#me waving at my favorite nightmare sergeant

[simplyemm]

In the Cards: IV of Pentacles

pairing: Bucky x Reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: meet cute (kinda), little bit of fluff, pet name (solnyshka), mentions of kidnapping, unedited, so all mistakes are mine.

summary: There is a new face around the Tower, and you want to make him feel welcome.

Header image by me.

Series Masterlist

I do not consent for this to be reposted, translated, or copied to any other platform.

IV of Pentacles: stability, control, influence, security, frugality

The ding of the elevator alerted you to the arrival of your somewhat-expected visitor. Steve Rogers had been making the rounds to all of the Tower employees, letting everyone know about the most recent addition to the building, as well as doing his best to allay any safety concerns that people might have. Cause y’know people might freak out just a little bit that the Winter Soldier was now in residence and not-entirely-okay.

“Hiya Cap,” you greeted, looking up from the disassembled Widow Bite you were working on improving for Natasha. “What’s up?”

“So you probably know why I’m here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yup. Sergeant Barnes has moved in and he’s being given mostly free reign of the place to do a security check so he feels more secure in the Tower, right?”

“Word travels fast,” he muttered.

“Lab gremlins are gossips,” you confirmed. “But I get it, and so do most of the rest of the R+D staff. Everyone knows that they can have FRIDAY change up the access permissions if they get uncomfortable.”

“And yours?” Steve asked, glancing toward the doors on either side of your workshop.

“FRIDAY?” you called to the ever-present AI. She dinged in response. “Please allow Sergeant Barnes full access to my lab and associated spaces.”

“Of course.”

Steve smiled at you. “Thanks a lot, kid.”

“Let Sergeant Barnes know he’s welcome to lurk in my space whenever. I don’t mind the company.”

Steve chuckled. “No kidding, especially with the odd hours you keep.”

“Yeah well, science rests for no one, and someone has to keep up with all the upgrades y’all are constantly needing.”

Steve patted you on the shoulder and left you back to your own devices.

The next morning found you back to work, with only a few tweaks left to make on the improved Widow Bite.

“Good morning, solnyshka,” Natasha greeted as she entered the workshop, holding a steaming mug of tea. “I bring an offering.”

You look over at your for-the-moment favorite Avenger and grin. “Morning Nat. I’m just about ready to test out this upgrade.”

“Already? I just gave it to you like a day and a half ago!”

“And?” you shrugged. “Science waits for no one.” And you had worked all night on it, but you were not about to admit to that.

“You haven’t slept,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

You fight back a yawn. “No rest for the wicked,” you jest. “C’mon, let’s go test this out.”

The two of you head to the weapons testing area and you hand over the improved discs. You headed back behind a clear barrier where the control panel was. You had developed new testing dummies that allowed you to get readouts of possible biological reactions to the new tech, without needing actual people to be test dummies. It was one of the things you were most proud of.

“Ready?” you call. The Widow nods and you hit a button, causing several test dummies to appear and be summarily taken down by Natasha.

“I like them,” Nat says as the last dummy is taken down, twitching from the electrical current. “How are the readings?”

You look up from your StarkPad with a grin. “Fantastic. Will easily take down non-Enhanced without causing lasting permanent damage, enough to incapacitate. Gimme a minute and I can run a simulation to see--” you trail off, brain already moving a mile a minute to put in the parameters for the new simulation. The results make you grin even wider. “Can also cause at least minor inconvenience for super soldiers, provided we’re using Steve as a baseline.”

“Great!” Nat said. “Now go to sleep.”

You grumble good-naturedly, putting all of the testing tech to sleep, before heading out the testing lab door and across the hallway to your apartment. You really didn’t mind that your entire life could be contained in a single floor of Stark Tower, in fact, you actually preferred it that way. Tony had insisted that you move in after the second kidnapping incident, and you didn’t fight him on it...often. Besides, despite the incredibly generous salary Tony gave you, rent in New York City was not an expense you wanted to deal with.

*************

“I thought I told you to go to sleep,” Natasha said reproachfully when she entered the common area a few hours later and saw you sitting on the couch.

“Tried,” you replied. “Couldn’t do it. And I’m locked out of my lab for the next-” you glanced at the display of your StarkPhone, “-seven hours and thirty-four minutes, so I figured I would come hang out here.”

“Can’t FRIDAY unlock it for you?” Steve asked.

You laughed. “Nope, she’s the one who locked me out. It’s a protocol Pepper made Tony put in for himself that he so kindly added for me as well.”

The super soldier nodded in understanding. He looked over towards the elevator, hearing something that the two others didn’t, right before the door opened with a ding.

“Hey Buck,” Steve greeted softly, as the brown-haired man entered the space, looking around and observing everything. His eyes fell onto you and his brow furrowed, not recognizing the strange person in the space. “Oh right, you two haven’t met yet. Bucky, this is Y/N, she’s one of the--” he looked to you for a more apt description of your role.

“I usually go with lab gremlin, but I’m technically the Stark Industries lead mechanical engineer and tech liaison for the Avengers. It’s nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes.” You gave him a small smile and a little wave.

“Bedtime, solnyshka,” Natasha said. “At least try to get some sleep before FRIDAY unlocks your lab again. Please.”

“Ugh, fine,” you groaned, slowly getting up from the couch. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my cave.” And with that, you headed towards the elevator and back to your floor.

“Cave?” Bucky asked after the elevator doors closed behind you.

“It’s what she calls her floor,” Nat explained. “She has an apartment, her workshop, and one of the weapons testing labs all on the 87th floor. She emerges every now and again to socialize. Usually after she gets locked out from working too much.”

He nodded. He had yet to visit the 87th floor on his nightly sulks around the tower, but it had officially moved higher on his list.

*************

It was some obscenely early hour of the morning when Bucky made his way to the 87th floor of the Tower. Nightmares had woken him again, and he found himself wanting to see what your space was like. Steve had told him a bit about you after you had left, expounding upon your sunny disposition (which explained Natalia’s endearment) and your single-minded dedication to your work.

The elevator doors opened, revealing an open sitting area with three doors leading off it. The central doors were made of transparent glass and he could see you staring at a holographic display, moving things around with your fingertips, biting your lower lip in concentration. Unlike Stark, who favored loud rock as he worked, you had smooth jazz going in the background. Bucky could hear the murmur of the lyrics through the glass. To the right was another set of doors, the walls and door itself made of frosted glass. He assumed that led to your personal quarters, given that the doors on the left hand side had TESTING LAB written across them.

You looked up from your holo screen and the schematics displayed there after giving Bucky a chance to get his bearings. FRIDAY had informed you that he was on his way as soon as he had stepped into the elevator, but you hadn’t wanted to make him uncomfortable by immediately rolling out the welcome wagon. You tapped an icon in the corner of the holo screen, causing the doors of your workshop to slide open.

“Hi,” you said with a smile. “Wanna come in?”

He had been expecting something clinical and sterile feeling about the space, but that was not it at all. It felt more like a garage than an actual lab. He looked over to one of the corners, seeing a kitchenette and lounge area, complete with couch and television, which seemed counterintuitive to a work space, but it somehow fit.

“It’s a bit eclectic,” you admitted. “But it works for me.”

His eyes spread across the rest of the space, noting entrances, exits, and the lack of security for the floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall.

“The windows aren’t secure,” he mumbled.

You smiled. “More so than you’d think,” you replied gently. “Virtually indestructible one-way glass. Tony doesn’t want just anyone seeing what I get up to here.” You gestured toward one of the swivel stools you had scattered around your various worktables. “You’re more than welcome to hang out for a bit, if you’d like.”

And so he did.

[americas-golden-boy]

Operation Merry and Bright

Summary: Sam Wilson is many things.

Highly trained former United States Air Force pararescue airman, Avenger, and above all else:

Expert matchmaker.

AKA the power of Christmas traditions bringing together Bucky and the girl from down the hall.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader

Word Count:  2,161

“Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Bucky.  It’s uh...” he trailed off, pushing a hand through his hair before dropping it to rest on his hip, head hanging slightly as if it’ll hide the wave of embarrassment that he’s feeling from the A.I., “It’s November, right?”

“Yes, sir.  It is November 13, 2017, your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you were born on March 10, 1917, you are in the Avengers Tower—“

“I’m okay, F.R.I.D.A.Y., thank you,” he cut her off, the corners of his lips curling at her reassurance.

Even with the trigger words safely removed from his consciousness along with the rest of HYDRA’s programming, it was still a long road to recovery dealing with the aftermath of his time as the Winter Soldier.  Nightmares were a regular occurrence, his training was always pushing at the back of his mind, and on rare occasions his memories would lapse, leaving him confused and disoriented.

At times like these, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s programmed response to his mounting distress, if he was alone, was to recite facts, beginning with grounding him in the present and becoming more detailed as she progressed.  The last time he had snapped back into his mind was to her reciting a recipe for plum cobbler, something he had built up the courage to ask her for in preparation for the team dinner around Thanksgiving.

He found it almost sweet that on more than one occasion, such as just now, she did it even when he spoke to her directly, despite the realistic probability that he would recognize her in that state being close to zero.

Even for an A.I., she had enough sass and sarcastic wit to stand on par with her creator, and she still met every random question and whim he had with seemingly unlimited amounts of patience and understanding.  

Which, he supposed, she could really have.

He hadn’t forgotten the date, though.  Or at least he was relatively sure he hadn’t.  He figured it couldn’t hurt to check, but with that simple piece of information, he just found himself terribly, incredibly confused.

Because hanging from the ceiling, right in the middle of the hallway leading from the common area to his suite, was a mistletoe bunch.

Even with Stark’s eccentric party planning at every opportunity, not a single Christmas decoration had made its way to the residential floors yet.  Not on any of the floors, probably, but he hadn’t made any recent visits to the S.I. or R&D sections of the building, both out of a lack of necessity and a personal mission to avoid social interaction when at all possible.

As he shifts his weight to his other leg, arms coming to cross over his chest with a soft huff, he sifts through his recent memories, trying to determine the most likely culprits with a motive to hang up the offending piece of greenery.

“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, where did they find this thing?” He questions aloud, thankful that no one else is around to see how ridiculous the whole situation is, even before he started talking to empty space, and even more so that F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn’t answer his rhetorical question.

I should take this down, she's in this hall too, it might make her uncomfortable, he thinks idly, moving under the bundle to inspect how it was suspended from the ceiling, muscles stiffening as soon as he fully processes the thought.

Could it be for you?  There’s really no evidence that it’s for him at all when he thinks about it objectively, and he really wouldn’t put it past a few of the other people on the team to hang it up as an excuse to see you flustered, or some setup to an elaborate prank, something he knew you’d been victim to more than once.

Almost all of which were headed by the same person.

“Fucking Wilson,” he grumbles under his breath, spinning on his heel to head to the training room and confront the man in question, before promptly rocking back on his other foot to prevent himself from knocking straight into you.

“Sorry!” You squeaked in surprise at the sudden movement and proximity, hand shooting out to grab his arm in an attempt to steady him if he needed it.

He didn’t, but he wobbled a bit longer than necessary to enjoy the feeling of your hand on the plates of his arm.

While Stark and Banner had made some improvements to the limb that HYDRA gave him until a new, upgraded prosthetic could be completed, he was still limited to the basic sensations of pressure and temperature along the surface.  

It made his heart swell every time you touched his left arm, knowing that you weren’t afraid of it and embraced it as just another part of him.  Despite this, he really wished you had grabbed his right, just so he could enjoy the contact of your skin on his.

“That was my fault, I should have heard you coming,” he managed to get out, the slight lift of your brows and the hint of blush spreading across your cheeks equal parts humorous and sweet, as your wide eyes flitted across his form to make sure he was securely planted before slowly releasing your grip.

Would it be too obvious if I just tipped forward?

“Didn’t know I had what it takes to sneak up on a super-soldier.  What did Sam do?” You questioned, slipping back into your easy banter with a small smile.

“Oh, right. I’m actually not sure if it was him yet but um...” he trailed off, foregoing completing his statement in favor of simply pointing above them.

She quirked a brow at him before tilting her head back and shifting her gaze to the ceiling.  

If her expression before had been humorous, this one was simply priceless.  

The blush erupted with renewed force across her cheeks with all the grace of paint splashed across a canvas, lips parting at the sudden drop of her jaw, eyes blinking owlishly before they shifted to focus on him again.

This time he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter that came out of him, smacking his left hand over his mouth, the slight sting of the impact a punishment for possibly offending her.

“Is that...mistletoe?” She asked slowly, looking back and forth between him and the bundle.

“Yes.”

“In November?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And you think Sam put it there because...?” She trailed off.

“Well, uh, this hallway is just you, me, and him.  I highly doubt it was put there because of me, and he pranks you all the time.  He just seemed like a logical option,” he explains lamely, realizing how weak his logic is when forced to voice it out loud.

“That makes sense, and it probably was Sam, but it’s uh—“ she starts, peering over her shoulder at the end of the hallway— “it’s not for the reason you think,” she finishes, her voice lowering a bit as she fiddles with the bracelet on her wrist, a habit he noticed she had a tendency to do when she was nervous.

“Okay, well, what do you think is the reason he has to hang it up?” He decides on asking, the direct approach seeming like the quickest and most effective way to find answers to the question literally hanging above his head.

“He— Well we—“ she attempts to answer, eyes darting to look anywhere but his face, “We were talking about the holidays a few days ago, right?  And I really love Christmas, it’s probably my favorite holiday.  So we were exchanging stories, things we like about the season.  At some point I, um, I mentioned that I had never been kissed under the mistletoe, and that it was on my bucket list.  He’s the only person that knows that, I think, so, yeah.  It’s probably because of me.”

By the end of her rant the words are coming out in a rush, and she finally manages to meet his eyes again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, the soft jingle of her charm bracelet drifting in the space between them.

His brain stops functioning.

Not really, he knows what that feels like, but it’s his turn to look dumbly between her and the bunch as he processes her confession.

It’s probably the most endearing thing he’s ever heard her say, and the warm feeling blooming in his chest creeps up the back of his neck in a way that is in no way unpleasant.

What she told him was also in no way an invitation, and he doesn’t even think he’s worthy of taking away an opportunity like that from her, but it doesn’t stop the image of her body pressed against his from pushing to the front of his mind, and the tingle in his neck turns into a burning electric current, shooting straight down his spine to rest in a roiling boil in his belly.

He realizes he’s still staring at her.

“Bucky?” She asks quietly, looking like she wants to melt right through the floor and he could kick himself for putting that doubt in her head.

“Yes, yeah, right.  I would say that’s sweet of him but uh, I doubt he did it with pure intentions.”

She huffs out a laugh and he feels a bit better for relieving at least a bit of her tension.

“Yeah, well, he’s probably making fun of me for being one of the only people that hasn’t done it.  He thinks it’s mostly for kids,” she concedes with another self-deprecating laugh.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he reassures her quickly, stepping closer to place a hand on her upper arm, startling himself with his own sudden movement, smile growing when she relaxes into the contact, “I haven’t either,” he adds on.

Her head snaps up to look at him so fast that he’s momentarily concerned about her neck.

“Really?” She asks incredulously, searching his face like she’ll be able to spot the lie.

“As far as I can remember.  I always spent the Christmas season with Steve and his Ma or my sisters, eating more popcorn than stringing it,” he confirms, chuckling at the memory.

“I thought you were a player in your day,” she teases, gently pulling her lip between her teeth as she grins at him.

“I might’a been,” he concedes, deciding to take the risk and trail his hand down her arm to grab her own, carefully holding it and checking her expression for any sign of discomfort, “but I spent the most wonderful time of the year with the most important people in my life, and if I had a girl I think I really would’a enjoyed the sweet and simple things.”

The smile she gave him nearly took his breath away.  It crinkled the corner of her eyes and shone brightly enough to compete with the star on the top of the Rockefeller Tree.

And in that moment it was just for him.

She slowly reaches up with her free hand and brushes the loose hair behind his ear, palm resting on his cheek with a tender swipe of her thumb.

“Bucky?”

“Mm?” He hums lightly, almost scared to break the moment as he leans into her touch.

“It’s a bit early but, will you kiss me under the mistletoe?”

The warmth in his chest explodes with the strength of a supernova, pulsing heat licking across every inch of him so hot he’s worried he’ll burn her where they’re connected.

He brings her hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss on her knuckles before guiding it to caress his other cheek, resting his own hands on her waist and the small of her back, closing the last bit of space between them with a gentle tug.

“Nothing would make me happier, doll.”

He watches the way her eyes flutter shut, wanting to memorize every second of this moment before letting his own close.

There is no rush, the press of their lips is languid and soft and even better than he could have ever hoped for.  It’s not a kiss of desire, the embrace isn’t hurried and needy, it’s an acknowledgment and acceptance between them and says all of the words they haven’t gotten a chance to express yet.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when they pull apart, but it feels like no time at all and he already wants to sweep her away and continue for as long as she’ll indulge him.

With one last peck on her lips, he presses his forehead to hers, maintaining the contact that he had been yearning for so long.

“We might need to get Sam a fruit basket or something,” she says.

“Maybe. But he can wait till Christmas.”

[parkersharthook]

I Turn My Camera On

(Bucky Barnes x female!reader)

warnings: slight insecurities, fluff

1.7k+ words (and 4 pictures)

You find some old photographs of Bucky.

The door opened up with a small creak. “Hey baby what are you doing?” Bucky tossed his keys and wallet on the dresser before flopping onto the bed behind him, groaning slightly as he stretched out on the mattress.

He peered over the pillow he had previously dug his face into and scrunched his nose slightly, “I know you’re worried about packing up on time but baby, we still have a few weeks in the apartment.”

“yeah and if it were up to you, we’d do it all the night before.” You quipped back easily as you threw him a smirk over your shoulder. He huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes as he fell back onto the bed.

“but no actually… I found a photo album.”

Bucky rolled to the side of the bed, his left side hanging off as he looked to where you were sitting on the floor, photos surrounding you.

“A photo album? Of what?”

“of… it was…” You stuttered as your thumbs slightly fingered an older black and white photo, “it’s of you, Bucky.”

Bucky furrowed his brows and sat up, confusion evident on his face. He grabbed the photo you were handing to him and let his blue eyes roam over it for a moment.

“that’s um… that was taken…” Bucky stammered out, his throat suddenly feeling dry. He swallowed thickly before taking a deep breath and letting himself smile at the photo.

“That’s Frenchie on the left, me of course, and then Jones, and Monty on the right.”

You smiled softly as the man looked on with seemingly fond memories. You were going to continue but Bucky beat you to it with a small laugh as he continued to look at the old photograph. “Frenchie, Jacques, was always the smart one, no matter how stupid he sounded sometimes. He knew his way around chemicals too. Jones, Gabe Jones, probably was the smartest man I met. I swear he spoke every language and just knew everything… all the time.” Bucky paused for a moment to meet your eyes, his now a little glossier than before. “He was the one that made you feel like you were gonna survive the war.” A little laughter escaped his lips, “then there’s Monty, he always hated when we called him that. His real name was James Montgomery Falsworth, but that’s a mouthful plus two James, can’t have that.” Bucky shook his head slightly.

“It’s a really sweet photo Buck.” You ventured cautiously

Bucky smiled and nodded, finally meeting your gaze for an extended period of time. “yeah it is. They were some of the best guys that I knew.”

You glanced down to the rest of the album, “Were these photos yours?”

Bucky nodded and slid down to join you on the floor, his back against the bed. “Yeah back when I was still trying to figure out everything up here.” His hands waved non directionally around his head, “I kept a photo album of me, my sister, my mom, Steve, the commandos, really anything that was tied to my past.” He glanced at the photos, “I forgot I had these.” He let a genuine smile onto his face, “guess I don’t need them anymore, do I?”

You scooted closer to him and let your hand crawl up the back of his neck to card your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “you’ve come a long way Buck. I’m really proud of you.”

He grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, “yeah, I have. But you’ve helped a long way too.”

You glanced back to the photos, “I can pack these up for you or….?”

Bucky smiled and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, “we can keep looking through them.”

“I’m glad you said that because there’s one that I have a question about.”

Bucky laughed a little as he took the photo. He shot you that charming smile you knew too well. “what’s your question, baby?”

“well did you know that you were a soldier or did you think you were a model?” Bucky barked out a laugh and you giggled as well. “Because the pose, the look, the off-centered hat… it’s all very vogue.”

Bucky shook his head fondly and gave your cheek a chaste kiss. “very funny.”

You looked at him with a beaming smile, he swore he felt his heart stop. You poked his chest and laughed again, “and I’m not even joking.”

“no, doll, I wasn’t trying to model.”

“oh really? Then how do you explain this?”

“because you look like a model to me. A very sexy, hunky, sexy, rugged, did I say sexy… model.” You inched closer until you were straddling your fiancé’s lap. Bucky threw his head back in laughter as he gripped your hips. You leaned in to nip at his neck but Bucky pushed your mouth away slightly causing you to pout.

He looked at you, his mood changing slightly to be more serious. It sobered you up a bit. You frowned slightly, running your hands through his slightly shaggy hair. “what’s going on baby?”

“you know that I’m not that man anymore, right? Yes, I’ve worked through a lot of my shit and I’m doing a lot better than when you first met me… but I’ll never be the same guy I was. 40s Bucky is gone.” His voice was soft, almost sad but not quite.

You furrowed your brows, “why would you think I want 40s Bucky?”

Bucky shrugged, his still lingering insecurities now on display. “I see the way you’re looking at the photos of me, and I know you’ve heard the stories and read the reports. I was energetic and youthful back then. I could take a girl on a date without worrying about having a panic attack. I didn’t have nightmares. I was a complete man back then…”

“and you’re a complete man now Bucky.” You cupped his face firmly and forced him to look at you, “you may be a different man now, but it’s no better or worse than before. It’s just different.” You pondered for a moment, “no actually it is better. You’ve seen so much and yet you made it to the other side as a caring and genuine person. That’s huge, Bucky.”

He sighed and close his eyes for a brief moment, “yeah I know… I’m sorry about getting all insecure. I’ve been working on it. I just- I saw you looking at the photos with such… I don’t know… excitement? And it’s just… I’m not that man anymore but I still want to bring you that joy now.”

“Bucky,” the way his name fell from your lips was so earnest it forced him to give you his undivided attention, “You do bring me that joy now you buffoon. I wouldn’t be engaged to you if you didn’t, I do have some standards you know.” You both chuckled at that before you continued, “I got excited because it’s not every day that you see someone else’s memories. I’m sure you would get the same glint in your eyes if I showed you childhood photos.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, “yeah you’re right. I’m being unreasonable.”

“no. You don’t get to do that here.” Bucky rose a brow in confusion at your words. “You don’t get to invalidate your feelings. It’s okay to get insecure, it happens to all of us. Just know that you can always talk to me about it, for better or for worse. Okay?” silence. You pushed his cheeks together, “okay?”

He nodded with a small smile, “okay.” He pressed a light kiss to your lips, “same goes for you. I know you don’t like to ‘burden’ me with your problems but I want them all. The good and the bad, I want to be one of those annoying couples who tells each other everything.”

You laughed softly, “I promise you… we already are. Sam complains about it all the time.” Bucky let out a hearty laugh. You looked back to the photos, “in the theme of honesty, there is one more thing I want to say.���

“what’s that?”

You reached behind your back and picked up another photo, “this… this one is my favorite.”

Bucky looked at the photo curiously before looking back at your face, “can I ask why?”

“a few reasons. One, those suspenders look hot on you.” A deep laugh filled the air. “Two, you look so carefree and relaxed and that’s my favorite look on you… second to suspenders now. And three, I see this and it reminds me of when I come home from the grocery store and you’re sitting on the step of our apartment building because you forgot your key when you went on your run.”

Bucky sighed, smile still present, and hung his head. “it does happen quite a bit.”

“and sure… you’re a different man and you’ve got a metal arm now. But… you’re the same man I’ve always known and while the guy in the picture is a hottie,” you stared directly into Bucky’s eyes as you uttered your next words, “the guy in front of me is much hotter.”

Bucky smiled and surged forward to press a solid kiss to your lips. “I love you so much sweetheart.”

“I love you too.”

A few moments of comfortable silence passed before Bucky interrupted it.

“should I get a haircut?”

You studied his head and ran your fingers through his locks. He had been keeping it shorter lately but had gotten behind on his haircuts due to his busy schedule.

“it might be time for a trim. But it’s up to you.” You gave it another once over, “I like it long too but honestly this just looks shaggy.”

He nodded and held you closer to his body, laying his head on your shoulder. You hugged his body close, hands running over the broad expanse of his shoulders and up the nape of his neck.

It was again another comfortable silence before Bucky had to ruin it.

“Do you think the metal arm is sexy?

You couldn’t help the snort that flew passed your lips as your body shook. You nodded with another laugh.

“I think it’s very sexy, baby.”

“good.” You could practically hear the smugness in his voice as he quickly stood up with you in his arms and gently tossing you on the bed. He quickly shed his shirt and smirked at you, “let me show you just how much better and experienced I am now.”

You laughed as he dropped his weight on you, lips quickly being captured by Bucky. You broke the kiss a little breathlessly and fluttered your eyelashes at him, “I can’t wait… sergeant.”

[erintoknow]

evidence

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, set right after Heartbreak ~1.8k words, staring everyone’s favorite Sergeant Steel. retribution alpha minor spoiler

content warning for a That Guy

------

Not quite civilian business, not quite Ranger business. Chen wasn’t really sure how to dress, wasn’t comfortable with this blending of lives. But if he didn’t get to the bottom of this, who would? Ortega was in no state of mind to pursue this. The odds of a dead end was too high. He couldn’t do that to his friend. Things were bad enough right now. Breath in, breath out. Straighten his collar. Ring the doorbell, knock on the door. Wait.

It had taken Chen more than a few beers and hours of reminiscing with Ortega. Surreptitiously going over what they remembered of old stories, writing down the details and cross-referencing everything against each other with a map of the city. Cross out options and narrow down the list. Maybe the fourth time would be the charm. Hopefully it would be worth it.

Someone shouted from the other side of the door, the sound of shuffling furniture. There was the sound of several locks being undone and then finally, the door cracked up, a single suspicious eye peering out. “Who is it?”

Chen clasped his hands behind his back. “Sergeant Steel, we talked on the phone briefly yesterday?”

The eye stares, boring in to him.

Chen stares back.

The eye blinks first. “Yes, yes, I remember now.” The door shuts, there’s a rattling of a chain, then opens again wider. “Com’on then, take a seat.” Defying expectations the owner of the eye is not a crone of an old woman but a man, maybe in his forties? Greying hair, wrinkles coming into their own on his face. If he dressed a little nicer, Chen might even class him as handsome. Untrimmed beard and beer-stained tank-top, however? Not so much.

“Thank you,” Chen says as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Please, take a seat,” his host repeats, gesturing towards the wooden chairs arranged around a dining room table. His host pulls a chair away from the table edge before sliding into his own, a pile of books in poor condition scattered in front of him.

Chen raises a hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Alright then, suit yourself.” He shrugs, “I’m John Carpenter, nice to meet you in person, Mr…?” Chen eyes the man. Definitely a fake name.

“Sergeant Steel is fine.”

John frowns at that.

“You said the person I’m looking for might have been a tenant of yours?”

He nods, reaches to grab one of the books in front of him. This one looks like it’s seen some heavy water damage. “Yep, the name Becker sounded familiar, and you certainly don’t see too many German names in this part of town these days, mostly–” He stops himself, and looks at Chen uncomfortably. Chen allows him the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

“Anyway,” John flips through the book, stopping on one page to circle a name with a red pen. “Here we go.” The way John just rips the page out of the book and slides it over is enough to make Chen wince. “Moved in back in 2007, stayed about… oh, two years?”

Chen scans the page. Towards the bottom, the circled name ‘Chelsea D. Becker | April 13th, 2007 | Deposit and Rent: Paid’

Chelsea? A fake name? Even for Sidestep that seemed a little lazy. With some care, the fine motor control in his hand wasn’t the best, Chen pulls a photograph out of his unbuttoned front pocket, putting it down on the table. “Does this person look familiar?”

John leans over, squinting down at the small, crinkled picture. The only group picture Ortega had been able to corral Sidestep into taking without her suit on, dressed in a vest over a long-sleeved blouse and skirt with tights. It was supposed to stay on the fridge. Hopefully he’d find something out of this that would get Ortega to forgive him.

John purses his lips, pushes his tongue in his mouth from side to side and makes a clicking noise. “The one on the far right there,” Chen keeps a blank expression as John points a finger right on Sidestep’s face. “Reminds me of the kid Chelsea always had around, maybe a sister?”

That throws Chen for a loop. “Parent-Child?”

John shakes his head. “Don’t think so. This kid just showed up a not long after Chelsea did. Maybe right out of high school?” John clicks his tongue and shrugs. “Normally I’d charge extra for stuffing two people in studio apartment like that, but I think the kid had been homeless so I pretended I didn’t see nothing.”

Alright then. What was the connection between this ‘Chelsea Becker’ and Ariadne Becker?

“Can you tell me anything else about them?”

“‘friad not, I respect my tenants’ privacy.” John says with possibly the most lying-through-my-teeth look Chen has ever seen on a man’s face.

Chen waits him out.

Finally; “Okay, well. I think the woman might have been a drug dealer or something. Always weird hours. Always paid on full, never late–”

“That’s cause for suspicion?”

“Around here it is, yeah.” John waves a hand, dismissing the question. “Now that I think about it, you know how women are,” He shoots Chen a knowing look. “Maybe she was just keeping the boy around as a fu-“

“Excuse me,” Chen cuts him off, “Boy?”

“Yeah, boy. Kid was a boy.”

Chen frowns. Another dead end then after all.

John clicks his tongue. “Probably a fairy though,” He makes a face, completely oblivious to the fact that only years of self-discipline is saving him from having his nose broken. “Kept running around in girl clothes and shit. Hell, maybe that’s not a sister in your picture. Could just be him.”

Maybe not a dead end then? But that would mean… It would mean Chen has even more questions now than when he started this whole process.

“…when was the last time you saw the kid?” Chen asks, keeping his face blank.

“So, when Chelsea moved out, I offered to keep renting to him, but he couldn’t afford it. Felt bad though, so generous man that I am, I let him stay, off-the-books, until I got a new tenant to rent the room like, a month later? Never saw him again after that.”

“No idea where they might have went?”

John shakes his head. “Him? Nah, he just straight up vanished the day I gave him the heads up, didn’t even take anything with him.”

Chen sighs, frustration mounting. Why was trying to dig into anything about Sidestep like digging in sand?  “What about the… the woman, Chelsea, any idea where she went?”

John shrugs, “Left the city, I think?” An idea occurs to him and and he leans in for a conspiratorial whisper. “You think she was on the run from the law? You Rangers tracking down a cold-case?”

“Something like that.” Chen pinches his nose. “I can’t discuss the details of an investigation in progress.” That was… technically true.

John clicks his tongue, grins. “Say no more Sarge,” he winks. “Say, you know what? Maybe you want to take a look at the stuff he left behind, maybe something’ll help out the case?”

Chen raises an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe you held on to a tenant’s property for half a decade.”

John waves him off and gets up the table, trundling into a back room. “I am a collector Sarge.” He says the word with an uncomfortable level of relish.

A few minutes of rummaging later and John is back with a small plastic bin. He drops it on the table in front of Chen. “Few pictures, a journal. Think there were some tapes and records too, but I kept those for me.” He looks at Chen, “Always figured I could sell it back to the kid if he came around again. Never did though.”

Chen has to will his hand to keep steady as he picks through the few items in the bin. Pull out one photo, a young blonde-haired woman standing next to an even younger looking androgynous teenager with short reddish-brown hair, and green eyes. Chen lays the the picture down next to the earlier photo he had brought with him. It feels like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be – there’s an itching in the back of his skull. But the similarities are too close to be ignored, right down to the way the uncomfortable smile breaks across the face.

“I’ll need to hold on to these for evidence.”

John opens his arms wide, “Be my guest, always happy to be of service to the law.” John winks again, “Provided of course, the law remembers me favorably in return.”

Chen frowns, “I’ll make a note of it.” He says, with no such intention to do so. He reaches back into the bin, pulls out the journal. No indication on the cover who owned it. Just a plain black moleskin bound book, held shut with a cloth strap. Slip it open with a careful slide of the thumb, start with the first page.

chelsea thinks keeping a journal will help that I can write out the nightmares as if that’ll like get them outside of me?

she doesn’t understand why I can’t do that I can’t explain it to her either I mean

last night wasn’t even that bad, since i started saving people things feel better

like

i’m in control again it’s fun actually? just hang around with a police scanner and be ready to run across town tucking sucks like super shit though

i don’t trust the rangers charge seems real full of herself thinks she’s so hot with her perfect smile and the way she stands with her hips cocked and

wow that’s embarrassing

you know what forget this this is dumb sorry chelsea

Chen flips through the rest of the book, all the other pages are blank. Another dead end. Nothing to suggest what might have happened to Sidestep now. Nothing to hint at what was up with the ambulance Chen knows carted Sidestep away in direct contradiction to the official report. Where had Ariadne lived between this and now? Where did she go when she wasn’t at a crime scene or following Ortega like a lost cat? Who did she associate with outside of the Rangers?

Maybe they could put the journal in the ceremonial casket, it’d be better than nothing. But how to explain finding it to Ortega without giving away the investigation? And there was the matter of... Maybe it was best to keep the journal to himself after all. This was one secret that didn’t need to be exposed.

Chen puts the journal back in the bin and adds both the pictures and the torn record book page. Might as well hold on to it. Hopefully his government contact would get back to him soon with something, anything, about the where he’d seen that ambulance go. This had been his best shot at nailing down a residence and it ends up being years old. The only other lead left was this ‘Chelsea’ woman, and given his luck so far, it was hard to be optimistic about the odds.

Ariadne Becker, woman of mystery and thorn in his side, couldn’t even have the courtesy to have a non-mysterious death. This one was going to eat at him.

[shreddedparchment]

You’re My Mission Pt.09

I Almost Killed You.

09/28/2018

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 6,538

Masterpost

Warnings: Language, angst, feels

A/N:  So part of this chapter I’d written a while back when the idea came to me. I had to readjust a portion of it so that it would make more sense with what the character were doing and feeling now. It was fun adjusting it and finding just how much my vision changes with every chapter. Bucky and the reader are doing their own thing at times and although they hit all the big marks that I want them to hit, as I’ve said before, their development seems to be out of my hands. I hope you love this chapter too! As always, if you happen to reblog, thanks for helping me spread my work. It is much appreciated! xoxo

You’re not sure how long you sleep. You’re suddenly just aware that something is tickling your hand. You try to move it, but a sudden stinging pain stops you.

It’s so quiet you’re half sure that you’re in your hut but then a deep sigh touches your cheek.

You feel fingers grip strands of your hair and carefully lift them to move them away from your face.

“You're such a pain in the ass.” Hot breath touches your temple.

You recognize Bucky’s slightly lazy tone; his even tempo is languid with slight resistance. Almost as if it's difficult to talk and get the words out. It's how he always sounds but for some reason right now, it’s so much clearer to your ears than ever before. It's so unique you could pick it out in a crowded room.

With his voice however comes the sudden flashes of why you’re feeling such sharp pain in your right hand.

You see him charging at you, slamming a wooden staff down on you, knocking you to the ground where you're vulnerable to his crazed attack.

A sharp wooden point flies at your face and you see red as it pierces your hand.

These sudden and violent flashes make your hand twitch as they assault your previously peaceful mind.

Maybe he might have noticed the twitch, but he’s suddenly distracted.

“Buck?” Steve's even voice is unnaturally strangled with fear.

You feel Bucky's heat disappear from beside you.

“Down here.” He calls, his voice is louder and more controlled. Whatever emotion he'd been feeling when he told you that you were annoying just a minute ago is gone. What was it? You'd need to hear it again and see his face to decipher its meaning.

You open your eyes, they flutter for a moment and you turn to where you just heard him. He’s changed, wearing a pair of blue jeans, a white cotton long sleeve tee rolled up to his elbow with the top two buttons left open. His dark hair is pulled back into a bun with a few strands falling to frame his scruffy face.

He looks so good you’re sure you must be dreaming. He stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the floor lost in thought.

You see Steve come around the corner and then your eyes shut again. You can’t stand to keep them open for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Buck?” Steve's voice is slightly panicked and then you feel him beside you. He moves around your head to your right side and pulls your hand up to look at it. “What the hell happened?”

When Bucky speaks his emotions are dead. Not off. You know what he sounds like when he’s trying to concentrate and focus on anything but how he’s feeling. Right now, though his voice still moves in that strangled way as if he’s trying to keep from spilling at the seams, it’s guarded and full of disappointment.

“I attacked her. She uh…we were training and the alarm in the building went off. I guess the lights did something to my brain because the next thing I know I’m stabbing her through the hand with a wooden rod.”

“Buck…I known what you’re thinking,” Steve begins but Bucky sighs heavily, silencing his friend.

“I oughta be pinched, shoved in a cage where I can’t hurt anyone again. Maybe stay under for good…” He says the last bit so quietly that you struggle to hear him.

“Hey,” Steve chastises. “We knew this was going to be a work in progress, right? So, you mucked up, big deal.”

“Big deal? Look at her, Steve. I did that.” Silence. “And that.” Your bruise maybe?

“Bucky, I know this is tough. No one knows better than I do what it’s like to wake up and find yourself in a strange world where nothing is like you remember it being-"

“But they didn’t take your mind away from you, Steve. You woke up and you were still you. I have trouble remembering my favorite flavor of ice cream-”

“So, ask. I know with things being the way they are I come and go often but I’m here Buck. You told me once that I didn’t have to do it alone. Neither do you. This,” You feel Steve's hand on your injured one, the other on your bruised elbow. “this is gonna take time. And it's not your fault.”

“I can’t train her anymore.” Bucky states, a strange sorrowful yearning in his voice. “I’ll hurt her again.”

“You don't mean that.” Steve says, a small amount of disappointment filtered into his words. “I know you’re stuck on her and this is probably your worst nightmare but-"

“My worst nightmare is I kill her, Steve. That’s what almost happened today. Have you gone to see the training room? Go look at it and tell me that I’m wrong for pulling out of this.”

“She won't let you, Buck. You really think she’s going to sit by and let you abandon her?”

“It’s not like she really cares.”

“Really, Buck? I know you see what we all see when she looks at you.” Steve argues.

“You can train her. She looked pretty happy with you this morning.” Bucky reasons, trying desperately to find a way to push you away. Your semi-conscious heart aches painfully at the thought of not training with him.

“She was getting by. Don’t do this, Buck.”

“It’s just a crush. She’ll get over it.” Bucky says. Your mind doesn’t seem to be able to filter the words properly because you hear him but you don’t understand what he’s saying.

“I won't let you do this. She's good for you.” Who is good for what?

You confused mind is muddled and you can’t make sense of their conversation for a bit.

“Damn it, Steve, I’m not going to be alone with her anymore. I won’t risk it.”

You hear Steve sigh in frustration. “Fine. I’ll stick around. I was going to take over the Golden Panthers for a few weeks anyway. We'll all train together.”

A seemingly unending silence follows. You teeter on the edge of unconsciousness again but never fall over. You can still hear them breathing around you. Bucky doesn’t come close to you again. Steve checks on your hand several times.

“Nat'll be here next week. She and Sam took down another hidden Hydra hideout. They're getting smaller. I think we're getting closer to the end but the closer we get the closer they get.” The U.S. government? The U.N.? Stupid Sokovia Accords ruined everything.

“What are you going to do?” Bucky wonders.

“Lay low for a bit. That’s why I’m taking over the GP squad for a bit. King T'Challa is sending Ayo out on mission and I told him I’d help pick up the slack.”

“Golden Panthers…?” Bucky lapses into silence again and when he speaks the curiosity in his voices and his question in general sends a wave of dread washing over you and a dagger through your heart.

“That’s Kara’s squad isn’t it?”

Steve shifts beside you. “I believe so.”

“Good.” Bucky says.

How do you describe the discomfort of waking up every morning, knowing that you get to eat a fulfilling breakfast, laugh with your friends, and then go train with the man you have a crush on and the woman he's apparently seeing?

Not that it's official. You’ve asked Sergeant Barnes several times whether he and Karabo Smit are an item and he swerves the question every damn time.

But he’s with her every lunch hour, underneath that stupid Warka tree.

You and Sergeant Barnes are not fighting either. Still constantly on each other's nerves sure, but not fighting. Whatever passion he’d been feeling when he yelled at you and fought with you seems to have disappeared.

You do your morning runs and workouts with Steve and the GP squad. It's slightly intimidating considering most of the women—because the GP squad happens to be all women—have been training for years to be honored with a position among the Dora Milaje. The selection process is grueling, and you don’t envy them their desire though you do think it’s very respectable and amazing that they devote themselves to such excellence. Of course, Kara is part of the group and you’re glad that after your morning run and stretches you and Sergeant Barnes break away from the group to do your own thing, in close proximity to Steve of course. They’re always just a short distance away.

You and Sergeant Barnes focus mostly on hand to hand without weaponry now. You can see the hesitation to train you in his lackluster sessions. You try not to think about the conversation that you’d overheard in Shuri’s lab. There were so many different implications in their exchange and mostly what you took from it is that Sergeant Barnes was being forced to train you and he was glad that Kara was much closer now. You also know that he doesn’t want to hurt you. Which confuses you, but you chalk it up to the fact that underneath the grumbling and scowling, Sergeant Barnes is a good man.

You know there’s a more important part of the conversation that you heard but you can’t remember it. It’s like your brain wiped it.

Boxing is his Sergeant Barnes’s specialty and although he’s well versed in many other forms of fighting, that’s what he focuses on. You’re pretty sure that the reason for that is because it’s the one with the least amount of contact.

For a week that’s all the two of you do. You box. You get really good at it too. You can never truly hurt Sergeant Barnes, but you at least surprise him constantly with the adjustments you make to his training and what you’ve learned from Steve.

One particularly beautiful day, you and Sergeant Barnes pull away from each other, breathing heavily as you lower your fists and wipe the sweat from your forehead on your sleeve.

“We need to test you with someone else.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust your skill as an instructor?”

“I know I’ve taught you well, whether your brain can absorb it and apply it to unfamiliar strategies is a different thing altogether.” He smirks, pleased with his masked insult. He’d just called you stupid, right?

You glare at him and shrug. “So then get someone over here. Oh! I can call Aman over. He’ll be glad to train with me.”

You flatten your hand and your comm bead begins to roll towards your palm but before it has a chance to reach its intended position to place the call, Sergeant Barnes lunges forward and closes the distance between you again, yanking the bead from your hand.

“No. I think we’ll leave your friend to train with his own squad.” He slowly stands up straight and keeps the bead within his metal fist.

“Fine. How about Steve then?” You point towards the GP squad in the distance. They’re lounging about, resting after another tough session of agility training. They’re going to start sparring soon too.

You watch him stare at Steve. He seems to really be considering it before he nods. “Fine.”

He turns and jogs towards Steve and you see him gesturing as he speaks.

You wish things were easier between the two of you. Sure, you’re not really fighting, and you seem to be as annoying as ever to him. He glares at you every time you chuckle or laugh at your own mistakes. He gets frustrated with you when you complain about the heat or being tired. He’s taken to calling you ‘princess’ again when you whine. Which honestly, you don’t blame him for that one. You’re just not used to the intense heat now that summer’s almost upon you.

Despite this sense of normalcy, you know that things are so not okay between the two of you. The day after the attack Sergeant Barnes actively avoided you. You sought him out and finally managed to corner him by his hut because you had no choice but to ambush him since he wouldn’t give you the time of day.

Bucky’s in the distance, by the pen of goats that you’d seen the night after the nightclub. The goats are not in there anymore, instead they wander about randomly but seem to know to stick to the immediate vicinity. One disappears into the hut closest to the pen and after seeing this, Bucky quickly rushes into the small building. A few seconds later the goat scampers out through the doorway and races to rejoin the others as Bucky, with a rare smile on his face, moves back towards the pile of hay he’d been breaking up.

He stops, noticing you as you approach. Slowly his smile falls, replaced by a pained scowl and then just his regular scowl as you finally reach speaking distance.

“I’ve been looking for you all day.” You admit, scratching at your right palm. You’re wearing a strange red glove that Shuri says will promote the skin to grow again. Your nerves she was able to repair but because you’d been in such a rush to find Bucky, she’d fitted you with the glove and forbade you from taking it off. It itches a bit.

Bucky reaches for a long wooden pitchfork then throws it into the pile of hay as his eyes follow your hand’s movements to the red glove.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told you dropping by uninvited was a shitty thing to do?” He picks up the pitchfork and begins to scoop the hay onto the same cart you’d seen the night of your bruising.

“We need to talk.” You reply, weakly because you don’t like the way this conversation has started. Your heart aches for the pain you’d seen in his eyes the night before. The tears that he’d cried and the resolve to never train you again because he doesn’t want to hurt you.

“What for?”

“Bucky don’t shut me out.”

“I wasn’t aware that I ever let you in.” He stops his spearing and turns to look at you, his eyes cold.

You weren’t going to let him push you away. You bite down on your bottom lip however because his words hurt, even if he’s doing it to put some distance between you.

“What happened yesterday?” You move a few steps closer and he drops the pitchfork, not startled, but angry apparently with the way he shoves it away from himself.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it, kid.”

“I know what you said. I don’t care.” You move closer, leaving only three feet between you. You can see the clear blue of his eyes and it strangles you to think of the way he’d pushed the hair from your face the night before. “What-happened?”

“I almost killed you. That’s what happened.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because the lights messed with my treatment, that’s why.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” You say angrily.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N? Huh?” He moves towards you, angrily taking two steps to reduce the distance between you. “You want me to tell you about how I killed people? Lots of them? Hm?”

Your anger disappears, replaced by an agony for him. He was so clearly refusing to deal with his past that it kept coming back to haunt him. He raises his metal arm, holding his hand level with your neck. He stretches the metal fingers and you eye them warily.

“You want me to describe to you what it feels like to crush someone’s larynx? Or I can tell you about the sound that most people make when they realize they’re about to take their last breath. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Bucky-”

“Stop calling me that.” He growls and turns to walk back towards his cart. You follow, unwilling to see the distance renewed.

“It’s your name.” You argue. “I know, I heard you last night. I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

“Oh, and what? You think that makes you special?” He turns his cold gaze on you and you frown at him. He’s hurting you and your patience is starting to wear thin. He might be in agony, but your pain is just as valid as his. “You think, what? That I care about you? Get a grip, doll, I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. I just don’t want your blood on my hands. I’ve had enough of that in my life. You’re nothing to me. You’re no one. Just my current mission.”

“Bucky, why can’t you just-”

“I said stop calling me that!” He screams, so loudly that the nearby goats bleat and run off towards their pen in fear.

You’re breathing heavily, angry and your heart in pieces not even truly understanding why it’s hurting so much.

“Do you want me to go?” You ask, your voice breaking near the end.

“You know,” He turns to look at you, eyes narrowed. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say since I met you.”

Asshole. “Fine. I’ll see you at training, Sergeant Barnes.”

You turn around and leave him to stew in his anger and self-hatred, determined to forget him and any kind of affection he’s inspired in you.

Sergeant Barnes and Steve turn back towards you and the two of them walk slowly, chatting happily. You watch Sergeant Barnes’s face, wondering if the man you’d fought with outside his hut and this smiling man are really one and the same. Maybe he has an evil twin?

“So, I hear you wanna fight me.” Steve says, amused as he stops with his hand on his hip.

You smile and laugh once. Your Captain Rogers looks good wearing a pair of plain grey workout pants and a tight white t-shirt. “No other man I’d rather train with.”

Steve’s eyes tighten slightly, noticing the way you make the comment sound like a jab though obviously not aimed at him. “Right. Well, let’s see what you can do.”

Sergeant Barnes moves a few feet away, taking shade underneath the Warka tree he loves so much. You and Steve remain out in the sunlight, cooking. You take your jacket off, tossing it onto the ground to the side, and take your stance.

The fight starts without a countdown. Suddenly Steve lunges towards you throwing a right hook then a left when you manage to avoid the first. You grab his wrist with your left but realize that unlike Aman, you may not be able to flip Steve over your head, so you push his hand away from you towards his chest and spin around his left arm your elbow finding the soft flesh covering his ribs.

“Ow,” He says, though you know it doesn’t really hurt him. Still you smile, happy because he must have been surprised by your choice of move. “I thought we were boxing?”

“I never said boxing.” You smile.

“Alright, cadet, you’re on.” Steve turns and immediately reaches for your right arm. He catches it easily and pulls you towards him. You use the momentum of his pull to leap up, wrapping your legs around his waist and lead his arm up around the back of his head. You use your free hand to punch at his right ribs and hear the audible thud as your fist makes contact a few times.

Steve laughs, it infuriates you a little that your puny hits don’t really hurt him.

“This sucks!” You exclaim.

You laugh too because it’s so unfair to fight Captain America knowing you won’t make a dent.

Steve wraps his arms around your waist and throws himself down on the ground, rolling sideways so that when he stops you’re lying on your right side and he’s kneeling over you. You roll onto your back just in time as he brings down his arms. You block them, shove your own hands between his wrists and with great effort you push outwards and his arms go flying apart. You wrap your legs around his stomach—he’s so freaking long!—and pull him towards you at the same time. He puts his hands out on either side of you, catching himself so that he doesn’t fall flat on top of you. Your hands find the center of his chest, punching as hard as you can. It hurts your hand more than it probably hurts his chest, but he still grunts when it hits.

“Ow.” He adds, surprise painting his tone. His blue eyes sparkle down at you, clearly impressed with your progress. Okay, I give.” He reaches back and taps your left thigh and you relax the hold you have on him with your legs. If there was one thing you were glad that Sergeant Barnes did, it’s to strengthen your thighs into steel. Even if your punches didn’t hurt him, you know that your grip around his torso with your thighs must have startled him with its strength.

You and Steve are both so busy laughing you don’t realize the death glare that Sergeant Barnes is giving the pair of you.

“When you two are done flirting, I think the GP are ready for their next drill, Steve.”

Steve looks to his friend and smirks, finding something funny. You’re less impressed by Sergeant Barnes.

When Steve is on his feet and offers you his hand, you take it and let him help you up.

“How would you know what my flirting looks like?” You ask Sergeant Barnes pointedly.

“That’s a fair question.” Steve mutters.

“Since you two train so well together, maybe you should take over starting tomorrow, Steve?”

Before Steve can reply, you glare at Sergeant Barnes, irritated by his teasing. “I think that’s a good idea.”

In the distance the GP begin to stretch, readying themselves for their next drill. “I think I’ll try and keep up with the GP squad, see if I can’t phase you out altogether?”

“You-” Sergeant Barnes begins, annoyed with you but he stops when your beads begin to ring. You hold out your hand and your comm bead slides up into place where Shuri is then displayed.

“Captain Rogers?” She asks you.

“He’s here.” Steve moves over to stand beside you and looks down at Shuri’s projected bust.

“Captain are you not wearing your Kimoyo beads?” She wonders.

Steve holds up his hand and shows her that he is indeed wearing them. “I am.”

“Something must be wrong with them. We received a call from the Black Widow, she says she and Falcon are inbound if you’d like to meet them in thirty minutes in the hangar.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. I’ll meet them there.”

“Good. And Captain? Try calling someone with your beads. If the call does not go through, come and see me so that we can get you fixed up. We can’t have Captain America of all people out of touch.”

“Right.” Steve agrees and watches as Shuri fades out and your bead slides back into place.

“Let me try calling you, Y/N.”

“Okay.” He slides out his bead and after a bit of waiting your own beads begin to glow and ring. “it works fine.”

“Hm.” Steve sighs. “Well, at least I don’t have to bother Shuri with anything.

You suddenly remember that Sergeant Barnes had been fighting with you and you look to find him still scowling at you. Without another word you jog to stretch with the GP squad.

For several minutes you’re stretching in silence, avoiding looking over at Kara because you’re good at ignoring things that hurt. You’ve seen her face now and you know she’s beautiful. But you don’t need to be reminded of it. Suddenly, your quiet stretching is interrupted by a faint mumble that steadily grows loud enough for you to actually make out what is being said.

“We’ll have to wait and see. Things aren’t going well on the outside. They’ve been closing in on us and we may have to really start running soon. Which means I won’t be able to come see you anymore.”

“You, Nat, and Sam do what you need to do. You know, funny thing is, you’re on the run because of me and they’re not even looking for me.” Sergeant Barnes sounds a little sad, but he seems to also genuinely find it funny.

Uh oh.

Does Steve know that his comm is still on? You can hear them so clearly that it’s like you’re standing beside them. It makes you sad to think that Steve might be leaving soon. It also makes you sad because it means that he and Sharon will also be parting ways. If he has to go on the run, there won’t be much time for dating. Since your crush on him is hopeless, you at least want him to be happy.

You keep your eyes on your feet, stretching as far down as you can go. You actually manage to lay yourself flat over your legs. You’re so much more flexible now thanks to all your training with Sergeant Barnes. You also don’t trip over your own feet as much anymore which is definitely a good thing. Of course, he still finds things to be annoyed by, but at least it’s less about mistakes you’re making in your line of duty and more based on your personality.

Which is worse?

“Buck, will you just go talk to her?” Steve suddenly asks.

“Who?” Sergeant Barnes replies confused but distracted, as if his mind is on other things.

“Y/N, you’ve been staring at her for the past ten minutes.” Steve says, a smile in his voice.

Your stomach suddenly twists as you become instantly nervous. You slowly begin to push yourself up and back into a sitting position. Your hands go slowly numb and you grab them, holding them, squeezing them to see if maybe it’s just a circulation problem. But your heart is also pounding. When you’re sitting up completely you turn to look towards the two men, standing across the field, still underneath the Warka tree. Sergeant Barnes—Bucky—is looking in your direction.

He suddenly turns to Cap who, even at this distance, you can see is smirking. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? Why would I be staring at the walking nightmare?”

“You’re looking right at her.” Steve insists, still amused.

“You’re insane! I’m looking at Kara, idiot.” He actively points over your head and you lean down again as if you’re stretching but turn your head and look to where he’s pointing.

Your heart clenches painfully as you see her, and despite your anger and hatred (though really, she’s done nothing to hurt you), you admire her looks. She’s got tanned peachy skin, freckles that fleck her slender shoulders which she currently has exposed underneath a light grey tank top. Her long dark brown hair is pulled up into a high ponytail that as she does her jumping jacks, swings back and forth from shoulder to shoulder. She’s walking sin, Kara. Her curves are to die for and her eyes are a shocking blue.

“Oh. Sorry, I just thought-”

Your heart falls and you’re so confused by it that you hide your face between your knees. You want to cry and you’re not really sure why. After what happened outside the hut you knew that you meant nothing to him. And still you got your hopes up when Steve said Sergeant Barnes was staring at you. For a long moment you wonder what you could have possibly done—what can you do now to get him to look at you the way he’s looking at Kara?

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” You say to yourself, forgetting that your comm is still on.

“What was that?” Steve suddenly asks.

“What was what?” Sergeant Barnes wonders, looking away from Kara to Steve.

“Shit.” You mutter, embarrassed.

As stealthily as you can you reach over and touch your comm bead and watch as the color fades. You swallow hard and slowly sit up, hands on your knees as you chance a glance at the two men again.

Your stomach twists when you find Steve staring at you, his brow narrowed as he clearly puts two-and-two together. You quickly look away and after some careful consideration—okay, not really you just straight up panic—you spring to your feet and race back towards your hut, eager to be hidden in the safety of your room.

“Hey! Where are you going?! We’re not finished!” You hear Sergeant Barnes yell at you, but you don’t stop. You run until you’re in your hut, door shut, and you’re sitting on your bed.

You think things through carefully. Clearly the comm being on was an accident. Steve just forgot to turn it off or maybe it was really malfunctioning and because you’re an idiot you decided to eavesdrop to find out about your friend and his impending departure to run from the U.S. government. Of course, you got more than you bargained for. Not only does Sergeant Barnes think you’re a walking nightmare, it does really seem that he likes Kara and for some reason this information has your heart aching so painfully it takes your breath away. You reach up, grabbing at your chest to try and suppress the pain.

Why would you care if you didn’t, on some level, actually like him? Not a crush but a serious attachment? You’d been unwilling to admit it before. Is that why you’re so obsessed with figuring him out? You know what you’ve been feeling. The yearning, the desire to be around him. The need to find out what is really happening with him. You know all of this, but you’ve never sat and really thought about what it means to you. Why is it so important? Do you like him?

“Bullshit.” You tell yourself as you come to the conclusion.

You decide you just don’t like being insulted. But he always tells you crap. It’s never bothered you before. Not really. It makes you angry but that was just you and him. That was how you two got along. It was stressful sure and it was irritating but it was normal.

How long do you sit there thinking about Sergeant Barnes and the implications of the pain in your chest? You’re still so nervous that when someone knocks on your door your hands are still numb. You’re so out of it that rather than pretend like you’re not in, like you should, you answer.

“Yeah?”

The door opens, and you shut your eyes, hating yourself for not thinking of pretending to not be home sooner. You don’t want anyone around during this revelation.

“It’s just me.” Says a smooth monotone.

You open your eyes because that voice, you’d know it anywhere. Steve shuts the door and then stands there staring at you with his thoughtful gaze and the smallest smirk on his lip.

“Oh.” You smile up at him nervously. It’s such a fake smile that his own smirk widens as he watches you deliver it. “Hi.”

“You got anything you wanna fess up to?” He wonders, crossing his bulging arms over his wide chest.

You stall by pretending to look confused. “Uh…no?”

“You were listening to our conversation earlier, weren’t you?” Steve says. He’s not really asking you because he knows and he’s just giving you a chance to confess.

You look down at your hands, held on your lap, in shame. “Yeah.”

Your heart gives another painful ache and you give him a small grimace when you look back up at his face.

“Sorry.”

Cap moves in and sits beside you on your bed. He’s so massive you don’t think he’d even fit in it if he tried to lay down.

“Why would you eavesdrop on us, Y/N?” He wonders, a little more serious now, the implications of where this conversation is headed in his tone. It makes you even more nervous.

“I didn’t mean to, really. I was stretching, and your voices suddenly came over the comm. I don’t know if you accidentally turned it back on or if it’s really malfunctioning, but you started talking about having to leave permanently and I needed to know.” You sigh, hating yourself for spying on them but Steve is your friend. How could you not want to know if he was going to leave? Plus, even through your current revelation, you know you still have a tiny crush on him.

“Y/N, I uh…” He doesn’t know how to broach the subject and you know you should help him out but you’re happy watching him fumble with the words. He’s cute nervous. “I…er…I know that you-Um.”

He looks away from you and shakes his head.

“I know that you know I have a crush on you. Sergeant Barnes’s voice carries. That morning in the west field a few weeks ago, I know he told you.” You shrug. It really isn’t a big deal anymore. You know where he stands and you’re starting to see where you really stand. You hate yourself for it and it mars your happy time with Steve.

“Oh.” He smiles. “Well aren’t you full of surprises?”

“I just-You were there for me when I lost my parents. You were kind and when I begged you to give me purpose you did. I can never repay what you’ve done for me, Steve. And yes, I have a crush on you, but I know you have a girlfriend and I know you love her. That’s honestly the only reason I kept listening. I’ll miss you, but I also wish there was a way that you and Sharon could be together without you having to go on the run. That’s gonna suck.”

Steve sighs heavily, listening to each word as you speak it and when you finish he nods. “It is. And I appreciate the sentiment. You’ve come a long way since I brought you here. That fight earlier was no joke. Really. And I know he doesn’t show it but Bucky’s proud of you, too.”

You roll your eyes. An involuntary reaction to Sergeant Barnes's name associated with anything positive and you at the same time.

“Right, the walking nightmare doesn’t trip over her own feet anymore. Such pride.” You don’t mean to sound sad and bitter as you repeat what he called you, but you do, and your mind shoots to Kara again. It’s so unfair! She was born to look like that. You’ve seen her eat a whole pizza in one sitting. You’ve never spoken to her and you know you’re being unfair and she’s probably a nice person but…ugh!

“Did that really bother you that much?” Steve asks, his brow narrowed again.

“No. Not really. He’s called me worse. But at least when he says it to my face, I know he’s saying it. Telling other people when I’m not there…” He’s talking about you behind your back. It’s rude and hurtful and why do you keep thinking about Kara and the way Sergeant Barnes was staring at her?!

Was he telling her you were a nightmare too? Making disgusted faces when your name is mentioned? Does he call you the pitiful cadet that is so weak and needs so much special training that he has to help you because he feels bad for you? Because he’s being forced? Were all those tender moments, the towel? The shoelaces? His anger at bruising you, the way he held your hand in the medical center? His tears when he hurt you? Was it all really nothing? Did it mean nothing?

You want to ask Steve because out of everyone you know, Steve would know Sergeant Barnes better than anyone else.

“Don’t take it personally, Y/N. Bucky’s just…a little tired? He’s still getting used to being himself again. Be patient with him. I know he seems strong, but he’s been through a lot. Just like you. Only different.”

“Like what?” You ask eagerly, turning your pained gaze on Steve. He shakes his head, staring at the floor in front of him.

“That’s not my story to tell, Y/N. All I can say is that with a little more patience I think you’ll both get what you want.”

What the hell is he talking about? You’re so confused as it is that his words mean nothing to you except that he knows why Sergeant Barnes refuses to let you in.

Steve gets to his feet and you sigh lightly.

“When are you planning to leave?”

“Not for a while still, hopefully. Besides it’s Nat’s birthday in two days and we’re throwing her a surprise party at one of the smaller nightclubs here in town. You’ll come, right?” He moves to the door, his voice hopeful.

“Of course.” You nod. You and Natasha get along very well.

“Great.” Cap says, happily.

“It’s not a themed night again, is it?”

“Well the eighties one went so well-?”

“Eighties again, really?!”

“It’ll give me an excuse to dance with you. I’ll request our song.” He smiles, meaning well but your memories of eighties night are not as fun as his.

“Hey, Cap?” You broach carefully.

“Yeah?” He turns to look at you from the doorway, his hand on the knob, his face curious because you haven’t called him Cap in so long.

“Back when Sergeant Barnes was himself, was that the kind of girl he was into? Girls like Kara?” You’re so nervous you’re surprised you manage to get the words out. You’ve hardly admitted that you think you like him to yourself that asking this kind of question aloud and to Sergeant Barnes’s best friend, you’re giving yourself away.

“Um…” Steve seems to really think about it and as he turns a furrowed brow to you, he nods. “Yeah, I guess he’s always preferred a more luxurious woman. Bucky always did like a betty.”

When he sees your confused expression, he laughs once.

“Oh, sorry, uh, a betty, means like a really attractive girl.”

“Right.” You reply, and look down at your hands again, that ache taking your breath away.

“Y/N? You’re not fa-”

“I really should get to sleep. Sergeant Barnes wants me in the west field at O-six hundred again. If I don’t go to sleep now, I won’t be able to get up in the morning.” You get up and walk towards him, ushering him out because you know what he’s going to ask, and you don’t want him to ask because you don’t want to answer. You won’t admit it aloud to anyone, not even yourself.

“Okay. Good night, Y/N. Chin up.” Steve says before he makes his exit.

You shut the door and once again lapse into thought until eventually you make your way to your bed and fall into a restless sleep, knowing that you can’t hide it from yourself anymore. You like Bucky. You like him a lot and you really want him to like you back.

@bionic-buckyb @mdgrdians @ulired @biawol @markusstraya @queenof-wakanda @slice-of-thunder @clockworkherondale @shonaldo @lilulo-12 @dsakita @just-trying-to-survive-marvel @coldfacedwarf @zoey-odinson-stark @animegirlgeeky @paetonsfandom @caramelsunrise @until-theend-oftheline @a-n-gela @dirtylittlelamb @moonlessnight14 @el-dibidibidorado1 @marymooonlastrage @calliope-musings @buckybarnes4lyfe @lexie10123 @wantingtobekorra @unadulteredscreams  @sunflower-sunlight-sunset @unhealthyobsessionwithmarvel @auraliqhts @bucky-in-wonderland @marydragneell @beezyg

[itskateak]

Oceans and Stars - Chapter 7

Story Summary: A story of how Bucky Barnes falls in love with oceans, stars, and the woman who gave him the reasons to.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Velika Dante King (Fem!OC)

Chapter Summary: Velika has been on the frontlines. She finds herself camping on the beach of the Ocean at the Edge of The World. 

Words: 2K

Warnings: Mentions of war, mild language, 

A/N: Whenever I write Tzion’s character in relation to Velika,the phrase “baby girl” just happens. Don’t ask me to explain, please. It’s just a character thing with her now.

Masterlist

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

𝓛𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮. {𝐿𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒}

"We're making camp, soon," Velika called back to her unit, hiking her bag higher on her shoulders. The grass was tall and she nearly tripped as some wound around her boot. She cussed and ripped through it. She hated the plains with a burning passion.

 It hadn't been bad in the beginning, with short grass that stretched on for miles. Then the grass started to get taller and now Velika was nearly up to her chest in plants.

"Need me to carry you, Vel? Almost losing you in this forest." Her old friend, Tzion, asked as she caught up to her, a teasing lilt to her voice. The large ex-general sauntered casually next to her, over a foot taller than Velika herself.

"Shut up. Not all of us are taller than the trees." Velika shot her a playful glare. "The Ocean at the Edge of the World is about four miles down this bluff. Should be space for us to settle down for the night and wait for instructions."

"You ever been to the Ocean?" Tzion checked the area, her head swiveling as she scanned for any approaching enemies. She was Velika's right hand in their unit, making sure that their backs were watched and everyone's ideas were heard and taken into account. She was a fantastic leader and worked well with her old friend.

"I've never been this far into Hell," She admitted, avoiding a hole in the ground. "I popped out on the Other Side and Baphomet had to bring me over here through the northern gate."

"How long ago was that?"

"Uh, like...four hundred years? Three hundred? I haven't been keeping track." Tzion snorted and shook her head in amusement. They fell quiet, content to just walk and stay attentive to their surroundings. 

The war had lasted eleven years already. Time moved differently in Hell, meaning that they'd been fighting for roughly two Earthen years. It certainly wasn't the longest war she'd been in, but it was still hard. Her body was tighter, leaner, and constantly sore. She felt like she was constantly being watched (she was, by her unit), constantly threatened (she was, by pretty much everything around them), and constantly holding the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Velika shifted Bucky's dog tags under the collar of her armor. She hadn't taken them off since she'd left. She'd also stolen one of Bucky's shirts to wear under her armor. It was the red one that he didn't wear much anymore so it was the perfect one to swipe without him missing it too much. It still smelled like his cologne, miraculously, and it brought her comfort on the darkest and roughest days.

The others had given her small things to carry with her, too. Wanda's ring was on the chain with Bucky's tags. Tony and Bruce's tech was ingrained in her armor. But Tony also gave her the deck of his favorite playing cards. Steve had gotten her a sturdy bracelet. Peter had written her a letter talking about one of his days at school, complete with little doodles and even a small note from Ned. Natasha gifted her a knife, even though she knew it wouldn't do anything against the angels.

The photos of the team, Peter's letter, and Tony's playing cards were tucked into her bag, which seemed to grow heavier with every step she took. Exhaustion was settled deeply in her bones and she was certain that no matter how much she slept, she thought she'd never feel rested.

The war was turning in their favor. It had been in their favor at the start, she hadn't known that until she saw the Four Horsemen riding towards their enemy. Death, War, Pestilence, and Famine were defending Hell alongside every demon, fallen angel, and other creatures that called it home. The Horsemen themselves were mostly Archangels, except for War. But this isn't about them.

"Four miles are nothin' compared to what we've already trekked," Tzion muttered with a sigh, falling back to talk with an ex-officer.

Four miles. In the grand scheme of things, four miles was a walk in the park. If the park was a war-torn battlefield where death could befall them any second.

Yeah, just a regular old walk in the park.

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

𝓖𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀. {𝒢𝓇𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌}

The Ocean at the Edge of the World was the most beautiful thing Velika had ever seen. The crystalline blue waters stretched on until the horizon, reflecting the dusky sky. Waves washed against black sand, tumbling stones and shells onto the shore. The beach was a mile wide from where the plains ended and went on for miles either direction.

"Wow," She breathed, dropping her bag into the sand. People milled around her, putting up tents and gathering firewood and grass to start fires.

"Just wait until the sun sets." Tzion nudged her before walking down the beach a little to set her tent up.

Velika dug through her bag, finding her stakes, and slowly started to get her tent ready. She was suddenly reminded of camping with Bucky while on the recon mission in the Caribbean. She bit her lip and pushed down tears, taken off guard by the wave of emotion. 

She missed them all terribly and she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. She'd done her fair share of crying in private moments and she was sick of it. The tent refused to cooperate and she dropped it in frustration, the tears blurring her vision.

"Hey, baby girl, it's okay." Tzion was suddenly at her side with concern. "Take a breath" 

Velika clenched her jaw and drew in a deep breath, eyes closing. 

"I'll get this set up. Go for a walk. Take some time for yourself, baby girl. You've been leading us all day and you're stressed out. I'll get take care of this and take over for a little." Tzion rubbed her back and gave her a soft look.

"Alright. Thank you." Velika nodded and strode off down the beach towards the tidal pools for at least five minutes alone away from the prying eyes of her unit and the expectations.

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

𝓢𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰.

"Okay, so, who do you have waiting for you back home?" Tzion asked before taking a swig of her beer. Where she had gotten the beer, Velika had no idea. She had mentioned something about a smuggler's cache a mile down the beach, but Velika really had no idea where she'd produced it from.

The people sitting around their campfire took turns talking, some showing photos and others telling stories. In the beginning, no one wanted to bond in case they died on the battlefield soon after. But after eleven years of fighting and losing very few, they all had started forming small groups and trusting each other a lot more.

Velika's brother talked fondly of the people that worked in the business he co-owned with his best friend (who he was definitely not in love with). His best friend also told stories of their staff, smiling at the memories and staring longingly at her brother.

The ex-sergeant of the Bellators (the highest legions in the warrior caste) showed a picture of a little girl with wild brown hair and a smile to match. Her mother was crouched behind the girl, hair wild as well and her smile nearly identical to her daughter's. The girl wasn't his biological kid, but he'd been her father figure since before she was born. 

Tzion spoke of a red-headed man she'd met who she helped save from the gallows. He was lanky and tall, and reportedly good in bed. She was still taller than him by a good few inches, but he didn't seem to mind.

"So, Veli. Who do you have?" Tzion called her out since she hadn't said anything yet.

"A whole team. It took a long time for me to find my place among them and actually trust them, but once I did...it was like finding a family. A really, really dysfunctional family." Velika laughed, taking a quick sip of her beer. She grimaced, but wouldn't complain. It was one of the better tasting things she'd had since they stopped in a village two years ago. 

"Anyone special?" Tzion gave her a pointed look over the campfire.

"They're all special. Here, hold on." She turned and dug through her bag, pulling her photos out. She passed them around, explaining who each person was. 

"Veli, tell them about Bucky." Her brother chimed in with a sly smile. 

"For the record, I hate you." Velika glared at him, but everyone had already turned to listen to her. She sighed and shrugged. "I don't know what there is to tell. He's a good friend on the team. Quiet, a little reserved at times, but he's good company. He sits with me when I can't sleep and we help each other when the nightmares get too much. He has a great sense of humor and his laugh is infectious. He doesn't smile often, but when he does, it lights his whole face up."

"He's smiling in this photo. Is that him, though?" The ex-sergeant leaned over and pointed to Bucky.

"Yeah. And that's Sam Wilson." Velika smiled despite herself at the photo. "They have a love-hate relationship. Prank wars between the two are genuine wars. One time, Bucky's arm got superglued to a piece of workout equipment and they had to remove it."

"They cut off his arm?" Her brother's best friend asked with wide eyes.

"His left arm is a metal prosthetic and that's the one that got superglued. Well, heat bonded on accident. He was so pissed and chased Sam around the compound for an hour. He came storming into the kitchen at one point and looked me in the eye like he was planning a murder and said 'where's Wilson.' I pointed the way and he ran out while threatening to throw Sam off the roof." Velika laughed, shaking her head fondly. 

"Sounds chaotic." Tzion snorted, taking another swig of her beer. "Did he give you anything before you left? I know the others gave you things to hold onto."

"Yeah, hold on." Velika tugged on the chain around her neck, drawing the dog tags into the firelight. "He gave me his tags from World War Two. I gave him my Praesidium tags. And I also stole his shirt." She pulled the collar of the red henley with a sheepish smile.

"Wasn't he the Winter Soldier?" The ex-sergeant asked warily. That familiar look of distrust in his eyes.

"Yeah." She tucked the dog tags back into her shirt and collected the photos. "But I was also Reaper."

"That's not that same, Velika. You didn't know what happened and you didn't have a choice." The ex-sergeant narrowed his eyes in concern.

"And neither did he. He fell off a cliff, lost his arm, and was brainwashed and controlled by Nazis for seventy years." Velika picked her bottle up and took a long drink. 

"Okay, I stand corrected. Apologies." 

"In any case, he sounds special," Tzion said, giving her a concealed knowing look. 

Velika stared distantly at the fire with a wistful smile. "Yeah, he is."

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

Velika sat in the sand, arms wrapped around her knees. She stared up at the star-filled sky. The horizon blended and it was near impossible to see where the Ocean ended and the sky began. The stars were reflected in the water, which was still enough to appear glassy.

There were no constellations to make out, but that didn't stop her from trying. She connected the dots, making her own shapes and stories. A dolphin. A rose. A bunny with the full moon. Her hand played with Bucky's dog tags, fond memories of nights on the roof coming to surface. She missed them all, but she really missed Bucky.

Velika looked down at the photo of Bucky in her other hand. He was laughing at something stupid Sam had said, his eyes crinkled up and smile wide. It was her favorite photo of him and her heart skipped a beat. Her stomach fluttered and she smiled to herself. 

She returned her gaze to the sky with a new feeling in her chest. She realized what it was and although it scared her a little, she welcomed it.

Love.

𝓨𝓸𝓾'𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓵𝓸𝔀.

Taglist-

[rennaefricke]

Character Q&A

What is your full name?

“Rennae Fricke, or so I was told. Never met my mother or father.”

What do your friends call you?

“Rennae. Some call me Ren, but I hate it. They also call me Fricke in various puns or if they’re feeling like giving me hell.”

What is your favorite animal?

“Dogs, most likely, but I don’t think about it.”

Where were you born?

“On a ship off the western coast of the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Do you have children?

"I like children, but I’m a realistic person.”

Is there a person/people you love?

“Yeah, but it wasn’t ever mutual.”

What is your favorite color?

“It’s blue.”

What is your full occupation?

“Currently I’m a Sergeant of the League of Lordaeron, a paramilitary organization that specializes in reclamation of the north. Before that I did a lot of freelance contracting for people wanting things and treasures around the world, along with my own more-private ventures.”

Are you good at physical fighting?

“I would say so, but I know my limits. Men are bigger, and stronger.”

Which form are you best at?

“I might have to say archery. I’ve always been good with shooting. Other than that I have a wide experience of other weaponry, the more common ones at least, spears, swords, broad ones...”

What about magic?

“Not at all.”

Which type are you best at?

“I said no, but I’m good at a lot of things...”

Craftsmanship?

“I’m not much of a ‘crafter.’ I’d make a decent housewife though.” She snickered.

Any other skills?

“When I was young I learned a technique in palm-reading. I’ve carried that with me and even make a decent coin on whims doing those sorts of readings.”

Are you an only child?

“There weren’t any other children with me, growing up, so yes. Biologically? I don’t know.”

Where do you see yourself in five years?

“It’s hard to say. I haven’t really found myself staying in a single place for long. In five years? I might be back at sea, to be honest. Perhaps have my own ship. Another good idea would be living in a bigger home, doing more of my contracting I used to do. Who knows, maybe I’ll settle down somewhat?”

Have you ever almost died?

“It’s hard to say in this world of warcraft, when the most grievous of injuries come and go with waves of hands. But yes. I still have the odd nightmare at times of black skies, yelling, and monstrous waves. Almost capsized in the middle of the ocean. That was truly a night to remember.”

Do you have a secret, not just a secret, but like a really big secret hardly anyone knows?

"No,” she spouted with a smile to accentuate a sly lie.

Salty or sweet?

"Sweet, unless I feel sick.”

Do you like yourself?

“Too much.”

Do you believe in the Twelve?

“I don’t know what that is.”

Are you religious?

“No, but I like to think that I’m a decent person.”

Do you carry prejudice with you?

“I want to say not really. I still carry ‘preference.’ Otherwise, I understand that there are a lot of things you can learn about someone or a situation if you keep an open mind. Everyone does things for a reason. And nobody is quite ‘stupid.’”

What do you consider entertainment?

“I’m easily entertained, even by the most simplest of things. The world is a wonderland, and I’d like to keep exploring. But, if you’d like a straighter answer? People.”

Favorite drink?

“A cold beer.”

Do you have any family traditions?

“I consider my old crew my family, and no.”

Thank you for answering my questions.

An amiable nod.

Tagged by @stormwindian

Tagging: @a-nebulose (Tlayna) @willowstead

(Anyone else who is interested should absolutely do it too, even if I forgot to tag you!)

[stacks-reviews]

Must Reads Special Part 4

This episode: It’s Time to get Spooky!

A look at some of Stacks favorite scary books and shows.

Please note: not everything that will be listed is necessarily scary. I scare easily. 

--Anything by Junji Ito Junji Ito is widely considered a Mastermind of Horror and for good reason. He has a very surreal art style that makes his stories all the more disturbing. So far I have read Uzumaki, Tomie, Gyo (all the deluxe editions), Fragments of Horror, and Junji Ito’s Cat Diary: Yon and Mu (this one isn’t horror, it’s a biography of him, his wife, and their two cats). 

I didn’t find every story to be scary (like Gyo) but each has disturbing imagery, Fragments of Horror might have the worst image but it’s been a year so I can’t recall what that scene was. My favorite story was Uzumaki but my favorite short story was in the end of Gyo, The Enigma of Arigara Fault. 

Uzumaki: A town is infested with spirals Tomie: There’s something about a young woman that drives men to love her and then kill her. And somehow she always comes back to life. Fragments of Horror: Various short horror stories Gyo: Dead fish with robotic limbs terrorize the world Dissolving Classroom: A series of shorts following two siblings. One who is obsessed with the devil and can melt people’s brain by repeatedly apologizing to them. And his little sister who is just plain crazy. It came out in January of this year. I haven’t read all of it yet. Shiver: Another collection of short horror stories that will be released in the US in December of this year.

--The Forest of Hands and Teeth, The Dead-Tossed Waves, and The Dark and Hollow Places by Carrie Ryan It’s basically The Village but the monsters are real and they are zombies. At least in the first book. Everyone in the first one wears puritan style clothes and it a very old-fashioned village, surrounded by a fence that they may never cross unless they are a Guardian who spends every day or night walking the fences and watching for breaches and fighting when necessary. Travel beyond the village is forbidden due to losing contact with the other villages years back (they’d travel using a fenced path). Forbidden by the Sisterhood, the governing body of woman of the village. (Forgive me for this summary. It has been a long time since I last read this series).

Our main lead is Mary who ultimately wants more out of life than just marrying and living in this fenced in world. Then one day a girl wearing unusual clothes shows up on the path which proves to Mary that the other villages are still standing and would like to see them. But the Sisterhood takes the stranger away. And Mary soon after finds her among the Unconsecrated outside the fence. An unusually fast and strong Unconsecrated. And thus they have doomed themselves.

I loved this series when I first read it. And as I reread it before each new book came out. The writing style is very beautiful. Some scenes gave me chills (the scene with the baby, the name sake of book two, the sewers of book three). It was one of the few zombie stories I was able to read and enjoy. And that list hasn’t grown much. Because I am a coward and frighten easily.

--The Girl with All the Gifts and The Boy on the Bridge by M.R. Carey “Melanie is a very special girl. Dr. Caldwell calls her “our little genius.” Every morning, Melanie waits in her cell to be collected for class. When they come for her, Sergeant Parks keeps his gun pointing at her while two of his people strap her into the wheelchair. She thinks they don’t like her. She jokes that she won’t bite, but they don’t laugh. Melanie loves school. She loves learning about spelling and sums and the world outside the classroom and the children’s cells. She tells her favorite teacher all the things she’ll do when she grows up. Melanie doesn’t know why this makes Miss Justineau look sad.”

Read this last year and really enjoyed it. And it was recently made into a movie which I hear was pretty good; from a friend who has also read the book. The Girl with all the Gifts starts with a facility housing zombie children who can function like a person. Sorta anyway. They are extremely smart and can even talk. The children are being used to find out why they are so different and to hopefully find a cure. But then contact with the last standing city in England is cut. Then the facility is attacked by a group of humans who decided to live outside the city as they lead a hoard of zombies to attack. A small group escapes the facility, including Miss Justineau, Sergeant Parks, (evil) Dr. Caldwell, and Melanie. The rest of the book follows them as they try to reach the city.

The Boy on the Bridge is a sorta prequel but can be treated as a stand alone novel within the world of The Girl with all the Gifts. It follows the group of the Rosalind Franklin, also called Rosie, that is referenced in The Girl with all the Gifts. Rosie is a massive and impressive research truck that set out from the last city in order to get samples, make tests, and hopefully find a cure for the virus. 

I would recommend reading The Girl with all the Gifts before reading The Boy on the Bridge. It made the prequel a lot more nerve wrecking to me. Because all we know about Rosie before this book is that contact with her was lost. No one knows what happened to her or her crew. So while reading it I just knew that at any moment they were going to get attacked. It made me tense. I wanted to avoid the moment at night so I wouldn’t have nightmares (once again I am a coward so you might not have the same problem).

--Kenan & Kel: Two Heads are Better Than None “The Rockmores set out on a family road trip with an uninvited Kel stashed in the trunk. While camping out in the woods, Kenan has a scary encounter with a mysterious, shadowy figure...”

The Halloween movie of the TV show Kenan & Kel. I adore this movie. So does my whole family. We still have a recording of it on a VHS, which was later burned onto a DVD thanks to one of my aunts. Though now that I have The Splat I can just watch it off the DVR. 

It’s a really fun movie. We quote it a lot.

--Tales from the Crypt When I was younger my family watched this show all the time. My cousins and I would lay down and sit up in time with the Crypt Keeper. A while back I slowly bought each season and I try to watch some episodes every year. It’s a great little anthology horror series. 

A reboot had been planned for this series but it is still in hiatus. If not already canceled.

[coleymari-blog]

A War Fought at Home : Chapter 5

Corporal Natsu Dragneel has been through Hell, and unfortunately for him, the ride isn’t quite over. How will a new Rehab program at the local VA help? And will a certain blonde help make matters better?

Modern Military AU. Warnings for mentions of depression and adult language/situations. Other warnings to come as the story progresses. Cross post on AO3 and FF.net.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

"How much longer are you going to be in there?!"

Natsu was pacing in the hallway, towel, clothes, and kit in his lap as he waited for Gray to finish in the bathroom. He'd been up since the crack of dawn because of one of his nightmares but had stayed in bed, staring at his ceiling as the droplets of cold sweat dried on his skin. By the time he was ready to pry himself off his mattress, he'd been annoyed to find Gray already showering.

"Come on, Popsicle Dick," he yelled while banging on the door enough to be considered agitating. "We've gotta meet Luce in an hour!"

Cracking the door open, Gray stuck his head through, cold water dripping on Natsu's exposed thighs. How he could shower with literal liquid ice was beyond the pinket's comprehension. Doing it overseas was enough. No need to do that shit at home when Gray, himself, maintained the hot water heater. "I get that you're excited to see Lucy, but can I finish washing my ass first?" he questioned gruffly, slamming the plywood door shut before Natsu even had a chance to answer. The Marine waited for an eternity, or ten minutes before his roommate finally exited the bathroom, nothing but a towel keeping Natsu from seeing everything. "There you go," Gray remarked coolly, walking back to his room, leaving a frustrated Natsu to wheel into the slippery tiled room.

After a rapid shower, Natsu made sure to look absolutely perfect for his day with Lucy. He spiked his salmon hair, picked his favorite jeans, and was even able to lace up his own Chucks. If it wasn't for the chair, he looked like he was going on an actual date. Shaking his head, he couldn't help but chuckle at himself and his patheticness. Spending time with a blonde goddess did not equal a date. He had to get that through his thick skull. All he was doing was helping her find a place to live. That was the real mission, to keep Lucy in Magnolia.

The two Marines, both in their civvies, piled into their van and took off for the VA. "Did she say how she was going to be transporting you?" Gray asked once he had Natsu locked in. Honestly, he hadn't even thought about it.

Reverting to his standard defense, Natsu shrugged. "Probably in her flying car," he quipped, "Or walking slash rolling. Don't really care."

Gray snickered under his breath and Natsu half-hoped that his buddy would give him some type of hell, but was left disappointed. The raven-haired driver remained silent for the rest of their drive, only speaking again once they arrived in the VA parking lot.

Lucy, standing by the curb, was the first thing that caught Natsu's attention. Her white linen sundress waved softly around her thighs, clutching onto the rest of her and her golden hair hung loosely over her shoulders. She looked like Summer incarnate and it took his breath away. The van pulled up to meet her and Gray couldn't move fast enough in the other's eyes.

Once they were on solid ground again, Natsu and Gray made their way to Lucy, greeted by her warm smile as always. "Hey you two!" she singsonged, waving excitedly at them both. Her voice always had this bell-like quality to it that made Natsu's stomach flip. She thanked them both for meeting her, and the group chit chatted for a few minutes before Gray finally took off, leaving them to their own devices.

"Thank you for offering to help me, Natsu," Lucy thanked kindly, her chocolate eyes dropping to the floor as her cheeks flushed. He wheeled up next to her in order to gaze up at her, trying to contain his sense of awe like always.

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't try to help?" the Corporal replied, his voice full of optimism. The obvious obstacle still confused him though. "How are we getting around today anyway?"

Brushing her hair back, Lucy nodded to the Subway platform near the street corner. "There's a stop right in the middle of the area of town I was looking at," she explained as the two made their way to the platform. She smiled brightly as she continued like she was proud. "I even made sure there was elevator access. AND there's wheelchair access on every cart." Lucy blushed again as if she was embarrassed by her own excitement. "Unless you'd rather something else. Maybe we can call Sergeant Fullbuster and use your van?"

No way was Popsicle Dick standing between him and his day with Lucy. Shaking his head assertively, Natsu grinned as they neared the elevator doors. He leaned over quickly in order to beat her to the button, chuckling at his small victory.

"Subway's fine by me," he answered as cheerfully as possible despite mentally preparing for the onslaught of people down in the terminal. As much as he hated to admit it, Natsu didn't exactly do well in big crowds anymore, not since coming back from Alvarez. Whenever he was surrounded by others he felt like he was lost in a sea of bodies, swallowed whole without a life preserver. Not to mention crowds provided way too much of a sensory overload, his eyes always shifting to cover all access points, always listening for the slightest out-of-place sound. Like they said, you could take the man out of the Corps, but you could never take the Corps out of a man.

Once they were both inside the elevator, Natsu instinctively let his fingers slide to the inside panel of his chair, instantly breathing a sigh of relief at the familiar cold feeling of steel. His tactical knife rested where it always did, assuring the Marine that he could handle anything that came at them.

"Do you always carry your knife with you?" came a small voice over the sounds of squeaking gears. Looking up into her eyes and finding only the smallest amounts of fear, Natsu decided to explain himself...to an extent.

"Can't carry my Colt anymore, but at least I can keep my knife," Natsu explained, bits of shame tinging his voice as they arrived at the underground platform. If you didn't pass the Eval upon Return Home (or in his case refused to take it), you couldn't get your carry permit unless you went through civilian channels. No way was he going through that bullshit again. The two of them made their way out of the cart before the Marine stopped off to the side in order to catch his breath. The crowds were shifting like the tide and it made him physically ill. Before he knew it, a certain blonde came into view and the feeling of weight on his shoulders jogged him from his haze.

"Are you alright, Natsu?" Lucy questioned, concern oozing from every pore in her body. She had placed both of her hands on either of his shoulders, pressing down lightly but just enough for him to feel her presence. It reminded him of his flak jacket bearing down on his chest and his heart immediately began to slow down a tad.

Swallowing, Natsu mustered the courage to answer honestly. Gildarts and the group really had made a difference after all. "Don't really like large crowds," he answered calmly, treasuring the feeling of having Lucy so damn close. He could smell the distinct scent that was her, like wildflowers and honey, finding it lulling and exciting all at the same time. Part of him wanted to explain himself further but something in him just wouldn't allow it.

Luckily it seemed that Lucy understood without him having to say another word. Nodding and smiling, she grabbed the handles of his chair and guided him to the mostly empty section of the station she could find, parking him next to a bench where she could sit beside him. There were a few bodies scattered around but nothing as bad as the platform entryway. The two of them sat and went over the ads in Lucy's newspaper, circling the ones that seemed most appealing. Time passed slowly but took Natsu's anxiety with it, allowing him to breathe in Lucy a bit easier and sit a bit stiller.

Half an hour passed before their train arrived. Luckily, Lucy held them back for a minute while people filed on and off the subway cars. Right before the final departure siren, she wheeled Natsu to the closest car which also happened to be one of the least occupied. Silently thanking her with his eyes, Natsu strapped his chair into the wall as Lucy took her seat beside him. The train took off almost immediately and they sat quietly as they waited for their stop.

That lasted until a small commotion caught Natsu's attention in the back of the car. Turning around, the Marine only needed to watch the scene for a couple second before knowing what needed to be done. An elderly woman, sitting by herself with a couple grocery bags, was being bothered by a couple of punk ass guys no older than 20. They had already knocked one of her bags to the ground before Natsu wheeled himself over.

"Didn't your parents teach you to treat women with respect?" he growled, gripping the wheel guides tightly. Even his chair couldn't curb his moral center.

The punks laughed at him, acting much tougher than he knew they were. The leader of the crew advanced on Natsu and pushed the pinket, causing him to roll slightly before catching himself. "Like you could do anything, crip," he fired back, his posse cheering him on like idiots. Natsu could see Lucy moving out of the corner of his eye but held his hand up to signal that he had control of the situation.

"Why don't you come over here and see what I can do about it," he teased, nodding the gangbanger over to him. The assailant took his challenge and darted at Natsu, only to be quickly apprehended and shoved into the wall of the car, all from his chair. His body simply reacted like normal, but it took everyone (including Lucy) by surprise.

The punk picked himself up and cupped his now bleeding nose. "You think you're slick huh?" he hissed before waving over his friends. The other two were just about to start in on the Marine as the train came to a stop, allowing the platform police officers to begin their patrols. The three quickly made their way off the subway and Natsu rolled back to the elderly woman to check on her. He was about to turn back to his seat when Lucy appeared beside him, the woman's bag fully refilled and placed on the bench next to her. They all chatted for the rest of their trip into town and she thanked Natsu for his bravery, commending him for aiding her and for 'restoring her faith in young people'.

Once the two of them were streetside, Natsu and Lucy immediately headed for the first location, a small studio apartment in an 'alright' part of town. Their mission went on for hours, each time becoming more and more disappointed at every location. After seeing ten different apartments, they settled in a nearby park while Lucy huffed annoyedly.

"I'm never going to find a place to live!" she yelled exasperatedly, nearly pulling her golden hair out by the roots. She was pacing on the manicured lawn, still ranting, as Natsu sat in his chair in the shade. As much as he hated the situation, he had to admit. Lucy was adorable when she was angry. Her tiny fists balled up as if they intended to do actual damage (which was laughable) and her face scrunched up causing wrinkles to appear all over. Still, he hated seeing her so distraught.

Natsu felt terrible for her. He couldn't imagine the kind of stress she was under and there wasn't much he could do to help… or was there? "You know, there's an extra room at our place," he murmured, half-hoping she wouldn't hear him. But of course, he wouldn't be so lucky. The blonde beauty's head snapped and she immediately locked gazes with him, sending chills down his spine.

"I couldn't do that to you and the Sergeant," Lucy replied honestly, coming to sit beside his chair on the grass. She brought her knees up and dropped her forehead to meet them, sighing. A moment of silence passed between them before Natsu cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Seriously Luce," her attention returned to his face but her lack of familiar warmth upset him. She wasn't Lucy without her thousand watt smile. "There's an extra room that we never use. We rent the house from our old Gunny for practically nothing as it is." Gently pushing on her shoulder, he grinned at her. "As long as you don't mind living with a couple of Jarheads, there's more than enough space for you."

Lucy's gaze gave nothing away, not even the slightest sentiment. He could tell that the gears in her mind were turning but that was all. Honestly, it scared him more than the sound of enemy fire. Did she think he was crazy for even offering? It wouldn't be that bad right? It's not like living with a girl would be that different from living with Gray. She blinked softly before sitting up, her eyes trained on his the whole time.

"Are you sure your roommate wouldn't mind?" she asked, her voice soft, mousey, and very un-Lucy. Natsu wanted to throw his fists up in the air in triumph. Had he really won?

"Nah, trust me. He'll be cool with it, promise," Natsu replied excitedly, saying silent prayers to whatever deity would be goodly enough to listen. "What do ya say, Luce?"

Smiling her trademark smile, Lucy shot up from her seated position and threw herself into Natsu's lap, throwing her arms around him in the largest embrace she'd ever given him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you Natsu!" she cheered.

The happiness she felt overshadowed the obvious obstacle that stood in their way. Now to get the Snow Princess on board...

Hey y'all! Sorry this is so late! I got sick for awhile, and between my two stories and Nalu Week I got SUPER behind. Hope y'all enjoyed this installment. Originally I was going to make Lucy find her own place nearby but I couldn't resist. :D

[poorquentyn]

Bestie! So yesterday I was thinking a lot about "The Drowned Man" as a chapter, and considering whether I would rank it among the best of AFFC (certainly)/ASOIAF (probs?). But since you're infinitely better at themes and ironborn stuff than I am, I wanted to hear you wax about it 😊

Hey Nina The Stand summed it up nicely in this description of Euron’s true identity forerunner Randall Flagg:

When he walked into a meeting, the hysterical babble ceased–the backbiting, recriminations, accusations, the ideological rhetoric. For a moment there would be dead silence and they would start to turn to him and then turn away, as if he had come to them with some old and terrible engine of destruction cradled in his arms, something a thousand times worse than the plastic explosive made in the basement labs of renegade chemistry students or the black market arms obtained from some greedy army post supply sergeant. It seemed that he had come to them with a device gone rusty with blood and packed for centuries in the Cosmoline of screams but now ready again, carried to their meeting like some infernal gift, a birthday cake with nitroglycerine candles. 

I’d probably call “The Drowned Man” the central chapter of AFFC, as Attewell argued RE Catelyn III ACOK. All the moods and ideas of the book are as one here: the comprehensive expression of the feast, the crows, and how we got ourselves to the point of watching the worst of said crows descending on said feast. That element of playing witness is very central to the chapter, because for all the political and metaphysical implications at play, “The Drowned Man” is ultimately rooted in our POV character.

Aeron Greyjoy’s story is a religiously-inflected gauntlet of nightmares, designed to pierce his external performance (the Voice of God) and his inner defenses (the fog of repression surrounding his abuser, rendered as desperate mantras and flashes of imagery). The chapter opens with Damphair acknowledging, well before Dragonbinder and Euron’s triumph, that his armor is down:

Only when his arms and legs were numb from the cold did Aeron Greyjoy struggle back to shore and don his robes again.

He had run before the Crow’s Eye as if he were still the weak thing he had been, but when the waves broke over his head they reminded once more that that man was dead. I was reborn from the sea, a harder man and stronger.

This follows directly not only on him fleeing the feast tent in “The Iron Captain,” but also on his solo ruminations in “The Prophet,” in which Euron functioned as an offstage catalyst to Aeron’s fearful inner journey, helping us understand them both. That earlier chapter is at heart about measuring the gap between Aeron’s public persona and his inner demons, come home to roost. He starts off as secure as he can be (on the surface, which is all he allows himself to access), sure in his god, sure in himself, sure that CPR constitutes a miracle; he’s demanding imperiously of nobles if they’ve been drowned properly, aware of his cultural cachet and seeking to increase it.

And then, his “mighty pillars” come crashing down, and he is a child again, listening to his bedroom door squeak open.

Aeron was almost at the door when the maester cleared his throat, and said, “Euron Crow’s Eye sits the Seastone Chair.”

The Damphair turned. The hall had suddenly grown colder. The Crow’s Eye is half a world away. Balon sent him off two years ago, and swore that it would be his life if he returned. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely.

So as with Arianne’s queenmaking in Dorne, while the kingsmoot is at one level a collective expression of cultural defiance and a self-conception as separate from mainland Westeros, it’s also a deeply personal, intra-familial maneuver. Arianne’s rebelling against what she believes to be her father’s betrayal, and Aeron’s taking refuge in tradition as a defense against his abuser’s return. The Dornish plot, for all its many aspects and resonances, boils down to Doran and Arianne facing each other down across a cyvasse board, and the Ironborn plot, while also a social and cultural interrogation, takes as its engine Aeron’s fear and hatred of Euron.

Perhaps consequently, the peace and strength Aeron finds in the sea is the fragile, flickering heart of his character (more than ever in “The Forsaken”). It is genuine and moving, despite the lack of actual divine communication. 

No mortal man could frighten him, no more than the darkness could, nor the bones of his soul, the grey and grisly bones of his soul.

Memories are the bones of the soul: such a lovely weaving-together of the ethereal and the concrete! By repeatedly using the bones of Nagga’s Hill to symbolize Aeron’s internal struggle, GRRM links the overarching political ramifications of the Ironborn plot to the one-on-one confrontation of Aeron and Euron. His eye for the personal inside the large-scale movements of the plot is for me what makes all the new POVs in the Feastdance work so well; Cersei, Brienne, Asha, Arianne, Quentyn, and Jon Connington also have this kind of searingly intimate moment that draws you in so close it’s as if they’ve been POVs since book one.

And so the politics can begin, GRRM setting the scene in patient, exquisite fashion.

Dark clouds ran before the wind as the first light stole into the world. The black sky went grey as slate; the black sea turned grey-green; the black mountains of Great Wyk across the bay put on the blue-green hues of soldier pines. As color stole back into the world, a hundred banners lifted and began to flap. Aeron beheld the silver fish of Botley, the bloody moon of Wynch, the dark green trees of Orkwood. He saw warhorns and leviathans and scythes, and everywhere the krakens great and golden. Beneath them, thralls and salt wives begin to move about, stirring coals into new life and gutting fish for the captains and the kings to break their fasts. The dawnlight touched the stony strand, and he watched men wake from sleep, throwing aside their sealskin blankets as they called for their first horn of ale. Drink deep, he thought, for we have god’s work to do today.

The sea was stirring too. The waves grew larger as the wind rose, sending plumes of spray to crash against the longships. The Drowned God wakes, thought Aeron. He could hear his voice welling from the depths of the sea. I shall be with you here this day, my strong and faithful servant, the voice said. No godless man will sit my Seastone Chair.

It was there beneath the arch of Nagga’s ribs that his drowned men found him, standing tall and stern with his long black hair blowing in the wind. “Is it time?” Rus asked. Aeron gave a nod, and said, “It is. Go forth and sound the summons.”

In ASOS (oh man spoilers), a lot of powerful people died. AFFC is about the aftermath, examining how the survivors deal with death politically and personally, how the dead are both omnipresent and yet powerless to determine their legacy, and how all of this ultimately amounts to a rolled-out red carpet for the Others. In the specific case of the Ironborn, what we’re dealing with is the reckoning–or lack thereof–with the costs of Balon’s Old Way in the wake of the king’s death. We’ve already seen that dynamic at work in the first three chapters of this storyline, all of which comes to a head here…but before the Greyjoys, we get the other contestants, starting with our favorite candidate:

“The ironborn must have a king,” the priest insisted, after a long silence. “I ask again. Who shall be king over us?”

“I will,” came the answer from below.

At once a ragged cry of “Gylbert! Gylbert King!” went up. The captains gave way to let the claimant and his champions ascend the hill to stand at Aeron’s side beneath the ribs of Nagga. This would-be king was a tall spare lord with a melancholy visage, his lantern jaw shaved clean. His three champions took up their position two steps below him, bearing his sword and shield and banner. They shared a certain look with the tall lord, and Aeron took them for his sons. One unfurled his banner, a great black longship against a setting sun. “I am Gylbert Farwynd, Lord of the Lonely Light,” the lord told the kingsmoot.

Aeron knew some Farwynds, a queer folk who held lands on the westernmost shores of Great Wyk and the scattered isles beyond, rocks so small that most could support but a single household. Of those, the Lonely Light was the most distant, eight days’ sail to the northwest amongst rookeries of seals and sea lions and the boundless grey oceans. The Farwynds there were even queerer than the rest. Some said they were skinchangers, unholy creatures who could take on the forms of sea lions, walruses, even spotted whales, the wolves of the wild sea.

Lord Gylbert began to speak. He told of a wondrous land beyond the Sunset Sea, a land without winter or want, where death had no dominion. “Make me your king, and I shall lead you there,” he cried. “We will build ten thousand ships as Nymeria once did and take sail with all our people to the land beyond the sunset. There every man shall be a king and every wife a queen.”

His eyes, Aeron saw, were now grey, now blue, as changeable as the seas. Mad eyes, he thought, fool’s eyes. The vision he spoke of was doubtless a snare set by the Storm God to lure the ironborn to destruction. The offerings that his men spilled out before the kingsmoot included sealskins and walrus tusks, arm rings made of whalebone, warhorns banded in bronze. The captains looked and turned away, leaving lesser men to help themselves to the gifts. When the fool was done talking and his champions began to shout his name, only the Farwynds took up the cry, and not even all of them. Soon enough the cries of “Gylbert! Gylbert King!” faded away to silence. The gull screamed loudly above them, and landed atop one of Nagga’s ribs as the Lord of the Lonely Light made his way back down the hill.

Y’all know in your hearts he was telling the truth, too. But srsly, we said our piece on Gylbert Farwynd: he’s Good Euron, down to the eyes, creating a mirroring effect. The kingsmoot ends as it begins, with someone promising to elevate the Ironborn above this “dry and dismal vale.” But GRRM knows how to use contrasts as well as parallels—just look how he follows up Gylbert’s vision.

Aeron Damphair stepped forward once more. “I ask again. Who shall be king over us?”

“Me!” a deep voice boomed, and once more the crowd parted.

The speaker was borne up the hill in a carved driftwood chair carried on the shoulders of his grandsons. A great ruin of a man, twenty stones heavy and ninety years old, he was cloaked in a white bearskin. His own hair was snow white as well, and his huge beard covered him like a blanket from cheeks to thighs, so it was hard to tell where the beard ended and the pelt began. Though his grandsons were great strapping men, they struggled with his weight on the steep stone steps. Before the Grey King’s Hall they set him down, and three remained below him as his champions.

Sixty years ago, this one might well have won the favor of the moot, Aeron thought, but his hour is long past.

“Aye, me!” the man roared from where he sat, in a voice as huge as he was. “Why not? Who better? I am Erik Ironmaker, for them who’s blind. Erik the Just. Erik Anvil-Breaker. Show them my hammer, Thormor.” One of his champions lifted it up for all to see; a monstrous thing it was, its haft wrapped in old leather, its head a brick of steel as large as a loaf of bread. “I can’t count how many hands I’ve smashed to pulp with that hammer,” Erik said, “but might be some thief could tell you. I can’t say how many heads I’ve crushed against my anvil neither, but there’s some widows could. I could tell you all the deeds I’ve done in battle, but I’m eight-and-eighty and won’t live long enough to finish. If old is wise, no one is wiser than me. If big is strong, no one’s stronger. You want a king with heirs? I’ve more’n I can count. King Erik, aye, I like the sound o’ that. Come, say it with me. ERIK! ERIK ANVIL-BREAKER! ERIK KING!”

Erik Ironmaker, clearly the Tormund of the Ironborn, is thoroughly grounded in the “dry and dismal vale.” His platform is that he represents the masculine ideal of the Ironborn, full stop. But Asha spots the same problem as Aeron, and gives it voice:

“Erik!” Men moved aside to let her through. With one foot on the lowest step, she said, “Erik, stand up.”

A hush fell. The wind blew, waves broke against the shore, men murmured in each other’s ears.

Erik Ironmaker stared down at Asha Greyjoy. “Girl. Thrice-damned girl. What did you say?”

“Stand up, Erik,” she called. “Stand up and I’ll shout your name with all the rest. Stand up and I’ll be the first to follow you. You want a crown, aye. Stand up and take it.”

The aforementioned masculine ideal is past its sell-by date. Erik wants the crown as a symbol of a life well lived (by his standards), but Asha’s implicitly arguing that this is a debate about the future, not the past. (Of course, her platform has its own blind spots. More in a bit!)

Next up is Dunstan Drumm.

He climbed the hill on his own two legs, and on his hip rode Red Rain, his famous sword, forged of Valyrian steel in the days before the Doom. His champions were men of note: his sons Denys and Donnel, both stout fighters, and between them Andrik the Unsmiling, a giant of a man with arms as thick as trees. It spoke well of the Drumm that such a man would stand for him.

“Where is it written that our king must be a kraken?” Drumm began. “What right has Pyke to rule us? Great Wyk is the largest isle, Harlaw the richest, Old Wyk the most holy. When the black line was consumed by dragonfire, the ironborn gave the primacy to Vickon Greyjoy, aye … but as lord, not king.”

It was a good beginning. Aeron heard shouts of approval, but they dwindled as the old man began to tell of the glory of the Drumms. He spoke of Dale the Dread, Roryn the Reaver, the hundred sons of Gormond Drumm the Oldfather. He drew Red Rain and told them how Hilmar Drumm the Cunning had taken the blade from an armored knight with wits and a wooden cudgel. He spoke of ships long lost and battles eight hundred years forgotten, and the crowd grew restive. He spoke and spoke, and then he spoke still more.

And when Drumm’s chests were thrown open, the captains saw the niggard’s gifts he’d brought them. No throne was ever bought with bronze, the Damphair thought. The truth of that was plain to hear, as the cries of “Drumm! Drumm! Dunstan King!” died away.

On the one hand, he’s absolutely right that the Greyjoys owe their primacy to the very polity against which they’re leading rebellions. On the other, he gets bogged down and fails to offer an affirmative case for something better, reflected in his paltry offerings.

These candidates provide context for the main act: the three Greyjoy candidates. That Victarion has nothing to offer but this…

“You all know me. If you want sweet words, look elsewhere. I have no singer’s tongue. I have an axe, and I have these.” He raised his huge mailed hands up to show them, and Nute the Barber displayed his axe, a fearsome piece of steel. “I was a loyal brother,” Victarion went on. “When Balon was wed, it was me he sent to Harlaw to bring him back his bride. I led his longships into many a battle, and never lost but one. The first time Balon took a crown, it was me sailed into Lannisport to singe the lion’s tail. The second time, it was me he sent to skin the Young Wolf should he come howling home. All you’ll get from me is more of what you got from Balon. That’s all I have to say.”

…resonates with Erik Ironmaker’s pitch. Victarion is the status quo candidate. He’s this guy:

(gif by stevemcqueened.tumblr.com)

Something is rotten in the state of the Iron Islands, and Vic can’t identify it, let alone deal with it. Again, the personal and political are intertwined: deep down, Victarion Greyjoy knows he’s unhappy, but can’t conceive of what to do about it. “Balon 2.0” is enough for many of the captains and kings, but not a majority, because Balon’s failures are becoming harder and harder to ignore.

So how does Balon’s chosen heir respond?

“Nuncle says he’ll give you more of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it’s so, he gave us that … and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many had daughters raped and despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you. Nuncle here will give you more. Not me.”

“What will you give us?” asked Lucas Codd. “Knitting?”

“Aye, Lucas. I’ll knit us all a kingdom.” She tossed her dirk from hand to hand. “We need to take a lesson from the Young Wolf, who won every battle … and lost all.”

“A wolf is not a kraken,” Victarion objected. “What the kraken grasps it does not lose, be it longship or leviathan.”

“And what have we grasped, Nuncle? The north? What is that, but leagues and leagues of leagues and leagues, far from the sound of the sea? We have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, even Winterfell. What do we have to show for it?” She beckoned, and her Black Wind men pushed forward, chests of oak and iron on their shoulders. “I give you the wealth of the Stony Shore,” Asha said as the first was upended. An avalanche of pebbles clattered forth, cascading down the steps; pebbles grey and black and white, worn smooth by the sea. “I give you the riches of Deepwood,” she said, as the second chest was opened. Pinecones came pouring out, to roll and bounce down into the crowd. “And last, the gold of Winterfell.” From the third chest came yellow turnips, round and hard and big as a man’s head. They landed amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabbed one with her dirk. “Harmund Sharp,” she shouted, “your son Harrag died at Winterfell, for this.” She pulled the turnip off her blade and tossed it to him. “You have other sons, I think. If you’d trade their lives for turnips, shout my nuncle’s name!”

“And if I shout your name?” Harmund demanded. “What then?”

“Peace,” said Asha. “Land. Victory. I’ll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We’ll have the northmen too … as friends, to stand with us against the Iron Throne. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my nuncle, for more war and more defeat.” She sheathed her dirk again. “What will you have, ironmen?”

Asha comes the closest to Grandpa Quellon’s reformation, but she’s got a fatal blind spot regarding Balon’s wars and their effect on both the North and the Ironborn. The former are not going to accept the latter’s control of the Stony Shore, let alone forge an active alliance against the Iron Throne, especially after what Theon did at Winterfell. Asha doesn’t even stop to consider the Northern perspective on the Ironborn, the cost and consequences of her family’s actions in Stark territory—she just assumes she can create a lasting peace through hostages. But she can’t. The North wants Theon Turncloak’s people gone, which is why Stannis and the Boltons are both trying to win over Northerners by fighting Ironborn. Asha’s ADWD chapters are all about her facing this:

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Of course, Asha’s also running up against the patriarchy, and many of the captains and kings associate giving up any conquest with a “craven’s peace.” So I’m not entirely blaming Asha here, as again she’s much closer to a sustainable path than her (kraken) uncles, but she fails to offer a sufficiently powerful counter-narrative, and so leaves the door open for Euron. In the moments before he begins his pitch, chaos reigns.

Men began to shove at one another. Someone flung a pinecone at Asha’s head. When she ducked, her makeshift crown fell off. For a moment it seemed to the priest as if he stood atop a giant anthill, with a thousand ants in a boil at his feet. Shouts of “Asha!” and “Victarion!” surged back and forth, and it seemed as though some savage storm was about to engulf them all.

That is the war; that is the feast; that is everything the Others need. So what better “savage storm” to interrupt this “squabbling over spoils” than the apocalypse?

Sharp as a swordthrust, the sound of a horn split the air.

Bright and baneful was its voice, a shivering hot scream that made a man’s bones seem to thrum within him. The cry lingered in the damp sea air: aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

All eyes turned toward the sound. It was one of Euron’s mongrels winding the call, a monstrous man with a shaved head. Rings of gold and jade and jet glistened on his arms, and on his broad chest was tattooed some bird of prey, talons dripping blood.

aaaaRRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The horn he blew was shiny black and twisted, and taller than a man as he held it with both hands. It was bound about with bands of red gold and dark steel, incised with ancient Valyrian glyphs that seemed to glow redly as the sound swelled.

aaaaaaaRRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

It was a terrible sound, a wail of pain and fury that seemed to burn the ears. Aeron Damphair covered his, and prayed for the Drowned God to raise a mighty wave and smash the horn to silence, yet still the shriek went on and on. It is the horn of hell, he wanted to scream, though no man would have heard him. The cheeks of the tattooed man were so puffed out they looked about to burst, and the muscles in his chest twitched in a way that it made it seem as if the bird were about to rip free of hisflesh and take wing. And now the glyphs were burning brightly, every line and letter shimmering with white fire. On and on and on the sound went, echoing amongst the howling hills behind them and across the waters of Nagga’s Cradle to ring against the mountains of Great Wyk, on and on and on until it filled the whole wet world.

Such are the bones of Euron’s soul. This is what the inside of his skull looks like: an LSD-soaked portal to hell, driven by blood sacrifice and a keen understanding of the sweet spot between fear and awe. This horror-tinged passage is supposed to feel jarring, like something out of a completely different genre; Euron’s not really a part of the debate he just interrupted, but is rather out to hijack it for his own apocalyptic ends. (Remember: what is signaled by three horn blasts? “Others.”) Look at what he’s disrupting: a “giant anthill.” Damphair’s kingsmoot was made to be bulldozed; it’s a fragile gathering of fragments against the ruin. The weaknesses were there to be exploited…but of course, Euron has to put on his pirate suit to do so.

The Crow’s Eye stopped atop the steps, at the doors of the Grey King’s Hall, and turned his smiling eye upon the captains and the kings, but Aeron could feel his other eye as well, the one that he kept hidden.

“IRONMEN,” said Euron Greyjoy, “you have heard my horn. Now hear my words. I am Balon’s brother, Quellon’s eldest living son. Lord Vickon’s blood is in my veins, and the blood of the Old Kraken. Yet I have sailed farther than any of them. Only one living kraken has never known defeat Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining …”

GRRM consistently uses the “smiling eye” as a microcosm of Euron’s public face, and the Crow’s Eye as a microcosm of the self he keeps hidden from his fellow Ironborn (other than Aeron). I’m the ultimate pirate, guys, nothing else to see here—just look at my eyepatch, and don’t worry about what I’m hiding underneath it. Indeed, Euron knows his audience well, constructing his argument patiently; only after establishing his Old Way bona fides can he then take the next step.

“My little brother would finish Balon’s war, and claim the north. My sweet niece would give us peace and pinecones.” His blue lips twisted in a smile. “Asha prefers victory to defeat. Victarion wants a kingdom, not a few scant yards of earth. From me, you shall have both.”

For all Euron’s skills, he only wins because both Vic and Asha’s platforms are riddled with flaws—and not only that, the flaws compound each other, allowing Euron to link them together rhetorically as insufficient. This resonates with the captains and kings because the Balon-Aeron-Victarion agenda has immense cultural appeal but has blatantly failed to deliver on its promises, while Asha’s platform would push the Ironborn in a better direction but isn’t convincing enough (emotionally or pragmatically) to be an effective rallying point. Euron, ever the postmodern magpie, steals the most appealing aspects of both and frames it as the ultimate Ironborn dream of conquest. My brothers’ dream has fallen miserably short in reality, and my niece is telling you stop dreaming. The former cannot defeat the greenlanders, the latter is telling you to admit that—in a way that won’t bring peace anyway! I will be the best of both worlds, doing what the former cannot and the latter wants to give up on. In short: Euron tells the Ironborn that they’re losers but can be winners if they follow and imitate him, whereas Victarion won’t admit they’re losers and Asha won’t let them win. It’s such a potent appeal to cultural self-conception and resentment that it even sways Damphair, if only for a moment:

“We are the ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard. My brother would have you be content with the cold and dismal north, my niece with even less … but I shall give you Lannisport. Highgarden. The Arbor. Oldtown. The riverlands and the Reach, the kingswood and the rainwood, Dorne and the marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth and the Stepstones. I say we take it all! I say, we take Westeros.” He glanced at the priest. “All for the greater glory of our Drowned God, to be sure.”

For half a heartbeat even Aeron was swept away by the boldness of his words. The priest had dreamed the same dream, when first he’d seen the red comet in the sky. We shall sweep over the green lands with fire and sword, root out the seven gods of the septons and the white trees of the northmen …

But the rest of the crowd, of course, sees only the “smiling eye.” Our POV knows better, and being in Aeron’s head primes us to see the cracks in Euron’s facade, the tears in his pirate suit. Only Aeron recognizes, at chapter’s end, that Euron is out to dethrone the gods.

Even a priest may doubt. Even a prophet may know terror. Aeron Damphair reached within himself for his god and discovered only silence. [Because that’s the name of Euron’s ship, you see] As a thousand voices shouted out his brother’s name, all he could hear was the scream of a rusted iron hinge.

Euron cares not for the Seastone Chair, nor even the Iron Throne, not really. So what is he in this for?

“Crow’s Eye, you call me. Well, who has a keener eye than the crow? After every battle the crows come in their hundreds and their thousands to feast upon the fallen. A crow can espy death from afar. And I say that all of Westeros is dying. Those who follow me will feast until the end of their days.”

There it is, right? AFFC summarized: “all of Westeros is dying.” The war has rendered Westeros a fit meal for Euron…and the Others. And indeed, the “anthill” of the kingsmoot is a perfect microcosm of that political impotence in the face of the abyss. That’s the message “The Drowned Man” communicates: we let Trump Euron happen. As I’ve argued before, the essence of great horror isn’t that the monsters are at the door. It’s that we’re going to let them in.