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authorandartist13 · 1 year

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Respite--An Outsiders fic

“You sleep at your folks’ last night?” Discomfort creeps up his esophagus. “Nah.” Johnny wakes, and sleeps, and wakes again. There's a cycle to his couch-crashing, but he always feels a lap behind.

Hey hi hello! Welcome to my first (published) Outsiders fic. CW: Brief verbal/physical abuse of a minor, mentions of alcoholism. Not extensively detailed or graphic, but keep yourselves safe. We're gonna hit it with some homey comfort and a touch of angst for flair, folks. Here we go!

The Curtis place is separate from the outside world.

Here, it’s quiet. Johnny usually can’t stand the stale, tense silences lining the walls of his house, but this quiet just–isn’t that. It’s full, somehow, with the rustling of turning newspaper pages and the soft drone of the refrigerator in the background. And the inevitable clattering pots and pans from Soda’s attempts at cooking, of course.

The screen door slams, and a haze of cigarette smoke announces Dallas’ presence as he ambles into the room. “Hey, Johnnycakes.” He kicks up his feet in the recliner. “You stayin’ the night?”

“Probably.”

“Sweet deal.” Dally frowns at the television. “What’re you watching?”

Johnny shrugs. “Dunno. Was on when I got here. Haven’t really been paying attention.”

“It’s Antiques Roadshow,” Soda calls from the kitchen. “Pony’s convinced he’s got a winning baseball card that’s gonna put him through college.”

“It could!” Pony says, indignant over the commentary of an appraiser examining a dusty trombone case, sans trombone. “Sometimes they show sports stuff, and most of the time it’s worth at least a couple hundred bucks.” Disgruntled, he adds, “Which I keep tellin’ them, but all they wanna watch is football.”

Darry pokes his head out from the kitchen entryway. There’s sawdust mixed in with the flour in his hair. “And I’m telling you the only thing that’s gonna put you through college are your grades, little buddy. You finish your homework yet?”

“Pretty much.”

Darry raises an eyebrow.

Pony throws his hands in the air. “Alright, alright, I’ll go do the rest of it. Hey, Johnny, holler if they start looking over trading cards, yeah?”

“Sure.”

As soon as Pony’s out of sight, Dallas snatches the remote up and changes the channel. An old stick-’em-up western rattles through the crackling screen. Johnny thumbs through a pack of cards, half-watching two gunslingers trading leveled stares across the wavering heat. Dallas flicks a napkin scrap at him.

“Deal me in, kid. Or are you playing fifty-two card pick-up?”

“Might be once we’re finished,” Johnny says, dividing the cards between them. “And you chuck ‘em all over the place.”

Dallas raises a wry eyebrow. “Don’t bet your milk money on that one.”

When Johnny whips him in poker, the house erupts with so much noise it drags Ponyboy out of his essay-induced stupor.

*****

Johnny wakes to a hand on his shoulder. Blearily, he sits up, maybe a little faster than necessary. Soda’s standing over him, his hand now gone. Johnny’s skin feels suddenly cold without it.

“Hey,” Soda whispers. “You need to be home by now?”

Johnny glances at the clock on the wall, remembers it got broke last week from one of Soda and Steve’s wrestling matches, and digs out his watch. Six-thirty. Shit.

He pulls himself up with a smothered sigh and makes quick work of collecting his things. “I better,” he says, tying his blackened shoe laces. “Thanks, Soda. Tell Darry I said it, too.”

Soda shoots him a thumbs-up. Before Johnny can slip out the door, he says, “You sure you gotta go? We can keep you here, if you’d rather. You know what Two’ll do if your ma shows up.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, but he knows his face says otherwise. “I just…nobody else will clean, so.”

“Yeah.” Soda sighs, smiles, and slugs Johnny in the shoulder. “But it’s no use running to a bad appointment, huh? Take the scenic route.”

“Sure, I’ll do a lap around your house. Should be scenic enough.”

Soda laughs. “Get outta here, Cade.”

He doesn’t have to tell Johnny twice. He’s already late. He ignores Soda’s advice and takes a shortcut through the lot back to his house, partly because he’s gotta slip inside before his folks notice and partly because dawdling in the streets means getting jumped (not that many socs are cruising for bait at this hour). The early morning dew seeps through his sneakers as he braces to climb through his bedroom window. He lands as soft as he can manage and works his way through the house, cleaning as he goes. There’s no room in the trash for the drained beer bottles littering the couch, so he bags it up and drags it outside.

When he steps back inside, his mother’s waiting for him.

Her eyes are roaming, coagulus, like they’re made of gelatin in their sockets. Not sober, then, but coming off it enough to recognize him. He shifts in his soggy sneakers, hand itching for his backpack, a jacket, anything. Instead, he braces.

“You been back at that Curtis place?” Her voice is ragged, like a rusty blade against a telephone wire. Last night was a fighting night. A sobbing one, too, by the rings around her eyes.

“No’m.”

“Where you been, then?”

“The lot.”

“Bullshit.” She spits. “You’re playing house with those kiss-asses.” He doesn’t–won’t–respond, and her jaw clenches. “Isn’t that right? You’d rather rob them blind than be grateful for what you’ve got here.”

“No’m.”

“Don’t you contradict me.” She reaches for him and he steps back. It’s a mistake; her knuckles flash against his cheek in a slap. “You think you’re so damn smart. Them Curtis boys have nothing to their name for a rag like you. They’ll be in the lock-up by winter.”

She said the same thing last year, and the year before that. Johnny doesn’t bother taking note.

His silence has gone on too long. He has to remember to match her temper, but he can’t. His bones ache.

Her hand is like iron around his bicep. She leans in close, and he can smell the liquor and stale coffee on her breath. “You think they’ll keep taking you back? Go on, then. Their parents thought they were so high and mighty, it’s only natural for the sons to inherit it, too.”

“I can clean the kitchen.”

She throws him down by his hair. “God help me for such an ungrateful son.” A kick lands home in his ribs. He scrambles to get up, to get to the sink. The water’s scalding on his cracked skin. “I’ll give you something to whine about.”

But she must be too bleary to follow through, because her footsteps thud up the stairs, cursing him all the way. Johnny scrubs until his hands go numb, and then he takes out the trash again.

*****

The next morning hails a vicious wind.

“Incoming,” a voice calls, before an arm is slung around his shoulders.

“Hey, Two.”

“Hey yourself, punk. You beat up any socs today?”

“Not yet.”

“Eh, you’ll get there.” Two-bit ruffles his hair and they make their way down the sidewalk. When they stop to let a herd of cars pass by, Two-Bit’s gaze finds him more closely.

“You sleep at your folks’ last night?”

Discomfort creeps up his esophagus. “Nah.”

“You weren’t at Soda’s.” No, he wasn’t. Johnny tries not to leech too many nights in a row. There may not be a schedule to his couch-crashing, but there are limits. He tries to make up for it. If he’s got an extra five bucks, he’ll slip it in the tin bank in the back of Darry’s closet. Cash is hard to come by with no job and a constant cycle of beer runs for his father, so other nights he dries the dishes.

“The lot,” he says, eyes darting away to avoid Two-Bit’s frown. He’s not doing this right now.

“Yeah,” Two-Bit says slowly. His hand comes up to feel Johnny’s forehead and Johnny bats it away. He doesn’t like when Two-Bit gets serious. It’s murky, unnatural. “You know my ma don’t mind making up an extra bed.”

“Bet she wouldn’t mind you making your bed, either,” Johnny says, and a flash of playfulness returns to Two-Bits eyes.

“Man,” he says, as the cars clear and they cross the street. Two-Bit pauses on the other side to flip off a particularly rambunctious Mustang. “She’d think I’d undergone a traumatic event. Got early Alzheimer's or something.”

Johnny lets himself scoff, and laugh, and doesn’t question how better to hide the rings around his eyes. It’s only gonna get colder, he thinks darkly, so he might as well get them tattooed on now.

*****

Buck’s is the opposite of quiet. The minute the door opens he’s flooded with wobbly light and warbling music loud enough to make him shout at the stranger silhouetted before him.

“What?” The stranger is shouting, too, but Johnny guesses it has more to do with the fog in his eyes than Hank Williams’ dulcet tones.

“Dallas!”

“Oh, fuck him,” the stranger drawls, and slams the door in his face. Johnny sighs.

He should go. He should probably, definitely go.

The wind whips a collection of ripping trash bags into the street like clattering tumbleweeds. From a cloudy window, he can see a silent game of pool. Someone picks up the eight-ball and chucks it into a beer pong table, sending booze sloshing. The apparent champion of beer pong clobbers him.

Johnny’s feet stay rooted to the spot, mesmerized, so he moves the only other set of limbs he’s got left and pounds on the door. One, two beats. Three.

The door catapults open. “--ucking girl scouts, we’re not buying shit,” Buck snarls, but at least it’s Buck. Better chance of being recognized, anyways. He blinks at Johnny. “Whaddaya want?”

“Is Dally here?”

“No. Go away.”

“Wait–” Johnny sticks his foot in the door, ouch, and fails to shut his trap. “Can I just, uh.”

“Spit it out, kid.”

“Um. I’m supposed to meet him, to–pay him back, for–can I just wait upstairs?”

Buck rolls his eyes. “Don’t go spelunking up there, y’hear?” The door is graciously removed from Johnny’s foot and he follows Buck inside. Standing surrounded by the ruckus is dizzying, and he presses through the bodies towards the stairs before he disorients himself. He prays no one is shacking up in Dally’s room and knocks for good measure, but miraculously, it’s empty. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it.

He’s almost asleep when the door knocks into his back.

“What the–Johnny?”

He scrambles to his feet, rubbing his eyes at the figure above him. “Hey, Dally.”

“The hell you sitting watch at the door for?” Dallas asks, collapsing onto the bed with a cigarette balanced between his lips mid-light.

“Fell asleep,” Johnny shrugs.

Dallas grunts. “Buck said you were here to pay up.” He looks at Johnny over his lighter. “We both know you don’t owe me shit, so what gives?”

“Lot’s cold. Didn’t want to bug anyone.”

“So you’re botherin’ me, huh?” Johnny’s face must morph into something aggrieved, because Dallas snorts and swipes a hand through his hair. “You know I don’t mind, kid, wipe that look off your face. I’m crashing,” he adds, puffing down the cigarette and crushing it out beneath his boot, “Extra jacket’s in the drawer.”

“What?”

“For a blanket, man,” Dallas says, like Johnny’s a little too slow on the catch-up. “You want the floor or the bed?”

Johnny pulls open half-filled drawyers until he finds Dallas’ leather jacket, the sheepskin matted but soft beneath his fingers. “Floor’s fine.”

Dallas rolls his eyes. “No it ain’t. C’mere, I don’t bite.”

Johnny settles on one side of the twin mattress, back to Dally and the coat beneath his head. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, but small as he is, Johnny’s taller now than he used to be. They make it work, spines brushing, Johnny swept into a dreamless haze by the sound of Dally’s slow exhales and the dilapidated country swing reverberating below.

*****

“Man, I’ll beat his fucking head in,” Steve says, lip curling as he prods at the lump forming on Johnny’s forehead. “He do this last night?”

“This morning,” Johnny says, and reigns in a wince. Steve’s not exactly known for his gentle bedside manner, but the DX has a stocked first aid kit, which is all he needs. He’s sitting on the counter and feeling stupidly small while Steve–dare he say–fusses around him.

“I swear on his fresh-dug grave, Johnny. He’s gonna kill you one day.”

“Don’t I know it,” Johnny mutters, misery creeping in. He smashes it down. “It ain’t so bad, really. Just slap some ice on it or something.”

Steve clicks his teeth. “Yeah, all right. Soda?”

“No, I’ll–” But he should’ve known Steve would blab to Soda the second he got a chance. Johnny figured Soda wasn’t working today seeing as he’d yet to mother-hen circles around him, but he must be putzing in the back.

“Wait here.” Steve wanders into the back garage, hollering. “Sodapop! The kid’s here.”

“Ponyboy?” Soda comes back into view with Steve, greased towel over one shoulder. His eyes land on Johnny. “Johnnycakes! You–well, shit.” He turns to Steve. “Can you grab some ice?”

“That was supposed to be your job,” Steve retorts, but he snatches Soda’s towel and cracks open the freezer.

“Soc or your old man?” Soda asks, clearing the space between them in two long strides and leaning in close to Johnny’s face. His brow pinches as he resumes Steve’s prodding with much gentler hands.

“Him,” Johnny says. It’s getting old, honestly, admitting he can’t hold his own against a sorry bastard unfit to walk most nights. Soda hums.

“Did he get you anywhere else?”

“Nah.”

Soda raises an eyebrow as Steve returns, ice wrapped in the work towel. Johnny presses it to his face. “It’s fine.”

Soda looks unconvinced but relents. “You’re coming over for dinner tonight?” It’s phrased like a question, but Johnny knows there’s no arguing. He doesn’t want to refuse anyways, not tonight, but if he did there’d be guilty hell to pay.

“Only if you’re not cooking,” he hops off the counter and lets the smile play up his lips at Soda’s mock offense.

“Well, excuse me for enjoying the subtle art of presentation,” he says. “You’re in luck, though. Darry’s making chicken gravy.”

Johnny can practically feel his stomach growling. “Catch you then, man,” he says, and wishes the whir of A/C could follow him out the door.

*****

The rumble of a pickup warns its slowing advancement on him. Johnny shirks to the curb as it idles to a crawl, hackles raised. His blade is heavy and warm in his pocket. He can’t read the plates in the foggy light of fallen dusk.

“Need a ride?” The driver calls, and he just about shakes his teeth, he’s so riled. Then the driver leans out the rolled-down window and he can make out a familiar jawline, a permanent cowlick. “Johnny? You headed to ours?”

Darry. Johnny’s shoulders sink with relief, and he lets his hands fall slack in his pockets.

“Yeah,” he calls, and climbs in the cab. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Darry glances at him sideways as he signals himself back into the right lane. Johnny’s pulse matches the brief patter of the blinker. “You shouldn’t walk by yourself this time of night.” The way he says it–not bitten out or tensed, like he does with Ponyboy, but softer, almost apologetic–proves they both know Johnny’s well aware of what trouble he could bring. Darry worries about Pony’s casual shirking of danger, but Johnny.

Johnny doesn’t need a lecture.

It sparks a strange warmth within him, the knowledge that Darry cares. He doesn’t know how to hold it in his hands next to his blade and bottle caps.

“I’m alright,” he says, watching trees flit by. Wondering whether a soc would’ve been hiding behind any one of them, had he kept going. A small, rational quadrant of his brain knows there likely wouldn’t have been, but safety breeds his freedom to speculate. He’d rather waste time hypothesizing than prove his theories, anyways.

Darry hums and turns on the radio. Old jukebox rock ambles through the station.

There lives another part of him. A deeper and steady calm that thrums through his veins any time danger is confirmed. The part that hooks his fingers around his blade and trusts in it. That flips up his jacket collar and sneers, kicks the scared puppy in him aside for something rougher to unearth itself across his features. The part that knows, unequivocally, that he will never be made a slick-mouthed soc’s ragdoll again. He doesn’t think about how he’d stop it, only that when he’s backed into a corner, a primal instinct quivers down his spine, itching for release.

Darry’s right to be more worried about Ponyboy than him.

“How was school?” Darry asks. The Curtis folks used to ask him the same thing. Darry’s filling their shoes as best he can–better than anyone else Johnny knows–but it still feels uncanny hearing the same phrases coming out of his mouth.

“Not bad. Had to dissect a crayfish in biology.”

“Oh yeah?” Darry smiles. “I remember doing that. We had to do deer hearts too, during hunting season. Dad and some other families brought them in.”

“Did you cut ‘em open?”

“I stuck my fingers through the arteries and everything. The smell hung around the department for days.”

Johnny scrunches his nose. “Gross.”

“Yeah. Nice step up from worms, though.”

They pull into the driveway. Johnny makes to get out, but Darry doesn’t move, only unbuckles and lets the keys slip out of the ignition. He turns to face Johnny. “I opened the tin bank today.”

Dread makes room in his stomach. Not enough, it’s not enough. They cannot afford groceries, not with a revolving door of strays.

“Soda and Ponyboy said they haven’t put anything in.”

He’s going to get a job. He’ll get a job doing–something. Someone will hire a good-for-nothing greaser, and if they don’t, he’ll have Dallas teach him how to hustle pool.

Darry’s gaze is piercing. “Have you been adding to it?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I eat a lot, man.”

Darry huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Have you met Soda? Two-Bit? No offense, but you eat like a bird compared to them. You–” he stops, sighs a little. “You don’t owe us anything, kiddo.”

That’s a load of bullshit if Johnny’s ever heard some, but arguing with Darry is firmly against his self-preservation complex. Besides, it’s easier to quietly disagree than to register the option that maybe the Curtis’ really are just that stupid good.

“Johnny?”

Or, worse, that they’re right.

“Thanks, man.” He lets Darry share a smile with him and they pop the doors.

“No more sneaking us your lunch money,” Darry says as he locks the truck. “You want to help out, do what I tell Ponyboy. Finish school, get a scholarship. Go make a future.”

Johnny watches as he walks up the sidewalk and to the front door. He doesn’t think about his future past the current month. Darry gave his away, and here he is saying all this…stuff, like there’s a changed life somewhere in Johnny’s deck of cards. Maybe it’s up his sleeve, he thinks wryly, as he follows Darry into the house. The swell of warmth and banter and steam from the hot stove envelope him and he lets himself settle into it like a second coat.

Dallas demands a round of blackjack and Two-Bit slaps a cold beer in his hand to hold against his still swollen head, and while Steve and Soda make a righteous mess of being Darry’s sioux-chefs, Ponyboy collapses at his feet with a book in hand and a chewed pencil in his mouth. He tilts his head back to look up at Johnny.

“Wanna go bum a movie tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

The drone of the television scores their slow dispersion into the night, save for Johnny, letting the couch springs dig into his back as he watches occasional passing headlights trace beams up the walls. Here, it’s quiet.

He rests.

*****

The first episode of Antiques Roadshow didn’t air in the U.S. until 1997, but we’re gonna pretend that’s just not the case because I said so and think it’s cute. God bless public television programming.

Thank you so much for reading, and please drop a comment or a reblog below! They help so much, and whether it's a thesis or a keyboard smash, each notification truly makes my week.

#the outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #hurt/comfort #abuse tw #johnny cade #sodapop curtis #steve randle #darry curtis #dally winston #dallas winston #two bit mathews #ponyboy curtis #our gang looks out for one another it's alright

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endlessly-cursed · 2 years

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Over the Brink of War, Prologue: The Calm Before the Storm

Author’s Notes:

This year has been eventful in many ways, especially in the fandom, and especially from the moment I interacted properly with my dear friend Lari @kathrynalicemc Ever since, creativity and awesomeness ensued. This first prologue is dedicated to you, sweetie, as a Christmas gift.

Summary: Elodie Dubois has a secret / Semele’s life takes a turn / Jacob is not doing so well...

Featuring...: Elodie Dubois, Sebastian Dubois, James Dubois, Jacob Dubois, Semele Thorne, Charles Beaufort

OCs mentioned: Lyubomir Vulchanov ( @magicallymalted ) Penny Haywood, Isabelle Dubois, Ben Copper

June 1996, York, England, 20.06 p.m.

“Thank you for the dinner, mother, it was incredible,” Sebastian kissed her mother, smiling at her with the same smile he had “it was lovely as usual.”

“Yeah, Gran, you outdo yourself every time,” her grandson James agreed.

Elodie smiled at her boys “I am glad. James, dear, when is the baby due?”

James smiled widely “It shall be due early into the next year. We have been confirmed it will be a girl.”

Elodie beamed “How lovely! I have missed having some ladies around.”

They both smiled and hugged the old woman goodbye. The moment the lift was running down, she ran towards the bathroom and started to cough and vomit, feeling light and dizzy, trembling and weak. She sighed and cleaned herself, looking into the mirror and taking off her wig: every day she lost more and more hair.

How long did she have to carry this burden? She had wanted to announce her illness, but the moment her grandson announced that he’d be a father with his Veela wife, she had decided to keep it a secret until it was either too late or had no other option. She had begged her own doctor not to say a thing unless she were indeed dying.

I cannot die before that bastard.

She had promised herself that she’d keep herself alive until Tom Riddle, now Voldemort, were truly dead. She had high hopes for the boy, Harry Potter, and had corresponded with him the whole time, telling him facts he should know of him, as someone who knew him intimately.

She sighed and went to the kitchen, where her meds she passed as ‘old woman’s meds’ were hidden and took them. She’d have to go to the hospital soon. She only got out with permission and approval of the staff. But for now, she’d enjoy listening to the newest songs on the radio as she watched MTV. She may be old, but she still enjoyed some drama and missed feeling young and alive.

The last time she felt like that was before she conceived her dear son. She didn’t regret having him, but did regret the circumstances of it. She knew that Lyubomir’s obsession would get worse and affect their child, but she still missed the Miro she had fallen in love with: the sweet, kind, affectionate, loving and soft-spoken man who made her feel alive, beautiful and in tune with herself. She did wonder if she had told him that she was carrying their child he would’ve turned his back on necromancy and be a father. She wondered if he would’ve loved being Sebastian’s father. Part of her said yes, another part said no.

She wanted to call him and tell him everything, beg him to come back and be his father and the grandfather of James at least. But her voice always told her ‘It is too late by now. He doesn’t deserve it. He never did. He doesn’t even remember us’. But could one truly forget what they had? Did he consider her the love of his life like she did? Did he miss her? Ever thought of contacting her? She always mused about it. Did he?

She shook her head. Of course not. He was probably buried on his studies, too busy playing God to care. Why would he? Tears threatened to spill. No. No. No. For her sake, she wouldn’t. She took a deep breath and started to do her makeup and put on back her wig until she reached St. Mungo’s and was safe back on her bed. To her treatment. To her chemo, which she had planned herself and appointed her doctors.

With her head high and a smile, she left her home and went back to her actual life: a life in white walls full of death and people who danced at the edge of it every day.

London, England, Big Ben, 22.30 p.m

Semele Thorne walked blindly across the Big Ben with her boyfriend, Charles, and walked her towards something she couldn’t see. No matter what she asked, he always said to have patience and let things flow, and she did as he asked.

When they finally reached their destination, he dropped the fold and she gasped. There was a private room with petals of roses everywhere, candles and a pillow fort built. She looked back to him and smiled “Is this all for me?!”

He smiled “Yes, but first things first,” he dropped to his knees and she gasped “Will you marry me, Semele Alexandrina Thorne?”

She nodded “Yes. Yes, Charles!” She threw herself to his arms as he placed the ring on it and picked her up, taking her to the pillow fort. They spent most of the night tangled on one another, giggling and enjoying their engagement. She’d soon be Mrs. Beaufort! What else could she ask for?

She had met him a year ago and the two clicked instantly, too instantly said her aunt Anais. But she didn’t mind. Soulmates were soulmates, right? Sometimes they didn’t need time, they just loved one another. And she did love him.

But sometimes she doubted her love. It didn’t feel quite like the books of fairy-tale or how her mother had written about it in her diary. She was but a child when they buried her but she missed her every day and her aunt had plenty to tell herself from her, having been sisters-in-law. They had fallen in love after her mother beat her father on a debate in the Ministry and the two of them went from scholars to lovers, and though her father was older than her, they loved one another nevertheless.

She wondered if Charles loved her too. She knew that he was wounded from his previous fiancée, but she was not her. She was far more mature than her, according to him. He always said how crazy she was and that she was childish, stupid and like other girls, unlike Semele. That flattered her very much.

How little she knew at the moment, that the fall of the government would bring severe consequences.

Nottingham, England, 1996, 00:35 a.m.

Jacob Dubois found himself running away from Death Eaters again. They had been after him for some time, and though he had improved on his running routine, the prowess did not change much. He still had skill, but the hunger, tiredness and constant moving did not help. Other outcasts like Remus Lupin had helped him, but only for a while. Only Tonks, a former classmate of his dear sister Isabelle had helped him with no prejudices.

He ducked, dodging a Cruciatus Curse and attacked with a defensive and sneaky spell, and an Expelliarmus over there. He dodged an Incacerous and a Bombarda, and attacked with a Flipendo and Depulso, finishing off the third one with a special spell that Severus Snape had taught him long ago: Sectumspectra. The man screamed and moaned in pain, and he took his chance and jumped off the bridge, apparating himself to safety. He lived not-so-away from the Chateau Dubois and always kept an eye on his sister and her wife, Penny. He found her sweet and perfect for Penny, and was now with child. That is why he always spoke the Lord’s name and openly offended Death Eaters: to protect Isabelle like he hadn’t been capable during her time at Hogwarts. For the sake of her and his future niece, he had to do questionable things, something like an Unspeakable, and keep them out of harm’s way. And corresponding with Ben Copper, who often visited the pair, helped. Of course, Issy didn’t know of their correspondence, and now with her pregnancy, she shouldn’t.

She deserved a family, not to be on the run and terrified for her life. That was his job. The one he had been having since his expulsion from Hogwarts in his sixth year. He thought he was saving them, but after Duncan's death it all went downhill. He auto-healed his own wounds with an Espikey and hoped for the best. He had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse before, and only went to the hospital because an idiot young wizard decided to. He had to bribe the nurses not to rat him out. He was an outcast and Dumbledore would want his secrets of who the Mahoutokoro former student had been and what he had done with Rackepick. Though he could tell that he had indeed killed her, he’d want a confession. He refused to end up like Sirius Black. He wasn’t that stupid to believe in an old man who made his students his little puppet soldiers while he crossed his arms and watched. He would not be his toy. The example of his relative Elodie was good enough. Isabelle also could tell Dumbledore’s nature, but said nothing out of politeness.

He laid on his bed and looked at the time. Nearly 1 a.m. He exhaled and closed his eyes, dreaming again of facing a faceless foe, both battling until he was struck with green lighting and then he woke up. He was going to die, but when? Where? How? Would he be a hero like Rowan Khanna, or a coward?

Only time, and the fall of the ministry the next year, could tell.

#over the brink of war #the phoenix resistance #oc: elodie dubois #oc: semele thorne #jacob dubois #lyubomir vulchanov #mc: isabelle dubois #penny haywood #oc: sebastian dubois #james dubois #mywriting*

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nwnpofiction · 5 months

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My Favorite Person P1

After his unpleasant discussion with Millie the previous night, Aldo had walked all the way back to the inn, in the rain. He got there at about 3:10 am, and only went into the penthouse long enough to grab some dry clothes. Not wanting to deal with Eva in the mood he was in, he decided to “borrow” one of the as yet under-renovation rooms that couldn’t officially be checked out yet, and there he stayed the rest of the night. It was now around 9:15 AM.

He stood at the sink in the still very much 1970’s themed bathroom of this unfinished room he had commandeered, leaning onto the salmon colored porcelain, staring at his reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror. He looked fresher than the night before, in a white, dry, button-up dress shirt. His hair was dry, un-gelled and a little fluffy. His clothes from last night’s adventure still hanging on the shower-rod. Still wet, actually. They looked a royal mess, hanging over that green tub. The sight only served as a reminder of how far behind the renovations to the first floor had gotten. A product of his own indecisiveness, no doubt. But it was a new day. He wouldn’t have to see Millie today, lest she want to revisit the previous night’s conversation. He figured they’d both get over it in a day or two. Probably when he went to pick up the car. Eva was on errands; he wouldn’t need to see her most of the day either. He was relieved. A tad hung over. But relieved none the less.

He had a plan to get some fries or something at the Spin, then maybe try and talk Dr. Ten into helping him with these nose bleeds, without an appointment, then maybe play the rest of the day by ear. So that’s what he set off to do. Putting on a dark gray cardigan with moth holes(it was one of those days), he walked outside into the still damp and cloudy but clearing, morning air, got into the truck and left the property.

It was a nice day out. It wasn’t too sunny. The bitter, waterlogged cold of the storm last night had given way to a much more hopeful, energy. Things were good.

Meanwhile, at the diner, Jillian Metaxas was just getting her shift started. She had cleaned out the deep fryer, made coffee and restocked the whip cream in the cooler, when Hank walked in and informed that he would not be able to give her a ride home that afternoon like he’d promised. Something had come up and he needed to talk to his lawyer. This was fine. It was a small town. She was used to it. She’d walk home if she had to. She went about her day, arranging the pies Hank had ordered from her mother. It was about the time she went to set up that day’s special lunch menu that Aldo walked through the door. He was greeted by Hank, who has carrying a stack of empty crates out to the dumpster. “Hey, man!” He said. “Hey.” Aldo replied.

Hank looked out over the crates, through the window at Aldo’s beat-up pick-up truck. “Why you usin’ the truck today?” He asked. Obviously, Millie had taken the keys to the BMW the previous night because Aldo was fall-down drunk. He didn’t want to tell Hank that though. “It’s a long story.” He said. “Uh huh.” Hank replied. He was a little distracted. “I gotta take these.” He said. “Yeah.” Said Aldo. Hank continued his walk out to the trash and Aldo walked to the front counter.

The Spinstep was under-staffed and Jill was taking her good time getting to her customer. Aldo wasn’t actually annoyed, but he decided to be a mischievous jerk anyway. He started tapping his hands on the counter top, whilst calling out. “Oi, Jill! Jillidelphia!” She ignored him for a brief period. “Jill Lindemann!” Jill stopped what she was doing at the muffin case, turned around and looked at Aldo as if to say “Seriously?” “Some puns should carry a minimum sentence.” She said finally, coming over the counter. “What’s up?” She asked. “I need stringy-salty-potato things.” He said, still tapping his fingers on the counter. “You hung over?” She asked. “Are you even old enough to know wha’ tha’ means?” He responded. She gave him an annoyed look. “Hardyhar.” She said to him. “Do you want the fresh ones or the hour-olds?” She asked. “Yer a jerkface so I oughta give you the ones from yesterday morning.” She added. “Wha’…What’s wrong wit’ you?” He said, shaking his head slightly, his eyes widened into faux-horrified dinner-plates. “Ah, give ‘im the ones I threw out for the birds on Friday. That’ll teach ‘im.” Said Hank, coming back in. “Mutinous sh*ts, the lot of you!” Aldo said, again playing at feeling betrayed. “Teach me what?” He asked, looking up at Hank from the bar stool he was sitting on. “W whatever it was ya did.” Hank said awkwardly. “How do you know I’ve DONE somethin’?” Aldo responded. “You usually have.” Hank answered, with a smirk. “I’ll get you your fries.” He continued before going into the kitchen. “You might want to turn that coffee pot off soon, Jill.” He said backing his way through the swing-y door.

Jill did as Hank had asked. She then grabbed the coffee pot off the machine and walked towards the counter. Aldo watched her pull a cup out from under the counter and place it in front on him. “I didn’t order-” He tried to say. “You having coffee.” She said. “Oh. Okay.’ He replied as she poured. “I need you to take me home tonight.” She said, adding cream and sugar he also hadn’t asked for. “Uh…” He said, watching her obvious plot to give him diabetes unfold. “I uh…” He said. He shook his head and tried to blink the distraction away. “I thought that was Hank’s job.” He said. “It is. But I think some sh*t must’ve hit the fan with one of his side hustles, ’cause he has to meet Mr. Fontana tonight.” She responded. “Ah.” he said. “But that works out because I have something important to talk to you about, but…not here.” She said. Aldo was still distracted but the tiny cup of coffee that now had whip-cream on it as well… too distracted to properly respond to whatever Jill had just said. “I mean if it’s not a good time I can think of something else.” She said, taking his distraction as not wanting to help her out. She was now also reaching for the strawberry sauce. “No no. I’ll do it. That’s fine.” He finally assured. “Good!” She said.

She was just reaching for the bottle of caramel sauce when Aldo’s eyes suddenly shot open and his hands flew across the counter to the napkin dispenser. Before she could really process what was happening, she watched him shove what she could swear was at least 2 napkins up his nose. With the napkins in place, he pulled his hands slowly away from his face, the obvious look of panic still fading from his eyes. Jill and everyone else had gotten used to incidents like this. “Crisis averted?” She asked. “If these hold.” He said, tilting his head backwards for a few seconds. She continued with her work on the un-asked-for coffee project. “Ya know when me and Derek were in Philadelphia there were these things we saw in a Walgreens we stopped at to get sodas. They were like tampons but…for your…” She watched him a little more. “For your nose.” She then proceeded to squirt the caramel sauce over top of everything else in the cup. Aldo pulled his head back to a normal position. “And yer point would be wha’ exac’ly?” He asked her, his voice muffled behind the napkins.

Jill had begun sprinkling sprinkles atop the mountain of other toppings. Aldo watched for a second, in a level of disgust. Reaching over to the cup, he grabbed the handle with his right hand and hovered his left hand between the coffee and Jill’s onslaught of technicolored Jimmies. “Stop it, you…you strange…individual.” He said, pulling the cup away from her. Jill made a frustrated face at him. “Well, I just figured since you won’t go to the doctor…” She said. “Ya know you’re the second person in…” He looked at his watch. “LESS than 12 hours to make that suggestion.” Jill placed a straw that was WAY too long for the cup, into the mountain of toppings and began to make her way around the counter. “Maybe that should tell you something.” She quipped. Aldo spun the stool around to follow her as she started to mop the floor where Hank had dragged a leaking trash bag. “Well, the joke’s on YOU.” He started. “It so happens I’m gonna have Angie look at me today.”

Hank returned with Aldo’s fries and instructed Jill to go turn the heater on, and she did so. Aldo, who had since removed the napkins from his nose, had grabbed a spoon and was attempting to tackle The Coffee. As she was heading into the back room, Jill stopped and gave Aldo a look. “You’re not actually going to..consume that, are you?” She asked him. He gave her a w-t-f kind of look. She smirked and went about her business. “I’ll see ya tonight!” She said. “Yeah.” Aldo answered back. As he began shoveling wads of fries into his mouth, he stopped Hank from walking away. Hank stopped behind the counter. “What’s up?” He said , leaning over the the cookie display. As soon as Aldo swallowed the 20 fries he’d just gobbled, he began. “Are you having legal issues again, Henry?” He asked.

There were multiple reasons Aldo might be concerned with Hank’s businesses and legal well-being. Not only was Hank one of the two men NOT his father, that he held in high regard as if they were and he therefore cared for him. Hank was also a business partner of his…and he was Aldo’s dealer; not that that matters TOO much. He also didn’t want Hank dragging Luke Fontana into any terrible mess. It was bad enough that HE had to be involved in some of this.

“Cassius Metaxas is saying that my boat is on HIS property illegally.” Hank said, with frustration. “Oh so it’s just Cassie being a f*ckhead, like always?” Aldo said, with a sigh of relief. “That clown KNOWS he doesn’t own that land anymore.” Said Hank.

Aldo rubbed his eyes. “Ugh! THE MAN’S A DOOR KNOB!” Aldo said, loudly enough that Jill probably heard it from the back. Though she wouldn’t have known who he was talking about. Jill was, to Aldo and Hank’s knowledge, blissfully unaware of what her uncle was up to, or what kind of 4d chess game her boss and unofficial adoptive brother were playing against him.

“Listen. Do me a favor and DON’T make this issue worse. I know how you are,Henry.” Said Aldo, cramming another tonne of fries in his mouth. “Oh don’t worry. Fontanta will take care of it..” Hank assured. “Ya know that guy might just be a copyright lawyer, but ah… Ya know.. he scares the sh*t outta Cassie for some reason.” He added. “Ya know that movie where the the devil goes into a church and makes the holy water boil with his finger?” Aldo asked. “The Devil’s Advocate?” Hank said. “Yeah.” Aldo replied. “It’s the same concept.” Aldo added. “Don’t ruin him, Henry. He’s too good for all this.”

#creative writing #fiction #original story #original characters

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dorefasolsido · 1 year

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23.

What are your plans for the day ahead?

Going to see a German film with my friend from the course and, of course, work.

What was the last thing you cleaned?

The shower this morning.

When do you go to your soonest appointment?

Don't have any.

What did you last order online?

I think I ordered some chicken from a nearby fast food restaurant.

Can you see any bottles from where you’re sitting?

Yeah, two bottles.

What time do you usually try to wind down in the evening?

Around 3-4 AM. But my sleep has been dreadful lately, so I'm planning to start going a bit earlier.

What’s something you have been putting off?

Hmmmmmmm, ah something to do with taxes and stuff. Regulating my work status, basically. I despise administration, but I'll really have to resolve that soon.

What restaurants do you frequently eat at?

This sushi place.

Do you like banana pudding with a lot of bananas or more vanilla wafers?

I don't know if I really have a preference here.

How many books would you guess you’ve read in the last 5 years?

Oof, no idea. I've read so much, and then lately almost nothing at all.

What was the last message you sent?

Hmmmm, it was something to my best friend, but I don't remember what now.

Have you ate anything green today? What’s your favorite way to add greens to your diet?

Hmmm no. I don't eat that much green in the first place, but I love Chinese and Korean food and they usually has lots of veggies.

When did you last light a candle or incense?

I don't remember at all.

Is it currently warm where you are?

Yes, but it's slowly getting chillier!

Have you ever fallen out of bed?

When I was younger, maybe.

What do you like on your hot dogs or burgers?

If it's a really really good burger like we have in my hometown, only sour cream. Otherwise, loads of condiments.

Are you currently listening to anything?

Nope.

What’s your favorite thing to do outside?

Take walks, explore new parts of the city, jog.

Are there any celebrities that you are a big fan of?

Yes, BTS boys. Maybe Billie Eilish too? But I don't really keep up with everything she does, I just like her music and think she's cool.

Do you ever watch award shows?

Not usually.

Do you usually run out of shampoo or conditioner first?

Probably shampoo since I don't condition nearly as often or as much as I should.

Do you have any LED lights in your home?

Don't quote me on this, but I think they are all LED.

What is your biggest challenge?

Self-acceptance.

What was the last sweet thing you’ve eaten?

I ate a chocolate a bit earlier.

Do you prefer buying new clothes or thrift shopping for clothes?

I normally buy new clothes, but only because I'm not in the habit of looking for thrift shops. I am thinking of starting to though.

What is something you need right now?

Sleep.

What’s something you like that is blue?

Sky.

Have you treated yourself today?

Yup, with that delicious cream and strawberry fizzy drink, my new addiction.

Have you ever traveled alone?

Not totally alone, no.

What color is your most worn jacket/hoodie?

Probably black.

Who is someone you would like to get to know more?

Hmm, well my editor seems pretty interesting. We already work together a lot, so I'm just generally curious about him as a person. Especially now that I saw he's so different irl than when he's in the editor mode. I was shocked.

What toy do you miss the most from your childhood?

Hmm, I can't say I miss a specific toy. I do miss my childhood though.

Have you ever lost something valuable to you?

I have.

What or who has impacted your life the most?

Parents, best friend.

Would you say you are toxic in any way?

Well I think my avoidant tendencies are toxic. I'm trying to figure that out.

What’s one of your favorite memories from the past year?

Definitely the gig I went to with my friends in the summer.

How often do you use a straw?

No idea, but I'm sure it's fairly rarely.

What’s your current favorite song?

I've been vibing with Like Crazy again a lot.

What are some books you’d recommend to someone?

Convenience Store Woman! I can't stress this enough.

#personal #surveys

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tommys1girl · 2 years

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When You’re With Me

Summary: pregnancy is hard for anyone that goes through it. But luckily for you, you’re married to Brian Flanagan. He’s truly the most caring husband, and father to be, to ever exist.

Pairing: Brian Flanagan x female reader

Warnings: pregnancy, mentions of childbirth, maybe a slight daddy kink ???

**switched it up, y/n is only pregnant with one baby, no twins in this story

Requested: yes :)

**this is a series, so this is part 1 !!

“Now baby, you know I can’t serve pregnant women in my bar,” Brian chuckles at you.

“I need something to take the edge off Mr. Flanagan, your child is killing me and I still have 6 more months of this.” You sigh.

“I promise to take good care of you when I get off work tonight, momma,” he smirks at you.

You knew Brian meant it, he always took the best care of you. He’d rub your feet, your back, your pregnant belly, you name it, he’d rub it. He gave the best head scratches as you fell asleep every night, spooning you to keep you warm. He’d run you a bath, even bringing you chocolate and sparkling grape juice to make you feel glamorous.

You didn’t have the best self confidence as your belly had grown. You were small statured, standing at only 5’0. You carried all the weight in your belly throughout the first couple months of your pregnant. You felt horrible, and you felt ugly. Brian thought otherwise, he thought you were the most beautiful woman to walk this earth. He’d grown even more attracted to you as your carried his baby. And he sure did let you know it.

“Look at you, you’re so beautiful baby!” He’d grin as he’d pull you close but keeping one hand on your bump.

When Brian got home that evening he found you in the bathtub munching on watermelon and pickles. “New craving?” He asked, laughing as he stepped into your view. “Yep, want to try?” You extended your plate out to him, but he stuck both hands up. “I think I’m okay, but thanks for offering,” he laughed.

Brian moved to the edge of the tub, sitting down facing you. He kicked his shoes off and sat back up, “you got any room in that tub for a washed up bartender?”

“Anyone puke on you tonight?” You asked, teasingly but you really meant it. You’d be surprised how many times Brian has been puked on.

“Nope, I’m a clean man!” He proudly stated, lighting his head high.

“Then I think we can squeeze you in.” You looked at your belly, “you think daddy should join us?”

Brian reached down and placed a hand on your belly, “I think they would love for daddy to join the party.”

As Brian starts to undress, you look up at him, “what do you think it’s going to be? Do we even want to find out? I think I want it to be a surprise!”

“Y/n, I really hope it’s a girl. And I really want to know before he or she gets here. But it’s you doing all the hard work so if you want to wait, then we can wait.”

“No, we can find out tomorrow at my appointment. Might be easiest that way, then we can prepare accordingly.” You say reaching your hand out to him as he slowly steps into the tub.

Brian sits down at the end opposite of you, facing you. He pushes his legs on the outside of yours and brings your feet into his lap, starting to rub them. As he reaches your ankles he looks up at you, “you’re pretty swollen, baby. Maybe we should elevate your feet tonight when we get in bed, yeah?”

“Yeah, probably wouldn’t hurt,” you respond, nodding your head in agreement.

You two sit in the tub for a while longer, both relaxing and winding down for the evening. Brian gets out before you do and gets changed into a clean set of boxers before returning to the bathroom. He grabs a clean towel and walks over to you, “here love, let me dry you off.” He says, reaching his hand out to help you up and out of the tub. He wraps you up in the warm towel and he holds you there for a moment, your back pressed against his chest. “I love you so much, y/n. I love this life with you, you know that?”

You lean your head back resting it on his shoulder, a small giggle escaping your lips. “I love you more Brian Flanagan, thank you for giving me this life.”

Brian spins you around, kisses you deeply and then picks you up and places you on the bathroom counter. He grabs another towel and begins drying you off.

“Stay right here, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

You sat there on the counter holding the towels close to your body, keeping yourself warm while you wait for Brian to return.

He comes back with your favorite t-shirt of his and a pair of boxers. You loved wearing Brian’s clothes to bed, but he loves it more.

He helps you get dressed and holds your hand as you walk into the bedroom. “Okay momma, I’ve got three pillows at the foot of the bed. Get comfortable and I’ll adjust them as you like.”

“Yes daddy,” you say with a grin.

“Daddy likes it when you call him daddy. Be careful though, that mouth of yours has been known to get you in trouble,” he smirks.

“It’s what got me into the mess,” you point down at your belly.

“A beautiful mess to say the least.” He smiles down at you from the foot of the bed.

“Yeah yeah, get in bed and scratch my head so I can sleep.” You motion for Brian to get in bed with you.

“Yes ma’am.” He curls up next to you on his side, you lie on your back turning your head to look at him. He leans onto his arm, resting his head in his hand so he can look down at your sleepy expression. He slowly rakes his fingers through your hair, you groan at the feeling. “Thanks daddy,” you softly smile with your eyes closed, starting to drift off to sleep.

“Anything for you, y/n. I love you, goodnight darling.”

Brian stayed awake and just admired you while you slept. He kept pushing his fingers through your scalp as if you were still awake. He loved taking care of you, he loved spending so much time with you. He eventually slowed down his fingers and rolled over to fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~

I hope you enjoyed! :))

Tag: @sarcastic-sourwolf

#tom cruise #cocktail #young tom cruise #brian flanagan #brian Flanagan x reader #tom cruise fanfic #brian Flanagan fanfic

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pastelavender88 · 2 years

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Right Person At Maybe The Wrong Time- Chapter 24

Summary: Y/n and Eddie are back from Texas. How will things pan out for them?

Today, Eddie, Buck, and I were fixing the holes that Eddie had made to the room so we could put the house on the market in the coming weeks. Buck was telling us about his talk with Bobby. “He said that?” I asked.

“He did.” Buck said. “Well you know how he is. He takes responsibility for everything. That’s his way. Probably why he makes such a good captain.”

“Taking responsibility for something he didn’t do wrong? It’s a bad road to go down. You lose sight of things, of who you are.” Eddie said.

“Bobby is a good man. I think he will always give himself grief over other people around him shortcomings.” I added.

“I just… I-wish I could…”

“Fix it?” Eddie and I said at the same time, causing both of us to chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m the guy that always wants to fix everything.”

“Hey, it comes in handy when you have a bunch of holes in your wall. Also, it sounded like maybe you needed a reason to get out of the house.”

“Uh yeah. Taylor and I are still avoiding each other.”

“Still, Buck? You guys need to talk.” Eddie grunted out a ‘mm’ in agreement with me.

“I know we need to talk. It’s just that I’m still angry. I feel like whatever I say is just gonna be mean.”

“So the truth?” I said.

“What happened to Mrs. tell-your-girlfriend-everything.” Eddie remarked.

“I didn’t want my baby daddy to be out here cheating on women. Do you know how that makes me look? Plus, I was never a fan of Taylor.”

“Since when? When you guys first met, you seemed to hit it off.”

Eddie and I shared a look. “Which one? The dinner or the time she answered the door because both were terrible times. After dinner when we were cleaning up the kitchen she basically accused me of trying to take you away from her by bringing Alex into your life.” I noticed the room went quiet and looked up from the paint I was stirring. Both Eddie and Buck’s eyes were on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Buck asked.

“Or me?” Eddie said.

“I didn’t think it mattered and I’m not helpless. I put her in her place and after that the issue was dropped.”

“Listen Buck, you can’t put off talking to Taylor forever. You keep that anger and resentment bottled up? Eventually you snap.”

“I’m with Eddie on this.”

“Of course you are.” Evan snarked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I decided to let it go. As I picked up the paint, I felt a wave of nausea hit me. I let out a groan.

“You okay?” Eddie asked. Dropping the sponge he was using and coming my way.

“Oh yeah. I just felt sick out of nowhere, probably the paint fumes.”

“Maybe, but you should go to the doctor. Didn’t you feel sick in Texas too?

“Yeah but i’m pretty sure it was too much food.”

“Alright. It’s up to you but I still think you should get it checked out. It could be a stomach thing.”

“I agree with Eddie.” Buck teased. I quickly shot him the middle finger.

“You’re right. I’ll make an appointment.” I said to Eddie.

“I always am, and thank you.” He said as he leaned in to kiss my forehead.

Buck’s POV

I was waiting on the stairs for Taylor to get home. My blood was boiling and I swear I was seeing red, but I remembered to keep my composure and stay calm. I heard the door open and close and I knew Taylor was here.

“Well I guess we’ve moved past the avoidance stage?” She remarked.

“I think we can both admit it was starting to get ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry you’re still upset about the story.”

I let out a laugh. “You’re sorry I’m still upset about the story? You’re not sorry you broke the trust between us, you’re not sorry you lied to my face, you’re not sorry you nearly cost me my job, you’re sorry I’m still mad? Really Taylor?”

“The story was gonna come out regardless, Buck. You can’t be upset because I took a chance.”

“Yeah you took a chance, and damn anyone else that might pay the price huh?”

“Buck, I wasn’t trying to hurt you or anyone else. I was just trying to get the truth out there. A truth the public has every right to know.”

“This is our first fight all over again. Damn near verbatim.”

“Which is why we shouldn’t be having it! You knew who I was before we started dating!”

“Yeah! I did, but I thought just maybe, I would be able to grow to understand that, or you would become a better person.”

“What? A better person like Y/n?” I flinched at the mention of her name. “It’s obvious you're still in love with her. I don’t see how Eddie doesn’t know it.”

“I’m not doing this with you. Not again. You wanna know something? I almost forgave you, I almost made that dumb decision until I found this.” I grabbed the folded paper out of my back pocket and put it on the counter. Taylor looked like she saw a ghost and made no attempt to walk towards the paper. She knew exactly what it was. “What you have nothing to say? You don’t even wanna look at the paper do you?” My eyes began to fill with tears of anger.

“Buck listen.” She started to plead.

“No! You listen! Despite what everyone said about you, I thought that maybe, just maybe we could work. But after finding this. It shows me you could never be someone I love. How could you Taylor? You ran a paternity test on Alex and I? Really?”

“I thought I was helping. I just wanted to make sure Alex was yours.”

“Well you got the answer you wanted. Y/n was nothing but a good girlfriend when we were together and there was never a doubt in my mind that she was mine. How did you even do this?”

“I know some people. They were able to do this using hair from 2 subjects.”

“Taylor, I can’t do this. Not anymore. I need you out. Now.”

“So what this is it? You asked me to move in with you and you’re kicking me out?”

“I didn’t do this to our relationship. You did. I’m serious. I suggest you pack your things some time this week and leave. Cause god knows what Y/n will do when she finds out.” I turned away from her and walked upstairs. I heard the door slam as she left. I decided to text Y/n. Asking her to come over. About 20 minutes later she arrived. “Hey.”

“Hey Buck. What’s wrong? You texted me to come over and said it was important.” I took the paper off of the counter where it was still lying and handed it to her. She read over the paper and looked up at me shocked. “A paternity test? Why do you have this?”

“I found it in Taylor’s side of the bed’s drawer when I was looking for something. She did a paternity test on Alex and I, without telling me.”

“What? Oh my god. I knew she didn’t like me but this is next level.”

“Yeah.”

“So how did it go when you confronted her about it?”

“We broke up. I can’t be with someone who I can’t trust.”

“Buck, I’m sorry.” She wrapped her hands around me. I felt like this was the first time I was in a loving embrace for a long time.

“Y/n?” She hummed a yes. “Be honest with me. Do you think we would have worked if I never left?” She looked up at me, but didn’t break the hug.

“Buck. You’re just saying this because you and Taylor just broke up. I’m with Eddie, Buck. I can’t entertain whatever this is.” She said as she gestured between the two of us. “You’ll find someone amazing Buck. Maybe even better than me.”

“That’s hard to do, but I’ll try. I’m sorry.”

“You bet your ass it’s hard to do. It’ll be okay Buck. We’ll all be okay.”

“Yeah we will.”

Y/n’s POV

Today was Hen and Karen’s vow renewal (whether they knew it or not). It was a beautiful ceremony but during the whole thing my mind was racing.

Thoughts were coming left and right. When Eddie and I sat down at the table I felt his gaze on me. “What?” I questioned.

“We’re at this beautiful wedding and during the whole thing it looked like you were having a debate with yourself, and I couldn’t tell who was winning.”

‘You know how I’ve been feeling nauseous lately?” Eddie nodded his head.

“So I took your advice and I went to the doctor. They asked me a few standard questions and then ran a blood workup. They found the cause of the nausea.”

“What was it?” Eddie asked.

“Hormone imbalance. Which is very common in pregnant women.” I saw the look on Eddie’s face change. “I’m pregnant. Around 1 month along.”

“We’re having a baby?” I nodded.

“How do you feel about this?” I asked.

“How do I feel? I’m over the moon, but what do you want to do? Do you want to keep it or do you not want to? It's 100% your choice especially since this isn’t planned.” Eddie took my hand in his. “I’ll support you no matter what.”

“I want this Eddie. I want this with you.”

“I guess this means we’re having a baby. We’re having a baby!”

“Shhh! I don’t want people to know yet. Plus we have to tell the kids first.”

“I can’t wait.” Eddie connected our lips. I knew things were changing from here.

I know this chapter is short but I felt like it was the best conclusion for this story, but since season 6 was renewed a new book will be created. I have a list of stories I’m working on and when I get through those I’ll open my request. College is kicking my butt and I have summer classes so updating will be irregular. I’ll try my best though! Thanks to everyone who showed support towards my book and my blog. I’ll be doing a small little snippet of how everyone reacts when you tell them about the news.

Also, to anyone who hates when the main character get pregnant in fics, I’m sorry. This is a pipeline for my next book and i promise I will try to make sure it won’t overshadow the characters and each of their relationships. However if you still don’t like the trope, i’m sorry but oh well :/

#eddie diaz x reader #Eddie Diaz #eddie and christopher #past evan buckley x reader #evan buck buckely #911 fanfic #911 fic #911 on fox #911

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Text

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper.

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...?

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window.

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud.

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom.

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then...

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen.

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation.

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state.

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches.

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister? Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...”

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you.

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?”

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...”

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him.

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so..

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.”

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.”

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his.

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close.

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs.

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack.

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last.

This one is no different.

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #Strife #reader #fluff #sharing a bed!#monster boyfriend #interspecies relationships #blood #injury #whump

186 notes · View notes

extasiswings · 3 years

Note

Ohhh 70 (“After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”) OR 93 (“You’re more than that.”) for the prompt thing, whichever you prefer! I always adore your writing, thank you so much for sharing it with us ☺️

OR? No, both. And thank you, you're very sweet. On ao3 here.

Most of the time, Buck feels like there’s no one in the world who understands Eddie as well as he does. Most of the time. Because there are still some other times when he’s completely in the dark.

And sure, okay, it makes sense on some level because they all have their blind spots—of course he’s going to have a few where Eddie is concerned as well—but they never fail to catch him by surprise.

A month after Eddie comes home from the hospital, Buck is having coffee with Carla while Eddie’s at a physical therapy appointment and he offhandedly says—

“Not sure why I never see Ana. You would think Eddie being shot would make her want to be around more, not less—”

“Buck,” Carla interrupts, a strange look passing over her face. “Honey...Eddie broke up with her three weeks ago.”

That stops Buck short, makes him feel like he’s missed a step on the stairs.

“What?” His mouth is dry. He swallows. “He—why?”

Carla picks up her cup and takes a long sip, as if she needs the extra seconds to figure out what to say, and Buck backtracks.

“No, forget it, that’s—it’s not my business,” he says. It’s not. Even if it feels a little like it should be, even if he doesn’t understand why Eddie would tell Carla and not him, even if he’s Eddie’s best friend—

Buck knows that Eddie’s a private person. He knows that sometimes Eddie keeps things close to his chest while he’s thinking them through. Eddie hadn’t said a word about Shannon until she walked into the station and aired their business for all of them to hear. He barely talked about Ana in the first place. He changed his will and sat on that information for a year—

Buck’s not upset it’s just—it feels—

The thing is.

The thing is…He’s not oblivious. He knows how he feels about Eddie. How he’s felt for at least the past two years. Like he can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t look at him without feeling like he’s screaming with it, bleeding love all over, unable to stop it dripping from every pore. Exposed and pathetically obvious, and the whole time Eddie has just—said nothing. Ignored it, Buck assumes, because he can’t not have noticed, can’t not have seen.

And maybe sometimes Buck has wondered if Eddie wasn’t ignoring it. If he felt the same and just couldn’t say it. Because he was grieving and wasn’t ready—

But then he was. He was ready. And he chose Ana Flores.

That was the end of it. That was supposed to be the end of it. Because Buck’s not a masochist, he knows he hangs onto things for too long, but he’s been working on knowing when to let go.

Except—except Eddie got shot. Eddie got shot and Buck sat on a hospital bed and stared as Eddie said no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you and you act like you’re expendable…but you’re not and the words felt…heavy. The air, weighted. And Eddie couldn’t look at him and Buck could swear that he was trying to say—

Buck knows he shouldn’t be. But there’s a part of him that’s angry. That wants to pace and run and clasp Eddie’s face between his hands and ask really? Now? Because—because Eddie got shot. Eddie got shot and Buck barely survived it, thought if Eddie died, he would have died with him, was more terrified than he’s ever been in his life. But he did survive. And he moved on. He kissed Taylor. He closed the door.

So Eddie’s not allowed to make big declarations that he could have made a year ago and then break up with his girlfriend when Buck is finally trying—

Okay, maybe he’s a little upset.

The rest of him though—most of him, really—knows he doesn’t have any right to be angry. Which is why most of him is just…tired. Tired and terrified and still so in love.

Buck thinks maybe Eddie was right all those months ago. The universe doesn’t scream. It just laughs. At him.

“Buck?” Carla’s gaze is soft. Steady.

Buck clears his throat. Drains the last dregs of his coffee. He tries not to feel like he’s swallowed glass.

“Did I tell you I’m seeing someone?” He asks, forcing a smile. “She’s a reporter. She was—she was at Eddie’s homecoming actually, maybe you met her. It’s still pretty new, but we’ve been friends for a while. Going pretty well so far.”

Something flickers in Carla’s eyes, but she takes a breath and smiles.

“That’s great, Buckaroo,” she replies. “I’m happy for you.”

He’s trying. He’s really trying.

He doesn’t ask Eddie about the breakup.

Recovery is slow.

Buck doesn’t really like thinking about it as recovery because Eddie’s the one who got shot. Eddie’s the one who was in a sling and in physical therapy and had to spend months waiting to be well enough to get cleared to go back to work.

Eddie’s the one who got shot. The one whose blood flooded the street. The one who spent days unconscious in the hospital. The one who almost died.

Eddie’s the only one who has anything to recover from.

Dr. Copeland doesn’t agree. Buck mentions that he’s having trouble sleeping, that his chest gets tight if he goes too long without seeing Eddie and Christopher, that he can’t breathe sometimes when he’s on shift and Eddie’s out of sight.

She refers him out to a trauma specialist. He tries to argue that it’s not his trauma, but she just looks at him for a long moment.

“When you say you can’t sleep, is it insomnia? Or do you have nightmares that wake you up?”

Buck bites his lip and looks down at his hands. When he blinks, they’re streaked with red. When he blinks again, they’re clean. He curls his fingers into fists to prevent them from shaking.

“A little of both,” he admits.

“And when it’s nightmares, what are they about?”

“…blood.” Eddie’s blood in the street, on his hands, splashed across his face, on his tongue—

She hums.

“Evan,” she says quietly. “It’s okay. It’s not a weakness to admit that you need help. And just because you weren’t shot yourself doesn’t mean you didn’t experience something traumatic. You’re allowed to seek treatment.”

Buck swallows. “I feel like…I should be better by now,” he admits. “Better than this. Shouldn’t it be easier?”

“Recovery is a process,” Dr. Copeland replies. “A journey. And it doesn’t always move in a straight line. There’s no timetable.”

Recovery. He makes a face.

But, he goes to see the specialist. He’s not sure how much it helps.

Blood splashing across his face, water running red, skin scrubbed raw—

Buck sits up gasping, cold sweat beading across his brow. Taylor is sound asleep on the other side of the bed, the distance between them a chasm he doesn’t know how to cross. He doesn’t know if he wants to even if he did.

He shivers. Grabs his phone. Quietly descends the steps of the loft to settle on the couch.

“Buck. Hey.” Eddie’s voice is gravelly and soft from sleep. Buck winces.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I don’t mind,” Eddie replies. “You know I don’t mind.”

Eddie pauses. “What was it tonight?”

Buck exhales shakily. “Your heart stopped in the truck before we could get to the hospital. I couldn’t get it to start again. I know it didn’t happen that way, but I still—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. “I’m okay. That—it wasn’t real.”

“Yeah.” It felt real though. Buck can still feel ribs cracking under phantom compressions, the slick of blood on his hands. He can taste Eddie’s blood in his mouth.

“What do you need?”

Buck stretches out and closes his eyes, the phone pressed hard to his ear.

You. Just you. Always you.

“Can you—” His throat clicks. “Can you just talk? It doesn’t matter about what, I just—”

I need to hear your voice. I need to hear you alive.

“Christopher picked a project for the science fair,” Eddie says. “You have to promise to act surprised when he tells you though. He’s really excited.”

“Oh yeah? I can do that. What is it?”

“Well…”

Buck falls asleep again with Eddie’s voice in his ear and he doesn’t dream again. Taylor wakes him on the couch in the morning, an odd look on her face—he doesn’t know how to explain that it’s not her fault. She just can’t help him. Perhaps she never could.

Buck thinks maybe there’s still a part of her that wants him to chase her. But he’s in no condition to chase anyone, even if he wanted to. It takes enough out of him to hold himself together. And to fight against what seems more and more inevitable.

So. Maybe he should stop fighting it.

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face as he sits up.

“I think we should probably talk,” he says quietly.

Taylor tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and sinks down onto the couch next to him.

“I think we should.”

It ends as quickly as it began.

Christmas takes him by surprise. It’s not that Buck doesn’t notice the fall slipping away—a Halloween shift, a Veteran’s Day that has Eddie a little quieter, a little shakier, than usual, and Thanksgiving lasts practically a whole week with all the leftovers that end up in the station—but somehow it doesn’t fully register until he looks up at the calendar in the middle of December and sees a smiling Christmas tree sticker on a date ten days out. They’re not working, so the only question is where he’s going to end up, if anywhere. Although, he supposes even that’s not really a question.

He knows where he’ll end up.

Five days before Christmas, a last-minute tree has been wrangled into the Diaz house and Buck is fighting with a tangled set of lights while Eddie pulls out wrapping paper and ribbons and retrieves the hidden stash of gifts for Christopher from his closet. Christopher himself is fast asleep in his room, worn out from the day of running around, and without the extra person to focus on Buck takes a moment and lets himself just...watch Eddie. Sitting on the floor in low light with his legs stretched out, surrounded by ornaments and boxes and stray clippings and a small pile of somewhat lumpy, clumsily wrapped gifts, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he focuses on trying to figure out the right way to fold the wrapping paper—

There’s a stray piece of tinsel in his hair and a laugh catches in Buck’s throat, even as the rest of him aches with a sudden, fierce urge to brush it away.

He aches. Because this—this is what he wants. Eddie and Christopher and going around town to finish the Christmas shopping, picking out a tree and decorating it as a family, coming home to this day after day after day and knowing it’s where he’s supposed to be—

Eddie got shot. Eddie got shot and it was the worst moment of Buck’s life. He thinks sometimes that he would rather have his leg crushed under a thousand ladder trucks than risk going through that again, but—but running away didn’t make him stop loving Eddie. Dating Taylor didn’t make him stop loving Eddie. Time hasn’t made him feel anything less, if anything it’s just cemented things.

So...so if Eddie is going to have the power to hurt him that badly regardless of whether Buck admits it out loud, if the risk of loss is going to be there anyway...shouldn’t he at least get to have everything? All the good parts?

Don’t they deserve the chance to be happy?

“Buck?” Eddie’s brow is furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

Buck opens his mouth, intending to reassure him, but what comes out is—

“Are you in love with me?” Eddie freezes and Buck resists the urge to panic and take it back.

“Because—” Buck clears his throat. “Because sometimes I think you might be, and—”

“Yes.” It’s quiet, barely a breath, but that single word hangs in the air. Buck’s heart races.

“You could have told me,” he replies. “Why—why didn’t you just—?”

Eddie looks away and Buck catches a familiar look flickering across his face. Doubt, shame, fear—everything that he himself has felt—

Oh.

Blind spots.

He never considered that Eddie might be just as afraid of rejection as he is. He never considered that what’s been so painfully obvious to him, might not have been to Eddie himself.

Buck gets up from the couch, stepping carefully around the mess on the floor until he can kneel down next to Eddie. Eddie, whose jaw is tight, shoulders tense, like he’s waiting for a blow.

“After everything we’ve been through...you still don’t know that I love you?” Buck asks quietly.

Eddie sucks in a startled breath, turning back to look at him, his gaze searching. Buck holds it steadily and waits. It’s not the first time he’s walked out on a limb. But it is the first time he’s had someone else out there with him.

If it cracks this time, they’ll fall together.

“I didn’t think—” Eddie’s eyes close briefly as he clears his throat. “I didn’t think I was enough.”

“You are,” Buck replies. “You’re more than—Eddie—”

“We have a life,” he says when he can get his thoughts in line. “We built a life. Together. Even if we didn’t say that was what we were doing, it’s what we did. So, maybe—maybe we can try being a little more honest about what we want while we’re living it? I don’t—I don’t want to waste anymore time.”

Eddie looks down—then, he reaches out slowly for Buck’s hand, his fingers finding the spaces between Buck’s and slotting in.

Buck squeezes gently. Eddie squeezes back.

“Okay,” Eddie agrees. “Let’s try that.”

Buck does pluck the tinsel from Eddie’s hair, but when he tosses it away, his hand comes right back, fingers sliding into the strands to keep Eddie still. Eddie’s eyes are dark in the dim light, but his lips curve faintly up as Buck leans in.

Kissing him feels like coming home.

#chapel writes #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #evan buckley

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acourtofsnakes · 3 years

Text

A Helping Hand - Bucky Barnes x Reader (f)

(Gif: @sebastianruinedme )

Summary: After a stressful week, you try to wind down with some personal time but nothing quite hits that spot. And a certain Super Soldier may just be more than willing to help you.

Warnings: 18+ Smut - Masturbation/toys, Oral (f receiving), fingering, neck play, arm/hand kink, dirty talk, a faint Dom theme if you squint, swearing – honestly, Bucky should just be a kink in himself.

Word count: 5k+ words full of hot playtime.

A/N: This is just filth, to be honest. I was feeling a certain way after watching episode 3 of TFATWS and seeing that scene with Bucky cleaning his hand and… ideas happened, and this was born. There’s not really a plot… simply enjoy.

Smut under the cut!!

Permanent Taglist: @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal

Part 2

There was something to be said about the advancement of toys in recent years.

There were hundreds of them. All different types. For all different things.

Rabbits, waterproof vibrators, pulsating and pounding ones, ones that felt like oral, handsfree vibrators, remote control vibrators – the list went on.

You had a lot. Tucked in a drawer of your dresser in a pretty box that just made you go all tingly in the knees every time you saw it.

You were proud of your collection.

And boy, did you love them.

They never let you down, ever.

But unfortunately, tonight was just not one of those nights.

It has been a tough week.

Not only had you taken a beating in training yesterday, but you were also late for an appointment across the city, which resulted in being yelled at by Fury.

You really regretted decided to help him when he needed it.

There wasn’t a lot going on lately, so you offered to help Fury when he needed it.

Usually, you were on his food side.

Yesterday, not so much.

Everything seemed out to get you, and after the shit show of the week, you just wanted to treat yourself. So, you’d holed yourself up in your room on your floor of the compound, had a long, luxurious soak in the bath, and then decided to work out your anxiety and tension with one of your many, many friends.

And for the first time in a while, they just weren’t hitting that spot.

Literally.

You groaned, throwing the third toy - this one a rabbit that was one of your most trusty companions - on the side of your bed.

For the last forty minutes, you��d been dancing between three different toys and your fingers.

You’d tried being on your belly, your side, and your back. You’d even tried a pillow.

But nothing was the right pressure on your clit, no toy or finger felt deep enough inside, and you couldn’t hit that spot inside without getting a wicked cramp in your wrist that forced you to stop.

You sat up, every nerve in your body wound to a knife edge, leaving you frustrated and tempted to throttle someone.

Or get someone to throttle you.

Preferably whilst pinning you to a wall... or a desk.

Or anywhere really.

You just needed something, anything to get out this frustration and give you the release you’d been desperately chasing all night.

It wasn’t even a case of hovering on the edge - you couldn’t even get there. The fire and heat just stayed a kindling ember in your belly, and never reaching that explosive fire.

After getting up and downing a measure of whiskey whilst watching the rain, you decided to try a last-ditch attempt with a different toy.

This one was a curved vibrator, with a thicker rounder head for supposedly perfect pressure on your g-spot.

Simple, straight forward.

Surely, if none of the others had done it, this one finally would.

After settling back on your bed, you took a little more care this time, even going as far to light a few candles to add an ambiance to the room rather than have it pitch black with the sounds of the rain.

You worked yourself up this time, building it slowly, teasing yourself with brushes of your fingertips over your throat and breasts, setting your skin ablaze.

You pushed yourself to the edge a little, and then worked over with your vibrator.

Until ten minutes later, when you literally launched the vibrator across the room and it hit the wall with a resounding thud, that echoed your hiss of frustration. “Fucking hell.”

A shit week, a shit day, and you couldn’t even fuck yourself well enough to be able to wind down and get some sleep.

There was a sudden knock and then Bucky’s voice echoed through your bedroom door. “Darlin’?” There was a slight hint of his Brooklyn accent peeping through at the end, stirring something within you.

You startled, sitting bolt upright and your head snapped to the door, “Bucky?” You had the good sense to lock the door, but still. He was right there.

His shadow moved beneath the door, and you realised he was leaning against it, “Is everything alright? I heard banging.”

Well, no not really. I’ve been trying to get myself off for the last hour and nothing appears to be working and I’m sitting here naked whilst you’re the other side of my door calling me Darling in that ridiculously hot accent that shouldn’t even be that hot. But hey, apart from that, everything’s great.

You slid off the bed, padding across the room after dropping your toys back in their drawer, glaring at it as you passed. You slipped a robe on before making your way across the fluffy rug to the door, “Yeah, I’m okay...” You unlocked the door, tugging it open.

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, all broad shoulders, long lines and soft smile.

His searing blue eyes were instantly locked onto you, a smirk playing on those gorgeous lips.

He cocked his head, standing there with his arms crossed, and you noticed that for once, he wasn’t wearing any gloves. Just a simple long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans that hung sinfully close to his hips and... no boots. Just socks.

Like he’d taken his shoes off before waking into your apartment.

Ever the gentleman.

His arm was bare, the soft light of the hall bouncing off of the black vibranium and sparking the gold. You’d always loved his arm. The sheer power of it, the way you’d seen it shatter a man’s ribs instantly and tear through a brick wall like it was made of glass. The same hand that tickled behind the ears of a stray kitten in Prospect Park and test the ripeness of plums at the market.

You wanted that hand around your throat.

Eyes the colour of the Arctic sea roamed over your body, from your slightly mussed up hair to the flush along your neck that disappeared in the dip of your dressing gown. “Mm... are you sure about that?” He tilted his coyly, a smirk playing on his lips and you had a feeling this expression had been one of the trademarks since the 40’s.

You narrowed your eyes at him, more than aware that he was seeing far more than you wanted him to, “I’m fine.” You turned from the door, leaving it open for him to come in, “How comes you’re up on my floor, anyway?” You peered over your shoulder at him as you padded across the room to the drinks cart.

Yes, there was a bar on your floor, but why couldn’t you have a cart in your room? Tony hadn’t even needed to ask when designing it.

Bucky walked in, his footfalls silent like a cat, that training never quite leaving him, “I couldn’t sleep. No nightmares, just restless.” He added the last part quickly, in response to the concern that tightened your expression.

It was nothing unusual, Bucky coming up here to your room.

You often found each other after nightmares or rough days, seeking comfort and distraction from the darkness that lingered.

Some days and nights, you went out, needing an outside diversion from the thoughts.

Other times, you stayed in, watching films, talking, training or just... sitting quietly, knowing that the other persons presence was enough protection and reassurance. Words weren’t needed… just company.

You handed him a drink, plopping down on the end of your bed and you watched him sink into the couch opposite, “Anything you wanna talk about?”

Since everything with the War, Bucky was working on fitting back into a routine, into ‘normal’ life - or what could be considered normal for people like yourselves.

He was undergoing his mandatory therapy sessions, and they seemed to be helping him.

He was back in contact with Sam, and the pair even worked a few jobs together now and then, even if they did bicker like an old married couple - it provided great entertainment when you tagged along.

He leant back on the couch, settling his left arm across the back. He always looked at home on your floor, relaxed, like his mind could shut off a little. “Nah, I’m okay... Thank you though.” He shot you an easy smile again, one that he probably hadn’t used in.... decades. “What about you? Why are you up so late?”

Mimicking his shrug, you kept your expression neutral, making sure your eyes didn’t drift to that certain drawer, “Rough week. I was reading to try and drift off.”

“Mmmhm...” Bucky’s hummed response told you instantly that he did not believe you one bit. “What were you reading? Cosmopolitan’s best guide to toys?” That shit eating grin graced his face and he motioned gracefully with his left hand... to the corner of the room.

The vibrator you’d launched was sitting on the floor, nestled in the rug, the soft mint green silicone practically a beacon.

Okay.

Okay…. So. There were two ways you could respond to this.

Either play it off, deny it and change the subject.

Or…

Turning back to him, you shrugged again, “Oh, I’ve read that back to front. And made a few additions myself.” You cocked your head, a faint flutter in your belly as you awaited his response.

The barest flicker of surprise danced across his beautiful, rugged features before dissolving into something confident and smouldering. “Well, it looks to me like their guide isn’t true to review tonight. Something tells me you’re having a little bit of trouble.” His voice had begun to lower into a deeper, the natural roughness of his voice coming out.

It stoked that fire within you, warming your blood and curling low in your belly.

“And if I was? What would you suggest to help?” It was almost impossible to remain sitting still as the atmosphere folded and changed. There was one obvious route to your back and forth… and you wanted it.

Wanted… him.

And if you were honest, you had for a long time now. There was just something about him that you’d always been drawn to, a simmering tension that settled whenever you were together.

Bucky rose from the sofa in a fluid movement, walking toward you slowly, casually, but with the grace and prowl of a wolf eyeing up its next meal – you.

And fuck, you wanted him to devour you.

He slid his hands into his pockets, feet silent on your wooden floor, “Well… I would say that as wonderful as your toys may be… they’re just that. Toys. They can’t… feel what you like.” His eyes burned through you with each of his steps. “They don’t hear the noises you make when they hit the right spot. They don’t get to see the way your body reacts, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip because it feels overwhelmingly good.”

He was close enough for you to smell his cologne, and that only added to the growing wetness between your thighs as his filthy, beautiful words.

Bucky stopped in front of you, removing his left hand and touching his fingers to your chin to tilt it up to face him, “They can’t know the little things… the deeper angle, that extra finger or sweep of the tongue… they can’t make you so wet that it runs down your thighs and they can’t make you arch off the bed as you shatter into starlight…” He sighed softly, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “I’m afraid they just… can’t make you come the way a real person could.” He applied a little pressure to the underside of your chin, and you rose to your – unsteady - feet instantly, putty in his hands.

Holy fuck, Bucky Barnes had a mouth on him.

Your teeth had indeed sunk into your lower lip, and your breathing had grown shallow. It was an effort to keep your thighs firmly locked together… Because you were just as wet as he had said.

The dark flame in his eyes told you that he knew the reaction you were having to him. He brushed a cool thumb over your lip, then tugged it gently to free it from your teeth and at the same time, he leant his head down to your level, “They can’t make you come like I can, darlin’.” This close, his warm lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice reduced to a husky rasp that only further drew out that Brooklyn accent.

The soft moan that left your lips was almost pitiful, but you didn’t care, “Shit.”

You breathed the word, earning a deep chuckle in your ear before Bucky pulled back, only enough to see your face, “You want me to help you? Give you a helping hand?” His words were low and seductive, but he was looking between your eyes, making no more moves until he knew you wanted this.

If you changed your mind, he would leave right now, and say no more about it.

That very thought pained you.

Something had always hovered between you both… and maybe now was the time to let it out. You shared a few kisses on nights out and he had featured heavily in your fantasies night after night, wishing your fingers were his, the toys were him….

You met his eyes, your own clear and sure and you kept that gaze as you parted your lips. Then swept your tongue along his thumb and tilted your head down just enough to take it between your lips. The vibranium was smooth, cold and it felt oddly delightful on your tongue. “Make me come, Bucky. Prove to me you’re better than the toys.” Your voice was low with need, a soft pleading note for him there as you gazed up through your eyelashes.

The Arctic blue of his eyes deepened to near midnight, his pupils blowing out as he watched you talk around his thumb, your tongue sweeping over the metal and he almost purred, “Oh, baby, you won’t need toys when I’m done.” And then he was on you.

He gently pulled his hand from your face, instead placing it lightly around your neck, the heavy metal settling on your collarbones and that alone drenched you.

He looked between your eyes, checking one final time and then his mouth was lowering onto yours, his lips warm, plush and ever so inviting. Instantly, he licked a teasing line along your lips, which you would have parted for him without the request.

Bucky’s tongue slipped past your lips, sweeping against yours in hot strokes as he explored every corner of your mouth.

He tasted divine, and even more so when his thumb lightly tipped your chin back and he traced the tip of his tongue along the roof of your mouth, licking over the ridges and showing you exactly what that tongue could do.

A groan left your lips, and you slid your hands up his arms to those shoulders, those gorgeous broad shoulders that all you wanted to do was dig your nails into them and use for support as you rode him.

A deep curl of delight and joy was unfurling within the heat in your belly, because you needed this, needed more of him and his hands and his tongue and his words… and you were finally getting it

Hell, he had only just started kissing you and you already could have fallen apart just from that.

“Why have we not been doing this all the time?” Was the only thought that your already fuzzy mind could come up with as he pulled away slowly from your lips, only to begin pressing hot, open kisses against your jaw that were all teeth and tongue. He seared a path to your neck, kissing all over until he found that particular spot that made you whimper and arch into his body.

Bucky laughed low against your neck, the sound vibrating, “Oh, baby, you were struggling, weren’t you? I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already a mess…” He used his hand on your throat to tilt your head to the side, before biting at your skin, sweeping his tongue over the hot and sucking a deep mark there.

A slight whine rippled in your throat, fingers pulling as his shirt and your chest pushed against his, the firm heat of him making your nipples tighten, especially when he pushed into you.

Bucky slipped a hand between your bodies, tugging at the cord of your dressing gown and it slipped from your shoulders, leaving you bare and open to him.

He licked down your neck, his tongue smoothing over the shape of your collarbones and then down your sternum to your breasts. He butterfly kissed the soft flesh, then almost delicately sucked at your rleft nipple, lifting his vibranium hand to squeeze the other, “So beautiful…” He mumbled it half to himself, his dark mussed up curls soft against your skin.

One of your hands trailed up the back of his neck, slightly tangling in the hair at the base of his head and you pushed your chest further into his mouth, “Tease.” The word was a soft gasp, your eyes closing in pleasure and your lips parting.

He chuckled, pulling back to blow a cool breath on the wet skin, watching your nipple harden and then he moved to give the other the same treatment, “Oh, I’m a tease, am I? I can stop if you like.” He grinned around the delicate skin, just slightly grazing his teeth as he tugged your nipple and then he continued his trail of kisses down your body, slowly sinking to his knees. “I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop though, darlin’.” His right hand grasped your ankle, and then he ghosted warm fingertips up your leg, past your knee and then pausing at your inner thigh, at what he felt there, “No. No I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop at all.”

The cocky bastard grinned once more against your stomach, before dipping his tongue inside your belly button.

“Bucky…” You couldn’t hide the whimper in your voice, nor the way your hips rocked forward in a plea. It was almost painful how much you needed him to touch you, needed to feel his lips and his tongue.

“Shhh, baby, I know.” His hands slipped up your waist, as soothing as his gentle coo against your belly button and then he brushed his lips lower and lower… and then finally, he pressed a soft butterfly kiss to your pubic bone.

A low groan tore from his throat, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he saw you, swollen and positively dripping for him, “Oh, darlin’, look at you…”

The sheer desire and awe in his low voice caused heat to flush along your cheekbones. You weren’t shy by any means, but the almost primal admiration in his voice was something you’d never heard before, the pure want and desire to make you feel good and worship you.

Bucky admired the sight before him for a single moment, before lifting his eyes to yours and then he dove in, immediately devouring you like he was starving. His deft tongue slipped through your slick folds with ease, and he moaned again at your taste, at your smell, everything.

He pressed his tongue flat against you before sucking at your clit, with such an intensity that you almost choked. It was a simple movement, but it shot electricity through your body and made every single nerve stand on end.

He let that coil of energy begin to build, and then he licked back down, his hands sliding down to palm at your ass cheeks before digging his fingers into your skin, pulling you in further so he could bury his nose against your clit and his tongue – fuck, his tongue pushed inside of you, hot and heavy. It just felt so, so good, his nose putting pressure on your bundle of nerves, his tongue pumping inside you.

Your hands flew down to his hair, winding through it to keep him there, keep him doing that, to keep him fucking you with his tongue, “Buck-”. You weren’t sure what you were begging him for, only that you just needed to say his name, needed to do something.

Your hips began to rock in time with his thrusts, and you became aware of it only when Bucky’s muffled moan reverberating through you.

He liked it, no... he loved this, that you were grinding against his face as his tongue worked inside you, tasting parts of you no one else had ever gotten right before.

“Fuck, Bucky, keep doing that – I’m-” You cut off with a high moan, your head tilting back as you rocked into him faster, chasing down that high that was so tantalisingly close. It hadn’t taken long, you were so worked up from your failed attempts that you were already there.

Bucky’s began to lick and suck you with new fervour, his head moving in time with the jerks of his hips, feeling the way your walls were tightening around his tongue. His fingers dug harder into your ass, and you felt the silent command almost, Come.

And you did.

You cried his name out to the sky, every nerve in your body winding to near painful tautness before you shattered on his face, your first orgasm ripping through you.

Bucky didn’t stop, working you through it and drawing it out further and further as he lapped up every single drop you gave him, moaning himself like it was the most tantalising thing he had ever tasted.

He stopped only when your grip released on his hair, the sensitivity of your nerves almost painful, your legs shaking like crazy and he lifted his hand from between your thighs, his lips and chin glistening. He rose from his knees, nudging you back onto the bed and instantly crawling up your body, “You have no idea how good you taste.”

You whimpered slightly, catching your breath as you watched him crawl up you, eyes burning like sapphire fire, his tongue licking slowly over his lips as he savoured you. Words were beyond you, desire still coursing through your veins and you were a little in awe at how quickly – and hard – he had brought you to your first orgasm.

Bucky grinned devilishly, “That won’t be your last.” He lowered his mouth back to yours and as you tasted yourself on him, you grew instantly wet for him again.

His body brushed into yours and you felt how painfully hard he was through his jeans, the sounds and taste of you getting to him of course.

Your fingers had barely brushed against his restrained length when he shook his head, nipping at your lower lip, “Oh no, baby, this is all about you.”

You ignored him, palming him through his jeans and he moaned lowly before his eyes flashed, his hand suddenly back on your throat and he moved his hips away so you couldn’t get to him. “I said no.” It was almost a snarl, “This is about you. Not me.” His hand tightened just slightly around your throat, making it that little bit harder to breathe and your eyes rolled back at how delicious it felt.

It was a huge kink for you, the idea of someone – of Bucky - taking control, being in control of your body even it was just for a little while. You didn’t need to think or do anything. Only feel and be at the mercy of his touch.

You relented, legs falling open for him and you tilted your head back, searching for his lips.

Bucky granted you the kiss, a slow, languid kiss at first that was all simmering passion and tangling tongues, the taste on you still lingering on his lips.

He palmed your breast again, tugging and squeezing the flesh until he scratched his nails lightly down your ribcage and belly.

Yes, yes-

He wasted no time, no more playing and his fingers slipped lower, circling over your clit with a delicious pressure that had you instantly moaning into his mouth.

He toyed with your clit a little more, before gathering your wetness and then sinking two fingers inside you, pushing all the way into his knuckles, then drawing back out slowly.

As he withdrew, you moaned long and slow into his mouth and he began a steady rhythm. Pushing and curling his fingers inside you a few steps, then circling and pulling at your clit, ever so subtly switching it up with each pass so you couldn’t predict what he would do.

It felt amazing, but… there was something still missing. It still wasn’t quite enough to send you over that final edge… it wasn’t what you’d been fantasising about.

No, it was his left hand. That dark, golden vibranium hand that was currently seated around your throat.

The knowledge of what it could do, the sheer power in it that could easily crush your windpipe or shatter your jaw with a single flick of his wrist.

That is what you needed.

Those cool, powerful fingers inside you, working you over – that was the best toy.

It was like he could read your mind somehow, or the way your body sung to his tune. He lifted his head, looking down at you with those searing blues and he cocked his head, a slow grin lighting his gorgeous face, “Oh… This-” he scissored his fingers inside you, stretching your walls and ever so slightly brushing up against that spot, “isn’t quite what you want, is it, darlin’?”

Holy Christ, he was going to destroy you before you even got what you wanted.

You looked up at him, panting, hips rocking to the slower thrust of his fingers and you shook your head.

Bucky swore softly, panting himself and he squeezed your throat once before lifting his fingers, “You want these, don’t you?”

Instead of answering him, you ducked your head, taking his three fingers into your mouth and immediately gliding your tongue around them, up and down in slow, dirty strokes.

The effect was instantaneous. Bucky’s hips jerked slightly against yours, his mouth parting as he watched you suck his vibranium fingers, hollowing your cheeks, eyes rolling back in your head like… like it was something else entirely.

He groaned, swore again and then almost ripped his fingers from your mouth and from between your legs at the same time.

Your entire body mourned the loss, feeling empty, clenching around nothing but mere seconds later, he plunged those three vibranium fingers inside of you, slick with your saliva and how unbelievably wet you were.

It stung a little, but only added to the feeling as your hips rose off the bed, “Shit, shit-”

They felt… like the best toy you could ever imagine. Smooth, cold, and hard enough that you could feel every faint ridge of the joints as he slid them in and out. You reached out, grabbing his arm with one hand and the bed with the other, needing something to hold onto as instinct took over. Your hips rode upwards, back arching as you rocked his fingers in deeper, feeling them in your spine almost. It was better than you could have imagined.

Bucky dropped his head to your chest, spreading his mouth over your breast and his other arm slid over your hips, pinning them to the bed so you were forced to take it. “You wanted this, baby… You take it.” He bit down on the soft flesh of your breast before smoothing his tongue over it again, working an alternative rhythm to his fingers and thumb again, so that your brain couldn’t keep up with which one to follow. It knew only the waves of fire singing through your veins.

Time may have very well dissolved, because you could only feel pleasure, tinged almost with pain.

The thick, hard stroking of fingers as they stretched and wrecked you.

The circling, hard-soft-hard pressure of his thumb on your clit.

The bite of his teeth on your breasts, neck and chest, followed by the wet press of his tongue.

The way he couldn’t help his hips slightly rocking against your leg.

This was almost like a fever dream, expect your brain couldn’t have come up with something this mind melting. Not even if you were really, really worked up.

The noises in the room were absolutely sinful. The unrestrained cries and moans from your lips, Bucky’s groans and his filthy words, the wet pump of his fingers inside you – it was obscene, filthy and completely, painfully mind-blowing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bucky, please-” You had no idea what you were begging for, but every single nerve and muscle in your body was coiling tighter and tighter, your hips jerking against his arm as he pinned you down, forcing you to take this, to feel everything he was doing with no relenting. Tears were beginning to blur your eyes and the pleasure he unleashed upon you was almost painful.

Bucky somehow moved his fingers harder, deeper, the ability of the tech in his arm allowing him to do so, “Let go, baby, come on, let it go for me..” He dropped his head, biting down on your neck and he pressed his fingers against that spot inside you, flicking your clit with his thumb and then it all just snapped.

Waves and waves of hot fire flooded your body, dragging you up to the stars, further. It ripped the air from your lungs, made you half scream his name in a never-ending prayer.

It just didn’t stop.

Bucky kept moving inside you, drawing out every single second of your mind-shattering orgasm, letting go of your hips so you could grind them into his hand. “That’s it, baby… Look at you, so beautiful like that…” His praise spurred you on, making you feel almost like a goddess as you flooded his hand.

He stopped only when you slumped back onto the bed, sucking in deep breaths as you tried to piece yourself back together.

Better than toys indeed.

A little while later, you stirred from a light dose to see Bucky lounging on your couch again, cleaning the grooves and metal of his fingers with a soft cloth.

The sight of him concentrating, taking such care and detail with the clean-up, the cleanup from the mess you had made, had you instantly wet again. “Bucky.”

He looked up, hearing the low thrum to your voice and a smirk crossed his lips.

You had a favour to repay for his helping hand, after all.

#well #that happened #i am not sorry #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #arm kink

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honeyhenry · 4 years

Text

Captain Confusion

A/N: Inspired by this video that makes me weep with its cuteness! I just had to write this okay 🥺🥺🥺 This is in the same universe as Homeward Bound, which happens after this story. Feel free to give it a read after this, if you haven’t already! ALSO should note that the lovely @ohmygoodie is my Sy partner in crime and without them this fic would not be made possible :)

Warning: mention of operations/hospitals, and a whole lot of fluff!

It was a simple procedure and so it hadn't worried you too much, other than the usual fears when a loved one is under the knife while in the hands of trained doctors. Sy’s hernia had been authorised for operation only five minutes into the doctor’s appointment you had all but dragged him to, and scheduled for 4 days later. Not really much time to prepare mentally, but you knew it was necessary with your big bear of a man in pain. Despite the painkillers prescribed, he was walking with a limp and groaning in bed for all the wrong reasons.

In the waiting room, you and his Ma kept busy during the 45 minute wait by looking through magazines, talking about how the Captain’s quality of life will improve, and what kind of minor jobs you’ll have him do around the house while he’s recovering as you continue to work.

“I hope the recovery isn’t as long as some people have said. I know for a fact he’ll not want to be cooped up all day. If he’s anything, he’s stubborn” you sigh, knowingly.

Ma smiles, looking at you pointedly, knowing that she is in the presence of the only other soul who knows what is best for her son. “He knows better now that his health is his wealth. He’s got a lot more riding on being well now. After all, it’s not just him he’s gotta be there for anymore.”

“Yeah, I mean I always tell him, he’s not 25 anymore. Or even 30. I’ll need you to back me up, he does anything you say. I’m his equal, you’re his Mom.”

You both laugh a little, hers warm and kind, while yours tinges with the remaining hopeful nerves of an army Captain’s wife. You don’t like not knowing about your Sy, especially since you spent all those years apart, not knowing if he was safe, or even alive. The waiting, in any capacity, is the hardest part.

You’re flipping through a random tabloid magazine, when the surgeon in charge walks through to the waiting room.

“Everything went really well with Captain Syverson. He’s coming to from the anaesthetic and asking for his Ma?”

Ma grins before sucking her teeth between her lips watching as your mouth drops. You both move from the waiting area to follow the surgeon towards where your husband is resting. You speak under your breath, only wanting Sy’s Ma to hear you; “I hope he still remembers how to grovel after this.”

Ma enters the room with you following her, arriving only a couple more corridors along from where you’d last seen him earlier that morning. He may not have asked for you but you were going to see Sy whether he wanted it or not. A grand push of the door allows it to swing open, and suddenly there he is. A little disoriented but has a large dopey smile plastered on his face as soon as he sees his Ma. His heavy head lolls to one side as he rests it on the plush hospital pillow.

“Hey Ma” he groans out as she bends over her large son to give his forehead a kiss, taking his hand in hers. He spends a moment just gazing at her for a while, the love he has for her evident on his face, as she tells him that everything went well, and that he can go home tomorrow.

It’s only after this tender mother and son moment, that he notices you.

“Ma.... why ya bringing a beautiful girl here when I’m like this...oh god I’m not wearing underwear Ma!”

His feeble attempt at trying to cover himself means that you actually end up seeing far more of him than you expected. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, but it definitely hasn't happened in front of his own mother before. The whole situation makes you blush and giggle a little as you try your best to avoid eye contact with Ma. You can only imagine the look on her face, and you don’t want to get any more involved with Sy’s naked form than you need to right now.

Rather than put you and your poor Sy through any further embarrassment, Ma speaks up.

“Oh darlin’, this is y/n. You remember her, right?”

And while he’s listening - or at least pretending to listen to his Ma fussing over him again - he’s just staring at you, gazing in awe as if you were the one to hang the stars in the sky.

“You are.... so pretty” he slurs, making you break out a genuine smile that he mirrors, glad that he was the one to make you look even more pretty.

“Well thanks handsome. How do you feel?” you perch on the edge of the bed and hold his hand. To him, the gesture feels warm and inviting - even if he doesn't know you, he recognises something about you in the comfort that you bring.

“Feel like shit. Oh fuck i said ‘shit’ in front of the lady” he whines again, scrunching his eyes closed as hangs his head in shame. It looks like he might even cry with the realisation that he’s made such a foolish impression of himself. It takes Ma shushing him and making him take a sip of juice from his bedside to calm down, dabbing his face with a cloth when his juice spills from his mouth.

“Oh Logan Daniel Syverson...what did they do to ya?” she lightly scolds as she helps clean up the mess he’s unknowingly created around him. That’s your Sy, a hurricane of mess that somehow fits into order just how he likes it.

You giggle a little more at his shameful expression, before he refocuses, giving you his undivided attention once more.

“How is it that ya know my Ma and we’ve never met? Or have we? ‘Cause I think i’d remember a face like yours”

“Well...” you start, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear to let him see your entire face, hoping it would jog his memory. As you do so, the ring on your fourth finger glints in the hospital light, and for the first time since you've entered the room, he’s noticed.

“Oh...man...knew a girl like you would be snatched up already. Whoever has the honour of being yours is a very lucky man.” He smiles softly, a wistful look in his eye, while makes you realise that you can’t wait for the drugs to leave his system, you have to remind him who you are and who he is, right this very moment.

“Sy honey... we’re married. You’re my husband, and I’m your wife. I think the drugs are making you more than a bit loopy.”

It’s his turn for his jaw to drop, his eyes are unblinking as he takes in what you’ve just said. He turns sharply - more than his doctor would have probably liked - to his Ma, and then back to you, and then his Ma again, waiting for one of you to burst out laughing at the prank you surely must be playing on him.

“Wha-? A wife? I have a wife?” you nod and he exhales a deep breath of air in amazement.

“YOU’RE my wife? Really?” you nod again and Ma smiles at you as she watches the scene of Logan meeting you all over again.

“Am I still in the army? I’m a Captain ya know”

“You left just a few months ago. You still work in the local camps, of course. You like it there, and you’re home every night and most weekends.”

“Does Ma like you?” You don’t even get a chance to finish as he turns to his mother “Do you like her? is she nice? Does she like your new kitchen? I built it y’know.”

You knew when you met, dated, and married him, that Sy was a Momma’s boy. He loves his mother so much, that her opinion will always mean the world to him.

Ma nods “You two are the sweetest couple. She’s the best addition to the family, gives you a run for your money alright. She’s my new favourite.” You get a soft hug from her as she says this, with her wrapping her arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. She’s always felt so grateful that her Logan found you, because my goodness did he love you ferociously, and he needed you in his life. You were the making of him, and the whole Syverson clan will forever be grateful to you for it.

"And where did we get married? If we really are married.” He continues his line of questioning.

“At the ranch, on your family’s land. it was such a special day. We had the reception there too. And we went to Italy for our honeymoon.”

Sy is basking in every word you say, praying it to be true, as if he could will it into existence if it hadn’t already happened, wanting badly to remember sunset kisses and italian food and beach days all spent with you. He perks up at the last thing you say, taken by complete surprise.

“Honeymoon?! Oh my god have we...ya know..?” A blush fades over Sy’s face, and even though you love his Ma, you really wish she wasn’t finding out so many details about your personal life today, like how your son rails you on the regular in many ways, and in many places. He must somehow remember or at least accurately imagine your past endeavours, as he grins like a little shit.

You smack his arm, lightly but with a firm hand.

“Be quiet, or the whole ward will know about our sex life” you threaten. “Yes we’ve had sex. i’d hope so given that we have a kid on the way.”

If Ma had had to deal with her son getting horny over his “new”wife, she was being fully compensated for it as she witnessed him fall head over heels in love with you, all over again.

“A kid?...Tell me ya not messing with me...are we really- I-” he swallows and his tears come even easier than before “We’re havin’ a baby?” With the sudden realisation, he turns to his Ma. “This beautiful woman right here’s havin’ my kid, Ma?” He looks between the two of you again, watching as you both nod and beam from ear to ear.

“You know you cried just as much when i told you for the first time too. i promise when the drugs are out your system it’ll all make sense again.”

Sy smiles, clutching your hand in his warm palm, almost scared to let go as the door is knocked and he feels you might be taken away. Instead, it’s a welcome visitor.

“Hey doc,” Sy greets the man who reenters the room, now freshly out of scrubs to visit his patient - who if anything is now simply love sick, no hernia to be found. “This is my wife, and she’s having a baby.” he looks back to you with a quirk of his eyebrow “My baby?” You roll your eyes and he confirms it; “my baby.”

“Oh, congratulations...again.”

The doctor’s evaluation and explanations don’t take long, and while Sy is being informed, you start rubbing your belly as a form of self-comfort. You will need to remind your child that while their father looks incredibly stern and impossibly large, he is silly and goofy and already loves them with his entire being. Over the course of the afternoon, Sy talks with you while the anaesthetic wears off. It turns out they had given him a pretty high dosage based on his height and muscle mass, so he would be out of action for a couple of hours at least.

“Oh, i have your ring” you pipe up before he starts getting too sleepy again, taking the thick gold band off of the necklace around your neck, placing it on his finger carefully.

“That feels better already” he sighs, as he begins to doze in and out of consciousness. Before he closes his eyes once more to rest peacefully, a small tear slides down his cheek, which you of course, notice. Sy has cried maybe 5 times in the time you’ve known him and three of those times have been in this very room.

“Honey what’s wrong? Are you in pain? i can call the doctor-”

“No i’m fine i’m fine i just-” he sniffs and tries to clear his throat from the sad, heavy pain he feels in his chest. “I’m gonna be real sad when I wake up from this dream. What if I can’t find you when I wake up?”

Oh your sweet, silly man.

“Bear it’s not a dream, I’ll be right here when you get up properly and we can go home and cuddle and I’ll heat up your favourite meal. I’ll be right there with you.”

“And the baby?” he asks, eyes wide. almost nervous to ask.

“Well they have to come too, they're with me. We can look at their pictures again so you can get reacquainted. And Aika will be so happy you’re back. We’ve been gone the whole day.”

“Aika!” your husband perks up, “Oh Aika, man....I love that dog..”

“I know you do bear, you just get some rest for now and then we can go home.”

Before you know it, he’s fallen back to sleep, his mouth wide open as he slumps against his pillow, completely out of it.

It’s dark outside when Sy opens his eyes again, watching as his Ma passes you a small herbal tea in the dimly lit hospital room. Technically visiting hours are over, but no one was going to argue with the Captain’s family. You smile, and he feels like he can finally relax, in your presence

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” he growls lowly, and you look up at him from your phone, beaming in surprise, glad that your husband had woken up feeling a bit more like himself.

“Oh hello again” you smile and squeeze his hand, his slow blinking already indicating a much clearer mind, and that he knows exactly who you are.

“Again? What’d I miss?”

“The drugs” he stops you mid-sentence for a sweet kiss, acting as though a minute more without your lips would be the source of his downfall. “Mmmh, the drugs made you so loopy, it was the sweetest thing, Sy.” You grin as he pulls you up beside him on the bed.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly with no recollection of any of the past events. Yet still, he smiles.

“Yeah? How’s baby?” he holds you close to his side, wrapping an arm around your waist so he can cover your tummy with his palm.

“They’re great. Glad to have daddy back and sane.”

You swear that as you say that, he starts tearing up again, this time however he doesn’t let them fall. He was openly weeping earlier, but you won’t tell him that. Not yet.

“Damnit. Must be something in these drugs they got me on.”

“Mm-hmm sure bear.”

You stay close that evening, both curled up on a hospital bed that is already quite a tight fit for your husband alone. But as always, he makes it work. You’re half on top of him, both of you fast asleep, when the nurses come to do their rounds. Ma had left just after he had woken up, sneaking off into the night to let the rest of the family know how her most middle son is keeping after the operation. You’d cuddled and doted on each other until you’d fallen asleep, Sy following not long after as he bid goodnight to you and your precious cargo with a soft kiss to your lips, and protective rub of your stomach.

He counts himself more than lucky to have something so good, that it would pain him to forget. He was living the life that he’d been too scared to ever dream of, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

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thedamageofherdays · 3 years

Text

This week's [23-08-2021 - 29-08-2021] reading log is here! I read a lot again this week and I feel like it's a lovely variety of fics. Most fics are Stucky like usual, but there's at least one other ship. I am constantly amazed by the talent people have in this fandom! There was one fic I read on Tumblr that I can't seem to find unfortunately, but when I do I'll make sure to reblog and rec it 💕

Favourites are marked with a 🌻

When life gives you lemons by moonthejedi394 @moonythejedi394 [Stucky, 40k words, Mature] (12/15 chapters available)

Or 13 Terrible Things to Do With Lemons Other Than Making Lemonade

Steve Rogers is a home health nurse. He works for an agency, which assigned him to the aging Winifred Barnes, the one and only Silent Era Hollywood darling. As her needs increased, she requested the agency assign Steve to her full-time. She could pay for it, so she got it. Steve then moved in with her, becoming her caregiver; he cooked, he cleaned, he managed her medications, he made sure she was comfortable.

Winifred's children treated him less than ideally. He was the help, after all. And then Steve had the audacity to go and turn out to be eldest son James Barnes's soulmate. No one saw that coming.

The Masseur and the Assassin by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy @buckybarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 17k words, Explicit]

Bucky Barnes needed a vacation from his job. What he found was a happy ending.

The Words Breathe by buckbarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

All Steve has to do is keep his promise. When he doesn’t, Bucky gets mouthy.

Soft by this_wayward_life @wayward-lives [Stucky, 2k words, Explicit]

The last time he'd seen Bucky he'd looked unhealthy, with pallid skin and greasy, lanky hair. Now, Bucky shone; his hair was thick and silky, his skin a deep bronze from spending so much time outside. He was softer, too; the hard muscle that used to cover him was now replaced by soft fat, his body still strong, but in a more mundane way. His thighs were thicker, his ass plumper, and when he'd pulled Steve into the river Steve had noticed the pudge on his stomach.

Seeing Bucky so happy, well-fed and shining, was a bit of a kick in the face. For all the years they'd known each other, he'd never seen Bucky so... care-free. Now that Bucky was putting on weight, his middle soft and his body malleable, it sent a bolt of arousal through Steve every time he noticed the curves of Bucky's body.

Or: Bucky put on a bit of weight in Wakanda, and Steve is Not Coping.

🌻 Revive Another Side of Me by dontcallmebree @iamthe-wo-manwhocan [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Steve’s never lived in a world without Bucky, and he’s not living now. It takes them a while, much too long, to get that awaited rest, a little slice of peace after the dust has settled.Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are inseparable, history remembers. But they’re not men of the past quite yet.

🌻 imagine being loved by me by spacebuck @spacebuck [Stucky, 20k words, Explicit]

Just after 1am - a few hours after he posted today’s photo - he hears the tell-tale sound of a twitter message. Bucky grabs his phone, not checking who it’s from as he opens it because it’s probably one of his mutuals yelling at him as per usual. When he actually looks at his phone, though, it’s not Natasha

The ‘verified’ check stares back at him for a long moment before he can even bring himself to process the name on his screen. Steve Rogers is messaging him. Or, he reasons, a very good fake. The handle looks right though, not that Bucky knows. Not that Bucky has Captain’s America’s tweets set up as notifications, or that Bucky’s own display name is set to captain america’s bitch. Not at all.

Hey, the first message says. It’s Steve.

🌻 JB’s Complete Lube Services by dixons_mama @dixons-mama [Stucky, 3k words, Explicit]

People just didn’t approach Captain America and proposition him. Although, sometimes Steve wished they would; even the pinnacle of virtue and justice needed to get dicked down from time to time.

Or, the one where Steve has the hots for a mechanic and decides to be proactive in getting that dick.

If it had to be someone by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Bucky had known since he was a child that he didn’t have a choice in who he married, but he’d thought he had more time before the day arrived.

Miscalculations by christywantspizza @christywantspizza [Ransom Drysdale/Reader, 6k words, Explicit]

Ransom tries to get you to sleep with him by less than honorable means. You give him what he wants, just not how he wants it.

How to Seduce a Writer by obsessivereader [Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

What's a determined master strategist going to do when the oblivious writer he's trying to woo keeps missing all the clues?

He doesn’t think it’s because he hadn’t signaled his own interest to Bucky. He’s pretty much done everything short of hitting Bucky over the head with semaphore flags by this point. There’s no way Bucky could’ve missed them. Unless… There’d been that one link he’d stumbled upon when he’d googled ‘how to talk to a writer’. It’d been written by a writer, who’d been candid about how oblivious writers could be, and how someone could go about seducing one. An idea starts to form. It’s ridiculous, but at this point, he’s willing to go with ridiculous, since subtle wasn’t getting him anywhere.

🌻 Pod Bless America by Deisderium @deisderium [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

Bucky can't believe his favorite podficcer recorded his newest fanfic AU of the show Commandos. He's even more surprised when the customer who busts him listening to fic while he's working in the office supply store turns out to be that podficcer.

* The guy—maybe bi_shield?—took his phone, looked down at the screen, and smiled. "Yeah, that one's mine," he said with no evidence of embarrassment. "It was a good one." He handed the phone back to Bucky.

"I wrote it," Bucky croaked.

take a bite by wearing_tearing [Stucky, 7k words, Mature]

"I’d never let anyone freeze to death.” Steve gives a big sigh and flutters his lashes. “All that blood gone to waste.”

Bucky’s lips turn down and his nose scrunches up a little. “I want to be grossed out, but…”

“But you get it.” Steve gives him a pointed look. “Vampires aren’t the only ones who can appreciate how juicy blood is.”

Or: Vampire Steve saves newly-turned werewolf Bucky from a snowstorm.

Leaving the Shield Behind by BuckyAboveEverything [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

“So, on one hand, we have Steve Rogers - hunk, genius, animal lover. Buys you waffles and overpriced coffee. 100% wholesome all-American boy.”

“And, on the other hand, we have Capsicle – twink, smart-ass, fanboy. Reads your stories and sends you fanart. Possibly a pervert or a serial killer.”

Bucky groaned.

“I am 100% certain I am 0% sure of what to do."

Bucky Barnes, full-time copywriter and free-time fanfic writer, struggles to choose between two equally-attractive suitors, only to find that he doesn’t have to after all.

* Based on a true story *

Cap's Book Corner by Neche [Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

Recluse Author Bucky Barns stumbles into fanboy Steve Rogers bookstore one day...

Cat Nap by galwednesday @galwednesday [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

Objectively, losing the Bucharest safehouse and its contents was the least of Bucky’s problems. The balding agent he’d seen directing the raid was apparently affiliated with SHIELD, which was a shadowy government agency that made representatives from other shadowy government agencies suddenly remember urgent appointments when Bucky tried to bribe, threaten, and otherwise shake them down for information on what the hell SHIELD might want with a former brainwashed assassin. Dodging SHIELD should be his number one priority.

Subjectively, he wanted his fucking cat back.

at any given moment by honeypuffed [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

Steve and Bucky find out that everyone thinks they're sleeping together.

Brought to Brightness by eyres [Stucky, 10k words, Teen]

Army veteran Bucky Barnes has fallen in love with Steve, a guy he met online a few months after he returned from Afghanistan. Only problem is, he doesn't know Steve's last name or even what he looks like.

When his sister helps him send his story into MTV's Catfish, he's hoping they can help him meet Steve or, at least, let him move on with his life if Steve isn't real. Little does he know, Steve and Captain America have more in common than just a first name.

🌻 Nokken Wood by leveragehunters @leveragehunters [Stucky, 10k words, Teen]

When Sam's friend needs a house-sitter for his place in the country, Steve jumps at the chance. Six months rent-free to do nothing but draw and paint and wander the countryside, looking for inspiration? It was like a dream. But when he gets lost in a storm and nearly falls into a pond he starts to rethink the whole like a dream aspect of life in the country. And when a red-eyed, sharp-clawed, silver-fanged creature rises out of the darkness, Steve is one hundred percent certain the dream's morphed into a nightmare.

...until it gives him a cup of tea.

(Inspired partly by this prompt a supernatural creature is supposed to scare you but instead it gives you a cup of tea and a blanket because you're having a bad day and you keep coming back and partly by this painting.)

Professional Pride by galwednesday [Stucky, 700 words, Teen]

Bucky is having a very good day, until he turns around and finds himself face-to-face with Captain America.

“Oh shit,” he blurts before he can stop himself, and Captain America blinks at him. “Hey, hi, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Here, at New York’s Pride parade, surrounded by thousands of happy screaming people wearing rainbows and sometimes not much else. What is he doing here? Is he on guard duty or something? Was he just on a mission and happened to be passing by on his way back?

He’s in uniform but with the cowl loose around his neck, so when he rubs the back of his head it fluffs up his matted hair. “I, uh. I saw one of your–temporary tattoos?” Captain fucking America says, like it’s a question.

The A-bridged Guide to Trolling by galwednesday [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

“I don’t have any money.”

Oh no, now the girl looked upset. Her eyes were huge and her lip was wobbling. Bucky tried to think fast despite the oh shit oh shit oh shit looping through his head.

“That’s okay,” Bucky said gently. “I don’t need money. We can figure out another kind of toll.”

The girl frowned at him. “Like what?”

Bucky scratched his head, trying to think of something a kid was certain to have on hand. “Do you know any jokes?”

(Fantasy AU in which Steve is a hedge witch with a green thumb, Bucky is a bridge troll who's new in town, and knock-knock jokes are a viable form of currency.)

It's a bittersweet ending (if you know what I mean) by relenafanel [Stucky, 1k words, Teen]

“I’ll see you around, Steve,” Bucky answers with a smirk, moving away from the counter with a wink.

Steve watches him go. Bucky’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans coated in something to give the appearance of leather. It’s impossible to not watch him go.

stuck on you by wearing_tearing [Stucky, 5k words, Teen]

“Bucky? You don’t look so hot.”

Bucky makes a tiny little sound in the back of his throat, only to start coughing. Of course he doesn’t look hot. He’s sick and he’s dying and Steve obviously isn’t attracted to him.

Decision-Making in Relationships (Paid Research Opportunity!) by castiowl [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

Clint looked thoughtfully at the flyer. “I guess your actual roommate wouldn’t be down with it?”

Bucky frowned. “Have you met Steve Rogers?”

no way out but through by hollimichele [Stucky, 9k words, Teen]

Steve never sees it coming.

you got blood on your hands (and i know it's mine) by nighimpossible [Stucky, 3k words, Teen]

Bucky refuses to see Steve after his deprogramming.

Like What You See by daisymondays [Stucky, 8k words, Teen]

For all the time Bucky’s spent fantasizing about meeting Captain America, he’d never imagined it would be while posing nude in front of a drawing class.

🌻 A Real Boy by itsnotbleak [Stucky, 5k words, Teen]

It took the Winter Soldier three weeks to remember that human beings needed to sleep and eat.

It took Steve far too long to realise the Winter Soldier was sleeping in his bed.

Amapola by chaya [Stucky, 830 words, Teen]

Total fluff. Bucky's recovering nicely. Steve's oblivious. Sometimes it's best to set aside subtlety for action.

Knocking Boots With Sugar by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 4k words, Explicit]

In between summers at college, Steve Rogers wants a new adventure beyond his lonely life in Brooklyn. He ends up in West Texas working on a dude ranch where Bucky Barnes is a long-time employee. When Bucky offers to buy Steve a drink, they end up drunk on tequila and making out in public. For the rest of the summer, they're inseparable. As the summer draws to a close, Steve realizes he doesn't want to leave.

Rogers and Associate by roe87 @jro616 [Stucky, 7k words, Teen]

When they first meet, Bucky is a hooker and Steve is a cop. She's been arrested, but Steve lets her off.

Years pass and they maintain a casual friendship, seeing each other out on the streets most nights.

Though he later makes detective, Steve loses faith in the system and quits his job.

He wants to set up as a private investigator, and he asks Bucky if she'd be his assistant.

Just in time by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 1k words, Mature]

Bucky knew the apartment he was renting was old fashioned, but walking in the front door and finding himself transported back to 1938 was not on the list of things he had prepared himself for.

🌻 You Like What's in My Head by dontcallmebree [Stucky, 15k words, Explicit] (with art by @kocuria)

Bucky can’t decide if Steve’s a tough nut to crack or incredibly easy. The timbre of his voice, a low and almost amused, “Sure, kid,” when Bucky asks for a drink feels like something gripping him on the back of his neck.

He thinks this might be one of those moments in life he’ll pinpoint in the future and either curse at for dooming himself, or remember fondly with pride.

He’s right. Bucky Barnes blunders through falling in love with Commander Rogers and tries to find a deeper meaning behind the expensive gifts and thorough fucking.

Can I Sit Here? by BuckyFrickenBarnes [Stucky, 962 words, General]

Bucky has unusual methods for getting rid of his writer's block.

Or, Bucky needs that table.

Workplace Romance by BuckyFricken Barnes [Stucky, 1k words, General]

Bucky is under the impression that his boss hates him.

Or,

Steve needs to get better at dealing with his feelings.

🌻 1-800-MAYTAG by Miss Plum @misspluckyplum [Stucky, 1k words, Explicit]

Bucky just wants to get some housework done. It gets out of hand fast. Silly little fluff and smut romp with snarky stucky boys.

Eyes of the Forest by Lordelannette [Stucky, 7k words, Explicit] (2/8 chapters available)

When Omega Bucky Barnes comes to Eagle Lake, it was in search of wolves, a creature that had not been seen in the area for decades.

What he finds instead is Steve Rogers, a handsome, though quiet Alpha who seems to be everywhere in the forest.

#r's reading log #my reading log #fic rec #stucky #stucky fic rec #fic recs #stevebucky #long post

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