze darting between the siblings as he wordlessly gestures to the crumpled telegram on the bed.

Bucky’s eyes follow the motion, narrowing as he steps closer. His hand trembles faintly as he picks up the telegram, unfolding it with a deliberate precision that belies the storm gathering behind his gaze. Tony watches the exact moment the words hit him. Bucky’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as his eyes dart across the text.

Missing in action.

The words seem to knock the air from his lungs, leaving him standing there, silent and still, his jaw working silently as though trying to chew through the implications.

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough as he rakes a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t turn to Becca right away. Instead, his gaze flicks to Tony.

His expression is unfamiliar. Raw, unguarded—emotions that Tony isn’t sure he’s meant to see, and it makes his chest feel too tight, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Tony meets his eyes, the breath catching in his throat as the unspoken passes between them. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, as heavy as the telegram.

Bucky sighs, sets the paper down on Tony’s nightstand, and takes a cautious step closer. His hand moves before his words can, reaching out to settle lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is brief, almost fleeting, and Tony flounders under the weight of it—his own nerves fraying at the edges.

For just a moment, the world seems to still. Bucky’s thumb brushes against the edge of Tony’s neck, the faintest, almost imperceptible movement—and Tony’s breath hitches, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s face. There’s something uninhibited in the way Bucky looks at him that makes the knot in Tony’s chest loosen, if only slightly.

Tony swallows, nodding once in acknowledgment, though his heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Bucky’s hand twitches but lingers for another heartbeat before he pulls it away, his movements deliberate as he shifts his attention to Becca.

He moves quietly, his boots barely scuffing the floor as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, Becca doesn’t react. Her small frame remains hunched over, curled against Tony’s chest, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

“Becks,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and gentle as he leans toward her. He reaches out, his hand hovering near her back before settling lightly against her shoulder. His touch is cautious, careful, as though afraid she might break beneath the weight of it. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Becca hiccups softly, her sobs catching in her throat as her head shifts slightly, her cheek brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his other hand sliding under hers with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly around her trembling grip. “C’mere, Becks. I’ve got you.”

Tony feels the moment her hold on him falters, her hands slipping from his shirt as Bucky gently coaxes her away. There’s no resistance, only a quiet surrender as she turns toward her brother. Her movements are slow, almost hesitant, but when she finally collapses into his arms, it’s with the full weight of her grief.

Bucky pulls her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her as she buries her face against his shoulder. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances that Tony can’t quite make out. His hands move in soothing circles across her back, anchoring her to him.

Tony exhales, the sound shaky and uneven, as he sits back on his heels.

He should leave; he knows this, but he feels rooted to the spot.

The quiet of the room feels oppressive, broken only by Becca’s uneven breaths and the faint creak of the wind pushing through open window. Tony’s fingers twitch against his knee, the urge to do something—anything—gnawing at him. But there’s nothing to do, no easy fix, no clever quip that could make this moment any less harrowing.

His eyes drift toward the window, the cold air seeping in from its slightly warped frame. He tells himself he should get up, close it, climb out it—do anything to give them some privacy. But he doesn’t move.

Because Bucky’s eyes keep finding him.

Over Becca’s shoulder, Bucky looks at him with something unspoken, something open and unguarded that Tony doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it’s not dismissal, either. It’s something in between, a thread pulling Tony back every time his thoughts stray toward leaving.

Becca shifts slightly in Bucky’s arms, her quiet sobs giving way to hiccups as exhaustion begins to weigh her down. Her fingers clutch at Bucky’s shirt, trembling as her breaths stutter unevenly. Tony watches as Bucky presses his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring something so low that Tony can’t catch the words. But the cadence of it—the quiet, steady rhythm of Bucky’s voice—settles something fragile in the air.

Tony swallows hard, looking away to give them some semblance of privacy, though there’s nowhere else for his gaze to land. The room feels smaller than ever, the three of them compressed into this tiny, suffocating space. He lets his gaze trail back up to the ceiling. Wishing he could find answers instead of constellations full of equations and improbable variables.

Tony shifts his weight, his knees protesting the hard floor, and eventually leans back onto his palms, his body folding into the silence.

The stillness stretches, minutes bleeding into what could be hours, until Bucky’s voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“She fell asleep,” Bucky says eventually, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Tony’s head snaps back down, his gaze darting to Becca. Sure enough, her breathing has evened out, her face slack against Bucky’s chest. She looks younger somehow, smaller, and the sight makes something twist sharply in Tony’s ribcage.

Tony swallows audibly, his mouth opening and closing a few times before his gaze darts across the room.

“Yeah, no,” he says, shaking his head and blinking as his mind catches on the words. “Sure. You two take the bed. I’ll crash on Arnie’s. No big deal.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “Tony,” he says quietly. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, pushing himself up onto his feet and wincing as the feeling comes back into his legs. I have extra sheets… somewhere. Probably. And I’ve been stealing Roth’s pillow, anyway. Seems silly to drag Becca back to her room—”

“Tony.”

Tony freezes, mouth tense, a hand tugging through the messy strands on the back of his head. He looks at the Alpha.

The Bucky that Tony knows is… effortless. All easy grins and self-assured confidence.

But now, sitting on the edge of Tony’s shitty, too-small twin bed with his little sister cradled in his arms, Bucky looks different.

Tired. Resigned, maybe, or weighed down by something Tony can’t quite decipher. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem deeper, Tony’s usual favorite crooked grin replaced by a faint downturn of his lips. His broad shoulders, always so solid and unyielding, slump just slightly.

It’s disarming, Tony realizes, seeing him like this.

There’s no bravado, no easy grin to shield the cracks in his armor. He looks unpolished. Vulnerable in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache and his breath hitch.

The realization pulls something sharp and uneasy through him, and Tony’s gaze flickers away, but there’s no escape from the weight of it—or from Bucky’s scent, which hangs thick in the air now, impossible to ignore.

It’s still familiar in its warmth, still steadying in the way it grounds Tony when everything else feels too loud. But now there’s a bitter undertone curling beneath it, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet sorrow that lingers like the first sharp bite of frost before a snowstorm. It seeps into every corner of the room, clinging to Tony’s senses and wrapping around him in a way that makes his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He inhales without meaning to, the scent pulling at something deep and instinctive, something he doesn’t want to name but can’t shove down any longer. It presses against his ribcage, heavy and unrelenting, and he feels himself teetering between the urge to offer comfort and the impossible desire to fix it, even though he knows he can’t. Not this. Not tonight.

“Tony.”

The quiet rumble of Bucky’s voice slices through the haze, steady but laced with a softness that catches Tony off guard. When he glances up, Bucky’s sharp, perceptive eyes are already locked on him, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Tony want to squirm. Concern, sure—but also something deeper, something Tony’s not ready to face.

“Stop scentin’ me,” Bucky murmurs, though the words carry no real command, only quiet insistence. His jaw tightens as he glances away, his fingers flexing gently against Becca’s back. “Didn’t mean for it to get to you. Just…” He trails off, his voice lowering as he nods slightly. “Hold on.”

Tony flinches, heat crawling up his neck. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into his palms. “It’s fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice sharp with defense.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers for a beat longer before he shifts his attention back to Becca. Moving with a quiet deliberateness, he adjusts her until she’s lying on the mattress, her head propped against the pillow and her small frame tucked carefully against the wall.

Tony watches in silence as Bucky leans down to slip her shoes off, his movements careful and precise, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile peace they’ve built. Once Becca is settled, Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his own boots with slow, deliberate motions.

Still, Tony doesn’t move. His feet feel like lead, his body rooted to the spot as he watches Bucky without meaning to, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

Bucky straightens, his boots landing softly on the floor beside Becca’s. His hands rest briefly on his knees, fingers flexing like he’s bracing himself for something. Then, without hesitation, he looks up at Tony and holds out his arms.

“C’mere,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He shifts on his feet, his arms tightening across his chest. “What—”

“Just come here, doll,” Bucky says, his voice gentle but firm.

Tony hesitates, his gaze darting between Bucky’s open arms and Becca, who’s still fast asleep, her breaths slow and even. The bed is tiny. There’s barely enough room for Bucky and Becca as it is, and the thought of squeezing himself into that cramped space feels… impossible.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, his voice awkward and stilted. “There’s no room. I’ll just—”

“There’s room,” Bucky interrupts, his arms still outstretched. His expression softens, but there’s an edge of stubbornness in his tone now, the kind that always leaves Tony feeling off-balance. “You love havin’ this argument, don’t you? Just humor me.”

Tony snorts, shifting his weight uneasily. “Probably not gonna get much humor out of me tonight, Buck.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bucky says, his lips quirking in a faint, tired smile. He nods toward the bed, his gaze steady and insistent. “Come here, baby. Please.”

The please is what gets him.

Tony swallows, the sound loud in the stillness, and finally takes a cautious step closer. “This is stupid,” he mutters, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the words fall flat. He toes off his own shoes as he drags himself forward. “You don’t need me crowding you two all night.”

Bucky shakes his head, the smile fading into something quieter, more earnest. “I do,” he says simply. “I need you here.”

The words stop Tony in his tracks. He stares at Bucky, his mind scrambling for a witty retort, something to deflect the heaviness of what’s hanging in the air between them. But nothing comes.

Instead, he just exhales sharply and mutters, “Fine. But if I fall off the bed, I’m taking you down with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches out and catches Tony’s wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His hand is warm, calloused, and before Tony can process what’s happening, Bucky tugs him closer—not onto the bed, not yet, but to the space between his knees where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Tony stumbles forward, blinking in surprise. “What are you—”

“Just… hold still for a second,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and steady.

Tony freezes, his pulse ticking sharply against his throat as Bucky’s hands reach up to the knot of his tie. The movements are deliberate, careful—nothing like the hurried, heated way Bucky had tugged at his clothes a few nights ago, impatient and hungry as he backed Tony against his desk.

The memory flares briefly, unbidden, making Tony’s face burn. He remembers Bucky’s hands then, quick and sure, undoing buttons and pulling fabric aside like it was in the way. The way his lips had followed, leaving a trail of heat against Tony’s skin, drawing soft gasps and murmured protests that neither of them had meant.

This is nothing like that.

Now, Bucky’s touch is unhurried, almost reverent as he loosens the tie from Tony’s collar. There’s no rush, no teasing smirk, no deliberate press of his body against Tony’s to ignite sparks. Just quiet, deliberate movements and a weight in Bucky’s eyes that Tony can’t quite name.

The tie slips free, and Bucky sets it aside before his hands move to the buttons of Tony’s blazer. His touch lingers briefly, just enough to make Tony’s breath hitch before the first button pops open.

“You don’t have to—” Tony starts, his voice coming out shakier than intended, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I do,” Bucky says simply, his gaze meeting Tony’s as his hands move to the next button. “Just let me.”

Tony swallows hard, the words catching in his throat as he nods, barely perceptible. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he lets Bucky work, his hands steady as they ease the blazer from Tony’s shoulders.

The quiet intimacy of it all feels strange, too raw for Tony to handle, but he doesn’t pull away. He stands there, frozen but compliant, as Bucky folds the blazer and sets it aside with the same care he’d shown with the tie.

When Bucky’s hands settle lightly on Tony’s waist, Tony’s breath catches again, his gaze darting away. But before he can spiral too far into his own head, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

Tony exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re really… something tonight,” he mutters, his voice quieter than intended.

Bucky hums faintly, his thumbs brushing lightly over Tony’s hips. “Yeah, well…” His gaze flicks to Becca, nestled behind him, her face slack in sleep. “Guess everyone’s a little off tonight.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The warmth in Bucky’s voice pulls at something deep in his chest, but before he can dwell on it too long, Bucky shifts, his hands steady as he guides Tony toward the bed.

“C’mere,” Bucky says softly, his voice calm but insistent. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat tight with something unnameable, and doesn’t argue. He lets Bucky guide him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles hesitantly beside him. Bucky leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Tony adjusts awkwardly, curling into Bucky’s side and fisting his hand into the material of Bucky’s tear-soaked shirt. “Don’t blame me if I elbow you in my sleep,” he whispers, his tone pitched low and uncertain. The bed is small, and Tony’s already bracing himself for the inevitable fall if Becca so much as shifts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky murmurs, his hand settling lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is steady and warm, grounding Tony in a way that makes his throat tighten.

They fall into silence for a long moment, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft sound of Becca’s breathing. Tony lets his eyes adjust to the dark, his gaze flicking to the faint outline of Becca tucked against Bucky’s side. She looks smaller than usual, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. It’s soft, but there’s a weight to it, something heavy and resigned. “Joey… he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. Never thought it’d get this serious between them, but she loves him. Always has. Since they were little.”

Tony swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He’s never met the Alpha, of course, but the way Bucky talks about him—steady and low, tinged with quiet fondness—makes him feel like more than a name on a telegram. It’s easy to picture the boy through Bucky’s eyes: the neighbor kid with a shy grin and a good heart, someone who grew up alongside Becca and earned her love in a way that feels unfairly fragile now.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just a kid. Fifteen. She should be worried about dances and sneaking out to see a picture show, not… not this.” He exhales shakily, his grip on Becca tightening slightly. “Not waiting for news that might not come.”

Tony presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and smoke washing over him—sharp and steady, but tinged with sorrow. It anchors him and unsettles him all at once, pulling at something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters after a moment, his voice barely audible. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer, and Tony doesn’t resist. He lets himself sink into the warmth and the weight, the quiet presence of the man beside him. It feels like too much and not enough all at once, but for now, it’s all he has.

“You’re good at this,” Bucky murmurs after another long pause, his voice soft and low, breaking through Tony’s spiraling thoughts.

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “What? Squeezing into a bed too small for three people?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow, soothing motion. “This. Being here. Taking care of people.”

The words hit something raw and fragile inside Tony, and he stiffens slightly, his breath catching. “No,” he mutters, his voice rougher now. “I’m not.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tony’s head. His lips linger there for a moment before he rests his cheek against Tony’s hair. “You take care of me,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Hey, sweetheart?” “Yeah?” Tony croaks.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends. But… thank you. For being there for her.”

Tony bites down on the inside of his cheek and buries his face into the Alpha’s armpit to hide the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“We’re not friends. She forces me to eat breakfast with her. Steals my breakfast and cheats off my homework.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t do ‘homework’.”

“Exactly,” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s how much of a menace she is. She cheats off assignments I don’t even do.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Tony can feel more than hear. It’s warm and familiar, and for a moment, it cuts through the weight pressing down on the room. Tony’s grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens slightly, his fingers flexing before curling again, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

The darkness around them feels impossibly heavy, but it’s not suffocating. Not quite. It’s the kind of weight that settles rather than smothers, wrapping around them like a blanket too thick for the season. Tony closes his eyes, letting himself focus on the faint, steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the quiet creak of the bed as it shifts under their combined weight.

“Hey, Bucky?” He says quietly.

Bucky hums. “Yeah, baby?”

Tony hesitates, his question lingering on the edge of his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t ask—knows the weight of it—but the thought has been gnawing at him for weeks. Tonight, though, with Becca curled against Bucky and Joey’s absence casting a shadow over everything, the words slip free before he can stop them.

“Why haven’t you been called up yet?”

Bucky’s hand stills, his breath catching just enough for Tony to notice. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and for a moment, Tony regrets asking. He lifts his head slightly, glancing up at Bucky’s face. “Forget it,” Tony mutters, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky interrupts gently, exhaling a slow breath. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, distant and thoughtful, before it falls back to Tony. “Guess we have to talk about it, sooner rather than later.”

Tony doesn’t respond. His chest feels like it’s caving in, his lungs straining against the weight of the conversation he’s been avoiding since the beginning.

“When Ma and Dad died,” Bucky begins quietly, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “it was just me and Becca. She was thirteen, still a kid, and there was a pile of debts bigger than anything I’d ever seen—hospital bills, the funeral, everything they left behind. Someone had to take care of it. Someone had to take care of her.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “So when the notice came, I went down to the recruitment office and told them I wasn’t tryin’ to dodge it. Just… asking for time.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “They let you do that?”

Bucky shrugs faintly. “I think I got lucky. This was before things really took off. Before Japan attacked us. Maybe they took pity on me, y’know? Some kid fresh outta school, no parents, trying to hold things together for his sister. Told them I’d go if I had to, but I couldn’t leave her with nothing.”

Tony swallows hard, the image of Bucky standing in front of some indifferent bureaucrat, pleading his case with the same quiet determination that Tony’s come to know so well—it twists something deep in his chest.

“And now?” Tony asks, his voice quieter.

Bucky’s hand falters for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. “Now our grandparents are helping. Paying for her schooling. She’s with them when she’s not here. They’re good folks. But… that doesn’t mean the clock’s not ticking.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m on borrowed time, Tony. Just waitin’ for the day the letters start coming again.”

Something in Tony’s stomach lurches. It feels like dread, but heavier.

Anguish.

There’s no point in masking it. He knows Bucky can smell it.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. His hand continues its steady rhythm on Tony’s back, grounding and patient, giving Tony the space to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. But Tony can feel the Alpha’s gaze on him, sharp and searching even in the darkness.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to dump this on you,” Bucky says softly after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet, apologetic in a way that twists something deeper in Tony’s chest. “Not tonight. Not…like this.”

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no humor in it. “What’s one more thing to worry about?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Might as well pile it on.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand stills briefly before resuming its soothing motion, firmer now, as though trying to ease the tension out of Tony’s frame. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than he intends. “Be realistic?”

“Minimize this,” Bucky counters gently, his fingers brushing against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re allowed to feel this, Tony. You don’t have to… bury it.”

Tony scoffs, though the sound comes out weaker than he’d like. “Yeah, well. In my experience, burying my crap tends to work better than facing it.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Bucky knows what “it” is. The war. The draft. The inevitability of Bucky’s name coming up, of the letters arriving, of him being sent off to fight in a war that’s swallowing up everything and everyone in its path.

Tony shifts abruptly, pulling away from Bucky’s warmth and turning onto his side, his back facing him. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the weight in those steel-grey eyes, the resignation that’s already settled in. It feels too much like an ending, and Tony doesn’t know how to hold that in his chest without breaking apart.

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The confession trembles in the air, so quiet and raw that Tony isn’t even sure Bucky heard him. His voice cracks on the last word, the sound splintering like glass, and Tony clamps his mouth shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop anything else from spilling out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the mattress dips, and Tony feels the warmth of Bucky shifting closer behind him. A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder, hesitant, before sliding around his waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back against the solid warmth of his chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and Tony’s breath catches as he feels Bucky press his forehead gently against the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and heavy with something Tony can’t name. “I know.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his body stiff in Bucky’s embrace.

He can’t help but think of the last time they’d been tangled together in bed—only a few nights ago, at the tail end of his heat, when the world had felt far away and distant. Bucky’s bed had been too warm, their limbs intertwined, Tony too boneless and content to care about anything beyond the four walls of the bedroom.

He thinks of the lazy, indulgent smile on Bucky’s face, the way his mouth had trailed patterns down Tony’s bare shoulder, both of them sticky with sweat but too relaxed to do anything about it. They’d talked about nothing and kissed endlessly, the kind of careless behavior that felt safe because the world outside hadn’t crept in yet. Tony’s heart had been full that morning, his body humming with the comfort of Bucky’s scent and the warmth of his skin.

Now, the bed feels cold despite the heat of Bucky’s body against him. There’s no teasing, no smirk, no lazy contentment. Just the weight of what’s coming and the words they can’t take back.

“You don’t—” Tony’s voice falters, breaking apart before he can finish. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be left behind.”

To be cast aside by everyone you know.

Bucky exhales softly, the sound shaky in a way that makes Tony’s stomach twist. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t. And I’m so damn sorry that you have to feel this. That Becca has to feel this.” His arm tightens slightly, his hand resting against Tony’s side. “But you’re never gonna be alone in this, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest aching as he fights to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Bucky’s scent surrounds him—heady and incensed, still tinged with that quiet sorrow that makes Tony’s heart hurt—and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside him, something that makes him want to stay wrapped in this moment forever.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony whispers finally, his voice barely audible. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Petulant. Selfish. “You don’t have to go.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his hand moves, his fingers brushing lightly over Tony’s side in a way that’s both comforting and  devastating. “I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands fisting in the sheets as he presses his face against the pillow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the reality of it looms too large, too undeniable, and it feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

Bucky shifts closer, his arm tightening around Tony as if he’s trying to hold him together. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the ache that lingers there. “I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. You have my word.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony mutters, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bucky insists, his voice firm but gentle. “And I am. You hear me? I’m coming back, Tony. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and Tony wants so badly to believe him. But all he can do is nod, the motion small and uncertain, as he lets himself sink back into the warmth of Bucky’s embrace. His breathing is uneven, his heart racing in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, pressed against Bucky, and lets the Alpha hold him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Bucky’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing circles against Tony’s side.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got you, Tony.”

And for now, in this quiet, fragile moment, it’s enough.

Tony doesn’t recall falling asleep; the crushing weight of his thoughts must have eventually dragged him under.

He wakes before dawn, the pale light creeping into the room, casting everything in a faint gray haze. The mattress beneath him is too warm, crowded with too many bodies. Becca is still curled up against the wall, her face slack in sleep, while Bucky’s arm remains slung protectively around Tony’s waist, holding him in place.

Tony untangles himself with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake either of them. He doesn’t look back as he slips out of bed, his bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. His mind is already racing as he pulls on his blazer, though his tie remains slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He doesn’t need to be presentable for what he’s about to do. Just… prepared.

The hallways are eerily silent at this hour, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft creak of Tony’s footsteps. The early morning chill seeps into his skin, but he doesn’t care. His destination is clear, and his purpose even clearer.

Byron Tompkins’s office door is closed when Tony reaches it, the plaque on the wood catching the dim light. Tony doesn’t bother knocking. He grips the handle, twists, and pushes the door open with enough force that it smacks against the wall, rattling the frames hung with awards and irrelevant accolades.

The headmaster is seated at his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews the morning paper. He jumps at the sudden intrusion, his head snapping up, and the color drains from his face when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Stark,” Tompkins says sharply, though his voice wavers. “What on earth—”

“Becca Barnes is excused from finals,” Tony announces, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Tompkins blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Excuse me?” he says, recovering enough to feign authority. “Christ—you don’t have the authority to make that call, Stark.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s voice is calm, almost bored. “She received a telegram last night. She’s grieving, you absolute cretin. Do you expect her to sit through exams and recite poetry while her world is falling apart?”

Tompkins clears his throat, clearly flustered. “This is an institution, Stark. We have protocols—”

“To hell with your protocols, Byron,” Tony snaps. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to phone her grandparents and explain the situation. Tell them to come pick her up. She’s excused from finals, and she’s excused from the rest of the term.”

Tompkins glares, his indignation flickering behind a thin veneer of control. “You don’t get to decide that, Omega.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile, and he leans forward, planting his hands on the headmaster’s desk. “You know who my father is. You know what he could do with a single phone call. Do you really want to test me on this?”

Tony won’t test this. He’s completely bluffing. His father wouldn’t give a shit.

But the threat works, anyway. It’s worked for two years.

Tompkins visibly swallows, his eyes darting away as the weight of the unspoken threat settles over him.

“She’s a child,” Tony hisses. “A grieving child who doesn’t need some bureaucratic leech like you making her life harder. And while you’re at it, write a note excusing her from every last responsibility she’s got. Outstanding assignments, obligations, whatever else you pencil-pushers are dreaming up to make kids here miserable. She’s done."

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders sagging as he realizes he’s lost. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ll… make the call.”

"Fabulous."

Tompkins scowls as he reaches for the phone on his desk. Tony doesn’t leave until the first dial tone sounds, ensuring that the man follows through.

As he steps back into the hallway, the burden in his ribs doesn't lift; it just shifts. For a moment, he stands still, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight, like he’s daring the weight of the morning to press harder.

The faint hum of the headmaster’s voice drifts from the office, low and reluctant as the call begins. Tony doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t need to. The message has already been delivered, the balance of power tilted just enough to leave Tompkins scrambling to save face.

He exhales slowly, his breath sharp in the quiet, and begins walking again. His steps echo in the empty corridor, steady but heavy, like each one carries the weight of something he can’t shake.

There’s no satisfaction in the victory—only the dull ache of inevitability settling deeper.

Lodging itself firmly into his chest.

[flowercrowngods]

It's unreal. The light is streaming in through the windows, the curtains still drawn to block out the midday heat, tinging their living room in golden hues that match so well with the light grey fabric of their new sofa.

Eddie should probably snap out of it and head over to the windows, open the curtains and let the light in, and with it the warmth and fresh air of a surprisingly wonderful day.

It's March, he hears the echoes of Steve's giddy voice a week or two ago. Everything's better in March.

Eddie didn't agree then, and he's not sure he agrees now, but he must admit there is something magical about this moment.

Still he remains rooted to the spot, leather jacket heavy on his shoulders, his hands hidden in the sleeves of it, just in case this really is a dream. Just in case someone will come in and snap him out of it, take away their couch and leave an eviction notice.

It's dumb. But Eddie doesn't deal well with things that are unreal. Things that he knows aren't meant for him. Things that he knows he only gets in this one play-through of his life, while millions of other Eddie Munsons are out there in parallel universes who never get to even lay eyes upon a couch this nice. Let alone buy it. From their own real adult money.

It's a corner sofa, the fabric light grey, and he remembers it being harder than it looks. Solid. Just perfect for both their fucked up backs, scar tissue pulling if they sit wrong for too long, phantom pain and muscle aches coming in hot when all they want is to just relax and enjoy a lazy evening.

Eddie bites his lip, trailing his eyes along the pristine fabric, the pillows lining the back of it, the flawless stitches keeping everything in shape.

They have a couch now. A sofa.

It's so fucking unreal.

He drops to the floor right then and there, sitting with his back against the wall, and never once taking his eyes off their sofa. It feels important to look at it for a while. It feels important to wait for Steve. It feels... It feels like maybe he'll ruin everything if he goes and sits on it now.

And it feels really fucking big.

At some point he hears the front door opening, their lock going so smoothly now that Steve fixed it with some graphite, and the sound makes Eddie smile. That's another thing that's unreal. The key barely making any noise, the lock not rattling, the door not creaking and cracking. Eddie pulls a strand of hair between his lips, the smile feeling too silly for this room, for this home, for everything he gets to have now.

For all the tiny things that matter now. All the tiny things he gets to have, turning the key's smooth slide into an allegory of everything he ever wanted but never dared to hope for.

The slide of curtains, the click-click-click of the window handle being turned to let the air in. The breeze of fresh spring air dancing around his nose.

It's all a little much. It's so fucking addicting.

And then Steve. Socked feet coming to a stop beside him, a hand landing in his hair, a voice that's so endlessly warm and fond and maybe a little worried sounding from above him, "Hi, angel."

"Hi," Eddie says, tearing his eyes away from their couch to meet Steve's. The sunlight from the windows hugs him, making him glow. Eddie smiles. He smiles and smiles and never wants to stop.

Steve hums as he leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, and Eddie weaves his arm through Steve's legs, holding onto his knee.

Everything feels a little less silly now. Like every time Steve doesn't question his little moments of sitting on the floor and just staring at things.

"We have a couch now," Eddie says, because it feels important to point out. Because Steve isn't looking at it.

"We do," he hums. "I got the call earlier. Thanks for helping with that, baby."

Eddie nods again, leaning his cheek against Steve's knee and trailing the couch again with his eyes. It looks brighter now that the curtains don't turn the room into something out of a sepia-type movie anymore.

Steve's hands comb through his hair, massaging his scalp a little with his nails. It's nice. It's warm. It's pretty.

And it's so unreal.

"I'm twenty-four," Eddie says then, and some part of him wants to carve that into the fabric. He won't. But maybe he should carve it somewhere else. "And I own a couch. It's a little crazy."

Steve comes to sit down beside him, their shoulders pressed together and he links their hands, resting them in his lap after a brushes a kiss to Eddie's knuckles.

"Why's it crazy, angel?"

He shrugs, resting his head on Steve's shoulders and curling into his warmth some more.

"Most of my life I never thought either of those would happen, y'know."

Another hum, followed by another kiss to the crown of his head. Another smile.

"But you did it," Steve whispers. "You made it. And we've got a couch now."

"We've got a couch now."

Saying it out loud doesn't make it feel any realer. It only makes his heart race and his eyes prick.

"I love you," he says, finally looking away from pretty grey fabric to meet prettier hazel eyes. "I love you so much."

Steve leans in, kissing the tip of his nose. "I love you. Thank you for buying a couch with me."

And it occurs to Eddie then that Steve understands him. Sitting there on the floor with him, hearing his words and listening to those unsaid, understanding Eddie on such a fundamental level that it should be scary. And it is, sometimes.

But he's not scared now. Because they have a couch. And they have pretty curtains that keep the light outside and still turn the room into something magical. And they have a lock that only needed a bit of graphite to let the keys glide smoothly.

And they have each other.

They stay on the floor until Steve's stomach growls, and they eat dinner with their backs against the couch and Eddie's feet in Steve's lap. They hold each other close after dinner, just breathing each other in as the breeze blows around them.

In the end, Eddie is the first to sit on the couch, with Steve standing between his legs and giving him a scalp massage in silence. In the end, Eddie buries his face in Steve's stomach to hide the tears, and Steve lets him.

Because this is real. And he gets to have this. They both do.

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid@hotluncheddie @gutterflower77@auroraplume@steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important@stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround@pukner@i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic@bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

[maddiedott]

Logan Howlett x GN!Reader where the reader is a somewhat introverted person that has a passion for drawing, and when Logan asks to see one of their drawings, the reader shows them a drawing of a Wolverine (the animal :3)??

This is so precious, wolverines are so cool, I did a little bit of research for this story so I learned a lot lol. Thank you so much for my very first request! I tweaked it just a tad, but I hope I did this story justice.

Also did you know they eat artic foxes? :(

Sketches

Warnings: Omnivert!Gn! Reader, fluff, Logan teasing, established relationship, not proofread, I did a lot of research on wolverines

You weren’t entirely sure what sparked this inspiration this time. Perhaps it was the interest on what a wolverine actually was, or perhaps it was the man who had named himself after one. Either way, it was the only thing that filled up the pages of your sketchbook, breaking it in with graphite and charcoal sketches of the fluffy and ferocious mammals. It’s where you find yourself now.

The day was nice, just a small breeze but not one enough to disrupt the page of the sketchbook in your hands. The students were either inside or out but a few yards away so their screaming and laughing weren’t bothersome. Storm, Logan, and Scott were out on a mission, they had left a few days ago and would be assumed to return early tomorrow or the next day. So, with Logan’s absence, it gave you a lot more time to draw. You missed him, of course, but you were thankful for the solace in the sound of the pencil against paper.

Settled under a shady tree, blanket settled underneath your thighs and protecting yourself from the itchy grass that hurts your skin if you sit on it for too long, the blanket acts as a barrier from that. Your sketchbook opened, the leather bound cover resting against your thighs as your feet were planted comfortably against the blanket which had your knees bent in order to comfortably assume the drawing position you had a habit of falling into. It caused you to slouch and your back to ache for the rest of the day, but you couldn’t draw any other way.

At first when you started drawing these creatures, you needed a reference and opted for the textbook you had read on them, but now you have the memorized and only needed to refer to the book for movement reference. 

“What are you drawin’, Sweetheart?” Logan’s voice sounded, heavy thuds of his boots headed your way.

Your head whipped upwards at the sound, unexpected but pleased nonetheless. Despite the lack of social interaction at certain points throughout the day, Logan’s was always welcomed. Often there were times where you both would simply just exist in your own bubbles when you were feeling a little more introverted. He could read you better than you would imagine that you could read yourself,

“Nothing special.” You replied, sketchbook shutting and sitting up straighter and changing sitting position where your knees were pointed outwards and your feet laid under them. “You’re back early.”

It’s then that you notice his attire. He wasn’t in his black x-men uniform that they wore out on missions. He was adorned in his casual clothes, a beater under a maroon cotton button up, worn jeans and that silly large buckled belt, and his worse-for-wear biker boots. He had been back for a while.

“Cyke wanted a shower.” He explained as he settled down beside you, half his body on the blanket and half on the spiked grass.

You slowly nod in response, not wanting to imagine what the mission entailed for Scott to rush home and shower. You set your sketchbook off to the side of you, small smile on your lips at his presence. 

“So, what are you always drawin’ in that book of yours?” He asks, looking at you curiously.

What were you supposed to say? Certainly not the truth. How were you to explain that you had become hyper fixated on drawing the animal that he had named himself after? It was silly when you thought about it and you were sure he would laugh, maybe not at you but definitely at the subject of your drawings. 

“Like I said, nothing special.” You repeat, shrugging in indifference but your fingers slightly push at the spine of the book to tuck it out of sight.

It didn’t work. He had much faster reflexes than you, so when he reached behind you with what seemed like an inhumane speed, you had little time to retaliate or guard your precious secret. With his body turned slightly and hands already flipping through the pages, you had little else to do than sit in shock beside him and feeling all the warmth from your face and body.

“What the hell are these? Badgers?” He queries, confusion evident on his face as his brows bunched together.

“No… they’re uh, wolverines.” You answer, eyes finding a group of students running around and kicking a soccer ball around as if it was the most interesting game ever.

“Wolverines? It’s an animal?” He questions incredulously. Surely he didn’t think he had just made that name up. He didn’t remember why that was engraved in his dog tags but… really?

“I mean, yeah? They’re really cool, they have a reputation for their ferocious nature and strength. They’re also pretty solitary animals too. They’re actually really similar to you.” You ramble, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Yeah?” He flips through the sketches, eyes lingering on each drawing.

“Mhm! They also eat animals that are often much bigger than they are…”

You had quickly delved into a long research essay of facts that you had learned about wolverines, and Logan was more than content to just sit beside you and listen to your rambling knowledge.

[grapejuicestyless]

Burn Out

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n was often labeled, “the gifted kid.” She can’t help but feel like she’s falling behind when everyone’s suddenly leaving her behind

link to request HERE.

She’d heard it her whole life. From the day she could walk to her first report card with letters on it, her mother always threw the term around to all her friends. She bragged to her relatives, boasted to her co-workers. It felt nice to be good, to get good grades, to do well in activities after school. But with each passing year, Y/n grew up wanting to be great.

She was tired of her mother raving to Susannah about how good at writing she was for her age. She didn’t want to be good for her age. She just wanted to be great. It seemed that no matter how much she excelled, she was forever bound to that boundary that left her feeling less than.

Being good for her age didn’t feel like a compliment after she reached double digits. She felt stupid. Why couldn’t she be more? Why was she subjected to only be allowed to succeed within the group of individuals who all shared the same birthdays, birth years? Why wasn’t she ever compared to the big kids? The varsity athletes who complimented her and the art prodigies who urged her to pursue it for longer. Why couldn’t anyone see how hard she was treating to be the best she could?

It was obvious she was going places. How while Conrad and Steven ran around throwing footballs and splashing around in the pool, Y/n was curled up in the grass reading best selling novels and scandalous news stories. She was set on being great her whole childhood, never enjoying the simple things. But her love for reading and writing that developed in her tween years is what started her spiral.

Y/n was set on being a journalist. She had her future planned out. She wanted to go to an Ivy League. The state or the name didn’t matter. She wanted something she could put on her work resume to show everyone what she could do. She worked for it. She dropped all of her sports, all of her art classes. She was set on this career path she wanted so badly. She wrote for the school newspaper, the yearbook, the town paper. She did it all. Even without the early morning wake ups in the summer, her eyes carried heavy eye bags from her obsessive work ethic. She sat at the desk Susannah and Laurel had built for her by the bay window. She wrote and she wrote until her palms were grey with graphite and her fingers calloused and aching.

They all said she would outgrow it. The desire to be the best, the competitive nature she had. When she didn’t, they began to realize their mistake. Y/n never saw her peers as her biggest competitors, but herself as her biggest threat. She wanted to out write herself, make everything she could the best possible so even when she was old she could smile and say she was proud of it. To everyone, it seemed that with her obsessions and excessive efforts, she was headed right where she wanted to be.

Y/n’s mother always believed she wouldn’t have to put any money away for Y/n. Surely, she would be able to manage a full ride somewhere wonderful. A penny wouldn’t be spent on anything more than the books and the comforter for her dorm room. The added pressure to Y/n’s already rotten mind tainted with the intense pressure to remain as gifted as her mother had always convinced everyone she was.

Quickly, it built. Her hands still ached and she still spent hours at her desk, but she couldn’t write anymore. It all came out in short sentences that led her no where. There was no connection to make it make sense. She couldn’t think of ways to out do herself, ways to reinvent the greatness she knew she had within herself. She couldn’t spend every hour studying until her eyes drooped and the pages were stuck together with her drool. She couldn’t do it anymore.

The only way to describe what Y/n felt was burnt out. Sluggish. She moved through the days just the same, but they dragged. She wasn’t productive. She laid in bed eyes crusty and dry from all of her tears being wasted on her pillows.

She was failing. Not only in her head now, but now everyone else knew it. She was barely passing English and now calculus and physics seemed like too much to juggle. She didn’t feel wise beyond her years anymore. She felt right where she started, bound to the boundaries of her own age. No matter how hard she tried, her motivations were gone. She wasn’t a prodigy, she just tried. She wasn’t gifted, she was simply obsessive. She had little friendships left, no boyfriend. Her own dreams got in the way of her childhood.

When the letters came in, she watched how everyone around her rejoiced, basking in their victories. Steven was going to Princeton. Jeremiah to finch and Belly would surely follow him. The one that stung the most was Conrad. He’d already managed a spot in Browns pre-med program. Not that Y/n wanted that for herself, to be a doctor that is. No, but to have to ability to show everyone from her small hometown she had the brains to escape, be known. But Brown was never enough for Conrad. How could one of the hardest Ivy’s to get into ever be enough for the overachieving blonde? The boy who never really had to try in order to be great. He had to rub salt into the wound by getting into Stanford the following summer.

Y/n never hated Conrad for it. It wasn’t his fault he was just naturally better than her. But it stung that the only college that she could afford would be the safety state school. Her mother was partially to blame. Even though Y/n had gotten into some of the hardest schools to attend, none came with the financial aid she needed. She was good, but not enough. Without any savings from her mother, the money she had saved was not nearly enough to travel the map for school. She would forever be stuck somewhere she didn’t want to be.

It wasn’t like she cared the most, less work in some senses. Yet, the pounding headache that constantly beat at her self esteem screamed at her. How the voices that taunted her for all these years had finally been proven right.

Y/n would always be good, but she could never be great.

Careful of the heaviness of it all, Conrad treaded lightly to her slumping frame.

Sitting in her room, shadows casted over her quilt, her eyes stared blankly into the old oak desk she once considered something short of an oasis. Her papers were neat, pencils dull. Used up from pointless ideas and messy attempts to grasp at her lost talents.

Holding the letters, detailing how much she owed to prove herself, the debt she ultimately couldn’t afford, she began to grow resentful. How she had wasted her best years on something she couldn’t afford to achieve. While everyone else had memories of beach volleyball and sandcastles, Y/n had paper cuts and tired eyes. It was all so defeating to realize.

While many could brush her off as too sentimental, too emotional over something so small, Conrad knew her better. He saw the way her eyes dimmed, her heart stuttered. She died just hours ago in that once lively kitchen when reading the news.

“I’m a failure.” It was all she could manage. Three shaky words that broke between, her breathing coming out in quiet gasps. It was like a knife to the heart, realizing someone so persistent was finally giving up. Crumbling.

In her mind, she had made every mistake possible. She’s given up something so important, risked the loss of her childhood all for some dream she herself couldn’t even achieve with all the hours of work she forced upon herself. Yet, to Conrad, she hadn’t failed in the slightest. Y/n was wise well beyond her years. She had a mind like no other, a way with her words but also reasoning behind each sentence that made even the most outlandish claims seem more truthful than a defined fact. To him, she was the definition of greatness.

“You have your whole life ahead of you.” He’d tried to reassure her, words muffled against her hair. She smelled of coconut and fruits. Freshly washed hair as clean and neat as her mind once was. Still, his touch and his words held no weight in Y/n’s racing mind.

How could she explain to him each detail of the situation, each complexity that made her so distraught, so self destructive? Not only had she failed, but in all her efforts, she’d missed out on the best years of her life. She wondered if she would have to live with herself, from now for eternity wishing she could go back? Lay out under the stars and watch as satellites became mistaken as comets by her friends.

“Will it feel like this forever?” She’s asked almost too innocently. It was a genuine question. Would the stabbing pains in her heart, the throbbing inside of her skull ever full into an ache she could ignore for her own good? Would she ever stop living in regret and just be able to live her life without her own fears of missing out, of falling short?

“It’s gets better.” He’d promised her. Truthfully, there was no way he could’ve known. He was blessed with the ability to be effortlessly great. Always at the top without any struggle for the power that came with it. All while Y/n had to fight for even a spot on the podium.

Conrad only had one regret then. That he hadn’t been quicker to stop Y/n from falling so far, so hard. He knew it better than anyone, he lived and breathed burnouts. He crashed constantly, falling flat on his face. Yet, somehow he never slipped from where he stood. He wished that she could see just how amazing she was.

“What if I don’t?” It was a double edged sword. Both a question of mentally and physically. Would the pain ever ease? Would the slump fade into a distant memory of her teenage years? Would her skills resume into a climb of greatness as Y/n developed into something just short of Shakespeare? She still longed for that sense of accomplishment in her life. She still strives to be at the top and it was killing her. The fact that in her constant need to get better, she had fallen into a state of panic when she saw no progress. She feared that in her best efforts, she’d already given up all the best parts of herself, to no avail.

Conrad couldn’t promise her that she would. She had worked so long, fallen just short of what she deserved, all at the faults of the pressures of her youth. All responsibilities she never deserved to have to carry in the first place.

Placing a kiss to her temple, he held onto her like a promise, keeping her locked away in his heart. Silently, as her eyes settled back on the old oak desk, Conrad prayed. He never did that. He wished that there were some alternate universe. One where Y/n could live in peace, free from the restrictions and pressures of her childhood. A life where her future wasn’t something she had to know so early. He hoped that somewhere in that universe, she realized just how important she was, at least to him.

He swore then, even in her darkest hours, despite what the world thought, he would always love her. He only wished that she could see what he thought of her. That she was the greatest thing to ever happen.

[dustoftheancients]

the gentle loathing. Please do not remove captions.

[your-local-bi-panic]

Part 2: Sculpt This, Griff

Final Part

Description: You’re peacefully sculpting in your dorm when you get swarmed by notifications on a TikTok live. Is the UConn team actually talking about your artistic abilities?

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your screen goes black as the live ends, leaving you staring at your reflection in the camera — flushed cheeks, clay-streaked fingers, and a slightly dumbfounded look on your face.

“…what just happened,” you mutter to yourself, tossing your phone down and flopping back on the floor.

One second you were sculpting in peace, the next you were going toe-to-toe with Aubrey Griffin on a live in front of thousands of people — and not just arguing. Flirting. Hard.

Your phone buzzes again.

A text. Unknown number.

[Unknown Number]

You’re a menace. But I’m kinda obsessed. 😌

You blink, heart skipping. Then another message comes in.

[Unknown Number]

It’s Aubrey btw. Don’t block me. Unless it’s part of your sculpting process or whatever.

You sit up, snort-laughing. Before you can even respond, she sends a third.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Seriously though. That was fun. We should actually do something. You, me, some clay… we can see whose “art has more depth.”

You type, pause, then delete. Then type again:

[You]

Only if you promise not to bring crayons this time.

A beat. Then:

[Aubrey Griffin]

No promises. I like to express myself in vibrant primary colors.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are already aching from grinning.

Then a final message pops in.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Saturday? You teach me how to not embarrass myself artistically. I’ll bring snacks.

[You]

Deal. But I take payment in coffee and humility.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Humility? That sounds fake. But I’ll try for you.

Saturday afternoon.

You hear the knock before you even finish tying up your apron. You wipe your hands on a towel and open the door to find Aubrey leaning against the frame, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair in a bun, and a cocky little grin on her face.

“You ready to lose?” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought the crayons, didn’t you.”

She pulls a jumbo pack out of her hoodie pocket like she’s presenting a rare artifact. “The deluxe set. With glitter.”

You snatch them, toss them onto your desk. “Disqualified.”

She laughs and steps inside, eyes widening as she takes it all in. Your dorm’s been transformed — shelves full of ceramic bowls, handmade mugs, a corner stacked with sketches, a massive canvas-in-progress propped against the wall. Half a dozen half-finished clay pieces sit on a table near the window, bathed in soft light.

“Whoa,” Aubrey says softly, turning in a slow circle. “This is… like, an actual artist’s studio. I thought I was stepping into a dorm.”

You smirk. “Yeah, well, some of us have hobbies that don’t include trash-talking on TikTok lives.”

“Bold of you to call yourself humble,” she teases, then nods toward the small easel you’ve set up. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Portrait time?”

You hand her a pencil and paper. “Try to capture the essence of my soul.”

She squints at you, dramatically. “Mmm… chaos. And maybe caffeine.”

Twenty minutes later, you're holding in laughter as Aubrey reveals what looks suspiciously like a stick figure wearing hoop earrings.

You hold yours up beside it — her, drawn in soft graphite lines, detailed and focused, somehow both casual and intimate. She stares at it for a long moment. “...Okay, rude. That’s actually good.”

You shrug. “Told you I’d win.”

She’s still looking at the drawing when she says, quieter, “How do you do that?”

You glance up. “Do what?”

“Make it look like someone’s… real. Like they exist on the paper.”

You pause. Then shrug your shoulders as a light blush makes its way up your neck.

Aubrey takes one more lap around your room, pausing in front of a painting with thick brushstrokes and colors that blend like storm clouds and sunlight. “You did all of this?”

You nod, a little sheepish despite the pride in your chest. “Yeah. I mean… I didn’t sleep much last semester.”

She crouches by a shelf of small sculptures — little bowls, abstract figures, a few animals mid-motion. Her fingers ghost the edge of a lopsided mug. “Okay, you weren’t kidding. You are the best artist at UConn.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an apology?”

She grins. “It’s a surrender.”

Then she turns toward you, head tilted just slightly. “Teach me?”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

Aubrey shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I mean… yeah. If you want. I’m not promising a masterpiece, but—”

“I didn’t think you could ask for help.”

Her mouth drops open in mock offense. “Wow. Clay to the face.”

You laugh and gesture to the little workstation by the window. “Come on then, art girl.”

She takes the seat beside you, knees bumping yours, her leg warm against yours even through jeans. You hand her a chunk of clay and she holds it like it might explode. You try not to smile too much.

“We’ll start simple,” you say, reaching for your own piece. “We’ll make a dinosaur.”

She blinks. “A what?”

You’re already shaping the base. “Everyone’s first clay animal ends up looking like a dinosaur anyway. Might as well lean into it.”

She laughs. “That’s fair.”

A few minutes in, she’s pressing too hard, fingers smushing the shape into something… vaguely tragic. You scoot closer, shifting behind her a bit.

“Here,” you say softly, slipping your hands around hers, “let me show you.”

She stills. Her breath catches just slightly when your fingers close over hers, guiding them gently over the clay.

“Less pressure,” you murmur, “just enough to shape it.”

Your voice is right by her ear now, and you feel her relax into the motion, shoulders unwinding under your touch. You keep your hands there for a few more moments, pressing your thumbs over hers to smooth the ridge of what might become the dino’s back.

Then you slowly let go.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back, “your turn.”

She keeps going, more focused now, tongue caught between her teeth. “I think he’s coming together.”

You nod approvingly. “He’s got character.”

“Wait—damn.” One of the legs starts tilting to the side, making the whole thing slouch. “Okay, rude. He’s trying to die.”

You lean in again, nudging the base gently. “Not on my watch.”

Aubrey’s hand bumps yours as you both try to fix it, your fingers brushing, clay smearing across her knuckle. She glances at you, something flickering in her eyes.

You raise a brow. “You’re messy.”

She swipes a streak of clay across your cheek without missing a beat. “So are you.”

“Ohhh. That’s how it is?”

The next thing you know, you’ve got a smear of clay-water on her jaw, and she’s laughing as she retaliates, a bit of clay landing right on your shoulder.

And just like that, it’s chaos.

Water drips across your apron, clay smudges in places clay should not be, and you’re both trying to sculpt and sabotage at the same time. But somehow — somehow — the little dinosaur makes it through.

He’s a little uneven, a little droopy, but adorable in the way only a battle-hardened clay creature could be.

Aubrey looks down at it, then over at you, grinning. “Not bad for our first kid.”

You laugh, the words slipping out before you can catch them. “We’ll put him on the fridge.”

She leans in, just slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d let me near your fridge?”

You meet her gaze, a little breathless. “Maybe.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, but she doesn’t pull back either. Your knees are still touching. Her hair’s falling slightly in her face, and there’s a streak of clay on her jaw you could definitely wipe away — if you weren’t afraid touching her would undo you.

The air between you shifts, thick with something unspoken.

And yet… she just smiles. Picks up the dinosaur gently and sets it on your desk like it’s sacred.

“Same time next week?” she asks casually, like she didn’t almost make your heart stop.

You nod. “Yeah. For sure.”

She starts to stand, but not before brushing her fingers over your wrist, feather-light.

Then she’s gone.

And you’re left staring at the door, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, with clay on your cheek and a little dinosaur on your desk who saw everything.

Next Saturday, late afternoon.

You’ve barely set your brushes down when there’s a knock at the door. You already know who it is — your stomach’s been doing that thing all day. You open the door, and there she is: Aubrey, paint-stained hoodie, curls loose today, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a tiny plastic bag in the other.

“For our son,” she says, wiggling the bag.

Inside? A mini paint set and a tiny foam brush.

You blink. “You got him his own supplies?”

“Excuse me,” she says, stepping inside, “but if he’s going on display, he needs to pop. I thought we agreed he was gonna be a star.”

You close the door behind her, already grinning. “What did you name him?”

Aubrey sets down the supplies and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Blorbo.”

You stare. “Blorbo?”

“It’s his vibe.”

You lose it, leaning on your desk as you laugh. “Our child is doomed.”

But before long, you’re both seated side by side again, paint pots open, paper towels laid out (not that you’ll use them), and Blorbo the Dinosaur front and center like a king about to get his royal paint job.

“He’s going blue,” Aubrey announces, dipping the brush into the paint. “Because he’s cool under pressure.”

You snort. “That’s your reasoning?”

“Also it’s the only color I know how to use without making a mess.”

Five minutes in, you’re already laughing because Blorbo looks like he’s mid-makeover and panicking about it. Aubrey’s trying to do clean edges but keeps overdoing it.

“Careful—you're giving him a racing stripe,” you tease, reaching out to smooth the paint with your brush. Your hand brushes hers again. She doesn’t move away.

You both freeze for half a second, eyes flicking up to meet. Then—

“I meant to do that,” she says, too fast.

“Sure you did.”

She dabs a light blue dot on Blorbo’s back, smug. “Highlight. Boom. Natural talent.”

You tilt your head. “That’s actually not bad.”

“Say it louder.”

You roll your eyes and reach for the spot she missed. She moves closer to see better, and now her shoulder’s pressed against yours. You don’t say anything about it. Neither does she.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs as she watches you work, “if this whole sculpting prodigy thing doesn’t work out, you could always start a custom dinosaur business.”

You raise an eyebrow. “With you as my business partner?”

“Obviously. I’m the branding.”

You lean back, inspecting Blorbo. “Okay. He’s kind of adorable.”

“He’s thriving,” Aubrey says. Then she dips her brush in water, looks at you mischievously, and flicks it—just barely—so a drop hits your cheek.

You gasp. “You did not.”

Her grin is dangerous. “You looked too clean.”

Without thinking, you swipe your brush across her forearm — a streak of blue, bright and bold.

She blinks. “Okay. War.”

The next few minutes are a blur of laughter and chaos — water splashes, streaks of paint, and somehow a dab ends up on the tip of your nose. Aubrey’s laughing so hard she nearly knocks over the water cup, and you end up both trying to catch it, your hands colliding.

You’re both breathless now, flushed, still too close. Paint clings to your skin, your clothes, your shared little world of brushes and ceramic dinosaurs and unspoken tension.

She looks at you — really looks — and something shifts again.

“You’ve got…” She reaches up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. “Paint. Right here.”

Her touch lingers just a second too long.

You swallow. “So do you.”

You press your thumb gently to her jawline, wiping away a smear of pale blue. Neither of you move.

You could kiss her.

You could.

But instead—

“Blorbo’s judging us,” you say, voice soft and teasing.

She grins, leaning in a little closer. “He’ll get over it.”

And then… maybe she doesn’t kiss you.

But it’s damn close

——

Blorbo is officially complete.

He’s a little shiny from the sealant, his ocean-blue body dotted with careful light blue spots, and he looks like the proud, paint-covered child of two artists who had way too much fun arguing over how many dots was “too many.”

You both sit back, admiring him from across the desk.

“He’s a masterpiece,” Aubrey says, brushing dried paint from her wrist. “A little lopsided still, but that’s personality.”

You nod solemnly. “Like his mom.”

She throws a paint-stained napkin at you. “Rude. I’m the artistic one.”

You snort. “Right. You painted the left eye crooked.”

“He was blinking!”

Still grinning, Aubrey leans forward, resting her chin in her hand as she looks at Blorbo. “Okay, real talk… can I take him back with me?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Joint custody. But he should stay at my place first. First artistic child and all.”

You pretend to consider. “Only if you promise visitation rights.”

“Obviously. You can see him weekends and holidays.”

“Mm. Every other Wednesday too.”

“Deal.”

Back in Aubrey’s dorm.

She carefully places Blorbo on her dresser, centered like he’s royalty. She even adjusts a lamp slightly to give him better lighting.

“Look at him,” she whispers to herself. “Our perfect son.”

Before she can revel too long, the dorm door opens and in come a few of the basketball girls — KK, Nika, and Aaliyah, loud and laughing already.

“Aubreeeyyy,” KK sings. “Where’s the masterpiece?”

“I brought him back,” Aubrey says proudly, stepping aside.

They crowd around the dresser.

“Wait,” Nika says, squinting at Blorbo. “You made this?”

Aubrey shrugs casually. “Yeah. With help.”

“With a lot of help,” Aaliyah adds, eyeing her.

KK squints. “No way you did those details. You can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Excuse me?!”

They don’t buy it — and before long, KK’s already pulling out her phone. “We’re going live. People need to see this.”

Live on TikTok.

The comments explode instantly. People remember the last live. The teasing. The tension. The energy.

KK turns the camera toward the dino. “Everyone, meet Blorbo. Aubrey’s son. Also maybe the real star of the show.”

Nika leans in. “He’s like… actually cute. Which is sus.”

“Suspicious because there’s no way Aubrey made something this good,” KK laughs.

“Okay,” Aubrey defends herself, stealing the phone, “first of all, rude. Second of all…”

She turns toward the screen with a smirk and hits accept.

The screen splits. Your face pops up.

The comments go feral.

There’s no greeting. Aubrey just holds up Blorbo dramatically. “Say hi to your other parent.”

You blink. “Is this a custody check-in?”

KK howls off-camera. “YES! We’re trying to figure out which one of you actually made him!”

You shrug innocently. “He has my brushstroke genes.”

Aubrey gasps. “He got your chaos. That was your light blue splatter!”

“He thrives in that environment.”

“Hmm,” she smirks. “Well, just so you know, he’s sleeping on my side of the dresser. You get him next weekend.”

“Oh, we’re doing weekends now? What about mid-week playdates?”

Aubrey grins. “We’ll set up a calendar.”

The team in the background is living for it — loud, dramatic reactions, fake sobs, KK pretending to officiate a custody hearing. And the fans? They’re already clipping the live, comments pouring in faster than anyone can read.

“BLOBRO FAMILY SUPREMACY”

“just kiss already omg”

“when’s the custody swap vlog??”

“@UConnWBB pls give them a reality show”

“this isn’t about a dinosaur anymore is it 👀”

Aubrey looks back at the camera, her smile soft now. “Okay, but like… for real. He turned out so cute.”

You nod. “We did good.”

She catches your gaze through the screen, just a little longer than needed. “We really did.”

“I think he'll need a sister though”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you have any requests please fill free to send them in. 😁😁

[sorvqlz]

Fan of Bloody Painter here, not sure if you like this request or not.

The phantom of the opera: Erik losing Christine and let her go to Raoul. Legends says he’s real back in past until 2025… Y/N who was a fan of art and illustrations like they like video game characters and anime designs. They met a mysterious man named Helen Otis. He starts to give them an eerily similar vibes. Could it be? Perhaps, Helen is a reincarnation of the phantom Erik himself? Why his black hair and his style seem have same charms as the phantom too? He could be modern Erik himself. Y/N laughs and don’t believe in the past, it’s just some dark romance, who knows, but then Helen always grew obsessed with them during collage years. Bloody Painter not just likes art but also like music as well.

This is basically yandere Bloody Painter x reader, I always see him as a modern version of phantom of opera since they are both wearing mask and black hair love for talents. Sorry for spamming my typing. 😭

Paint Me a Phantom

-dw about spamming I don't mind at all!! ��♡

Yandere Bloody Painter (Helen Otis) x GN!Reader | Phantom of the Opera Inspired

They always said Erik died with the old Paris Opera House. A ghost who disappeared into the smoke of history, never to return.

But legends never die. They just change masks.

You had always been drawn to the romantic—not the pink-flushed, movie-type romance, but the kind that weeps in candlelight and aches through art. Your world was sketchbooks, digital illustrations, brush pens, and open tabs of music scores while you worked. You loved beauty where it hurt the most. That was what made your art sing.

So when Helen Otis entered your life during second-year art school, he felt like a painting come to life.

He was quiet, aloof. Black curls fell into his eyes as he sketched in class, and his clothes—sharp, old-fashioned, with little dark details—felt like someone who had never really left the 19th century. He always had gloves on. You thought maybe it was an art thing—maybe he didn’t like the feel of graphite on skin.

But there was something else. Something behind his eyes.

You noticed it in the way he watched you during critiques. He never looked directly at your pieces—he looked at you watching them, like he was studying how you breathed when you were proud, how your fingers twitched when you doubted yourself.

You joked once during a late studio night, with a soft chuckle, “You’re like a modern Phantom of the Opera, you know?”

Helen’s pencil stilled. He didn’t smile. Not really.

“Maybe I am,” he murmured, almost too quiet to catch.

You blinked. “Okay, Erik,” you teased, “What, are you gonna start hiding behind curtains and composing sonatas for me?”

His lips curved—just barely.

“Would you listen, if I did?”

You laughed it off. You didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation. That kind of stuff belonged in novels, in tragic operas and visual novels, not in the real world.

But after that, he started leaving things for you.

A sketch slipped under your door—your face rendered in charcoal, looking softer than you ever saw yourself. A page torn from his notebook with handwritten lyrics in French—lyrics from the opera. A rose, deep red and fresh, laid across your desk with no note, but a smear of crimson across the stem.

You told yourself it was admiration. Artists were dramatic. Maybe he just appreciated your work.

But then you began to notice the way your favorite spaces—your hidden corners of campus, your safe little studio nooks—started feeling less private. He would already be there when you arrived. Not every time, but enough. And when you asked how he knew, he said with an unnerving calm, “I listen to what you don’t say.”

You told your friends, laughing it off. “He’s intense. Gothic weirdo type. You know the ones.” But there was always a strange tightness in your chest when you spoke about him.

Then came the night of the exhibition.

You had several pieces on display, digital illustrations exploring dreams and duality. You stayed late after the crowd thinned, picking up your leftover sketches.

That’s when you found it—his piece. It wasn’t listed on the wall, not in the program. But it was there, on a spare easel in the back. A painting.

Of you.

But not as you were.

It was you in a flowing coat of midnight blue, your face half-covered by a white mask. One hand reaching out, the other clutching a crimson rose. Behind you stood a crumbling opera house, candles flickering, music notes bleeding into the darkness.

You stared. The brushwork was masterful. Intimate. Obsessive.

And behind the canvas, you felt him.

“I always knew,” he whispered behind you. “From the moment I saw you… I knew it was you again.”

You turned slowly, your throat dry. “Again?”

Helen stepped closer, eyes glinting beneath the dim gallery lights. “You don’t remember, do you?”

You took a step back.

“It’s alright,” he continued, voice low, velvety. “You don’t have to remember. I remember enough for the both of us. The way you sang. The way you looked at me before you left.”

“That wasn’t me,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I’m not… whoever you think I am.”

Helen smiled. But it wasn’t a kind smile. It was possessive.

“You always said that,” he whispered. “Back then, too. You told me it was just fantasy. Just shadows and stage lights.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Helen—”

“But this time,” he murmured, “I won’t let you leave. This time… no Raoul. No curtain call.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing yours.

“This time, you stay with me.”

Author's note: Their dynamic feels like walking a tightrope between passion and danger. Helen sees Y/N as something sacred, something he’s known before—an echo from a life he refuses to let go of. Meanwhile, Y/N just wants to live in the present, but can’t help feeling drawn in by his strange charm. It’s all soft glances, quiet tension, and the creeping realization that maybe… they’ve already gone too far to escape him.

[trashmouth-richie]

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: escaping Hawkins was impossible, but he did it. when a ghost from your past shows up unexpectedly, bringing with him old memories and holding up a mirror to the train wreck life you’re living… you find it hard to trust him again.

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ no minors, depictions of poverty, child neglect/ endangerment, drug use/abuse, alcohol use/abuse, endangerment, 18+ sex working, 18+stripping, violence, smut. no use of y/n reader has a name that’s introduced in the first chapter, and another “nickname” that is lightly used throughout this series. eddie also has a nickname given by reader.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: memories flood back of when you were younger, Eddie wants to talk but silence holds merit.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: here i come, but i ain’t the same

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: cold before the warm

masterlist

The nub end of graphite scrawls against a crinkled back page of paper. Ripped haphazardly from a composition book labeled: Language Arts—E.M.

The yellow pencil was pocked with teeth marks, having been between a pair of teeth that weren’t yours, mind not even gathering the germs that could be harbored in the pressed wood. 

Your tongue had been poked out for nearly three minutes according to the watch on Eddie’s wrist. Your brain working overtime trying to find the best phrase that would stump your friend in the game of Hangman. 

The alphabet was written in a hurry on the left side of the page, parallel to the hanging post. Beneath that were evenly scratched dashes on the blue printed line, waiting for their companion of letters to be filled by Eddie’s correct guesses. 

Putting the pencil down with a satisfying smack, you look up from your masterpiece confidently.

“Okay, I’m ready!” 

Eddie chomps a piece of Big Red loud between his teeth, unhooking his tangled feet from underneath himself and stretching out his skinny legs, jeans from the previous school year hacked into shorts for the summer, “took long enough.”

You make a face and flip him a suggestive finger, the nail chipped and painted pink from the last time your neighbor Michelle let you play with her nail polish, and in return you listened to her gab about her boyfriend while she combed her hair like Marcia Brady. 

“Don’t be a poor loser because you’ve lost the last four games, Clove.” 

He laughs when your eyebrows turn into a pout, the heel of your worn sneaker kicking into his. The same black pair of converse, yours a few sizes smaller, faded and tattered, fitting your feet in a way that was uncomfortable for the arch of your foot, years of wear accustomed to another’s foot print that belonged to the boy across from you. 

Letters are guessed and lines filled in. Eddie insists that you make the hangman have a face complete with nose, mouth and eyes realizing that he is close to eating his words from earlier. 

“Would you like the hangman to be wearing socks and a hat?” You ask honestly, hiding a smirk behind the paper. 

Eddie scoffs, working a bite mark into his bottom lip as he racks his brain for what kind of dumb phrase you conjured up, “I quit on terms that you’re a cheater.” 

The insult was harsh, not worse than the words that you heard around your kitchen table or ones that ricocheted off the thin walls when you were on the cusp of dreaming. No, this word hurt. Stung into your skin like a wasp, repeating its terror until you were swollen and skin ached of heat. 

Tears sprung to your eyes, clinging to your lashes ready to drop. The paper clenched in your fist as you shoved it under Eddie’s nose, proving your innocence. 

“I am not!” 

“Sure you are,” he takes the paper from you, folding it roughly into an uneven shape and shoving it between the couch cushions behind him, “Cheatin’ Clove. Has a nice little ring to it doesn’t it?” 

Before Eddie can say anymore, a can of Coca Cola is thrown at his head hitting him with a thud, followed by your whimpers and the sound of your feet clapping against the dirty linoleum. 

“Clove! ow! Wait!” 

The screen door scratched your palms as you twisted it open. Jumping from the stairs and landing hard in the dirt, you didn’t bother bringing your bike home. Choosing to run the short distance instance instead, shutting the front door with a heavy slam. 

Tears soaked your pillowcase before you drifted to sleep, curled up on top of the patchwork quilt on your bed. 

Eddie. 

His name was trapped in your mouth, dry along your tongue, unable to force its way out. 

He was a ghost to you, memories that were buried and dormant were now flooding back at full speed, pinging around your brain firing each nerve tucked away deep, landing you a migraine behind your eyes. 

Seven years. 

Seven fucking years, since you had seen those doe shaped eyes, brown muddied colors still lost in a child’s innocence and wonderment— barely aged from the last time you had seen him. That memory burned into your retinas, like fuel to a pained flame. 

His hair was longer, well past his shoulders now, fringe of his bangs still thick on his forehead. His knuckles were covered in tattoos, the little you can see of his neck is also full of dark wisps of ink.

He says your nickname, the one only he knew. A joke between best friends. 

You try to open your mouth, fighting like hell to will anything to come out, but nothing does, the words choke against your throat, caught against each other in a tangled string of sharp edges.

“uh— I—E..”  

His eyes grew bigger than they already were, waiting for you to say something, anything. It was as if time stood still, all the pain from years prior coming back.

Images of Eddie, his smile, the bloody gash on his knee from his longboard, small memories, painful ones that could bring someone less strong to their knees: all flash behind your eyes.  

The pain from all those years ago was searing through you like a knife. Memories that you kept buried away were suddenly throttling you like they had just happened, the wounds that were licked clean were now fresh and open, blood flowing freely.

Before hot tears can spill down your face, you spin wildly on your heel, walking fast and turning back to the bar. The tray slamming onto the back counter with a loud bang, snapping.  

Your breath was erratic, heart racing. Whatever lingering high you had was gone. Emotions you hadn’t felt in years coursing through you demanding to be felt. 

Why was he back? 

You didn’t know the purpose of his return to Hawkins, only registering how hurt you felt that he was. The day he left still stung your spine, sending shivers all over your body. 

Did he ever think of you? In the seven years he had been gone did you bleep on his radar even once?

Hanging your head your fingers tap nervously on the lacquered wood, trying to calm yourself down before you work yourself up anymore than you already were. 

“Be right back,” you called over your shoulder to Jolene, head down walking fast to the cooler. 

The chilled air made your skin prick with goosebumps but you couldn’t care, the only thing you could feel was your heart shattering to pieces all over again. 

The floor was cold under your body, shelves and beer boxes held you up as you fell apart. Deep shuddering breaths in and winded ones out, you don’t wipe the tears as they free fall down the apples of your cheeks—dragging black eyeliner and mascara with them til they trickle from your chin. 

The callus of your life made it hard to feel, even harder to cry. But once the gate was open, it was challenging to close. A dam of pent up emotions broke free out of you like an angry flood, full of irreparable damage, forgotten feelings and an exploding heart. Taking with it years of questions, hopes and dreams. 

Scenery wasn’t the only thing that was altered in his time away. You evolved, having to peel off layers of naivety and fear. Would he care if he knew? 

Wiping another sludge of wet makeup from under your eyes you catch the tattoo on your hand. 

It burned on your skin. Prickling like it hadn’t been ten years since you’d gotten it.  Years that seemed like a different lifetime ago.

It practically was.

The boy who did them was long gone, and the man in his place was someone you didn’t even know. 

—

It was you. 

The only person in all of Hawkins who made it bearable. What should have been a joyful reunion was clouded over with painful memories. Of course there were good ones, but mostly the bad out weighed anything happy. 

You had always been the little bit of sunshine that broke through on a cloudy day, the only person he trusted with silly secrets, trusted with anything.

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that you were here. Not just in Hawkins. But working here. 

A surge of rage filled his stomach but was quickly washed out by pain as you stomped away, looking as if you had seen a ghost, a part of your past that you didn’t want to remember. 

Was that what he was to you? A painful memory, one that was more sour than everything else that happened? 

Jeff’s voice is muffled in his ears, as if he’s trying to speak underwater. He can’t wrap his head around this whole thing. The guilt eating him alive. 

Eddie clears his throat and takes a generous sip of beer, trying to stop his hands from shaking, chilled sweat creeping down his back. He fiddles with a napkin, ripping the end into small shreds and rolling them up like a kid would for a spit wad. 

He could map out every scar on your arms and legs, tell anyone the exact color of your eyes, in sunlight and in a dark room. He knew your favorite song, that you were afraid of the dark and that your front teeth didn’t come in for almost three months after he had helped you pull them out.

You had taught him how to hang upside down on the monkey bars behind the trailer park. He taught you how to play his guitar, and if he thought hard enough he could remember the smell of your shampoo. 

You were everything to him.

Bestfriends since the cradle, made up handshakes and secrets sworn to the grave. But years, tear spilled miles and the guilt of broken promises wedged a distance between you. 

One that couldn’t be made better by the letters he sent that went unanswered. And it definitely wouldn’t get fixed in one random night when fate lead him to this fucking dump, back under your nose.

It hurt not seeing the sparkle in your eyes, but he could only blame himself. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Jeff motions for Eddie to lean in, doing so he jerks his head to the bar where you are standing stone-still hovering over a counter with your back turned to them. “She looked familiar, right? Did she go to school with us?” 

“Yeah,” he admitted, trying to shove down his emotions with another gulp of beer, “she did.” 

Jeff leans back, “Chloe? Cassie, Chasity… no. Claire? Shit what was her name?” 

Eddie’s eyes fell to the smudgy tattoo, he rubs his thumb over the ink, “Clove.”

“That’s right!” clapping his hands together, “knew it was something weird.” 

Eddie let himself smile. Small and weak, his lip ticking up on one side. He rubbed the tattoo again, remembering that day like it was yesterday. 

—

The summer breeze blows hotly through the makeshift curtains, sending the loose paper on the dresser scattering like desert tumbleweeds across Eddie’s bedroom floor, joining the litter of car magazines and unwashed clothes taking up space in the tiny room. 

“gotta sit still Slick, or this won’t work.” 

You were biting through your lip, trying to muffle a cry from breaking out, “ow..it hurts!” 

It was your idea to get matching tattoos with your best friend, and it was Eddie who said he could do them no problem. He had already tattooed a heart on Dave with his girlfriend's name through the center last month—never mind that she dumped him a week later. The sobs coming from trailer 11 didn’t ever seem to end. 

“Well yeah,” Eddie chuckles, clearing his throat and puffing behind a cigarette, “what did you expect it would be done with? A marker?”

Your right hand rested on his bent knee for precision. The other was clamped tight over your eyes in hopes that if you didn’t see how it was done, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. 

The warmth of your sweaty nervous palm on his jeans felt hot, as if you were being burnt alive. But, despite the pain from the needle going in and out of your skin, Eddie was gentle. 

His shoulder provided comfort as you leaned your head onto it, slowly wetting his shirt with your tears. You curl your body into his side, knees stabbing into his ribs, head pressed tight to the side of his neck, hand fisting the sleeve of his shirt for support as you intake a sharp breath when he finishes the curve of the dainty heart. 

“Need a break?” he asks, setting the needle down on the carpet, rubbing a pattern with his thumb on your hand. “I made some Kool-Aid yesterday, your favorite kind.” 

Lynyrd Skynyrd plays softly in the background and Eddie strums along on your palm to the guitar solo. 

Muffled against his cotton shirt, your voice is hoarse from the tears, “orange?” 

He chuckles around a cloud of smoke, “hell yeah, picked some up yesterday morning before my shift, got a few packets for your place too, I know how much Lolly likes it.” 

“Speaking of,” you uncross your legs to stand, “I gotta go check on her.” 

Eddie stands up with you, a whole head taller than you were, you pluck the cigarette from his mouth and slot it into your own, inhaling the tobacco expertly into your lungs as you examine the small tattoo on your skin.

“‘m not done yet, but what do ya think?” 

Blood and ink were smeared around it messily, but it looked identical to the one he had on his left hand, yours only missing the clover. 

A smile stretches across your lips and you feel the burn of tears from in your eyes, “it’s perfect, Eddie.”  

He opens his bedroom door, grabbing the cigarette from your mouth and squishing it into the heaping ashtray on his nightstand. “you really think so?” he whispers.

“Are you kidding? It’s amazing!” 

He blows his lips in a raspberry, long legs walking down the dingy carpet hallway to the kitchen, “let those prissy bitches try to pick on you now… nobody wants to fight someone with tattoos.” 

The girls at school weren’t nice in elementary school and they somehow got nastier with every year. You went from being “stinky girl” to “trailer skank” overnight. 

A far cry from any sort of originality, but that’s how Hawkins was, ruled by the dim and dumb, daddy’s bank account used as a hierarchy status. 

You always brushed them off, keeping mostly to yourself and to your best friend. Eddie took it upon himself to conjure up a frenzied retort that would have them scoffing in disgust. 

With Eddie, nothing else mattered, he didn’t care if your clothes didn’t fit right, or if your ponytail looked scraggly. He didn’t give a shit what people thought of him. You were just two neglected trailer park kids, but to him, you were important. 

“You're an artist Eddie, could probably make a lot of money doing this someday.” 

The idea fell silent between you, both knowing in your hearts what path your life would lead you down. Stuck in the nightmare of what went on behind the thin walls in the trailer park.

Peering over the counter you can see Lolly. Sleeping just as soundly as she had when you laid her down. The stolen playpen from the yard sale on Cornwalis turned out to be worth the uncomfortable bike ride back to Forest Hills with Eddie standing on his pedals and you on the handlebars holding onto dear life as he raced back home. 

Her chubby cheeks were pressed against the yellow floral sheet, little curls twisted into two tiny pigtails, milk dribbling slow from her puckered lips. 

You smile at the sight of such innocence, wishing that you too were unaware of what life was actually like, and knowing that you would do anything to keep your little sister safe from this reality for as long as possible. 

“Can’t believe she cried that long, usually she loves pb&j’s..” Eddie points to your head, trying not to laugh, “you still have peanut butter in your hair by the way.” 

Lolly had thrown every last bit of her sandwich in a temper tantrum fueled by a lack of sleep. Her aim being perfect with you as her target. 

Twenty minutes with your head under the bathroom sink and Eddie cackling as he squeezed shampoo on your head apparently wasn’t enough to get the sticky treat out.  

“Little shit,” you huff, a smirk on your lips, turning to the fridge, and reaching for the sugary orange drink from the shelf, shutting the door with your hip, “think she might be cuttin’ some teeth at least that’s what Patty said last time she babysat.” 

Eddie reached for the plastic cups that were nabbed from Benny’s after one of his busboy shifts, holding them steady as you poured the juice.

Only spilling a little, you lifted the end of your shirt to mop the counter up. “Kids are weird,” Eddie says, smacking his lips with an orange mustache after a long swig, “remind me never to have ‘em.” 

Snorting through your nose you swallow harshly, a quirk to your eyebrow, “having kids is totally normal, all of our neighbors do.”

He thought quietly before speaking again, “yeah, and nobody is ever around..” he shakes his head. “We’re gonna leave here someday, you and me.” 

You roll your eyes, “sure thing, Slim.” 

Eddie talked crazy like this sometimes. Always dreaming bigger than you could even fathom. Head permanently stuck in the clouds, wishing, hoping for something better than the cards you were both dealt. But you on the other hand, your feet, in hand-me-down shoes, never left the ground. 

His voice was stern when he spoke to you, eyes pleading, and you had never heard him like that before. 

“I’m serious, I’ll die before I stay here,” he moves forward, holding your biceps as he looks down at you, dark eyes wide, almost wild, “I promise you, we won’t end up like this...okay?” 

—

He couldn’t blame you for the way you reacted when your eyes met his. Seeing you tonight hurt more than he could have ever imagined it too. To be honest, he didn’t expect you to still be in Hawkins, but then again— where would you have gone? 

“…you still there dude?” 

Eddie’s eyes shift to Jeff, plastering a smirk to his lips to hide the pain etched so evidently on his face, “yeah, I just uh— tired I guess.” 

He scanned the bar for you, still seeing your frame behind the counter, this time turned around handing a round of beers to a couple of college punks. 

“How far is the drive?” 

Bless Jeff for trying to keep this conversation alive, but Eddie’s mind was anywhere but here at this table. 

Questions he never thought to ask, suddenly poured into his mind. Did you finish high school? Where were you living? How’s Lolly? How old is she now? How have you been? 

He felt sick that he didn’t know the answer to any of them. Guilt devouring away at him like a flesh eating amoeba. 

“Six—no, probably seven hundred miles.. give or take.” 

Had you applied to college? Were you still living in the trailer park?  

“Damn,” Jeff said, scrubbing his hands down his face, “gonna have to visit you sometime, show me around all the cool places… you ever been out to LA? My girlfriend, well ex now, we went a year ago around Christmas time she really loved...”

Although Eddie didn’t know the answers, he figured maybe Jeff would. 

He shakes his head, interrupting his friend, hand raised in apology, “hey, uh wh— whatever happened to her?” He hooks a thumb in your direction in the most nonchalant way he could, even though his entire body was fidgeting in anticipation. 

Jeff raises an eyebrow, “Clove? Oh umm, shit… well I think, no.. yeah no, she didn’t graduate. I remember hearing that she had dropped out, and now she works here apparently.” 

A smirk forms on his lips and he points behind him to the back corner, “forgot to tell you, rumor has it this place is more than just a strip joint,” his dark eyebrows wiggle, “if y'know what I mean.” 

For the first time tonight, Eddie noticed girls coming and going from the beaded doorway, vacant expressions on their smudged faces. Trailing behind were drunk men with glazed eyes and sweaty foreheads, readjusting the threads of their belts and slacks. 

He scans the bar with wild eyes in search of you. Hoping and praying to whoever would listen that you weren’t a part of this. You couldn’t be. 

Who is he kidding? 

If you were still in Hawkins, still under the weight and scrutiny of the inner dealings that started in the trailer park, you were very much involved. 

Realization hit him like a freight train. His stomach clenched and warped with the dreaded grief and guilt he still carried. Deep down he had figured this was what your life had come to. Lying to himself in thinking that you had gotten away from all of this. But seeing it firsthand, in the flesh—he couldn’t bear the thought of it. 

Choking back vomit, he slides from the booth hastily, practically spilling his beer all over the table in his desperate attempt to find you. 

“shit!” Jeff shouted, “dude, you alright?” 

He wasn’t. 

He stumbles from the table, tripping over his own boots and knocking into one of the burly bearded men at the bar, sending his drink tumbling to the ground. Glass and liquor covering the floor like the sparkle of a fresh snow. 

“What’s your problem asshole!?” 

His fiery red hair matched his temper, and the weathered roughness of his cheeks, “ever been inside a bar, tough guy?”  

Before Eddie can whip up a witty retort, Mr. Big Red comes back for more, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him into the high counter of the bar, “hey honey, better stop serving this prick, he can’t handle his liquor like a real man.” 

The swinging doors open and there you are again, struggling beneath the keg you’re carrying. He wanted to jump up and grab it from you, but Eddie was still pinned to the bar by the guy's hand on his bicep, tightening more and more. 

Your eyes reach his and it’s like you don’t even see him. 

“Agh, c’mon Mick,” you say, a warm smile on your lips, “I like ‘em nice and drunk, that’s when they tip the best.”

You set the keg down with a metallic thud on the floor, grabbing a bottle of Jameson and two shot glasses. The mahogany liquid pours smoothly, much like the dark eyes watching you, and heat crawls up your neck. 

Sliding one towards Mick, you hold the other up by your black painted fingers, Clinking them together with a ‘cheers’ and bringing the glass to your lips, allowing your eyes to finally glance towards Eddie. 

He was taller now. His shoulders, more broad, filling in the teenage lithe muscles that fit his frame then. His baby face disappeared entirely, now his chin was stretched with a sharp jaw, which was currently clenched like he was holding back anger, his throat bobbing in a dance of tattooed skin. 

You swallow the liquor in one gulp, relishing the burn as it slips down your throat, the same fire that’s staring from across the counter. Eddie hadn’t taken his eyes from yours.

A twitch forms in your eyelid and you blink it away, setting the glass down hard on the wooden countertop.

You lean your body across the bar, collecting the glassware that’s accumulated since you had been hiding in the cooler. Placing them gently into the warm sudsy sink to wash before filling the small dishwasher below. 

Mickey was already turned back around, talking loudly to Wendy and trying to get her to sit on his lap for five bucks. His grip on Eddie’s arm turns limp when you slide him another shot, just for good measure. 

The bar is chaotic, loud and boisterous, but the air between you and Eddie is quiet, stagnant, no warmth from you. Icicles could form from your frigid silence. 

He knocks his knuckles against the bar, big gaudy rings clacking along, keeping in rhythm to the music playing overhead, but you don’t give in. Don’t humor him by asking how or why he knew Rock Me Amadeus.

“Hey V,” you call out to your work partner, “get this stranger a drink before he gets a parking ticket.” 

Swiveling away from him, you squat down to maneuver the keg to where it needed to go, rocking it on its rounded edge and swiveling it into place. 

Veronica’s voice is cheery and dripping with sex appeal as she asks Eddie what he wants to drink, and you can’t misplace the deepness of his voice, and the polite way he tells her that he’s fine for the evening. 

Cracking the top of the keg, you hook it up to the correct tap, shoving with all your might to get it in under the cabinet and slotted in properly. 

Spending more time than necessary below the bar, you avoid the warm chocolate eyes waiting for you up above. 

What were you supposed to say to him? Thank God you’re home? What the hell did he even want?  

An ant is huddled around a spilled drop of grenadine, you watch as it collects the sticky treat—what you wouldn’t give to switch places with the insect for a few hours. 

If one thing was certain you would need a little encouragement to make it through tonight and the haunting memories that shuddered through you every time you looked at Eddie.

Your purse was in the cubby over to the right, nimble fingers find the familiar plastic of the bottle, screwing off the top and clicking three pills into your hand. 

A greedy palm finds your lips, your eager tongue accepting the drugged gift. Swallowing without any liquid, your spit was more than enough to coat the tablets, watering upon knowing the relief you’ll be met with. 

More shouts and hollers boom through your ears, this time in celebration. 

“Where’d you go sweet cheeks? Need a round, Bobby just found out his girl isn’t pregnant!” 

Duty called, and you knew those dark eyes were still waiting for you, hide and seek was done for now, and in a few short minutes, you’d feel like you were flying. 

Boots planted firm on the sticky tiles, you push yourself up, fully expecting a litter of questions. But when you face him, he’s quiet. Silently watching your every move. 

Not in a way you’re watched by every other slimeball in this town, his eyes never once flicking over your curves or the deep v of your shirt. 

Eddie was admiring the woman you’d become. The shy girl he once knew was replaced by a force to be reckoned with. Did you become that way because he left? No longer having him around to stick up for you?

He pushed out those thoughts, thoughts of you alone. 

The way you fleetingly moved from drunk to drunk, collecting tips and pouring drinks, you were a natural. no longer the girl that was afraid of spiders and slept with a nightlight. What should have been a comfort in his heart stretched into an angry bruise against his soul. 

Warmth riddled your face into a smirk as you dug jabs back at the guys, making them pay up front before they tried to slink away to the back rooms. 

Eddie couldn’t miss how the smile never reached your eyes, that glassy lost look couldn’t fool him, another ping of guilt cutting through him like a knife. 

You were elbow deep in the warm water now, fingers pruned and slicked with soap when he finally speaks. The counter had cleared up enough that he wasn’t squashed between some greasy assholes, the regulars fighting to get to the best seats closest to the stage.  Tiffany on her second set of the night, her shiny heels spinning in the air to Girls, Girls, Girls. 

“So I’m a stranger now?”

Your fingers slip on the smooth surface of a glass and it hits the bottom of the sink with a thud at the sound of his voice, thankfully not breaking. Looking up, the smile fades as you stare back at him, fully allowing yourself to take him all in.  “what else would you be?” 

“Gee, I don’t know, Slick,” his hands twirl the rings on his left hand, “a friend.” 

Your laugh is filled without humor, sheer mockery as you shake your hands above the sink ridding them of suds and water. 

“Friend…” the scoff is thick in your throat, swallowing a ball of vomit before you continue, “that’s rich isn’t it?” 

“Clove..”

“…y’know…I had one of those once,” you say, eyes dead behind your irises, moving to the spouts of the draft beer, “at least I thought he was.” 

“Can we talk?” he pleads. 

“..think I’ve heard more than enough…” slapping down two heavy beers in front of him, you glare into muddy brown eyes, trying not to let yourself feel the pain in your chest, “these two are on the house.” 

Without a second glance or even a fuck you, you stomp towards the dressing room, leaving him sitting alone to sit alone at the bar, and for a split second you allow yourself to feel good it. His turn to be left in the dust this time. 

taglist: @mmunson86 @sidthedollface2 @winchester-angel @mrsjellymunson @joannamuns9n @tlclick73 @mewchiili @spacedoutdaydreamer @emxxblog @maybeisthemoon @str4ngergirlw0rld @chrrymunson @insertcoolnameherethanks @kellsck @prestinalove @mandyjo8719 @onegirlmanytales @mopeymopeymouse @veravee-blog @taintedcigs @eddies-acousticguitar @oeuryale @kthomps914 @bangaveragewhitewine @lil-quinnie @corrodedcoffincumslut @definitionwanderlust @madaboutjoe @littledemondani i @eiightysixbaby @usedtobecooler @succubusmunson @hereforshmut @alyisdead

[drarrywords]

The Precision of Spite

Part 1 | Part 2

Draco’s art became disturbing. But the familiarity consoled him before it could derail him. Absence damaged him. Wanting, however, was a curse, no matter how futile.

Harry watched him in libraries. On a sunday, he dared to pose a question: “How are you?” Of course, he didn’t mean to pry. He asked because he cared. Draco knew this. But instead, he saw the stack of papers in Harry’s hands asked a question of his own.

“What are you researching?”

Harry spoke quietly, “Neural Representations of Infinity, Zero, and Negative Numbers.”

Draco knew he would conduct fMRI scans on his subjects and interpret the brain activity for his thesis. He would present his paper in a lecture and Draco would be in the back of the crowd like clockwork.

On the table, there was a script. Thick, annotated, and cruel. An authored play. It bore no credited writer, only a title scrawled across the cover in frantic graphite: “Our Performance: A Study in Neural Collapse and Romantic Evasion.”

Love as a neurological loop. Performance as punishment. Nothing deviates. Nothing heals. The lines always leads back to the same places: the storm outside the gallery; the night Harry didn’t run after Draco; the moment Draco stopped believing anyone ever would.

He didn’t speak. He stared at the script like it might detonate.

Harry moved, reaching for the script. His fingers hesitated above it, not from fear but fatigue. This wasn’t error anymore—it was exhaustion. The kind that sunk into your bones when you live the same heartbreak enough times to trace it blindfolded.

Draco finally spoke, “Don’t pick it up.”

Harry didn’t.

Draco stood up, and this time he met Harry’s gaze. There was something different in his expression—something less wounded, less afraid. He looked just as haunted, yes, but there was defiance in the haunting now. A refusal.

“I don’t want to do it again,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life inside a thesis you won’t let die.”

Harry swallowed.

“I didn’t do what you did,” he said, and it came out quieter than intended. “I didn’t build science out of our misery.”

Draco tilted his head. “Didn’t you? Every time you refused to say what you felt. Every time you turned me into a hypothesis instead of a person. You built it.”

“And you?” Harry asked. “What did you build, Draco? A shrine of paintings you wouldn’t name? Sculptures no one could touch?”

“I built exits,” Draco said, voice shaking now. “You just never used them.”

Silence stretched.

Outside the library, a storm began. Harry stepped forward, one page of the script slipping loose and fluttering to the floor. Draco watched it fall but didn’t move to catch it.

“I thought,” Harry said slowly, “that if I could replay it enough times, I’d get it right. That I’d know what to say. What to change in my brain.”

“And did you?” Draco asked, the question laced with tenderness so raw it almost shattered the moment.

Harry closed his eyes. “No. I could only memorize the ache.”

A long pause. Then Draco stepped forward, and for the first time he didn’t reach for a brush, or the shield of metaphor. He reached for Harry, “Is that ache science? The grand design of the human body. Is that it?”

“I don’t know if I love you,” Harry said softly.

“What do you know?”

“That when you walk into a room, it undoes my entire world and i can’t chart it and build diagrams to understand it.”

They didn’t speak.

But for the first time, the silence was real.

Not rehearsed. Not weaponized.

Just two people, walking forward, not in circles.

[storeecbrcod]

Edge of a Razor

Epilogue: Time Runs in Circles

Edge of Tomorrow AU - AO3 Dysfunctional Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

TW: Canon-typical violence, torture, graphic descriptions of injury, mild gore

"They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot that nightmares are dreams, too."

Johnny read some of Oscar Wilde's literature to him when he was in a coma, once. It was a memory he hadn't told him of before, something Soap didn't even remember.

But Ghost remembered.

Ghost seemed to remember everything, from the moment he fell asleep in that basement to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he dove in front of Soap to save him, to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he fought tooth and nail to keep them all alive, pull the team through and finish the mission, only to jump into the water and choke to start again, all the way to the moment he woke up with a boot to his side.

Or from the moment he'd taken Johnny away from it all, cradling his face while the world was overrun, until they couldn't hide anymore-

To the moment he woke up with a goddamn boot to his side.

And he'd remember it all, relive it all, over and over, until he had what he wanted.

OR

Ghost is left alive after being sprayed by an Alpha mimic's blood, only to have to relive the loss of his team years later when the loop starts again.

~

His teeth hurt.

They ached, and ached, and ached. It was dull, spasming as it travelled through his jaw, making him shift uncomfortably as if it would help. The strain his body was under only made it worse, not easier, though he didn’t understand why. Under the circumstances, he would have thought a fucking toothache would be the least of his worries.

Scars littered his skin. Torture drew a map over the expanse of the exposed organ, fileted and burst and cut and stabbed and burned, over and over. He’d experienced so much pain in his life, it was unimaginable. He’d pushed through so many failed plans, captures, so much chaos, that a toothache seemed a bit small to complain about. The pain was minimal compared to the story his body told.

Yet, his mouth hurt like a fucking bitch.

It was making it hard to focus. Making it hard to ignore the chill, keep his face neutral, stop the chattering of his jaw that only irritated the pain more. It made it hard to stay blissfully unaware to the staticky pain that buzzed in his numb limbs, lack of circulation in his toes and fingers blackening the paleness, skin no longer healthily flushed red with diverted blood but grey with the loss of it. It made it hard to ignore the way the jeers garbled in his ringing ears.

It was annoying, really, how much the pain burned hot in his mouth compared to the frigidness around him. He wasn’t sure it was the cuts from dull, rusted razorblades that had been laced in his food, or if it was from the cathode that dug graphite into his molars and left bursting blisters on his tongue and cheeks; all he knew is it hurt and it was all his mind could obsess over. Even as dried blood caked his now dilapidated body, as wounds layered upon scars seared with the draught in the room, as bone fragments acted as shrapnel in the fuselage of his own body, he could only focus on the way his gums threatened to fall away from his teeth as they hung from dull bone.

His hands had gone totally numb weeks ago. Rough iron that held him mostly upright, slumped forward the rest of the way, had dug so far into his wrists he could have sworn his body started to engulf them in a desperate attempt to heal it. He hadn’t eaten since they’d tried to feed him blades, drank the water from the waterboarding sessions. He was surviving, barely, holed up in another dank basement in another unknown city waiting for another round of defacing.

He didn’t survive to be rescued, though. Not even revenge motivated him now. He had no team, had lost it years ago to metal suits and animalistic terror. He had no family to protect and no one to crawl back to, just the callous arms of a military that valued him for his stubborn promise to succeed rather than his experience or expertise or leadership. Every breath was taken automatically despite the way one lung gurgled and crackled. Every twitch was his body’s attempt to remain vigilant and undeterred by whatever practice his captors chose to reuse today.

He lived out of spite, lived to see how far his body would go before his cells would take the initiative and start dying out of pity for themselves.

He often warred with himself in the days he was left alone to drift amongst daydreams and dissociation. It was almost annoying how much he thought about the possibilities, the reasons, the use of sticking out like this. Conversations with himself very rarely ventured into light topics; everything was tainted with blood spilled by the people who wronged him and by his own hand. A lot of his thoughts mused how similar and dissimilar this whole situation was to when he was with Roba, taunted with skulls and lies and pretty words twisted up in the mouths that sounded trustworthy after enough time listening to them. He’d always been pitied and prided on his survival of his time in the Mexican underground, biting back at snakes and stinging under the scales of scorpions striking at his mind.

But it was nothing like this now. Back then, he had a reason, could think about the possibilities, had a purpose to persevere. Now, more than ever in his life, he felt close enough to hear the whispers of familiar voices in the bleak overhead lighting. It was tempting his curiosity, how the shadows would close in on him, the laughter sounding a lot more pained and tormented than when he’d heard it last, bouncing around the corpse of a girl that could have been his sister. He swears some of the strikes with leather forks were weak enough to feel more like a friendly pat to the shoulder, or the cold water confusing his nerves into feeling warm was actually a body at his six.

He was familiar with all this, obviously. He’d followed this train of thought over and over among the years he’d served and been on the brink of death. Ghosts of memories would make his skin pucker, the hairs desperate to be the last millimetre between the comforting touch and himself. It was all a very convincing attempt for his body to lure the mind into giving up long after it itself had. His body was exhausted, bled from life, yet his mind remained. Somewhat.

That’s why he let himself indulge in the temptation for a moment. His mouth still hurt, and he used it as an anchor to the world, but he otherwise let his mind drift. As long as he stayed aware that this was all a fever dream, a temporary relief and distraction, he’d be fine. As long as those childish giggles didn’t lure him too far into the cushiony space of in-between, he’d be able to pull himself out.

After all, he’d forgotten these moments with Tommy. He’d forgotten the scrapes that used to adorn his brother near constantly, the way his gap-toothed smile sung of mischief and playfulness. It had become easy to focus on all the bad his brother had done, but it only made this memory softer. They were back in their hometown, just outside of Manchester, in the local park as they dug around for bugs. They were some of the only kids in the park around this time, pushing as close to their curfew as possible to stay dirty and careless just a little bit longer.

Hearing his brother’s laugh made his heart warm, a certain protectiveness that never left even with Tommy’s cruelty blooming in his hollow chest. He almost didn’t notice the scenery change, in the mind-bending way most dreams morph into another with no rhyme or reason, the face of his brother now blue-eyed and younger.

The giggles were nearly identical, a high-pitched sound matching a now deeper echo. Joseph was big, probably about five, arms spread as he was lifted by his uncle. It was dizzying, seeing the health seeping into Tommy’s face, the way he clutched Beth’s delicate hand gently. It was all easy here, all calm and bright and unworried. He felt himself pull Joseph down into a hug, the little boy wriggling in his grasp gleefully. He felt Joseph wrap his arms around him, too, bathing in the visceral warmth of his childhood.

“Oh, you’re ok, Simon.”

His heart stuttered, a simple blink replacing his nephew with his mum. She was taller than him, bigger than him. He mustn’t have been much older than Joseph, here.

“I know, I know,” his mum cooed to him, her breath warm as he sat in her lap, clambered onto her and holding tight. She rubbed his back as he buried his face in her shoulder, breath hiccupping and cheeks wet. “You’re ok, hm? Doesn’t hurt anymore, does it? Mum fixed it. You’re ok, baby, all ok.”

He was dizzy, yet steady all at once. This felt right. He was right where he belonged, in his mother’s arms, consoled and held in a way he had craved so much for so long. And yeah, it didn’t hurt anymore. Nothing could hurt, curled up like this. She was a perfect mum, always had been, always will be, to his young self. He’d always carry that part of him, the love for his mum and the desire to be around her constantly.

It was easy to let go with her. His body went limp, tearful sobs that had sounded awkwardly mixed between a man’s voice and a boy’s was silenced. He was warm once again, quiet, drifting further and further to sleep, as his mum chuckled softly above him.

The dark didn’t scare him anymore. The dark tempted him, and he took its hand with his mother at his back.

~

He was ripped from the darkness with a jolt to his ribs, a harsh hiss leaving him angrily. He’d been so close, just moments away from walking with death, so close to being released–

“Oi, LT, c’mon. Always on my fuckin’ back ‘bout sleepin’ in, and here you are havin’ a wee snooze.”

His eyes were assaulted with light as he opened them, squinting. He hadn’t seen light this bright in… months , yet its warmth bled through him thoroughly as if he’d been bathing in it. And, well, when he looked around to see the expanse of concrete and bitumen with soldiers jogging around through lines of khaki tents, it was easy to believe he had been here a while. Buckles and seams dug into his body at weird angles, holster and knife handles pressing against him.

He felt another kick to his leg suddenly, making him look up and glare at the figure silhouetted by the sun. If he wasn’t so confused as to why he had his weapons, he would have stood up and attempted his escape with a swift slash to the throat.

But all he heard in response to his glare was a sweet, light snicker.

“Wha’s got you so up ‘n arms? Never knew the Ghost’d sleep so deep, being a restless soul ‘n all.”

The Scottish brogue threw Ghost totally off guard for a few moments, the sound so familiar yet so lost to his mind. The last time he’d heard it…

“Ghost, at your six–”

A loud squeal, rumbling and robotic and alien, then a much more human curse and grunt. He whipped around only to be met with the scene of black and orange sending red splattering into the air, electrical sparks crackling in the air and burning snap shots in his mind.

Metal, crumpled easily under inhuman strength, sending silver piercing through flesh–

Pulsing orange and painted red around a maw of sharp teeth, jerking the body beneath–

Screams pulled from white teeth, terror in blue eyes–

Shots fired, bursting through the piercing chaos, from Ghost’s own suit and the one malfunctioning–

Gurgling, screaming, from the body and the team respectively–

Terror turning to emptiness, lips parted but not uttering a sound–

Silence, where silence never was before–

Silence–

“Johnny?”

[tactical-jellyfish]

Task Force 141 headcannons- art/paper

Warnings!: Nope, not any today. I'm being possessed by the spirit of creativity right now and I NEED to yap. Shoutout to @h1ccu9 for just being incredibly nice and amazing, and to all of you for your support! It means a lot <3

Johnny has always been an artist, in his mind. It's a fact that permeates his whole being, though it didn't come about how most think it did.

There was no single moment when he decided that it would be what consumed every other free moment he has, no Christmas present that spurred creativity any more than the others.

Slowly, when he was younger. Stupid drawings of cartoons he'd liked, the typical stuff for a kid. Then, more quickly. In Chemistry, he was so bored of hexagons, of compounds bound by singe and double lines and rote memorization.

So, he started with circles. They were ugly, at first, but he picked up shading, and then it spilled outward.

Stupid drawings of his teachers, made to draw a chuckle from classmates, drawn with the 5-pack of pencils that would last the whole year, no matter what.

Even in his adult life, when what fills his sketchbook is chicken-scratch and sketches of buildings (only sometimes people) it's only pencil.

A quiet tribute to the young boy in a big house where money was tight. Colored pencils and good graphite would be wasted on him. He has what he needs in his palm, and he's used to that. Sometimes, black and white works well enough.

Price is somewhat similar, but his skill is technical. Sharp lines composed of quick flicks of a controlled wrist (never mind the slight ache when he repeats the motion too many times) come together to form rough ideas, a tool more for communication more than anything else.

It's not a skill borne from anything too creative, no, it just boils down to the things he needs to know. Maps, structures from top-down and isometric angles. Plans of attack represented by smooth, even arrows like men haven't died following paths he's drawn.

John doesn't like to draw outside of work, not when he remembers how many lives have been mistakenly cut short by how he controls the ballpoint pen.

He's tried, once or twice. It always ends in a deep, stabbing guilt that takes a practiced hand to shake from his shoulders.

Kyle didn't have an affinity for art until his teen years. He'd gone to museums, sure, he knew it took skill, but it had never really piqued his interest in the way it seemed to captivate some people he knows.

He'd been stressed when he picked it up from a friend. Squiggles encased in squiggles on the margins of the page. His English teacher did nothing but mark down his essays for it, but dammit did forcing himself to focus on something else work.

His mother had soon gifted him a set of ink-basked, black liner pens. Middle-of-the-road, in both quality and price, but it was more than enough.

A simple notebook had soon become a haven for him. Dots on dots on dots, lines, big, swooping curves, you name it, it's there.

He holds one rule: No "drawing".

Of course, this feels silly when he tells it to people, but it matters. If he goes into the project with a thought of a desired result, it will just frustrate him more, when it inevitably turns out as less-than-flawless.

So, it's all amorphous. Sometimes it's spiky, sometimes he's almost scarily methodical, adding more and more detail until a whole spread is swallowed up, and his head is mercifully clear.

It's enough to pull him in, but the art always lets him go again, and that's what he needs out of it.

Simon doesn't draw.

That's not to say he doesn't make art, but his is different.

Origami is his trade. It has been for a long time. He'd tear the corners out of pages in school binders, find ways to fold them to make them more interesting.

A book from the local library was what had taken it from a child's passing interest to the work of the rest of his life. More patterns. A way to understand how to make patterns, of his very own.

But, perhaps most importantly, origami was a simple, cheap hobby he could pay for with quarters found on the side of the road. And it was easy to hide

A shoebox beneath his bed was where it resided for about a decade, and then he enlisted.

His first tour, an acquaintance had given him a good set of proper origami paper. He can't remember their name for the life of him, but he remembers them every time he sits at his desk.

Actually, to be fair, he remembers them every time he enters his room at all.

The walls are adorned in paper sculptures, some truly origami, some not. Some composed of thousands of fold and over a hundred hours of work, and some just five-minute warm-up cranes.

It's a soothing reminder that his life is his, now. No matter how bitter the past may be, the tamed roughness of paper on his burned fingertips is there, and his mind gets to shut off as he takes on a project.

He knows how to make cranes by heart, now.