#i found this in my drafts and i polished it up and put it up

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I think I have a mostly-complete outline of my Inklings Challenge story. It feels a bit basic, but the story has to be simple when I’m working with a complicated structure. I spent a few days spinning grandiose ideas for allegory and thematic imagery and clever plot twists and character arcs, but it was quickly becoming way too complicated, and I couldn’t decide which direction to take this story when tangled in this jumble of often-mutually-exclusive ideas.

So I went back to my initial one-paragraph summary of what I thought the story should be, and found that I could accomplish almost everything I wanted from that very simple foundation. I so often get lost in the woods of plotting only to find out that my initial idea was the best, and it happened again here. Maybe that’s not the way to create exciting and surprising new fiction, but it might make a story that I’m actually capable of writing.

Maybe. I still have to work this plot into a series of letters that convey the unique personalities and complicated relationships between these characters--while working in worldbuilding and themes and imagery--and I’m not sure I can pull that off. But as long as I work with a light hand and remember that I can layer in all the necessary ingredients in multiple drafts, I should be able to create something here.

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[cupid-styles]

I don't know if the requests are still open but I'd love a check up on tattoo artist harry cause I just love them so much 🥰🥰

proud (tattoorry/plugrry)

this was originally a patreon exclusive but I've had it in my drafts for months bc I really wanted to share it here!! so here it is! a little wholesome check-in with our cutie pie couple

word count: 2.4k

content warnings: minor mentions of mental health conditions including anxiety, depression, and trauma

only angel (tattoorry/plugrry) masterlist

main masterlist | talk to me

. . .

“Harry?”

Y/N’s gnawing on the skin of her bottom lip as she wrings her hands in her lap, nervousness apparent on her facial features. Harry glances up from his phone — he’s been mindlessly scrolling through cat videos on Instagram for the past half an hour or so, Friends on in the background as he and Y/N sit snuggled up in cozy throw blankets. 

She’d been working up the courage to say something for nearly two hours now, but everytime she went to part her lips and force the words out of her throat, she clammed up.

She couldn’t help the anxiety that crept through her bones, especially because she was used to constantly being looked down on. She knows Harry would never make her feel bad for any choice she made for herself, but what if he thought she was crazy? What if her trauma was too much to deal with? These were the worries that circulated her brain for days, ever since deciding that she wanted to seek out professional mental health help a few weeks ago.

“Hm?” he puts his phone down, locking the screen, “What’s up, dovie?”

Fidgeting with the skin surrounding her chipped nail polish, she swallows tightly. His eyes are analyzing her body language and she suddenly feels small and foolish beneath his gaze, solely because of the trauma from her parents.

They always treated her like she was less than, to the point where she wholeheartedly, truly believed it. In the few months that Y/N’s been on her own and officially dating Harry, he’s been helping her in ways she could have never imagined, but she didn’t want all of her issues to fall on him. It’s the main reason why she decided to find a therapist. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she rasps out, her voice cracking. “I think I’m going to start seeing a counselor. To deal with my, um… parents.”

Harry’s posture straightens and his eyebrows furrow, a concerned wrinkle forming between them. (It always showed up when Y/N mentioned anything relating to her family.) 

“What do you mean?” 

Rolling her lips into her mouth, she prepares the speech she’s been practicing in her head for days. 

“I just know I have a lot of trauma from them and I don’t want you to feel responsible for helping me through it all the time,” she says, reciting the explanation word-for-word, “It’s important for me to figure this out on my own and I want it to come from a mental health professional.”

Harry's look of worry almost instantly morphs into a gentle smile. He reaches out to intertwine their fingers together and gives her hand a small squeeze, much to Y/N’s relief. She was terrified he’d take it the wrong way, but the proud expression on his face says different. 

“That’s incredible, dovie. I’m so proud of you.” 

He leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead, the showcase of love instantly slowing her heartbeat. 

“You’re not mad?” she asks, peering up at him through thick eyelashes. 

“Of course not,” he shakes his head. “I could never be mad at you for wanting to work on yourself. I think it’ll be really helpful for you. Have you found someone yet?”

“No. I wanted to run it past you before looking.”

His heart cracks a bit but he tries not to let it show on his face. “You never have to do that, okay? You’re your own person, baby, and I have no right to tell you what to do with your life. Alright?”

It’s a strange way to look at life after having every decision of her life planned out for her since birth. She’s still adjusting — that much is obvious, but it isn’t her fault, and Harry works regularly to help her realize that in small doses. 

“Would you maybe help me find a person?” Y/N peeps out, playing with his fingers in her lap. Her eyes are set on their hands, still too nervous to look at him face-to-face. Harry, though he has no experience looking for therapists himself, still nods enthusiastically, willing to help her take whatever steps she needs. 

“Why don’t you grab your laptop?” he suggests. She reaches forward to pull it off the coffee table before Harry wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side. She makes a soft ah!, surprised by his sudden movements, which of course results in a small, snarky smile on his end. 

Shuffling so the laptop is in his lap now, he opens it, has her put her password in, and searches up “therapists near me.” His eyes float to the nervous girl beside him, who’s taken up gnawing on her fingernails as he clicks on the first result. It’s a directory of mental health professionals close to them where you can filter by specialities, insurance, and other preferences. 

“Okay, dovie,” he croons gently, “What are you looking for in particular? Someone to help with stress?” 

She shrugs. “Um, maybe something a bit more. Maybe… anxiety? A-and family stuff?”

“That’s a good starting point,” he encourages, clicking on the appropriate filters. Immediately, a number of therapists that originally showed up disappear, but it still leaves them with a decent amount to scroll through. “Anything else? Do you have a preference on gender or how far they are from us?”

“I think I want a woman,” she says before glancing up at him with worried eyes, “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.”

He clicks the “female” preference, resulting in around 15 options for them to look at. She continues biting her nail as Harry scrolls down. He periodically hovers over someone, asking her if she’d like to look at them more. She’ll either nod or shake her head, but in the event of the former, he’ll open their profile in a separate tab. 

Eventually, they narrow it down to three but one isn’t actively taking new clients, so it’s between Leanna, who looks to be around Harry’s mom’s age and is located 20 minutes from Y/N’s apartment, and Madeline, a younger woman with experience in a myriad of mental health concerns. 

Quietly, Y/N alternates between the two tabs, contemplating and comparing their experiences. He can tell that she’s having difficulty picking, but he doesn’t want to say anything to sway her in one direction over the other — he wants this to fully be her choice. 

“I think I like Madeline.” she says, looking up at her boyfriend. Her eyes are slightly rounded, lips parted as if she’s waiting for approval from Harry. 

“Sounds like a good choice, dove. How’d you settle on her?”

Y/N shrugs her shoulders, scrolling down on her profile page. “Well, she has experience with anxiety, depression, and trauma… and I’ve been reading a bit online, and I think I do have some trauma from my parents, so…”

Harry nods, smoothing her hair comfortingly. 

“And I like that she seems like she’s closer in age to us… it might make me feel more comfortable, like I’m talking to a friend,” she explains. He hums in agreement. “She also has a cat at her office, which I really like, too.”

He chuckles and leans over to nose at her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“I think those are all great reasons,” he murmurs.

He won’t admit it tonight because he doesn’t want her to get too nervous, especially if she ultimately decides she’s too scared to go, but he’s infinitely proud of her right now. He’s contemplated bringing up therapy to her for the past few months, particularly right after he helped her move out of her parents’ home.

The fact that she came to that decision herself is enough for him to feel over the moon, his chest swelling with pride. Even if she backs out at the last minute, at the very least, he knows she’s trying her best, and that’s all he could ever ask of her. 

“Why don’t you email her and send your information?” Harry suggests lightly, breaking Y/N out of her own trance of thinking. With a swallow, she nods, clicking on the little mail symbol next to Madeline’s name. 

He watches as she composes an email, her fingers stuttering over the keys every few minutes. He can tell that she’s over-thinking on what to say, but she eventually settles on a short, to-the-point message: Hi Madeline, my name is Y/N and I was interested in seeing you for therapy. Are you taking on new clients at the moment?

“Great,” Harry blurts out once she presses ‘send’. She looks up at him. “You did great.” he amends, a light blush flowering over his cheeks. 

All she does is smile and bury herself into his chest. 

. . .

“Here, why don’t you wear this to your appointment?”

Y/N thinks that Harry may be even more nervous for her first therapy session than she is. 

Although she’s busying around her apartment, getting her things together in preparation for her 11 am appointment, Harry’s movements are just as jerky and anxious. She’s currently looking for her favorite comfy sweatshirt when he suddenly peels off the fuzzy cardigan he’s wearing, handing it to her. It’s the one he bought on sale at Urban Outfitters a few weeks back when they had some time off from work and school. They’d been traipsing through the shops nearby with no intention of actually buying something, but Harry had said that he liked how it felt like a teddy bear. 

“Oh, but you’re already wearing that,” Y/N says with a pout, shaking her head. “It’s okay, I’ll find something else—”

“No, I want you to wear it,” he insists. “Maybe it’ll help make you feel more comfortable? Having something of mine?”

She blinks, slowly reaching out to accept it from his grasp. “What will you wear though?”

“I think I’ve left a few sweatshirts here,” he says, popping up from his seat on the edge of her bed. “Don’t you have that little drawer with all my stuff?”

She nods. It hadn’t really been an intentional thing, but when she told Lucy about it, she explained to her that it was kind of a big deal. Apparently, having a drawer at your significant other’s apartment meant that you were moving in the direction of living together, but Y/N didn’t see it that way. It was more for the sake of convenience, especially if Harry came over after work and decided to stay over instead of heading back to his place.

She walks over to her dresser and yanks open the top drawer. It’s filled to the brim with tee-shirts, sweatshirts, and two pairs of sweatpants, all of which belong to Harry. She glances over at him, embarrassed, and he laughs. 

“Geez, dovie, think you’re a bit obsessed with me,” he teases, grabbing one of the hoodies. She rolls her eyes. 

“You’re the one that leaves this stuff here all the time!” 

“Yeah, but it looks like you’re building some kind of shrine—”

“Oh, shush!” she says, pulling his cardigan on. She’ll admit, the fabric is heavenly, and the fact that it smells like Harry is a massive added bonus. “Are you still fine to drive me?”

He nods quickly once he has his sweatshirt on, grabbing his car keys. “Ready when you are, baby.”

He makes her take a granola bar and a water bottle on her way out, both of them bidding Lucy a goodbye when they exit the apartment. Y/N has a bad habit of not wanting to eat when she’s nervous, but Harry can guarantee that her stomach will start rumbling as soon as she’s done with today’s session. 

They climb into the familiarity of Harry’s car, Y/N taking her usual seat on the passenger’s side. She hasn’t driven much since cutting off communication with her parents. Obviously, she left the car they bought her, and she doesn’t have enough money in her savings to buy another one, even if it’s used or a lease.

Since she didn’t get the job at the bookstore, she’s been looking for other part-time opportunities on campus but nothing’s come up yet. Harry offered to get her some work at the shop, but she felt too weird about having her boyfriend pay her for silly tasks like cleaning up and scheduling appointments. 

Madeline’s office isn’t too far away, and Harry took the morning off to take her. He said — quote — “I’m clearing my schedule, dovie — no appointments, meetings, and certainly no drug deals!”. (That had made Y/N snort over the Chinese food they shared for dinner a few nights ago.) 

The drive is mainly quiet, save for Harry’s quiet music playing in the background. She’s nervous and fidgety in her seat so he reaches over to intertwine their fingers together, giving her hand a small squeeze in her lap. It makes her feel a little bit better, but she wishes Harry could go to her appointment with her. 

When they arrive, Harry pulls into a parking space just outside the door. They have 10 minutes before her session officially starts, but Madeline had asked if she could get there a bit early to fill out some paperwork. 

“Feel okay?” Harry asks, pushing his sunglasses up to his hair. She nods, even though her heart is hammering in her ribs. “You’re gonna do great, dovie. I’ll be here as soon as you’re done.”

“Okay,” she breathes, watching as the clock ticks one minute closer to 11. She swallows harshly and unbuckles her seatbelt, grabbing her bag from the floor of Harry’s car. “I'll be done by 11:45, right?”

“11:45, baby. I’ll be right here.”

“Okay. Alright.” 

He leans over to smear a quick kiss to her cheek and she smiles gently, though it doesn’t completely reach her eyes. She gets out of the car and straightens her posture, pulling Harry's cardigan tighter over her form, and winds around the front to walk in the direction of the front door. 

It’s only then that Harry rolls down his window, despite the wet, dewy chill of the morning. 

“Wait, Y/N!”

She turns around, an expression of confusion painting her features. 

“I’m so proud of you!” he exclaims. He can see her blush from his spot in the car, a wide, toothy grin appearing on her face. “I’m so proud of you, and I love you so much.”

She mouths it back — I love you too — this time with a smile that lights up her entire face. She waves her fingers with one more goodbye before taking a deep breath and walking into the office building. 

Harry can’t stop grinning to himself.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hey! How do I advertise my writing, as a beginner? I want to build a platform. :)

Building a Platform as a Beginner

If you're still at the beginning of your writing journey, I would suggest waiting to share/advertise your writing, and instead focus more on sharing content related to your writing journey. For example, you can share motivation and tips that you found helpful, you can log the work you put in ("Wrote 900 words today!") and share your triumphs ("Finished the first draft!") and struggles ("Having a rough week so no writing this week.") If you're working on a particular WIP, you can share mood boards and inspiration photos--though I would avoid sharing snippets until you've had more experience and your writing is more polished.

The keys to building a platform:

1 - Find your community. Whichever social media platform/s you choose, look around for the people who read and write what you write, and follow them.

2 - Learn proper hashtags. See what hashtags they're using with their posts and figure out which ones apply to your various posts.

3 - Post consistently but not excessively. It's pretty important to post daily if you can, maybe even a few times a day, but just don't bombard your followers with posts so that they unfollow or mute you.

4 - Post a variety of content - Try to vary what you post. Maybe every day you do one "writer's life/writer's log" type post, and then one other post such as a mood board, motivational post, or tip. As time goes on and you get more followers, see which posts do best and post more of that type of content.

5 - ENGAGE WITH OTHERS - This is the secret key that many people miss... you've got to engage with others regularly. If people like your posts, go like their posts. Comment on their posts. Support them by sharing the content they want to have shared. There are community challenges that would be fun to do, do them. Look for ways to get involved when you can.

And most of all... the even MORE IMPORTANT secret...

BE PATIENT. Seriously. This is the place where most people fail. Don't expect to have thousands or even hundreds of followers overnight, or within a few months, even. It takes months and even years to build up a following. If you can build up a few hundred followers in your first year, you're doing great.

Best wishes!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

LEARN MORE about WQA

SEE MY ask policies

VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts

COFFEE & FEEDBACK COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa

[trensu]

Heyyy, long time no post, huh? I'm dropping another chunk of stasis in darkness for you guys! And I wanted to remind people that these posts are basically rough drafts. The final product will hopefully be more polished but in the meantime please enjoy!

--

After Steve convinced the old man he meant no harm, he’d been allowed into the home. The Lord of Night hadn’t been super specific about the purpose of his quest, only that Steve had to bring him to Wayne Munson. Steve discreetly looked around the home as he entered it. The old man was obviously unwell and had been for a while, given the state of the house. Steve had the creeping suspicion that the time limit the Lord of Night mentioned was linked to the man’s health.

“What are you doing?” Wayne Munson asked suspiciously once he had returned to the kitchen with Steve in tow. He had sat heavily in one of the old worn chairs at the table but Steve, instead of joining him, began to clear the table on impulse. Steve halted awkwardly.

“This ain’t your house, boy,” Wayne said with a scowl. “I can take care of myself.”

Steve did his very best not to look at the scattered mess in the kitchen or living room. It was not the mess of a dirty, careless person. It was the mess of someone tired and overwhelmed. It was the mess of someone in pain who was too proud to ask for help. Steve took in Wayne Munson’s watery eyes, wan skin, and the clothes that were plain things, tattered from use, but mostly stain-free. Steve quickly added all these details and came up with a plan of attack. He set the plate back down.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed easily. “I’m aware, but I serve the Lord of Night and he sent me to you specifically. In our god’s name, I must assist you in any way I can.” 

Wayne’s expression wavered. Steve pushed again. He lowered his gaze in a slightly embarrassed manner, letting a note of uncertainty color his words.

“I don’t know what else to do until nightfall,” Steve said. He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “I don’t want him to think I’ve neglected you.”

“What happens at nightfall?” Wayne asked.

“It’s when the Lord of Night wants to see you,” Steve said. Wayne blinked.

“Me? He wants to see me?”

“Yeah! So, if you could please let me,” Steve said, putting on his most endearing smile, “I’d like to take care of you until then. You know, make sure you’re comfortable and get the place ready for a divine visit. If it’s not too much trouble, sir?”

“Uh, no, that should be fine. Is…is there anything I should do?” Wayne asked dazedly.

“Not really. All I know is he really wants to see you tonight. Oh, maybe you’d like to rest until then? A nap, so you’re not drowsy when he arrives.”

Wayne nods, still in shock at the news. He didn’t protest when Steve helped him out of the chair and let him lean his weight on him as they navigated to the bedroom. Wayne sat on the bed as Steve drew curtains closed over the room’s single window. The curtains were thick enough to dim the sun to a pale yellow glow.

“I didn’t know there was anyone else who followed him,” Wayne said as he lay himself down over the covers.

"He told me you’re the only one left, besides me,” Steve told him. “And I only discovered him a month ago by accident.”

“By accident?” Wayne asked with a wry grin.

“My friends found a holy text when we were researching other gods. It was the only one of his in the city's whole library. Then we had a hell of a time trying to find his last shrine. When I finally found it, it was falling apart. He’s been forgotten,” Steve said. At Wayne’s troubled expression, he hurriedly added, “But now that I’ve pledged myself to him, I’m going to make sure people know him again.”

Wayne did not appear convinced, but he finally settled to rest after Steve promised to wake him before sunset. Steve took the opportunity to clean. He hadn’t been lying to Wayne when he said he wasn’t sure what to do until nightfall. It didn’t help that Steve also liked to keep himself busy. Being idle made him itch.

The house was small. Aside from Wayne's bedroom, there was only a cramped kitchen and a modest living room. From the small window of the backdoor, Steve could see a short, worn path to an outhouse. 

Given the size of the house, though there was a mess everywhere, it didn’t take Steve very long to clean it all. When it was done to his satisfaction, there were still a few hours left until sunset so he wandered outside. The porch railing was covered with broad green leaves from intertwining vines but Steve left that alone when he saw the small garden nearby. It was full of ripe vegetables that Steve assumed Wayne had been unable to pick himself given his condition. 

By the time Steve had picked the vegetables, pulled the weeds, and watered the garden, the sun hung low in the horizon. He cleaned himself up the best he could in the kitchen sink and took one of the chairs from the table to the bedroom before waking Wayne.

He told Wayne what he accomplished during Wayne’s repose. While Wayne expressed his gratitude politely enough, it was still apparent to Steve that the old man was irritated at having needed the assistance at all. To keep Wayne from dwelling on that, as well as to satisfy his own curiosity, he coaxed Wayne into conversation.

“Can I ask, uh, how you–I mean, how did you know? How did you know the Lord of Night existed?"

Wayne laughed at Steve’s befuddled tone. The laugh turned into a coughing fit. Steve quickly fetched him a glass of water and put it on the bedside table after Wayne had a drink.

“My family’s a bunch of no-good criminals,” Wayne croaked. “Were. It’s only me now. But before, each generation of Munsons took it up. Like a family tradition.”

“Criminals?” asked Steve cautiously. 

“Thieves and con men. Some ladies of the night, if you catch my meaning. They knew of our Lord of Night and passed the knowledge down,” Wayne sighed sadly. “The life of a criminal ain’t what you call stable. We lost bits and pieces of him with every generation. Like his name. No one’s known his name for a very long time. Is that why he wants to see me? Did I fail him?”

There was genuine distress in Wayne’s question so Steve hid his disappointment. He had hoped the Lord of Night’s last worshiper would at least have a clue about where to start the search for the lost name. He focused, instead, on reassuring the old man.

“I don’t know why he wants to see you, but he wasn’t angry when he sent me. He sounded excited.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Wayne said uncertainly.

“Definitely,” Steve assured. Before Wayne could sink into his gloom again, Steve said, “I know you said you’ve lost some knowledge, but do you know if the Lord of Night has any prayers? I haven’t…I mean, I’ve tried to worship him but I don’t think I can do it right without a prayer. I’m kind of new at all this.”

“My ma used to say our Lord didn’t have patience for formalities,” Wayne said, brow furrowed. “They bored him so he only had a few official prayers. There was one where we’d thank him for any dreams he gave us. I think there was another one that asked for dreams to bring inspiration or something of that sort. I don’t really remember those–ma would be boxing my ears for that if she was still around. I remember the one for protection, since we used that one a lot. It goes: 

Lord of Night,  Guide us through all phases Of the moon; May the dark be free of All dangers, While your many stars burn.

Wayne’s voice cracked into a coughing fit near the end. Steve hurriedly offered him water again once Wayne had caught it again. Wayne took a few mouthfuls and repeated the prayer again so Steve could learn it. It took a few tries, but Wayne was patient and by the end of it, Steve had it memorized.

“Is that the only one?” Steve asked, hoping to learn more. Wayne grimaced.

“It’s the only one I really remember. The Lord of Night prefers stories. My ma would tell us the best bedtime stories. Said they were for our god as much as for me and my brother. I was never good at coming up with new stories, so I retell my favorites or tell our Lord about my days and give him a little offering.”

Steve wasn't much of a story teller. He supposed he could do as Wayne did until he met up with Robin and Dustin again. They constantly chatted about books they’d read. Steve couldn’t help but notice how, once again, his friends seemed a better fit for his god than he was; all Steve could give his god was his shield and sword. It was discouraging. He had to figure out a way to make up for it somehow.

“What kind of offerings?” Steve asked. 

He wanted to give his god more; he wanted to give the Lord of Night something he’d actually like. It wasn’t lost on him that the Lord of Night took him under duress. Who else would’ve been able to complete this quest? 

“When I was young, it was horse shoes,” Wayne chuckled at Steve’s confusion. “Thieves are supposed to give him a part of their loot but my ma and pa were horse thieves. They got horseshoes and would leave one for each horse they stole, tied with a braid made of the stolen horse’s mane.”

“You stole horses?” Steve said, unable to fight off a grin as he remembered the conversation he had with the Lord of Night about it.

“Me and my brother, before he passed,” Wayne said with a weak nod. 

The sky had darkened by now. Steve pulled the stone out of his satchel. He carefully unwrapped it from the cloth and set it gently on the bedside table next to the glass of water. Wayne eyed it quizzically.

“It’s from his shrine,” Steve explained. Without any further fussing, Steve stood up and went to the door.

“Don’t leave,” the Lord of Night said. 

Steve turned to see the god, hooded in his cloak of constellations, sitting in the chair Steve had vacated. The Lord of Night had not even glanced Steve's way when he spoke to him. The god’s attention rested solely on Wayne.

Steve hadn’t seen or spoken to the Lord of Night since he’d been accepted as his holy warrior. The god had needed to conserve his energy, he explained to Steve, so that Steve could complete his quest. The god’s cloak was as mesmerizing as the first time. However, this far from the shrine, the god did not look as solid as he had during the nights he spent with Steve. 

“I wanted to give you two some privacy,” Steve said softly. 

“I think Wayne would appreciate not being alone,” the Lord of Night said. 

The old man stared at the god unblinkingly. Wayne’s expression was one of awe and fear, so Steve did as he was told and stayed in the room though he chose to lean on the wall furthest from the pair. He was still close to them in the tiny bedroom, but it provided the pretense of privacy.

“My Lord?” Wayne’s voice was barely audible.

“Hello. I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” the god said.

[actual-changeling]

aziraphale wants to ask before he leaves.

a question to an answer to a question neither of them ever asked. not out-loud, anyway, silently, yes; over and over and over. plausible deniability was a wall between them, one he had built brick by brick by brick.

questions have never felt right on his tongue. he still wants to ask. he has to ask. he is scared of asking.

(he is scared of the answer)

crowley has always been better at asking questions than him, better at living through the answers or lack thereof, too. in all their time, wall after wall, he had never questioned them, though, not once.

the only thing aziraphale has ever been good at is answering, at avoiding the questions, at giving answers to questions that exist within the borders of his own mind but never outside.

the universe had held a gun to his head and forced him to spit out the centuries of chewed up confessions anyway.

yes to heaven.

no to him.

(no to heaven. yes to him.) it shouldn't matter now. it still matters.

crowley took his answers, kept them inside of his chest, and displayed thorns and bruises and blood. you caused this, he never said, and he never asked why, either. he didn't have to; he knew, has known all along. after all, he put stars into the sky and demanded they remain in the face of unquestionable divinity.

(they lived through it all, stars and supernovas and nebulae)

aziraphale owes it to him to ask the question, no matter what it might wake, what it might destroy. for once, he cannot tell whether he is lying to himself or not, whether he owes it to crowley or himself or to anyone at all.

whether he owes it to god. (whether crowley is what god should be)

he needs to ask, and he will take the answer and swallow it whole. there is no gun to his head this time, but there might as well be, and it is his own hand on the trigger.

do you love me?

there is a shift in crowley's eyes, life glinting and sparking before it disappears again, and he wants to reach out and find it; dig through his memories until it writhes within his palm.

what remains after in the golden tourmaline of his eyes is cold, polished pain, a spark that has died and hardened in the black hole of his absence. metals are flexible, gold is soft, not brittle, and crowley is full of dents and scratches he wishes he could smooth out despite knowing it would not be welcome.

metals don't break. (but when they do they die)

you don't get to ask that question.

salts break, brittle and charged and willing to dissolve on his tongue. crowley asks questions, he loves questions. he questioned god and walked away.

(crowley is metal but his tears are salt)

never, not once, has he denied any being the right to question. aziraphale has orbited around it since before time, since eden, and uz, and golgotha, and rome, and all the kingdoms of the world.

aziraphale nods, and figures there is a first time for everything.

he questioned crowley, grabbed the question and stared at it like his personal sun, waiting to go blind. aziraphale doesn't ask again, walks away, and wonders if this is what it feels like to fall.

-

does this count as a fic idk i found it in my tumblr drafts and made it wayyy too long. character study/ficlet/whatever you wanna call it. unnecessary elemental metaphors bc im a chem major and love it.

[soscarlett1twas]

Midnight Church Bells

↳ Andrew and his brother sneak out. ↳ 2k words / also available on ao3! ↳ This fic is literally a year old lmao?? I was sorting through docs and found this finished draft, so I polished it a bit and here we are. Please forgive past me if the prose is... how we say 'shit'.

The holidays always snuck up on Andrew the same - sudden and unwelcome, but inevitable. This year, he’d been too invested in his studies, and, surprisingly, his own love life to notice much of withering leaves or decorations, but when he turned on the radio and heard those familiar jingles, he groaned in recognition. 

Really, it was none of those things (despite how much he did tire of those songs) that bittered Christmas for him. It was the fact that once the break started, his family would come calling. And despite all protests, his parents would never let him stay at college during the advent. 

“It’s time for the Lord.” His mother’s voice lifted through the phone he propped up on his dashboard. “And family,” she added after a moment. He resisted the urge to slam his head against the steering wheel, instead opting for biting his tongue. The one time his parents didn’t want him studying. 

Her saying that added to the sting of the season. And family. It seemed that this was the only time of year where that was on her mind. 

Which all led him to the same spot he was every December 24th: Sitting on his childhood bed, with whatever book he was currently reading in his hands, and classical music playing from his phone. 

Reclining into his pillow, Andrew lifted his glasses off and put them on the bedside table, a thumb folding the wings as the other worked as a bookmark. 

Yet he didn’t close his eyes. For one of those brief moments in life, he wasn’t thinking, or sleeping, or doing really anything at all. He was just there, in a limbo between sleep and consciousness, hoping that if he purposely derived himself the next day wouldn’t come as quickly.

And he stayed like that for 5 minutes. Or maybe it was 10, or maybe no time passed at all. But eventually he gave in to rest. No matter what, the morning would come and he’d rather not fall asleep during the already tedious sermons in church. So he set an alarm, put his book on the nightstand, and laid down.

He closed his eyes, and it was like he could hear the ringing already. 

Maybe he did.

A soft patter-ing rang just outside his door, the familiar sound of footsteps on carpet blotting the silence. And just as he was about to roll over, Andrew heard his door creak open, and the silhouette of a man leaned into the room. 

“Want to go on a walk?” He whispered, twinged with a sense of boredom. 

Andrew didn’t even need to turn to know who was asking. “Give me a moment,” he sighed, and motioned to push himself off the bed. 

—

“How did you know I was awake?” Andrew asked, still pulling his overcoat over his arms. 

“Your light was on, I saw it through your door.” His brother responded, turning off their driveway onto the sidewalk. He was slightly ahead of Andrew, but slowed a bit so that they were walking together. 

A cloud of mist formed from his breath as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, pulling the coat closer to himself to save some of his last remaining body heat. A near-midnight flit wasn’t what he had planned, but he’d prefer it than trying to sleep. Besides, this may be the only quality time he could spend with his twin during the break. God knows the time they’ve spent at college has already distanced them enough. 

“So,” he huffed, searching for a topic of conversation. “How have you been?” 

“Fine. Uni’s been beating my ass though - we spent practically the entire week leading up to the holidays in the lab, just sweating over our assignments. Jesus, I’m not even a Biochem major but Chemistry is just not letting up.”

It had been years since he was in a lab, but with the track he was on, he got the stress with ‘crunch time’. “I understand. I’ve recently had to rush a project for my Literary Theory course.” 

“What do you even do in that class?” He questioned, half serious, half mocking. 

“Analyze texts, find out how the culture of the author influenced their works.” He could go on: Literary Theory was one of his favorite classes, no matter how rigorous the course was, but he knew his brother wouldn’t care to hear the details. 

Winding down their street, the two carried on talking about academia with a partial interest, not fully understanding either’s field of study but trying to be supportive anyways. Soughing wind bent branches to a static beat as they approached the neighborhood's egress. By and by they were talking about the more social aspects of their schooling: Andrew’s literature club, the parties either rarely attended, his brother’s friends.

“How has your roommate been?” Andrew asked, kicking a rock under his shoe and watching it roll along the concrete. 

“Good.” He sighed out a laugh. “He’s great, actually.”

Andrew glanced over to his brother, and if the slight warmth in his voice wasn’t enough, the red on his cheeks told him everything he needed to know. He chuckled too, and gave a soft nudge on his shoulder, making them both smile. 

In a weird way, they never needed to tell eachother about any of this stuff. Equal parts the awkwardness that surrounded telling your sibling, your twin of all people, who you were interested in and an unspoken alliance against their parents had kept them from ever openly speaking it. But Andrew knew his brother was into guys ever since they were teens, he just didn’t know if his brother had caught on to his own preferences yet.

The stone made a sharp sound as it drifted over to his brother, who promptly kicked it back to Andrew with the inside of his shoe. 

“Helios, right?” 

His brother hummed in response. 

His mind trailed to the man at his college, the one who he had desperately wanted to introduce to him, and found himself grinning at the mere thought. God, he hoped Isaac would like his brother. 

He opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. What would he even say? He trusted his brother, but to come out was something entirely different, and with Christmas just around the corner? No, he’d wait. Right after, though, he’d tell him. Andrew silently swore it to himself. 

“Honestly, I prefer the dorms to the house.” 

That snapped Andrew out of his thinking. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” He stopped abruptly, and threw his arms out in exasperation. “Isn’t it suffocating to you too?” 

Everytime he was in his room, Andrew could only remember the sleepless nights he spent hunched over and studying. The dining table was a barrage of moments he spent silent as his parents and brother fought. The living room was a danger zone, as he never wanted to catch his parents when they were disappointed in his brother, or worse, him. The whole house could burn down and the only memories that would go with it were the most futile. Worse was, even without flames, Andrew felt like he wadded through smoke every time he was in those walls.

He silently nodded his head. His brother just stared at him, as if he wanted voice confirmation. But how can one speak up against the pyre when its fumes had already scorched his vocal cords? 

After a moment, his brother kept walking, and Andrew followed. “I contemplated not coming back this winter.” He muttered.

“As did I.” Andrew responded, suddenly getting his voice back. 

“What could you possibly be avoiding?” 

A million and one answers filled his head, but none escaped him - no matter what he said, not a single one would measure up to his brother's reasons. So why even bother trying to compare? 

His twin huffed as he turned away, suddenly gaining some distance on Andrew, and he let him keep it. 

For a while, the only sound they made was their shoes against concrete sidewalks and the crunch as they occasionally had to step into snow. Andrew brought his hands up to his face, cupping them to breathe and warm himself up. Normally he kept gloves in his pockets, just in case. But, of course, he just had to forget them tonight. His fingers combed through his hair, forcing him to look straight ahead at his brother's back. Again, he bit his tongue. But wasn’t that what had gotten him into this situation, unintentionally pushing his brother away by not talking? He didn’t understand it, but only continuing the cycle wasn’t going to help anything. 

So he opened his mouth, just in time to slam right into his brother. 

He stumbled, but his brother didn’t flinch. Or even look at Andrew. His eyes remained trained to the tree line, frozen in place. 

Regaining his footing, Andrew tried again. “Dar-“

“Stop.” He whispered.

“No, D-“  

“Shut up, Andrew, just listen.” 

So he did. 

For a few seconds, he didn’t hear anything. His eyes fell where his brother’s were focused, though without his glasses, the details were fuzzy. 

Then, a distant chime hit his ear. 

More followed. 

A symphony of church bells rang, each peal like a glimmer in the air. 

Andrew knew they rang the bells at midnight every Christmas Eve, though he couldn’t remember the last time he had heard them. During mass, he could imagine it would be unbearable. But from here? The sound was quite pleasant. 

As the bells continued, the twins stood there, listening to it all. Andrew was the first to tear his eyes away from the church he couldn’t see, glancing over at his brother through the corner of his eye. It was the first good look he had gotten at him in a long time. 

Andrew hadn’t realized how short a decade was. Though in context of anything else, the last ten years of his life had dawdled. But with his brother? It was like the blink of an eye. One moment they were running and laughing, a mirror image of one another - even the Christmas’ were tolerable. Fun, even. The next, blooming into adulthood - mimics of who they used to be.

In fact, the longer he looked at him, Andrew realized just how much his brother had changed. His hair had definitely grown, locked into a short ponytail that hung low with swooping bangs, and he made the full switch to contacts some time ago. He even got taller, and next to Andrew, he was a lofty inch or two higher. Though that could also be accredited to the boots he wore. (Ashamed to say, Andrew didn’t remember when or how he got them. They certainly weren’t a gift from their parents, but did his brother even have a job to afford them?) He was more muscular, which wasn’t saying much compared to Andrew, but he was certainly leaner. The man never made a mention of continuing his secondary school athletics, but maybe he did as an extracurricular? Again, Andrew was straining to remember specifics. Though, he supposed any reason to play was now null, as originally it was a brilliant excuse to come home late without his parents accusing him of deviancy. 

But he wasn’t too alien to him. There was something still familiar to him, like flecks of gold shining through, no matter how small. After all, they began to sneak out when they were fourteen and are still doing it now. There must be something that still connected them. 

Right?

Just as he had that thought, he missed his brother's pass, and the pebble went flying into a curb. 

They walked in silence for a while longer, bells fading to the wind. Eventually they found themselves back on their driveway, and their silence became deafening as they lightened their footsteps. God knows what their parents would do if they found out they had been out so late.

They followed one another up the stairs, crossed the same hallway, and went to rooms adjoining. There was a time they shared one, but that was before they had moved. 

Andrew slipped open his door, the knob turning slowly as to mute itself. As he slipped in, he turned half-way to see his brother doing the same.

His brother looked up, catching his gaze. 

Andrew saw himself in the reflection of his eyes. They were bitter, burning with… not rage. But a violent form of disappointment. 

Andrew was the center of it. And he could smell the smoke wafting. 

[qoeww]

hi hi ! its me again hehe , i was wondering if u could do a prompt , “wait a minute .. are you jealous ?” i saw this prompt on Pinterest ! i was wondering if u could do donnie x fem!reader or gn i dont rlly mind — with donnie getting jealous of his brothers bc reader is getting somewhat close 2 them ?? hopefully it makes sense — thank u thank u !!

WAIT A MINUTE... ARE YOU JEALOUS?

Warning: Nothing

Character: Donnie

Author Note: I'm sorry I waited you so much honeypie, I just lost my drafts for two time 😀 hope you like it (Btw I really like your positive theme<333)

You pushed Donnie's robotic shell with the tip of your foot, he always hated when you act like this but this time he deserves it.

"You gave me a promise D and you are breaking it again-"

"Y/N you really don't understand the situation, it will change the world!"

You laughed through your nose and made your arms scorch. "Yeah, really D? The last time you said that, whole house was flooded with sewage, but I have to admit, the expression on your face was funny." He dropped the wires in his hand and turned to you. "First of all, how dare you? Second, scientists can make mistakes, maybe you should read the news I send you."

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. "Ok, ok sorry. So dear scientist Donnie, would you please put aside your world-changing invention and go out with me?"

"Give me a hour babe."

You gave up, this boy will not leave this machine until it is done. "Let's postpone it to another day, I'm leaving." You could hear his murmur before the door closes to your face.

You looked nervously at your reflection in the door, sometimes the purple turtle was irresistible.

"Hey, are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, just... Why are you here again?"

With a relaxed smile on his face, Leo grabbed your shoulder and pulled you close to him. "Eh, don't get hung up on small details. Why don't you come and watch my perfect new moves?"

"OH YES! FINALLY FINISHED, Y/N LOOK AT THIS!" When he turned his back, only your gym bag and jacket, which you threw on the floor when you came in, were there. Did you leave? He left his room to look for you, and when he found you, he could get help from you to color scale his invention.

Your laughing sound was coming from Mikey's room. He peered through the ajar door, Mikey and you lying on a sheet that had been laid on the floor. There were colorful nail polishes on the sheet, you looked like you were spending quality time with Mikey.

"Eh, sometimes they need time too." He wanted to pull you out of Mikey's room but you needed your limits too. Being a good boyfriend is hard, Maybe he'll come a little later. Splinter was standing in front of him when he turned to leave.

"AH, ah hey dad what are you doing here?" Donnie pushed Splinter by his shoulders, As far from the door as possible, it wouldn't be nice to be caught red-handed.

"I was gonna ask..." Donnie waited for his father as he broke into a cold sweat. If one of his siblings heard about it, he would be a laughing stock at home.

"Can you...Hmm, fix the kitchen drawers? The opening sounds are very squeaky, it's gotten worse since the last time blue one fixed it"

He looked at the door for the last time and nodded.

He loved your laugh, really. But now it makes him so angry.

He was working nonstop to drown out your and Raph's laughter with the sound of the drill in his hand. While he was remodeling the kitchen (if he started something, it must be perfect), you and Raph invaded the kitchen to make a cake.

Your eyes met for a moment, you gave him a small smile, and you went back to the dough in your hand.

He checked all the drawers another five times, waiting for a reaction from you. But you were focused on the dough in your hand, unaware of the purple turtle whose gaze could pierce your shoulder.

OK, OK THAT WAS ENOUGH HE UNDERSTAND WHERE HE DID WRONG-

You didn't expect it to rain, you were staying here with the brothers tonight. You walked out of the room with a comfortable T-shirt on and stretched. The clock on the wall was showing 3 a.m.. Your eyes are dazzled by the light you opened, who made the lights so bright?

You grabbed the pitcher on the counter and poured it into the glass. With every sip you drank, you came to yourself, as if the light was not so bright anymore.

"Oh, Donnald? Bad dream?"

He avoided his eyes from meeting you. You could hear something muttering but you didn't understand.

"Wha?"

"Why don't you sleep with me?"

"What."

"No, no- I... Offf... I mean you are sleeping at Raph's room- Ok that wasn't that hard in my head."

You watched him rubbing his eyelids. All the stones were slowly falling into place, his side gaze today, the purple bandana peeking through the door.

"WAIT, WAIT, wait, wait a minute... Are you... Jealous?"

His arms quickly crossed as eyes widened. "NO, NO I'M NOT-" Your laugh closed all his objections, oh my, who can now "the bad boy" can get jealous too?

"YOU ARE JE-"

"YES, yes I am. Now shut up." He pressed his hand to his lips and silenced you, your body was stuck between the bench and the turtle. "I can act like a complete dum dum sometimes, soooo.. Do you accept my apology?"

You nodded slowly, he took his hands from your lips and placed it on your chin.

He made you forgive himself.

Btw if you didn't read wait a min like this go and spend more time at internet

[cdelphiki]

Jason and the Three Terrors spoilers

So I got an ask I'm going to put under a spoiler to answer! I'm going to include a snippet of my draft of a side story I'll post eventually, showing what's going on in Gotham right now!

HI I LOVE YOUR COMMENTS. Okay, to answer: We do!!!!! I don't now how much of the details will be put into the actual main story, since it's all Jason's POV, but I am working on a side story that's from Tim's POV. I might have it just be one "big" fic where I also have Bruce and Clark's POV and it's basically just jumping through part II showing what's going on with all them. Also Alfred will be preparing rooms for them all, just not quite yet. Bruce knows the kids won't be coming to him yet, but he and Clark are both working toward the four of them moving to Gotham to be with Bruce.

Tim basically figures it all out, Bruce had left the case to him to deal with, and Tim figures out Clark is in contact with the defectors pretty quickly, and once he makes the connection to Jason and Damian being Bruce's kid, he brings all the info to Bruce and Bruce is PISSED lmao. Anyway here's a small snipped from Tim doing the detective work: Its the most polished part I have, but it's still a rough draft. (This takes place on either Friday or Saturday morning, when Tim went over to Clark's house that same Saturday morning.)

-

Tim finally tracked down the League kids. It was surprisingly difficult. Whoever was on their side was good, because the paper trail of them going through airport security was wiped almost immediately after they left the airport. Tim couldn’t find any close up photos of them anywhere.

So it took him a week to figure out where they’d gone, but once he finally figured that out, it didn't take too long to track them down.

They’d bought train tickets to Metropolis, and Tim found where the teenager had exchanged his fake New York drivers license for a real Delaware one. Which was pretty damn impressive.

But it meant Tim had a clear photo of him.

And his first name.

And honestly? Tim was very, very confused.

Because this kid looked exactly like Jason Todd, just bigger, with straighter hair, and a white streak in his hair.

But Jason was dead.

Bruce grieved him way too hard for that to be fake. Jason was definitely dead.

But this kid went by the name Jason… Jason Johnson. Which was Jason Todd’s adoptive mother’s maiden name.

And the eyes were exact.

Tim had run them through a program to compare them to Jason Todd’s and, well. It said exact match. Same with a facial recognition.

When a new photo popped up on his newly created alert, Tim easily pulled the Daily Planet employment records and was able to double confirm. This definitely looked like Jason Todd.

But if he was Jason, why hadn’t he come to Bruce?

Was the League threatening him? Was he afraid to come to Bruce because of that? He’d gone to Metropolis, which was close. Did he know that the bats would figure it out, find him, and help him?

Tim was honestly ready to go straight to Bruce with all this, but he hesitated. Jason’s birthday was coming up in a little over a month, and Bruce was not handling it well.

If Tim was wrong here…

So Tim needed to gather more evidence.

The first thing he did was enlist Kon.

“Tim why are we doing this,” Conner asked, after he’d flown the two of them to Gotham Cemetery. It was just before dawn, so the cemetery was completely abandoned, giving them perfect privacy.

And it was way too early for Bruce to be awake, so he wouldn’t notice what Tim was doing, either.

“I have a hunch, okay?” Tim said, as he walked the last few paces over to the gravestone that said Jason Todd.

Conner stayed back where he landed and said, uncertainly, “This feels wrong. Isn’t it wrong? Like… grave robbing?”

“It’s not wrong,” Tim shot back, “We aren’t digging him up. Just looking.”

“What if I don't want to look?” Kon whined back.

Which was fair enough. Tim didn’t want to look inside coffins, either. But this was necessary.

“If I’m right, there’s nothing to even look at,” he said, “It’s empty down there.” And if it wasn’t empty down there, then they were dealing with a clone.

But the clone clearly wasn’t doing what Ra’s wanted him to do, because he’d gone and stolen three kids right from under Ra’s nose.

Kon held his gaze another long moment, clearly hoping Tim would change his mind. When Tim held the gaze firmly, and didn’t budge, Kon dropped his shoulders and grimaced.

And, finally, looked down at the grave they were standing near. He took a deep breath, then really looked, and his eyes went wide.

“Damn,” Kon exhaled, “You’re right.”

Tim couldn’t help his grin.

“How are you right?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said, “that’s what I need to figure out next.”

[springsketches]

When making my slay the princess OC, I went through a lot of phases in the beginning. Namely because I had to decide what route I wanted her to be a branch off of. My first three picks were the razor, the adversary, and the tower. I thought of doing multiple or all three, but decided to go with the razor. I thought of the prisoner too but she didn’t really click with my vision. I ultimately went with the razor because I enjoy the razor and was a little saddened that multiple routes weren’t really an option. I also felt like the Knightess being a branch from the razor would be the most interesting route because it makes a character hell bent on hurting the mc into a much more defensive character. Still on the attack but less lethal and harder to kill. I decided her route would be somewhat like the thorn’s solely in the way that it is difficult to get. My initial designs ended up with somewhat of a gladiator inspired look because I wanted to replicate the design of the razor in her final form, somewhat as a nod to her roots. While I like the ideas of this I also think it reflects what my initial ideas of the Knightess were, in that she was going to be much more brutal and less sympathetic than her current form. I decided to change her character a lot through development mostly because, when looking up references of knights, I realized that knights are not really just associated with brutality. A lot of depictions of knights showed them being intensely loyal, honorable, or incredibly romantic. I felt that would make the route more fun because it offers variety rather than a character that is prepared for battle and just wants to fight. So she became a character that values honor and chivalry above all else, it’s her drive for everything. Romancing her is an option too even if she’s a little hard to win over initially. I ended up removing the gladiator look more I’m favor of a medieval look. The next two designs more or less became the design I decided to follow more closely as a result.

While this character was initially just going to be uploaded as a clean sketch because I was working on other projects, I wanted to make it look much better as a way to show how I had improved from my first post. I changed the drawing to look like one of the title screens in the demo and wanted it to look really similar if not exactly like one of Abby’s drawings. This sketch is basically the rough draft of the final product. As you can see, I removed some of the plating for the final picture in favor of a less clunky silhouette.

I also decided to put effort into what the tiara would look like on a knight helmet. I decided to make a crown with cross and royalty (fleur de lis) motifs because it’s a reflection of the medieval inspiration I took. This also became my main tease for what was to come:

The final step was giving her her name. Initially I was just going to name her “the knight” but I wanted to see if there was a more feminine name I could use. I found two, the Knightess and the Dame. I chose the Knightess because I felt it suited her better and I learned Dames did not really battle like knights did. Dames just held an equal position of power and moreso knighted people rather than being knights themselves. Also the Dame felt like a name too similar to the Damsel, so Knightess she was. I’m really happy with how the final product turned out from this sketch because I feel I kept the personality my sketches have while producing a polished product. I had a lot of fun making this and I’m glad other people seem to like her too!

[empressofmankind]

BEGGARS SHAN'T BE CHOOSERS - Part I

[Crocodile x F!OC]

SFW

(A/N) Better known as the 'Impel Down' fic, I kept mentioning the past two weeks. This is Part One. Of five? Of ten? I've given up. The total draft was > 12k. So, I split it in 3x 4k. And then, I noticed today the 'first part' had grown to >7k. So, I've split it again. I have a clear end in mind, but how long it'll take me to get there...

Originally, this fic was meant to focus around Buggy, but then a 2.53m unit of absolute bullshit got in the way. Shivs and her world class plans, good gods. Post-Alabaste, the mens are stuck in Impel Down. Shivs is dead set on springing the clown from prison. However, she'll first need to figure out where they're keeping him. On account of his devil fruit powers, she suspects level 6. And she has an excellent alibi to demand visitation to level 6. For once, the legal quagmire of technically still being married to Crocodile is going to work for her. Right? RIGHT??

In this first part, we'll join Shivs and Benji (and Mani!) as they get ready to, and make their way for, Impel Down. That's it, that's all that happens, and it took me near 4k. I am so long-winded. It's a terminal condition, I know.

Tag(s): Considering this is the entré, there isn't actually much to tag for? There's fluff and humour. There's a 10-year-old running around saying the absolute funniest shit as things go straight over her head. We got Mani the scaly golden retriever Bananawani along? Oh, and one (1) good marine.

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Beggars Shan't Be Choosers - Part I

“They're stupid clothes,” Benji said, her brow wrinkling with petulant annoyance. She was wearing a crispy white dress shirt, a green-on-ochre striped vest and grey slacks. She'd refused a dress of any sort. Her flame orange hair was neatly brushed and her small face wasn't covered in grease paint for once.

“I think you look handsome,” Shivs said as she pinned her own red hair up with a two-pronged kanzashi fashioned with golden lotuses whose inlaid blue diamonds had not seen the light of day in years.

“I look stupid.”

“Look. I am not comfortable in my clothes either,” Shivs said and indicated the mid-thigh sheath dress of black lace on dark grey broadcloth she wore. She'd decided on sheer stockings to go with it, but no gloves. 

“You look pretty in them.”

Shivs turned back to the mirror to finish pinning her hair and adjusting her bangs to fall neatly from under the strings of her eyepatch. “That is the idea, yes.”

Benji put her hands in her pockets, kicking her foot, making squeaky noises against the deck boards. “What am I supposed to look like? I don't want to be pretty.”

“You are supposed to look like the most capable and well-behaved child to ever grace the Blue.” Shivs pinched her cheek, gilt bangles jangling. “And you do when you don't stand with your hands wearing out your pockets like that.”

Benji took her hands out of her pockets. They idled a moment, undecided, but then she clasped them behind her back. “Your neck looks naked.” 

Shivs laughed at that because the bateau neckline of the dress could certainly use something. “Yours too.”

She plucked one of Buggy's patterned neck scarves from a drawer and tied it around her daughter's neck, tucking the ends into the vest. “There.”

“You should wear a pretty necklace,” Benji said, though her eyes were on the scarf. She seemed to like that, at least.

Shivs didn't have all that many necklaces conventionally considered ‘nice’. Going through the few she had in her thoughts, she picked up her modest jewellery box. Then paused as her gaze lingered on the bottom drawer of her vanity. Maybe she should… She pulled the drawer open and reached among clothes she rarely wore, patting around until she found the old music box.

Its silver had blackened with age and negligence, but even so, its delicate engravings of waves and tall ships were fine. If she polished it now, the oxidation remaining in the fine creases would help pick out its details better than ever before. She didn’t, of course. And she didn’t open the lid either. She couldn’t remember if it was wound up, and didn’t want to hear its melody if it was.

Instead, she held it with both hands and turned its engraved body as if removing a lid from a jar. With a click, the top section came off. Within the tiny compartment revealed lay a small, gold hoop with a bent hinge. She’d long since let the earlobe puncture it used to occupy close. Taking a thin string from her jewellery box, she suspended it from that instead.

“Like so?” Shivs asked, drawing Benji’s attention as she fastened it around her neck.

“Don’t you have anything sparklier, like your hair thing?”

Shivs brushed the kanzashi. Though the era of having such things aplenty was long behind her, she was loath to detract from the last one that remained to her with lesser gems. Besides, he’d notice.

“Sadly, no.”

“Oh?” Benji gave her the thumbs up. “Gold is pretty too, I guess!”

Part of the reason she’d picked it was that it was 24-carat gold. Just like the kanzashi.

“Can I do your makeup?”

“Only if you do not turn me into a clown,” Shivs said as she sat down at her vanity so the girl could reach her face. Benji grinned and set to work.

When Benji declared she was done, Shivs turned to the mirror and had to admit the little girl was now officially better at this than her. She’d gone for a dark burgundy smokey eye with a flawlessly thin line of gold right at the root of her eyelashes and a touch of white on the waterline. It made the hazel of her good eye pop like nobody’s business. She was pretty sure the dark red lipstick was Buggy’s favourite to use himself.

“I like it,” Shivs said and Benji beamed. “Now, I just need shoes.”

“I'll fetch some!” 

Benji was up and running out of the cabin before Shivs could protest. It was only a few minutes before the girl returned, clutching shoes in her arms. And not just any shoes, either. She held up gold-tinted, faux leather gladiator sandals with six-inch stiletto heels that would be a trick and a half to walk on. Where had she even found those?

“These will look awesome with your hair thing and necklace!”

She didn’t disagree as she put them on, but hoped the floors of Impel Down would be neatly packed concrete and nothing else. She hadn’t walked on heels like these in half a decade. Throwing a long bridge coat the rosy beige of dunes about her shoulders, she turned to the floor-length mirror.

Benji looked her up and down with the pinched expression of a critical, pint-sized costume designer grading their latest creation. “You look very pretty.”

Benji wasn’t wrong. She did look nice. Her mood sank, settling like an anchor in the pit of her stomach. She looked like his wife.

“Why is it OK to lie today?”

“It's not a lie.” Shivs shook the morose feeling and picked up her small black bag, its gilded chain rattling as she double checked its content. “More like, hm.”

“Make believe?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is,” Shivs said as she snapped the bag closed and hung it from her shoulder. “It will be easier to convince them to let us visit if we look the way they’d expect.”

“Why would they let us visit uncle Crocodile? Aren’t those visits for, like, if you’re his mom or sister or baby or something?” Benji’s small face was filled with healthy scepticism, hands in her pockets once again. “We should pretend he’s my dad.”

Shivs flinched and struggled to keep her smile from faltering. “Well, only if we have to.”

“They’d have to be pretty bad people to stop a kid from visiting their father.” Benji took her hand. “I hope uncle Crocodile knows where dad is.”

“I am sure he knows.” Shivs gave Benji’s hand a squeeze. She’d no idea how she’d find out where Buggy was if Crocodile didn’t know. She couldn’t exactly demand that information on legal grounds like she had done with him. “Is Mani ready, too?”

“Yes! I scrubbed her squeaky clean and even picked her teeth and scales. She’s eaten and done a big poop.” Shivs tried to let the girl’s bubbly chatter lift her spirits. “I borrowed one of Richie’s sparkly collars and she looks flashy in it!”

“Sparkly? That sounds amazing.”

“It is! She likes sparkly things.”

“Let’s fetch her then and go before we are too late.”

Benji glanced up at her as they left the cabin. “How can we be late for an appointment we didn’t make?”

“We can be late for the only ship going there today.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Benji had wanted to stand upon the prow as the government ship approached the Gate of Justice out of Enbies Lobby, because the skipper had said the Tarai current that would see them to Impel Down was chock full of sea kings. Shivs sat on a deck chair with a glass of wine, watching the girl run back and forth with binoculars she’d weedled from a matelot. On account of the seastone laminated hull, she doubted they would see any. However, there was no need to dunk on her chipper mood.

They were not the only visitors, more had trickled aboard to form a modest but motley company on the deck. She’d caught snippets of conversations as they walked by: a mother visiting her son; a brother, his sister. And she had a good guess what some of them were whispering about as they stole glances her way. She’d neglected to list any details regarding who they’d be visiting, but, in hindsight, she supposed the pony-sized bananawani lounging beside her gave it away. 

She’d tied Mani’s rhinestone-infested lilac leash to her chair leg, to discourage the reptile from wandering or - worse - deciding to take a swim. Not that she had any illusion as to its ability to pull the chair straight from under her if it wanted to go. But Mani was a creature of habit and minimal effort. A minor inconvenience such as this would be enough to keep her snoozing on the deck.

“Spotted any big ones?” Shivs said when Benji came towards her for a sip of lychee ramune.

“Not yet.” Benji plopped down beside Mani, putting her skinny arm around her scaly neck as she slurped lemonade. “Did you know bananawani hunt sea kings?”

“Really?” 

Shivs remembered the way the casino halls would darken as they swam by, their shadows passing beyond the glass as they glided towards the feeding platform. The unwitting sea king never stood a chance.

“They are their only known predator and totally hunt them,” Benji babbled happily while enjoying her drink. Mani’s eyes were still closed, but she’d shifted to lean into the little girl’s petting. “Do you think sea king tastes good?”

The water would run red but only for a short while, only until the currents whisked it away. Theoretically, the creature could make it out for the Rainbase oasis connected to the Sandora river.

“I bet Mani would prefer sea king chow,” Shivs said.

“I don't think they sell that at the pet stores.” Benji pouted as she hugged Mani. “She won’t be able to have a sea king snack until she’s big enough to hunt them herself.”

Hopefully, that would take a while yet. Bananawani could grow to colossal sizes, dwarfing mid-class tall ships. Shivs had no idea what they were supposed to do with a fully grown one. Or how to afford feeding the beast if there was no prey for her to hunt on her own. Rain Dinners’ bananawani never hunted alone.

Benji emptied her bottle with a big, noisy slurp, waking Mani. “Maybe we should have brought something?”

“A deck would have been nice,” Shivs said as she watched them. “We could have played slapjack.”

“No, I mean, for uncle Crocodile?” 

Shivs flinched.

“You always say that it is nice to bring something when you visit someone. Especially if you want something from them in turn?” Benji scrunched up her face, rubbing Mani’s thick scaly neck. “I have, like, half a bag of marshmallows, but I didn’t think to bring them.”

“I have something for him, don’t worry about it.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Impel Down was a fortress as ugly as it was unimaginative. It spilled onto the rapidly approaching horizon as a grey stain overtaking the limitless freedom of the open sea. And as they drew near on the Tarai current, its squat towers and crenellated battlements came into ever sharper focus until they dominated their entire surroundings. Curiously, there were no cannon embrasures, machicolations or any such defences one might expect from a proper bastion. 

A fleet of warships rested at anchor along the approach to the underwater prison. The modest passenger ship they were on was dwarfed by the marine dreadnoughts they passed as the current pulled them inexorably towards the prison’s colossal gatehouse.

Benji had returned to the prow for the approach, and Shivs joined her there.

“It’s so huge!” Benji stared wide-eyed at the thick walls as they sailed under the barbican and into the secured harbour proper beyond. Mani sat beside her, holding her own leash.

“The vast majority of the complex is actually underwater.” Shivs counted the cannons peeking down at them through the embrasures, out of habit more than anything. She wondered if they had a standing firing crew to man them.

“Are we going underwater?” Benji hopped from one leg unto the other. “The Calm Belts are supposed to be full of Sea Kings! Maybe there will be a window, and I can see one? Maybe there will be wild Bananawani too!”

“It is a prison, so I don’t think there will be windows,” Shivs said in an attempt to calm the girl’s excitement and avoid utter disappointment if that turned out to be true. “It does reach quite a ways below the water surface. A few kilometres, perhaps? Yes, I think so.”

“Wow.” Turning to Mani, Benji added: “Let's find a window, I bet there will be wild Bananawani! You can say ‘hi’!”

Shivs took her by the shoulder when she saw the other visitors disembark. “Come, let’s not be late.”

Benji glanced up at her as they walked to the gangplank. “For the visit we didn-?”

“Don’t say that,” Shivs interrupted her with a quelling look.

“Right.” Benji smiled again and took Mani’s leash. “Come on Mani. Can’t be late!”

They were funnelled through the gatehouse and into a courtyard patrolled by marine sentries. Here, too, cannons peered through embrasures on all sides. Evidently, the prison was more concerned about threats to its security rising from within than without.

“Visitors for level 1 and 2 inmates, that way,” a young marine officer said as he gestured to a colleague. “Level 3 and up, with me.” The few people that joined them as they went to the marine officer gave the juvenile Bananawani plodding beside them a wide breadth. 

The officer led them up steps and into an wholly uninviting lobby. With its worn plaster walls and dirty grey linoleum floor it did its very best to make you want to leave as soon as possible. No seats, no plants, no windows, no nothing. 

“Registration check.” The marine officer motioned them towards the looming concrete counter on the other side of the unpleasant space. “In an orderly manner, gentlefolk.”

Benji put her arm around Mani, leaning into the large reptile and putting her nose against its scales as she eyed their casually hostile surroundings.

“What’s his name?” The marine officer’s tone was amiable, conversational.

“Hers!” Benji said, holding on tighter to the Bananawani.

He tried to catch her gaze with a smile. “Big girls, both of you.”

“Her name is Mani.”

“Ah, ‘she who averts harm’,” he said, and Shivs appreciated his attempts to make Benji feel comfortable. “A wise choice for such a hardy animal.”

“She’s very sweet and tough,” Benji agreed as she snuggled Mani. “I love her.”

“I am sure she loves you very much too.”

“What is your name?” Benji asked. “Mine is Benji!”

“Nice to meet you, Benji,” the young marine said. “Mine is Toby.”

By then it was their turn, and Shivs approached the desk. It was higher than such things normally were, for she was not a particularly short woman and yet she need not bend down to meet the registrar’s gaze.

“State your name and purpose?” the woman said, hands poised to take down the information.

“Figarland Seonaid. Conjugal visit,” Then added when she saw her transcribe it as ‘Sheona’: “That is without the H, and spelled with N-A-I-D.”

The registrar gave a sign of neither interest nor recognition. “Visiting?”

“Crocodile Niall.”

The woman paused when she heard that name. And Shivs ignored the whispers she could not quite catch from those behind her in line.

“Niall. N-I-A-L-L. Not ‘Nile’.”

The registrar flipped through a thick binder, finger running down a table packed with dense handwriting. “No visitation registered.”

“Preposterous,” Shivs said, overacting an affronted tone. “A signed request for visitation has been approved weeks ago.” 

“There is no record of it, ma'am.”

Benji let go of Mani to fling her arms around Shivs’ waist instead, and gave the registrar and marine officer her most watery of wobbly baby looks. “Mommy, I want to see daddy!”

Shivs rubbed her shoulder, giving the registrar the pleading look of parents the world across trying to desperately manage a child on the brink of wailing. Benji's little sob into the fabric of her dress was very convincing. Mani paced around them, uncertain but riled by the sudden change of mood.

“Can't you put in an expedited request?” Shivs suggested, trying her damndest to sound sincere. “She'd been looking forward to it, and we get so few chances.”

“No registration, no visitation,” the woman said as Benji took in a breath to start a wail.

Toby shook his head. “Let me see what I can do,” he said as he produced a small, earpiece Den Den Mushi and put the sea snail against his ear. A few transmissions later, he turned to the registrar and held up his hand. “Two visitor badges, please.”

With due reluctance the registrar handed them over to him and he turned to Benji. “There you go, kiddo,” he said as he gave her one, and then Shivs as well. “Courtesy of the vice-admiral making the curator see reason.”

“You're the best!” Benji beamed. “Look, mom, I am number 17! What is yours?”

Shivs looked at the scuffed 13 on the badge. It reminded her of a poker table she used to deal at, and the memory settled in the pit of her stomach like a fetch of cannon balls. “Not as high as yours, sweetie.”

“Come, I will see you two down to the right level,” Toby said, and led them to the elevator room beyond the lobby. There were four, two on the left and two on the right. He took them to the far right one, the doors opening as they approached.

“Awesome!” Benji said as she rushed inside, Mani hot on her heels. For the elevator was made entirely of armoured glass and provided a grand view of the ocean sprawling all the way across the horizon. The afternoon sun kissed the waves, setting sparkles to the white-capped water. And Shivs felt it beckon in her bones. 

Benji gave him a hopeful look. “Are we going underwater?”

“We are,” Toby said as he put a key in the control panel and turned it.

When the doors slid closed, Shivs suppressed the sudden and overwhelming urge to get out, to leave and never look back. To stay at the surface, where they belonged. I have to, she told herself as she clenched her hands into fists around the chain of her handbag. Bugs is down there, and he hates the dark beneath the waves.

The elevator jolted to life and Shivs closed her eyes, ignoring the sound of the lapping waves against the glass as they submerged, focussing on Benji’s excited noises instead. When she opened them again, they were enveloped in blue. Sunlight still penetrated, sending curtains of light through the water. Less so with every foot they descended, as the blue grew deeper, darker.

“A Sea King!” Benji screamed, spooking Mani as she glued herself against the glass. In the far distance, blurred in the shifting hues of the blue, swam a long, serpentine creature, its body undulating as it made its way from somewhere to elsewhere. 

“It could be the Prince of the Deep,” Toby said as he came to stand beside her. “It has about the right shape. Colour too, perhaps.”

Benji glanced at him, her eyes large and eager. “Prince?”

“Yes, because he is a prince among his kind. The largest Sea King in this part of the Calm Belt,” Toby said. “Ten times larger than Coral Grove, our largest dreadnought.”

“Wow.” Benji pressed her face against the glass. “Mani could snack on that for years.”

“Wouldn’t it be tough for her to hunt such a large creature?” Toby said, not without humour.

Benji rolled her eyes. “Not right now, she’s a baby. But she’ll be big and strong one day! Bananawani hunt Sea Kings, did you know?” she said and babbled the poor marine’s ears off about the large reptiles for some minutes.

As the armoured glass elevator descended to deeper water, their surroundings became steadily darker. Shivs put her gaze on the glass floor and the pitch black abyss below. It was easier to face the darkness approaching than the light receding, the sparkle of the sun on the water surface dwindling as you sank. The sea has never been friendly to man.

Beside her, Benji had put her arm around Mani as she looked up. No more sea kings down here.

“The 6th level is also called ‘The Basement’,” Toby said, making the girl glance away from the ever more distant sunlight. “Do you know why?”

Ghosts in the attic and monsters in the basement, Shivs thought as she recalled the sailors’ idiom about grief with its haunting memories and stowed feelings.

Benji eyed him, holding on to Mani still. “Because it's dark and far down?”

Because nobody goes there if they can help it. Shivs stared at the watery dark beneath their feet. The sea floor might never come and she'd not be surprised.

“Nope!” Toby said, his smile bright in the dimming light. “Because it is where all the cool people stay.”

Benji’s mood lit up. “My unc- Dad, is super cool! He's actually made out of sand, like, for real.”

“Are you made out of sand?”

Shivs gaze snapped onto him like a hawk. He was looking at Benji, fondness soft on his youthful face. He couldn't be much older than 20 or 22.

“I don't think so?” Benji let go of Mani to brush at her clothes, then glanced at him. “Do you want to pet her?”

Toby smiled. “Absolutely.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Horny hell seat reservations - @tiredemomama @smut-goblin @ruledbyproblematique @momodwriter @littlemountainwolf @fanaticsnail @feral-artistry - except there's no horny. Croc isn't even in it either. I feel like a cheat.

[sleepy-gee]

💫stardust - coriolanus/sejanus

the boy was rotten, a recipe for trouble. he knew that. he stained everything he touched, darkened it, corrupted it beyond repair. he stained everything he touched with sin. and yet, sejanus never let go.

💫 trigger warnings/tags: no tw's, just some intimacy :] this is my snowjanus president husband's au where the jabberjay that would've condemned sej died on its way back to the capitol so the two were able to return home and be happy together lolol,,

💫a/n: i don't know what this is. found it in my ao3 drafts, polished it, and here we are!!

Pylades: I’ll take care of you. Orestes: It’s rotten work. Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you. -Anne Carson, Euripides

coriolanus snow may have looked like an angel, golden curls framing his face similar to that of a halo, pale plush lips mimicking the heavens clouds, and eyes so deep it's impossible not to get lost in them, but he certainly wasn't one by any means. at least, that's what he thought himself. lucifer was the fairest of them all before he fell.

the boy was rotten, a recipe for trouble. he knew that. he stained everything he touched, darkened it, corrupted it beyond repair. he stained everything he touched with sin.

and yet, sejanus never let go.

it baffled him. why would sejanus want to touch him? after all he had done? after all he planned to do? coriolanus had stolen, lied, killed, and so much more. all for the sake of himself and himself only. he knew he was a bad person, never pitying himself for it though.

yet, sejanus still married him. still kissed him and made love to him. even after having been on the forefront of it all. he would be dead if it weren't for the damn bird dying on it's way back to the capitol. he probably wouldn't have if he knew about that.

sometimes he'd let himself forget. he'd let go each worry in his mind with each kiss that landed against his sternum, blond locks splayed across the pillow beneath him.

"you're so pretty.. i can't believe you're all mine.." coriolanus' breath hitched when sejanus moved back up over him, kissing him again deeply. the way he licked his way into his mouth so effortlessly was enough to make his heart stop right then and there. 

"i don't deserve it." coriolanus said when they parted for breath, running his hands down his lovers tanned back. "i–"

"don't be silly.. of course you do. you deserve every damn thing you get, coryo." sejanus wouldn't let him finish, already pressing another kiss to his lips. it's not like he could complain.

maybe he didn't deserve it, but he sure needed it. in bed with this man, he got his purity back.. how ironic is that?

sejanus was everything good in the world, everything he wanted to be. it took him some time to wake up, but eventually, he was able to open his eyes and see how much control he did have. how much good he could do. and being married to the president of panem definitely helped with that. the games were abolished, economy stabilized, and famine wasn't as big of an issue as it used to be. panem was finally as great as it used to boast about being.

and sejanus was to thank for all of that.

".. what would i do without you?" the president asked, moving his hands down to sejanus' hips.

".. you don't need me as much as you say you do."

"yes.. i do. i do, sejanus. you're the only thing keeping me from going insane–" he kissed him again, sitting up. "you're the only thing good about this broken world."

"this world isn't broken anymore, coryo.. i wish you'd see that." sejanus kissed the tip of his nose. "we fixed it. you fixed it. we made it a better place.."

"you're the only reason it's not a mess, though.. without you, i don't know what would've happened.."

".. i think we can say that about a lot of things." sejanus took his hand and kissed his fingertips one by one.

"i'm serious, sej. you–" he swallowed thickly. "you saved me."

sejanus tilted his head to the side. ".. what do you mean by that?"

"i mean.. oh, what's the point? i can't put it into words.." the guilt was creeping up his throat like nausea. a happy accident had saved his country from so much heartache.

"well.. i won't force you to say anything you don't want to. or can't, for that matter." sejanus kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. "but for now.. why don't you lay back down for me? i'm not done with you quite yet."

i don't deserve it, coriolanus wanted to say. he let himself fall back anyways. ".. i love you."

".. i love you too. always and forever."

[irregularcollapse]

A Storm That Took Everything

Part II of a fic preview to celebrate Damen Love Fest 2023

Day 2 of the Damen Love Fest, and I have the continuation of Chapter I of my upcoming/WIP gothic romance AU, A Storm That Took Everything! This will be a romantic horror focused on Damen (filling the archetypal role of the gothic heroine) and addressing all of the concepts in the fest prompts as core themes! Ongoing caveat that as this is essentially a draft, I may still make changes before it is posted on AO3. These previews are like an ARC for a book 😆 Now! On to the emotional fallout from Damen's conversation with Jokaste...

Part I

Damen shuts the door behind himself, and when it does not shut out the day as well, huffs with annoyance. He pays little mind to the servant who takes his riding jacket and hat, nor to the smells of a rich breakfast no doubt laid for him already. As he trudges up the staircase toward his own room, he tugs loose the cravat which had been looped lavishly around the collar of his shirt that morning. The thin cake of dirt on the soles of his boots, leaving flakes and granules over the carpet, is enough of a reason to re-dress without interruption.

The conversation with Jokaste has set him off-kilter again. Letting the door to his rooms shut with perhaps too much of a slam, Damen works his riding boots free and leaves them in a pile along with his trousers and tie, just inside the threshold. Now in only his shirt, he sits heavily at his writing desk, slumping to put his forehead to the surface. Jokaste’s elusive smiles and feline eyes had once been a source of equilibrium for him. He could often coax himself to calm with mere thoughts of the elegant slope of her shoulders, the soft angle of her jawline. But increasingly of late, she leaves him more unsettled than when she found him. Her way, perhaps, of letting him know that words are not required to communicate that the stagnation cannot continue.

Or, just as likely, a sign of her mellowing feelings toward him. He frowns into the polished wood. She understands, surely, how it would look—if they were to wed before his father regains health. It would seem like they were angling for some sort of favour. Fortifying their own interests at the crucial time.

Damen’s father has been taking a lot of meetings with lawyers. It has been difficult not to notice, and difficult to pretend that Kastor will not have noticed it too. The outcome of any potential will is already set, but Damen has no desire to take more from his brother than he already is. That would be Father’s decision, surely, if Damen were to marry while he is still alive: to provide added security for Damen’s blossoming family, an extra share—siphoned from various coffers, including Kastor’s. It is simply the way of things, a way that Damen has seen before. Granted, in the cases of his school comrades and fellow officers, they had been the eldest and therefore naturally the first to marry.

The truth of the circumstances between Damen, Kastor and their Father will always be recognised legally, if not socially: though they are both Theomedes’ sons, Damen is the one with the legitimacy of marriage behind his birth.

A knock at the door serves to jerk Damen from his contemplation, despite it being one of pronounced timidity. He blinks, feeling bleary, his forehead aching from being pressed so firmly into the desk.

“Come in,” he calls, a hand dragged raggedly down his face as he does so. On turning in his chair, he is met from the doorway by the hopeful doe-eyes of a new servant, a youth with a mop of tousled hair almost the colour of burnished brass. He has an envelope clutched in his hand, already extended, but his feet hit against Damen’s discarded boots before he can properly enter the room and announce himself. He looks down, assesses the pile of footwear and trousers, and his cheeks flood with a noticeable flush even under his olive-toned complexion. It is interesting enough that Damen’s mind stirs, as well as something small in his stomach. He deliberately adjusts his seat, and asks, “What is it?”

The servant raises his stare and sees Damen, obviously trouserless, at his desk. The flush deepens; the brown eyes widen.

“Captain, you have an invitation. That is, you have received an invitation. You have—You have been—An invitation has been sent to you. To the house, for you.”

“You may bring it here,” Damen encourages with an intentional warmth, and the youth carefully steps around the clothes with the envelope outstretched once more. Just as Jokaste had said, an invitation addressed to Damen’s full title and sealed with both wax and ribbon. The seal is unbroken, and the crest is unfamiliar to him; it would surely be notable enough to Jokaste as well, who is more than expert in the field of the noble families of Akielos. Sitting on the hall console as it had likely been, it would have been obvious to her. Then, she would know the sender as well.

“Thank you,” Damen tells the servant, still indulgent, but does not move to open the letter. “You are newly in my father’s employ, are you not?” The brown eyes widen—close, Damen can now see that they are truthfully hazel, not dissimilar to Jokaste’s. Singular, this far south. The servant’s eyelashes, also singular in their length, almost coppery in their colour.

“Sir—Captain, forgive me. I have not been secured in your father’s employ. It was made clear to me that I have been hired in your employ alone.”

“I see.” Damen will not let it show, the recognition of what this means. For the head of staff to be restructuring given the re-allocations toward his father’s care, reasonable. But for new hires to be made with the understanding that they are answering to Damen alone—evidence of groundwork being laid, in preparation for a transference of command over the household. No doubt, the instructions originated from his father’s chamber itself. “What is your name?”

“Erasmus.”

“A strong name. Very well, Erasmus. You may take my boots to be cleaned, and my trousers to be laundered. I hope to see much more of you, and that we will know each other better.” A dismissal if there ever was one, for both their sakes. Damen makes to turn back to his desk and read the invitation, but Erasmus makes a hesitant, halting sound.

“Captain, I apologise. There is another message. A gentleman is waiting in the parlour. He had an appointment with your father, he said, but your office told him that the meeting would be cancelled. He says that he was hoping—He wanted to know if you had a moment to speak to him.” Damen cannot help the sharpness of his exhale. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, feeling his jaw set. With eyes still closed, he manages a nod.

“Very well. I will be down to handle the matter soon. What is the gentleman’s name?”

“He told me that he has come all the way from Vere. His card says that he is the Comte Régis.”

Part III of Chapter I of A Storm That Took Everything will be posted on day 3 of the Damen Love Fest 🖤🖤🖤

[tulipsaisle]

Character: Yves Kloss from Ikemen Prince

Special Mentions: @flimflam707 @lemeowade

AU: Royalty, fluff, slight angst and comfort

Tropes: Pretend Lovers

Notes: Hello!! I tried my best with this and I hope you enjoy it my SSEvent partner!! Merry Christmas and may your day go well!! And Laemonn, thank you for hosting this event bae!! I love youuu

AND IM SORRY IM LATE TO POST, THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR DAYSJSJDJ health chekups and personal stuff 😔

Yves stood in front of his vanity mirror anxiously. It was the sixth time his hands had found their way to fix the magenta bow tie hung elegantly around his neck.

He had ushered the maids and butlers out a while ago so he could have some space to collect his thoughts.

'Come now Yves, this is not the first time you've done this, so quit being nervous!' He mentally scolded himself before taking a deep breath in a quick resolve, the sudden determination flashed across his face as he squared his shoulders.

Giving himself one last check up, he finally turned away from the mirror and strode out of the comforts of his chamber towards the party. Only to halt in his steps and quickly put a palm on his head in annoyance,

"Ah, I forgot to go see her and pick her up."

Scolding himself, he turned around and fastened his pace in the opposite direction. It didn't take him long before he was face to face with a familiar door that he went way too many times for his liking. Squaring his shoulders for another time out of habit, he lifted his knuckles to knock elegantly on the polished wood.

The door opened slowly by one of the maids in charge of preparing his partner for tonight's party. She bowed then moved to let the prince walk in. Yves practiced the conversation in his head while he was on his way and it was really unlike him. He has never once held back his tongue when it comes to her so why tonight of all nights.

Probably cause of the fear of scrutiny from the other party-goers. Yves closed his eyes in order to collect his thoughts when he heard someone cleared their throat.

It was Y/N and he stared.

And she looked as dashing as ever in that beautiful off shoulder dress. She stood there looking back at him with a smile, but her eyes told another story.

That she was worried about him than she was about the party.

That's when Yves realized he was lucky - almost too lucky for his own good - to have someone like her as his pretend lover.

But he can't help but feel this intense surge of pain in the pit of his stomach once his thoughts came to the conclusion that they were only pretending to be in love.

He quickly brushed that thought away and smiled softly, forgetting the fact that he was semi gawking at her a few seconds ago. Yves slowly walked up to Y/N,

"You look beautiful." He felt the need to emphasize his point. "Well, more beautiful tonight - ah, but that doesn't mean you're not beautiful in your normal attire - it's just - ugh!"

Yves groaned in frustration while the sound of Y/N's bubbling giggles erupted in the background. The remaining maids had quietly left the two of them to their own little world; much to his relief.

"It's okay to be nervous Yves," A soft melodious voice spoke and he looked up to see Y/N smiled at him reassuringly. Even with or without makeup, he still imagined that face of her as something similar to an angel standing before him.

He sighed, "Yes, I just don't want to screw this up."

"It's alright, I know you won't. You got this and you got me by your side."

Yves finally smiled, a full smile this time before extending his arm out for her. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, let's." Y/N hooked her arm happily in his and they both were walking side by side to the party. Y/N was smiling like usual, but she had missed the disdainful look on Yves's face as he desperately tried to hide from her.

He really hates using her in this situation. For a simple public acceptance. He could choose another solution to make the accusations about him mistreating a noblewoman die down. Y/N had defended him saying that it's not like him to do such things. However, knowing how people like to gossip, the belief of Prince Yves being unlucky does not help either. Then comes the part where she declared that she was his lover to prove that he would never lay a hand on any woman inappropriately.

Yves couldn't understand how such a person could willingly throw themselves to help someone like him. He felt he didn't deserve all of this. She doesn't deserve all of this. But she's the one who insisted.

And being a coward he was, he just blindly accepted that. Yves wished he could be more stern and tell her he could handle it himself. Like he'd used to, like he'd always done.

But one simple look from her had crumbled that wall he'd put up to defend that vulnerability. What's more surprising was her quick resolve to stand up and fight back when it was necessary. Unlike him, he would probably let the words hit him and fuss up about it.

The sound of faint music playing cut him out of his reverie and he looked ahead to see the guards standing on ceremony to welcome their prince and his partner inside. They opened the huge door, and one loudly announced their entrance. Yves immediately felt eyes darting at him from all directions. He could sense the slight shakiness in his palms, but the warm delicate hand that held him squeezed tighter in reassurance.

He looked down, and there were those eyes and that smile that seemed to put him at ease every time he met them. Now that she's even closer, it almost felt like there were just the two of them together in the room.

The orchestra began to start the new song, and dozens of couples were already in the middle of the ballroom. Y/N tugged his hand and said, "How about we dance to forget about all the worried for tonight."

Without even waiting for his response, she pulled him with her, ignoring the splutters of surprise from Yves. They both started to waltz and swayed across the room to the music. Y/N was desperate to vibe off the slight anxiousness that was shown on his beautiful features, so the moment she heard the strumming of the strings, her instant reaction was to pull him along with her leading their dance.

Yves felt the coolness of the air wash away his worries as he instantly went along the steps as she led them both. He smiled at her as gently as the rose petals swaying, "You're getting quite good at this." He complimented her, lips inching close to her ears only for her to hear those sweet words. Y/N giggled and teased, "I only learn from the best." She hinted towards the fact that it was Yves who had taught her the basics since her early days at the castle until she had mastered the steps to even lead her partner.

A tinge of pink dusted Yves's cheeks, but he was still smiling. They twirled until the music stopped and another one played all throughout the night. He could feel all those pressures from the stares, the weight of high expectations he put on himself, and the taunting voice in his head washed away into nothingness when he danced with her and heard her laughter.

His eyes split away from her for a second and he could see most of his brothers, especially from the Domestic Faction nodding proudly and grinning in encouragement. Nokto even gave him a thumbs up, of course with a pretty lady in his other arm to which Yves rolled his eyes but he couldn't contain his smile nonetheless.

He focused his attention back onto Y/N and he swore he could feel himself melting slowly just by staring into the lights in her eyes.

'One day,' He swore to himself silently, 'One day, when I dare to face everything, I'll be sure to make you my own.'

He twirled her around once more before catching her waist gently as they both continued to sway, 'I'll have to courage to call you my love, my partner, my companion for real. We won't have to pretend or hide, there'll be no more of that. So please,'

The music slowly comes to a stop once again, signaling the third dance of the party has just ended. Yves leaned down to pull Y/N's hand for a soft kiss, all while gazing at her lovingly.

'Please wait for me.'

There was a hint of rare confidence and determination in his eyes, this time he had ignored the whispers from the other guests, all were irrelevant to him except for one woman in the room that stood right in front of him.

The sound of her sigh and giggles were enough of the confirmation he needed to know that she also enjoyed the party as much as he did. Yves wished he could stop time and savor the moment. His mental promise echoed around his head like it was no tomorrow as if it wanted him to remember and etch in on his brain forever. But he won't mind that.

He hoped she didn't realize there was redness on his face while he was thinking such thoughts about her. However, he didn't realize what was going through Y/N's mind and that she too had been thinking the same thing about him, waiting for the day when she could confess her true feelings for him and be together as real lovers.

-Fin

[manestjerne]

The book of regrets part two

Summary: After you reach a dead end in Latvia, Bucky offers you to stay at his place for the night, but things take the wrong turn.

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: angst, swearing, crying, PTSD, lying, fear of cats (lmao)

A/N: It's going to an end soon, so don't worry, I'll try to wrap it up.

If you have any ideas for MCU one shots, not only about Bucky, feel free to hmu, I have some free time now and I'd use some inspiration, since my first one came out not that bad.

I suggest part one first.

masterlist

I was sitting on the couch next to Sam when I started going through my bag. Zemo was already waiting for us inside. Maybe he wasn’t fond of how we wanted to deal with the Flag Smashers, but he wouldn’t leave them alone, so for sure he wanted to cooperate for now, waiting for the moment to step in. But we wouldn’t let him, already agreed on that on our way home. Bucky was standing  behind the counter, pouring himself a glass of whisky while looking at me closely, I was surprised he didn’t spill a drop, not paying any attention to the bottle. 

„You ever considered that you might have an alcohol problem?” He rolled his eyes in response. „Alright, so what’s the plan now? We lost them, Capshit America is probably looking for us right now, and well…” 

I didn’t finish the sentence, looking at Bucky and he only nodded at me, understanding what I was talking about. I finally found what I was looking for, taking a bottle of nail polish out from my bag and setting it on a table carelessly, before taking a closer look at the chipped polish on my nails. I saw their confused faces, but totally ignored it, opening the bottle. 

„I asked you a question, morons.”

„I guess we’ll wait for now. There’s nothing else to do.”

Bucky said with a shrug of his shoulder, emptying the glass in two gulps.

„You’re a little crazy, you know that?”

Sam was looking at me closely and I laughed at his words.

„There’s nothing better to do, if we have to wait for now.”

I wanted to say something more, but got quiet as I heard the wind drafting through the apartment. I knew what it meant, and I wasn’t wrong, two silhouettes with spheres appeared in the room not long after.

„Your time is up.”

Ayo said it clearly and calmly. I wasn’t going to argue with her, still believed that Zemo wasn’t so necessary. He deserved whatever they were planning on doing with him next. I didn’t raise my gaze, fully focused on my nails, when I heard the loud footsteps in the hall. Now more intrigued I looked up to see John entering the room. I rolled my eyes with a loud sigh.

„Were you following us? That’s kinda creepy, stalker.” 

John looked around slowly, not sure what’s happening, but he made a big mistake at the beginning. Walking up to Ayo, really closely, he chose to introduce himself, it wasn’t a surprise that she didn’t reply, turning to Bucky they exchanged a few sentences in a language I didn’t understand. 

„John, take your little friend and leave, you don’t want to get involved in this.” 

They both chuckled at my words, not even looking at me, but the next thing he did, could kill him. He put a hand on Ayo’s shoulder, trying to convince her to talk. Big mistake. He was taken to the ground within seconds. I didn’t flinch, knowing it was coming, Bucky’s jaw clenched again when he was looking at the fight scene happening in front of us. Suddenly Battlestar flew over the coffee table I was sitting at, knocking over my polish bottle and landing at my feet.

„I warned you.”

He looked at me disgusted, before getting up and trying to help John, but they were obviously loosing. 

„Bucky…”

Sam stared slowly before they joined in. I finished painting the last nail and took a closer look at what’s happening, when Ayo unattached Bucky’s arm, it felt on the ground with a blank clank. He looked even more surprised than us. Dora Milaje used their chance to immobilize both John and his friend, leaving them panting on the ground. Ayo took a look at the room, I realized someone’s missing. 

„He’s gone.”

It was the only thing she said before they left. The room got quiet again, the exhausted breathing was the only sound filling it up. I got up and walked to Bucky, as he attached his arm back on. 

„You good?”

I wanted to say more, I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know what to say, the whole situation was so unexpected.

„Perfect.” He gave me an annoyed look with these words. „Guess we should go now, there’s nothing else for us to do here if Zemo’s gone.”

I didn’t ask any questions, knowing the situation is not fully handled yet, I decided to just follow them, wherever they were going. 

„Let me take that, your nails aren’t fully dry yet, huh?”

Sam chuckled as I bent down to pick up my bag and I didn’t’t resist. He was laughing, but it wasn’t honest, there was nothing to laugh about. I took a last look at John kneeling on the floor.

„Do you need any help?”

My question made Bucky and Sam turn my way instantly, I could hear their breathing now.

„I’m gonna destroy you. All of you.”

„Well, alright.” I turned my back to him and followed the guys to the exit. 

„Okay, so where exactly are we going? Not that I don’t trust you, but you’re traveling a lot lately.”

Sam smirked at my question, the travel was indeed pretty long. Now we were sitting in a car and I guess we’re pretty close to our destination. 

„Home. We’ll catch up when we know anything.”

„Oh.”

My murmur probably sounded pretty disappointed as they both looked at me surprised. 

„What? You’re going to miss us?”

He teased, but I realized I wasn’t supposed to go home, I told Tony that I’m staying at Nat’s for a whole weekend. 

„No, just…” I didn’t know what to say, I furrowed my brows „Just guess I’d have to stay at Nat’s. Tony won’t believe we got in a fight or something.”

I knew what I just said sounded a little weird for them, but they must’ve figured it out.

„You didn’t tell Tony where you’re going?”

Bucky asked a little worried, he turned his face to look at me again. 

„Yeah, not really, I didn’t have time for that.”

I shrugged my shoulders when he raised an eyebrow. 

„He’s gonna kill me if he knows.”

„Yeah, but he won’t know, I just can’t come home ’till the end of the weekened and you’ll be fine.”

I rolled my eyes, he was so damn annoying just staring at me. 

„He doesn’t hate you, Bucky. He forgave you. A long time ago.”

Now both of his eyebrows were raised, the wrinkles on his forehead more visible than usual. He wasn’t expecting that, but his expression changed quickly. He turned back, not looking at me.

„You can stay at my place, we can get some more info about the little rebellions and try to track them.”

I raised my eyebrow, not sure if he’s joking. 

„Yeah, not such a bad idea.”

I was waiting for his reaction, for a laugh or something, but nothing like that happened, he wasn’t joking. After a few moment of silence Sam bursted out laughing.

„Man, you two are so weird.”

He shook his head slowly.

„Sheets in the bedroom are clean, take the bed and I’ll stay on the couch. Towels are in the drawer under the sink, I don’t have any fancy body washes and you’ll have to stick with a regular shampoo, no conditioner.”

He was saying casually while unlocking the door. I was still processing what I was doing there, just listened closely as he continued.

„The fridge is empty, but I have to go to the bar for a moment, so I’ll step in a supermarket, any special wishes?”

„You have to go to-„ 

I started confused, but when he opened the door a little silhouette slipped between my ankles. I took a few steps back, looking as he kneeled and picked up the snowy white cat, putting it on his shoulder before entering and turning on some lights in the hall. 

„That’s Alpine.”

He tossed his keys on the little table before taking off his shoes. „That’s why I have to go, when I’m away my neighbor comes here to take care of her, I need to tell him that I’m back. Are you coming in?”

He looked at me confused, scratching the cat behind her ears as she stretched lazily in his arms. 

„I didn’t know you have a cat.”

I said walking inside slowly and closing the door behind me. I bent down to take my shoes off as Alpine jumped off his hands and came closer, sniffing me carefully before rubbing her head along my calfs. I froze, too scared to take a step forward. I never told anybody I’m afraid of cats, that’s not healthy. I knew how lovely the little creatures could be, but their teeth and sharp claws always made me feel uneasy. Bucky started laughing at me, before picking her up and walking towards the kitchen, filling her bowl with food as she meowed hungrily. 

„Are you scared of cats? You have to be fucking kidding me.”

„You have a cat? You have to be fucking kidding me.”

He rolled his eyes in amusement, watching as she crunched on her dinner purring softly. 

„Look how adorable she is.”

I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He looked so innocent just standing there, adoring it. Just genially happy about having someone. Something. 

„Okay, I’ll be back in like half an hour.”

He said after we watched Alpine devour her meal in silence. 

„I’m coming with you, I’m not staying here alone with her.”

He shrugged his shoulders and left me without an answer, picking up his keys and heading towards the door. 

„Bucky, wait!” 

I struggled with putting my shoes on, really not wanting to stay here without him. He leaned on the door and watched me with an amused grin.

„It would be easier if you untied the laces, you know that?”

„Oh fuck off.”

I groaned when he held the door open for me. 

„That’s funny, you know?”

I started with a grin.

„What now?”

„Hi James.”

A cute girl polishing glasses behind the bar smiled softly at him. 

„Hi.”

He replied with a smile before lowering his gaze and leaning on the countertop on his forearms. His smile faded as looked at me, I was absolutely amused by their short, yet cute interaction. He rolled his eyes taking a sip of his drink. He only wanted to come in the bar for a second, but when Yori offered us to keep him company, I was more than glad to agree. 

„You act so tough, not caring about anyone, and then you come back to your little kitty and snuggle with her on the couch.”

„He’s not as heartless as you think.” I turned my gaze as he spoke, as amused as I was „He just can’t keep a woman close, but I know deep inside he’s just a little shy.”

He grinned, looking meaningfully at the dark haired girl, before looking at me again. She was still looking at Bucky with a little, cute smile on her lips. 

„No way, you went out with her! You didn’t call? Oh you asshole, she’s so cute.”

I whispered, trying not to look at her. 

„Right?” Yori chuckled softly at my reaction.

„Okay, you two have to stop immediately.”

Bucky was absolutely loosing his shit now, sitting between us. 

„Maybe you’ll have more luck…” 

Yori winked at me, which caused me and Bucky to mumble indistinctly.

„Oh no, no.”

„We’re just friends.”

„Not even friends, we just know each other for a long time.”

„Sure.” He smiled politely at our reaction.  

I got quiet at his words, picking up my glass and staring at the liquor inside before taking a sip. The silence between us got pretty pleasant after a moment, but I still didn’t like it.

„Are you gay?”

I asked out of nowhere, amused smile formed on my lips at his reaction. 

„Alright, that’s enough for you.”

He took my glass and drank whatever was left in it. 

„You’re just so close with the guys, you know. You have so many friends, but I’ve never seen you getting into a closer relationship with a woman.”

„Steve never told you about my youth?”

He raised his eyebrows and I furrowed mine in response, remembering what Steve told me. He was good at that, and it made his friend jealous, all the time. I thought about it for a moment. 

„Okay, my bad, guess the war changed you. Can I get one more?”

I waved at the girl behind the bar and she smiled politely before pouring me a drink.

„It’s not about the war, trust me.”

His smile was surprisingly polite as for the topic. I knew it wasn’t about the war, just didn’t want to make him talk about it. I raised an eyebrow at his answer. 

„Okay kids, I should get going, it’s pretty late for such an old man.”

Yori yawned lazily before getting up. 

„Oh, I believe you’re not the oldest one here.”

I smiled an he patted my shoulder lightly, then winked at Bucky. I shook my head slowly, when he greeted us once again and left. 

„Everything’s closed now, guess we’re not having dinner tonight.”

He wasn’t looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he was blaming me, or just stating the facts.

„Whatever..” I mumbled finishing my drink, the bar was getting less crowded every minute. „Let’s just go if you’re so impatient.”

He rolled his eyes before getting up and reached his hand in my direction to help me off the stool. I was much shorter than him, which meant my legs were swinging in the air all the time, not reaching to the ground. I ignored his gesture and smoothly jumped off my seat. 

I walked out of the shower and went straight to his bedroom. I didn’t argue with him about him taking the couch. I remembered how Steve had trouble sleeping in the bed when he first came out of ice, I guessed it was the same thing here, so there was no need to quarrel. I was squeezing my hair with the towel and pushed the door open slowly, when I saw Alpine sitting on the bed, licking her paw, not even looking at me. I turned back immediately, walking into the living room again. 

„Take your cat from the bed, I’m not sleeping with her.”

He smiled at my reaction.

„She’ll come here in a minute, but it’s basically her bed, so you can’t just throw her out. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

He looked worried, but I believed it was just my mind, he didn’t really care. 

„I’m fine.”

I turned my back to him, ready to walk away and scare the cat off myself, when he spoke up again. 

„It was easy to get you to sleep here, you should be more careful.”

I faced him absolutely confused, I had no idea what he meant.

„First of all, you’re not a stranger.” I paused for a second, wondering why the hell was he smiling. „And secondly, you asked me to come here only to protect your own ass, you know Tony can’t stay mad at me for too long, but it’s different when it comes to you.”

I walked in the bedroom annoyed by that weird interaction and started to push the cat gently off the bed. 

„Shush, go! Come on, leave!” 

I whispered, making sure he couldn’t hear me from the other room. Alpine gave me a grumpy meow before jumping off and leaving the room through the slightly opened door. I rolled my eyes and went under the covers, throwing my towel on a chair nearby. I sighed loudly and rolled on my back, not tired enough to fall asleep, but not so wide awake do to anything else. I looked around the room, it was decorated nicely. The plants on the window sill, matching perfectly the candles between them. A small desk, covered in neatly organized notes. I took a closer look, these weren’t notes. I stood up from the bed and walked to the desk, sitting on the chair and closing my eyes when it squeaked, hoping it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. I took the papers in my hands. These were drawings. Bucky had a cat, and used his free time to draw. Surprisingly, they were good drawings. I looked through them making sure to not be too loud, when my phone ringing under the pillow made me jumped in my seat. I dropped the drawings and rushed to pick it up. 

„Nat?”

I whispered confused.

„You okay? You didn’t answer any of my texts today, girl don’t do that again.”

She sighed relieved. 

„Oh yeah, sorry, busy day. I’m staying at Bucky’s place tonight, I’m alright.”

„Why didn’t you just came here?”

She asked offended and I laughed at her reaction. 

„We still haven’t figured it all out, don’t worry Nat, I’m really fine.”

„If you say so.” She sighed again „Just don’t ghost me anymore, or I’ll have to tell Tony where you are.”

„Oh sure, like you’d do that.” I laughed, but I was actually glad she was so worried about me. „Goodnight, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

„Night, love you.”

„Love you more.” 

I replied before hanging up and putting the phone back under my pillow. I pulled the covers up to my chin and closed my eyes, now feeling pretty tired. 

„Who were you talking to?”

Bucky yelled from the other room, but I didn’t reply him, just rolled over and tried to fall asleep. 

I woke up in the middle of the night, struggling with catching a breath. I reached to the lamp gently and turned it on, when I realized it’s just Alpine, sleeping on my chest.

„You have to be fucking kidding me, you little demon.”

I hissed and tried to push her off, but she just purred in response. I froze for a second not sure what to do, so I raised my hand slowly and petted her head. She rolled on her back, now looking at me. She was actually pretty cute, her bright eyes reflecting the soft light from the corner of the room. 

„Okay, let’s go.”

I looked at the clock, it was almost 3am. I tired to get up and not piss her off, but suddenly she stood up and looked through the half-open door. She jumped off the bed without my help, but stopped when she reached the hall, turning my way and meowing loudly. 

„Shh…” I hushed at her. „Just go.”

But she didn’t leave, she was just standing there looking at me, and it freaked me out. 

„Okay, I’ll get myself a glass of water if you insist so much.” I got up lazily „I thought cats aren’t afraid of the dark.”

I stopped for a second, realizing I’m talking to a damn cat. I shook my head and followed her to the kitchen, she gave me one last look before snuggling into Bucky’s side. I poured myself a glass of water, thankful that he sleeps with a light on and I didn’t’t have to walk here in complete darkness. I took a few steps closer to him. I was right, he slept on the floor, but it wasn’t’t anything unexpected. I took a closer look at them, thinking he looks so calm when asleep, but then I realized how hard his fists were clenching. Alpine wasn’t sleeping, just looking at him closely like me. His jaw clenched and he rolled to the side. I took one more step to make sure I’m seeing this right, he just had a nightmare. I was thinking about waking him up, but didn’t want to disturb him. Then I thought again. If I had a nightmare, I’d want someone to wake me up. I kneeled besides him and put my hand on his shoulder gently.

„Hey, Buck.” I whispered „Bucky it’s fine, wake up.”

He sat up rapidly and pushed me away with one, strong swing. I lost my balance, putting my arms behind my back to ground myself when he opened his eyes, absolutely terrified, for a second I thought I saw tears in his eyes. I wasn’t expecting that, backed away a little when he started looking around the room.

„Hey.” I snapped him back to reality „What happened?”

His eyes met mine and I felt a sting in my heart looking at his impression, he was absolutely lost and frightened. I thought it was just a bad dream, but now I knew it’s worse than that.

„Did I hurt you?”

His breath was heavy, his eyes wandering around my body as I was sitting on the floor, pretty close to him.

„No, I’m fine. I’m okay Bucky. What’s wrong?”

He ran his fingers through his hair before answering. I moved a little closer, not wanting to scare him, but trying to reassure him that it’s fine at the same time. 

„Nightmares.”

He mumbled and I jerked my head to the side.

„About HYDRA, huh?”

„I can’t really get rid of them.” He shrugged his shoulders and I stood up to turn on another light, so I could actually see his face while talking. The little lamp wasn’t enough for me to figure out his whole impression. This time I sat down even closer to him, pulled a corner of his blanket to slip it under my thighs.

„Bucky, it’s over. You’re fine and you’re safe. You’re alive, that’s what matters.”

I wanted to comfort him so badly, but I had no idea how.

„Yeah, if you call that living.”

I sighed loudly at his answer. 

„Does anything help you with these nightmares?”

„Not really, they just come and go.” He stopped for a second to think about it. „But there are things that make it worse, I think it’s because of what happened in Madripoor.”

My eyes widened at his answer, visiting Madripoor as an Avenger, with Zemo by your side, couldn’t be a good idea. 

„Okay, get up. That’s gonna be a long talk. DoorDash?”

I got up from the floor and made my way to the kitchen, taking a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the cabinet. 

„You should just go to sleep, I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t move from the floor, taken aback by my reaction, but I just rolled my eyes. 

“I’m fine. Are there any pizza places opened nearby?”

“I guess.”

He shrugged as an answer. I walked back to him and sat on the couch, placing the glasses on the coffee table and filling them up. 

“What happened in Madripoor?”

I asked without waiting for him to join me on the couch. 

“We had to talk to Selby, but you know, people there aren’t quite fond of us, so basically me and Sam had to play some dress up.”

“Oh fuck. Let me guess, if Zemo was the one who came up with this, you were the winter soldier, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, finally getting up from the floor. 

He wanted to say something else, but when he grabbed his phone I let him have the space he needed at the moment. I used that minute of silence to examine his presence. 

He looked tired, but that was not surprising. He looked depressed and crushed, but that also wasn’t anything new. The thing that surprised me, was the T-shirt he was wearing. Since he freed himself from his past, he used to always wear long sleeves, gloves when he was going out. Steve used to scowl about it all the time. He would do anything to not look at the metal arm, the constant reminder of who he used to be. I was surprised by how casual he was about it now.

“But I guess what I did there was pretty useless. She’s dead and the serum is gone.” He threw his phone on the couch. “Our pizza should be here in about half an hour.”

My eyes widened even more as he nearly put these two things in one sentence. 

“Selby is dead? You killed her?”

“No, of course not. Sharon did.”

The shrug of his shoulders made me want to punch him in the face.

“What the fuck Bucky?” I shook my head trying to clear my mind for a second. “I don’t like her.”

I mumbled quietly, trying to focus on what we were really supposed to be talking about.

“She basically saved us.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I rolled my eyes. 

“Is that because you were always jealous of her? Is it about Steve?”

A smile started forming on his lips as he spoke. 

“Okay, you’re the one who always avoid talking about him, so don’t do this now or I’ll wipe that smile right of your face.” I said angrily, but my impression softened when the room was filled with silence again. “I play the piano, you know? That’s pathetic.”

Great way to continue a conversation, good job.

“What?” He gave me a weak laugh, probably not expecting to hear something like that. “It’s not pathetic, maybe not useful either, but still a nice skill to have.”

“I saw your drawings.” I said and bit my lip. He raised an eyebrow but then must’ve realised he left them in a visible place.

“These are not mine.”

He said carelessly, trying to fool me. 

“You wouldn’t keep them if anyone else made them.”

“I’m more sentimental than you think.”

My eyes followed his finger pointing at a small, decorative bowl on the coffee table. I reached inside and went through all the stuff in it, when my fingers met a familiar shape. I pulled my bracelet out slowly and took a closer look. I gave it to him the last time I saw him, together with a note, which surprisingly was resting at the bottom of the bowl too. I took out the crumpled piece of paper and cringed as I read it.

He was messed up pretty bad after the fight with Tony. I made sure everyone was safe before leaving. As I checked his pulse, I gently put it in his pocket, making sure he knows I don’t regret anything, I don’t blame him. The bracelet was made out of amethyst, I got it from my mother as an amulet, it was supposed to just keep me safe. When she passed away I put all my beliefs in that little piece of jewelry, but at that moment I believed he needed it more, I made sure to put that in the note too. 

“I don’t believe in this whole crystal bullshit.” He started slowly when I was still scanning the evidence of him trusting me the whole time. “But I keep it in my pocket whenever I leave.”

“Okay, but don’t try to change the topic, I know these drawings are yours.”

I finally looked at him. I didn’t know what to say about the stuff he kept. I guess I never thought he would do that.

“Sketches, not drawings.”

“I like them.” I smiled as he finally admitted he made them. “Okay, moving on to the part when you said you’re not living. You’re not just existing Bucky, that’s much more.”

He filled our now empty glasses with a loud sigh. 

“So you never regretted what you did? For Steve? I mean, for me basically.”

“Stop avoiding this topic!” I pouted my lip in frustration. “I don’t regret anything, I helped you get your life back, for gods sake!”

“And what kind of life is it, y/n?” He groaned, almost as annoyed as me.

“You’re fucking alive, Bucky. That’s what should matter to you as much as it matter to me. You have your mind back. After all these years you’re free, isn’t it enough?”

I started panicking, nearly stuttering when I was saying that. I couldn’t understand why he can’t appreciate anything he has now. 

“I’m not free. Not at all, everything reminds me of my past. Everything and everyone.” He clenched his metal fist tighter, like he suddenly remembered it’s still there. “I still have to redeem. I’ve hurt so many people, it’s not like I can just forget about it.”

“You were hurt! Why can’t you think about that for once? You were the one suffering for so many years, stripped of your dignity and basically brainwashed. Can you think about yourself for a moment?” I looked him in the eyes as they were getting more glossy with my every word. “Please Bucky, just focus on yourself for once, you deserve it.”

When he finally opened his mouth, the doorbell rang and I could see how relieved he was before getting up. The unbearable silence was disturbed by his footsteps and continued when he came back and tossed the box on the table. I didn’t reach for a slice, even though I was starving. I needed his reply first, knowing I won’t be able to swallow anything now. 

„It’s not that easy.”

I let out an annoyed sigh. Is that really all he can say?

„Was she suffering much?”

He looked puzzled for a second, but caught up pretty easily. I was asking about my mother. I put the bracelet back in the bowl, when I realized I still have it in my hand.

„It was quick.”

He shook his head slowly not looking at me. 

„Was that the deal? Or was she just in the wrong place?”

„There were supposed to be no witnesses. She wasn’t my target.”

„She died thinking I wasn’t safe.” I felt tears in my eyes, I knew I shouldn’t say that, I was supposed to comfort him. But the memories of my past sinked deeper as I thought about it. „I think she knew I'll be fine at some point, that she put all her trust in Tony. I just hope she knows I’m alright now.”

I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand and shrugged my shoulders. I reached for a slice of pizza and left the box open.

„What did he do?” He asked calmly while leaning in to grab a slice himself. „Your father.”

„Well, that’s a long story, not for today. But we have our reasons to care more about mom.”

He nodded slowly, I appreciated he didn’t push. Alpine settled comfortably between my legs and I decided to give it a try, putting my hand on her head and petting her lightly. She purred in response. 

„You deserve a rest Bucky, from your thoughts. You’re not just existing, you can live a life now, just as Steve did.” I paused for a moment, watching his reaction and wishing it wasn’t too much. „I know how it feels, when you think nobody trusts you, but-„

„But he left.” He cut me off, but I let him speak, waiting for him to open up. „Isn’t that a sign of mistrust? You saw what happened there, what Ayo did. They don't trust me, because I don’t deserve it. I don’t know how do you want me to live a life now, when I can’t even trust my own mind.”

„I trust you.” My answer was quick and careless, but absolutely honest. „I came when you called, I stayed here for the night. I trust you. Sam trusts you too. All the Avengers trust you, Buck. Steve left because of Peggy, not to run from you.”

After I got quiet, the room was filled with silence once more. I was impatiently waiting for his answer, caught myself stroking Alpine’s head as I had to do something with my hands. I smiled at her as she stretched and rolled on her back, letting me pet her belly. 

„There’s no reason to not trust you. Your past doesn’t define you, it wasn’t you. We all know that. Just try to accept that.”

„Sam wanted us to come over.” I rolled my eyes as he changed the subject. „Do you maybe want to go see him tomorrow? His sister really does need help.”

My eyes brightened as I realized what’s on his mind. He was just trying to do what I’ve said, believe that people trust him. He wanted to spend more time out of his apartment and chose me to accompany him. 

„Sure.”

I woke up pretty much more tired than I was while falling asleep. Our talk was pretty time consuming, but we had to get up in addition to go see Sam. I burried my face in a pillow before getting up and lazily dragging my feet to the kitchen, hoping coffee would help me survive the day. How surprised I was, when I saw Bucky already sitting on the couch, dressed and showered, with coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He didn’t look at me, but I still tugged on the hem of my shirt, now embarrassed that I just got up and didn’t even change from my pyjama.

„Coffee in the pot is still hot if you want some.” He said turning a page. „You should get ready, I’m not driving at night, it’s your fault you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

I raised my eyebrow and poured myself a cup before turning back his way.

„Are you reading a newspaper? What are you, like 80? Oh, wait…” 

I furrowed my brows with amusement when he finally looked at me.

„We’re not ever going to talk about what happened, are we?”

I asked walking back towards his bedroom to get ready.

„No.” 

His calm answer followed me all the way down the hall.

[pullhisteeth]

okay so… i’m aspec, and i wanted to start off with how much i love how you characterize eddie! his sweet persistent attentiveness is totally what draws me to him. anyway… since you asked for requests, what about eddie reacting to being told reader isn’t ready for sex yet, or maybe that juxtaposed with when they are ready? eddie being patient and happy to hold off… maybe putting an emphasis on nonsexual intimacy or even nudity without it being sexualized? idk just a few ideas, you don’t have to include the aspec stuff if you don’t want but just the reader not being ready and focusing on other ways to feel close to him would be amazing 🥺

hi!!! I found this in my drafts - I am so sorry it took me so long! big love 2 u. <3 (gn!reader, suggestive themes, angst, Eddie being a sweetheart, mention of drugs)

-

Frustrated, you bring your knees up and kick your comforter down, over your legs and to the end of the bed. The cool air hits your skin like a wave, and it brings enough relief that you can close your eyes for a moment.

The sheets feel like wet sandpaper tonight, clinging to every inch of you. Your pyjamas are nearly as bad.

You turn over and squint through the darkness at the clock beside your bed. It's just past two in the morning, and you huff another irritated noise when you realise you only have four hours until you have to be up for work. You can see it now: you'll drift off, hopefully, at some point in the next few hours, only to be rudely awoken at 6:15 by your alarm. You'll drag yourself into work, where Fiona, the lady you open with on a Friday, will tell you that you look like hell and offer you a modafnil. You'll decline, and when you clock off in the afternoon, you'll head home, fall asleep, and wake in the middle of the night to repeat the process.

You're not sure where she gets the myriad of drugs she seems to carry with her. For a while, you assumed she just had a hefty prescription – she's at least in her late fifties, and age hasn't dissuaded her from smoking a pack a day – but sometimes you catch her at the dishwasher or by the bins out back, swallowing something from another orange bottle. Once, when you were emptying the trash, you found one. It was Xanax.

Maybe there's a drug for this, you think. Because, surely, it's some kind of disorder, a syndrome, something abnormal. Your beautiful, lovely, sexy boyfriend, kind and wild and falling for you, and you still can't find that urge to rip his clothes off.

You turn onto your back again, head slotted between two pillows, and stare blankly at the ceiling, turning over the previous evening in your head. It burns, the embarrassment, like white-hot fire under your skin. Your hair flares, lifting from the hot shame, when you think about his face, the drop of his hands from your waist, the awkward way you let yourself out and came home. He didn't call.

-

"I'm gonna go clock out."

You reach behind your back to untie your apron, using your elbow to push through the kitchen door back into the diner. Fiona barely turns to acknowledge you from where she's hunched over, polishing a glass, giving a short noise of agreement as you make your way to the staff room. You pull yourself through your routine, throwing the apron in the hamper and shoving your timecard into the machine, before you stop before you reach for your bag.

You realise that you have no way of getting home.

Eddie usually picks you up, but he won't be here today. And you're tired, so tired, too tired to walk home. You'd only finally gotten to sleep a few hours before you woke, just as you'd expected. Your legs feel like lead.

As you mull over your options, you pull your bag over your shoulder and grab your jacket. And when you push the door open, you nearly cry, because sat in his usual spot, right by the door, is your stupid, lovely boyfriend.

He looks up at you when he hears the door, and the first thing you notice is how tired he looks, too. He's a little puffy, almost like he's only just woken up – his hair tells you the same, curls going wild amongst one another, sticking out at every angle. He wears a sad smile as his gaze lingers on you, and you feel yourself nearly crumble under it.

He stands as you make your way over. Just as he does every day, he takes your bag from you and slings it over his own shoulder, and he reaches out and takes your hand, and it's then that you let go.

The tears come quicker than you can stop them, silent, hot rivers running down your face. He tugs gently on your hand, urges you out of the door, not giving his usual quick-whip goodbye to Fiona, and pulls you across the lot to his van.

When he opens the door for you as he always does, helping you in and dropping your bag by your feet, he rubs your knee with one hand and takes your face in the other.

"We're gonna talk about it when we get home, 'kay?" he says, and his voice sounds just as tired as he looks. "Please don't cry."

All you can give him is a nod, but he takes it, squeezing your knee as a quick goodbye before closing the door and jogging around to his side. The ride home is quiet, besides your sniffling, and his hand plants back on your knee for most of it. You look out the window and feel the sun on your face, made hotter as it passes through the glass. Your eyes close and you breathe, and as it paints your skin with a golden heat, you begin to think that maybe this won't be as bad as you've made yourself believe.

You like Eddie's home, perhaps moreso than your own. Yours is lonesome, but Eddie's is full of love. His uncle likes photographs and souvenirs and clutter, and it makes their little trailer feel like the warmest place on earth.

Today, though, it's tainted, edges burned by the memory of the night before. You daren't think about it, too worried about crying more than you already have, but it's difficult when you have to look at the door you slammed in Eddie's face 18 hours ago.

"C'mon," he says, squeezing your thigh and opening his door. You pull your bag onto your knee and do the same, hopping out and following him slowly up the steps. Inside, he takes your bag again, hanging it on a hook by the kitchen, while you take off your sneakers and traipse over to his couch. You don't dare to sit down, though, until he's back by your side pleading with you to.

"What's got you all wound up, hm?" he asks, taking your hand in his, and his voice is like honey, making you want to cry again. You breathe in a short, sharp breath instead and try desperately to ignore the white-hot burn of exhaustion and shame behind your eyes.

You sit and he follows, using his other hand to wipe away the tears as they come. You must look a mess, you think, all tired with huge, dark marks beneath your eyes and cheeks wet from crying. But he's looking at you like he always does, fond as ever.

"Why'd you run off like that last night?" he asks.

"I-" You try to answer, but the words are lost on you, lodged in the thickness of your throat. His arms wind around you and you lean in, lost to the familiarity of it. Your sobs, broken by hiccups and broken breaths, are in freefall.

He soothes you, leaning back so you're lying on his chest. His hands run up and down your back as he kisses the crown of your head and whispers that it'll be okay, that you're okay, we're okay.

"I'm sorry," you say into his t-shirt.

"For what?"

You wish you could tell him, and you wish he wouldn't ask. Isn't it obvious? You stormed out, you slammed the door in his face, you didn't call, you let it get this far, you led him on knowing you'd feel like this.

"For crying on your shirt," you say.

He chuckles and you feel it, the deep rumble of laughter in his chest. He twists underneath you, turning the two of you on your sides to lie facing one another, mostly so he can get a good look at your face.

"I have other shirts," he tells you.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising."

"Sorry."

He laughs again and you can't help but break a smile.

"So," he begins. "Why'd you go?"

"I just…" You sigh and he sees the way your face twists, contorting into something like frustration, so he eases the grip of his arms around you to let you sit up. You do, leaning on his bent knees, and look up to the ceiling. 

"I feel… I feel like I've led you on."

"What?" He sounds surprised, which in turn surprises you, because surely he can see that that's what's happening here.

"Eddie, I don't know how to… I can't explain it."

He doesn't say anything. The couch dips and creaks as he sits up, knees crossed, opposite you, imploring you to try.

"I... I can't give you what I'm meant to."

He looks back at you bewildered, and for a brief flash you feel the burn of frustration. You'd usually find this endearing, but all of this would be easier if he would fill in the blanks by himself.

"I don't want to have sex, Eddie."

You watch the dawning of realisation on his face, the twist and the widening. His eyes search your face as you hold it in, the dam close to bursting again, and then he softens.

"Oh, baby, you should've just said."

He reaches over, a hand on your ankle, holding you there as if to stop you leaving.

How could you ever?

"What do we do?" you ask him after a beat. You're looking at one another, you at him because you're sure this is the final time you'll get the chance, and him at you because he's sure he's never loved anybody like this before in his life.

"What do you mean?"

"Eddie, don't make me-"

"You're not leaving me," he tells you. It's not a question, or a plea, but a statement of fact. You're here, with me. You're not going anywhere. I'm not going to make you go anywhere.

"I don't want to," you say quietly.

"And," he begins, inching closer, taking your waist in his big hands to pull you in. "I'm not leaving you."

He resumes his position on his back, you pressed comfortably to his chest. You feel his heartbeat, quicker than usual, and feel a pang of remorse that you've made him so nervous.

You think back to the evening before - when he'd got handsy, and you'd liked it, but then the clothes had started coming off and you'd freaked, pulling your things into a bag and running out the door before he could stop you - and it's suddenly muddied by distance, a memory trapped somewhere far away.

"I'm just not ready," you tell him, cheek to his chest, feeling his fingers run through your hair.

"'S'okay," he murmurs. "I'll be here if you ever are. Or if you never are. Either way."

-