thesecretdiaryofraagy

[froody]

do you have a kickass middle name for the name angel? baby naming websites are being transphobic (giving me stupid names)

ok. here it goes. sorry for the Puritan inspiration here there’s a 17th century ghost guiding me on this naming journey:

Angel Mercy

Angel Wrath

Angel Just

Angel Damned

Angel Freelove

Angel Agony

Angel Gray

If that wasn’t the vibe you were going for, you could also contrast your kick ass noun first name with a more understated and traditional middle name, perhaps something historical or of sentimental value like your mother or grandmothers maiden name or the first or middle name of a historical or literary figure you enjoy. Angel Hayworth, Angel Alessandro and so on.

[icechippies]

The crossover you didn't ask for but are getting anyway!

Writing a DHMIS and TWOMP crossover has been on my list of things to do for a while now and this has been in my drafts for ages.

I'm not so certain about Red Guy's characterization and I didn't look at other fan characters because I looked at the DHMIS fandom once and saw some things I will never unsee (no offense to the fandom. I am glad you guys are having fun, it's just not for me)

Anyway, here you go:

He woke up in an uncomfortable plastic seat. One of many such seats occupying the area. There were other people around too, mostly sleeping uncomfortably in their own seats or watching the clock on the wall slowly tick the seconds away. A man with a teddy bear for a head snored in the seat next to him. Headache-inducing fluorescent lights buzzed in the ceiling louder than the flies that kept running into them with a repetitive tapping noise.

"Number 277,546?"

He looked down at the yellow card in his hand. It said 277,546.

"I think that's me."

The old lady behind the counter looked at him from behind glasses that sat too far forward on her nose.

"Give me your card." he handed it over and she punched a hole in it, adding one more small circle to the thousands of others that covered the ground like confetti and formed piles in the corner of the room.

"Go down the hall to the last door on your left. A member of the welcoming committee will help you fill out your paperwork."

"Oh, uh, ok, thanks." He wandered down the hall. His footsteps against the dirty carpet tiles were the only noise as the ticking of the clock faded away.

He had a complicated relationship with quiet. On one hand it was nice, certainly much better than loud, but he just couldn't relax when it was quiet. Quiet, without failure, always meant that something was about to happen, usually something bad. He much preferred something in between quiet and loud, like listening to his friends talk. It was far from stimulating conversation but they were rarely interrupted by anyone who might make things bad. All in all it was similar to his complicated relationship with dark.

He reached the end of the hallway and stepped into the open door way of the last office on the left.

There was a person facing away from him digging through a filing cabinet. They had long wavy black hair and a blue hoodie.

"Hello? Are you the welcoming committee person?"

The person in blue jumped a bit before pulling out a few papers and turning around with a big grin on their face.

"Hello and welcome to the void!"

They had a lot of eyes. He was fairly certain that most people didn't have more than two but this person had blinking white eyes covering their face and neck, even going down to the back of their hands. He was being looked at by all of them. Almost expectantly. Oh. He was supposed to respond.

"You have a lot of eyes." Wrong response.

Luckily the person was still smiling, "Thank you! My great great grandpa always said I had my mother's eyes. And my father's. And my grandparents', for that matter." they placed the papers on the desk and sat down, gesturing to the other chair, "go ahead and take a seat, I'll help you fill out these forms and then we can go find your new home. " they clicked their pen a few times before preparing to write on one of the papers. "My name is Argos. And yours is?"

"I'm- I'm not actually sure."

"Is that first name Not, middle name Actual-?"

"No, no. I don't know my name." now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he ever knew his name, or if he even had a name in the first place.

"You don't know your name?"

"I don't know, I'm just the big red guy I guess but that doesn't really work without the other two." He shifted in his chair awkwardly.

"I could put in a filler name for now and you could complete another form later to change it if you happen to remember your name or decide on a new one?"

"That works I suppose."

"How about I just put in first name Red, last name Guy?"

"Yeah, I like the sound of that, for now at least."

"Great! Now, the faster we get these forms done the faster I can show you to your new home."

"Just checking, there's not going to be any singing or anything?"

Argos furrowed his brows in confusion. "Not unless you turn on the radio or sometimes the television I guess. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing." Red Guy made a mental note to never turn on the radio or the television, "let me see those forms."

[pjunicornart]

If I were to reboot Meet the Robinsons, this would be Lewis.

You saw the title of this post. If I were to redesign and reboot Meet the Robinsons, then this would be Lewis. It includes an altered narrative. Here's the obligatory bio section:

Full Name: Lewis Cornelius Robinson Age: 16 Height: 5' 7" Birthday: April 17th

Notable Traits - Always carries a backpack with everything he needs (sunglasses, headphones, hand sanitizer, etc.) - Speaks very directly and to the point - Smartypants - Clean freak/germaphobe - Special interest in science and inventing (duh) - Loves "ugly" animals - like frogs, toads, rats, spiders, snakes, and lizards - Fidgets (he calls them "Wiggles") - Professional info dumper - Pansexual and Polyamorous - Gets frustrated easily

Bio Born to a single mother, Lewis is an overall happy and good natured kid. Despite the fact that he's frequently bullied in school for... well a lot of things. They say things like, "Why are you so sensitive?", "Why do you dress that way?", or "Why is your hair like that?" But, mostly, they make fun of him for his inventions - which almost always fail. Lewis gets easily discouraged when his inventions fail, and the bystanders in his classes don't exactly help. Luckily his mother is always there to console him when things go wrong, and continues to supports his passions... because she knows that deep down it makes him really happy. Even though she's completely lost when Lewis explains how TVs are able to display colors.

Author's Notes Those who are aware might have picked up that this particular Lewis has heavy autistic coding. It's known in this universe that Lewis is autistic, and his mom is super supportive. I would go as far as to say that Lewis was probably diagnosed pretty young, so he knew his whole life that he was on the spectrum. Also, major change two: His birth mother never gave him up! I imagine she's a hard working single mom who does the best she can with what she has. She also checks up on her son in certain situations to make sure he's doing okay. So, in short: power mom energy. Lewis is part of the LGBT community here, too. This is because I pick up strong bi energy from Lewis in the original movie. Essentially, I don't think this Lewis particularly cares about someone's looks. As long as you're not a terrible person and you treat him like a person, Lewis might catch some feelings. He's definitely caught feelings for two of his friends - but he doesn't know if they're okay with polyamory. Why did I age him up slightly? I dunno. Honestly, I don't. Maybe it's because of the story? I don't know. Lastly, his other name. Cornelius. In this universe, maybe his middle name comes from one of his relatives. Like, maybe his grandpa's middle name is Cornelius. It's not uncommon for families to share names like that. My middle name is the same as my great grandma's, for example. Sorry to Lucille and Bud... but hey. Maybe they're doing just as good in this universe as they would be in the OG. Who knows?

If I feel like it I might do Wilbur next. We'll see.

[soleminisanction]

Even though it's been a good three years since I started going by one of my own, I still catch myself thinking on and off about my family's odd relationship with men's names.

Like, my paternal grandfather's name was Bob. Not Robert, Bob. And it wasn't that he was Robert on his birth certificate and everyone just called him Bob his entire life, no no. His legal documents from 18 on read Bob [LastName], and the name on his birth certificate is Bobby.

Because see, Grandpa was born a premie and a twin in like, 1919, and everybody just assumed that they were going to die, so they wrote "Billy" and "Bobby" on the birth certificates and brought them home to at least make it comfortable. But then my great-grandmother swaddled them both up, put them in bread tins, and stuck them in an oven on very low heat, essentially creating a rudimentary incubator, and they both survived, eventually living to the ages of 86 and 93 respectively. So they just went with Bill and Bob for their whole lives.

And this is mostly fine until you factor in that there's really only four male names in my dad's side of the family, which get used over and over again: William, Richard, Robert and Oliver. And only kid per generation gets to be Oliver because that was great-grandpa's name and that kid gets the number behind his name. The highest that's currently gotten is Oliver IV, my second cousin, who I believe is 8.

So my dad is named William Richard and he's got cousins named Oliver III and Richard Robert, whose kids are named Oliver IV and Robert William. Dad's also got an Uncle Bill and an Uncle Oliver Jr., who are the older and twin brothers of his dad Bob.

ALSO. My mother, who married William, also has a brother named William. And a father named William. And, for a time, a brother-in-law named William, at least until my aunt stopped taking her meds and starting hearing the voice of God.

Apparently when my brother was born, my mother turned to my father and said, "Okay look, if you want to name him 'William Jr.', we can and I'm fine with that, but we're giving him a different middle name to call him until he grows up okay?"

And my father said, "Oh god no we don't need to add to that mess."

So they named him Stuart.

[matrose]

Hi! Idril and Celebrimbor for the ask game pls! :D

hi heather thank u so much 🫶❤️��️‼️

Idril 💙

Sexuality Headcanon: sexuality as well as gender are so hard for me to define for almost any middle-earth character!! elves and dwarves especially! ive never really thought about idrils sexuality before but maybe bi…she has all the swag :)

Gender Headcanon: elf gender… elf gender!!! what is if even!! how does gender even matter if youre 7000 years old and youve been married for 4000 years. immortality seems to eventually remove most cultural need for gender / gender presentation doesnt it? and then what does it mean for idril (young!!) who married a human!! very fascinating. ive never thought more about this but shes more girl than other elves probably. just from the vibes

A ship I have with said character: i love her and tuor. and then both of them with voronwe!! i think she and voronwe could have a really interesting and sweet relationship! also, real quick abt voronwe, extremely gender of him to have a traditionally feminine name ending!!!!!

A BROTP I have with said character: she and glorfindel could be great friends aka her favorite babysitter growing up 🥺

A NOTP I have with said character: her and maeglin :/

A random headcanon: i love the headcanon of taking the silverfoot meaning of her name literally!! idril with prosthetics my beloved <3 shes also really great at strategy based boardgames (think similar to chess and the like) and can beat her grandpa 8/10 times!! also her short hair after her mothers passing 🥺

General Opinion over said character: i really really like her! shes so smart and endured so much in just her first few years of life… im happy she got away from the tragedy that shouldve gotten to her as an elf in love with a mortal ❤️ shes special to meee‼️

Celebrimbor 💚

Sexuality Headcanon: one of the few characters where i can pin it down actually. hes gay! 🎉

Gender Headcanon: hmm his gender is jewelsmith 💎

A ship I have with said character: i like him and narviiii 🥺 i am always weak for dwarf x elf relationships

A BROTP I have with said character: just in general i think the concept of him being born in beleriand + gil galad being born late in the first age + elrond all being pretty young and all being the sort of leading figures of the second age noldor is really funny. teenage government… though i like how rings of power have made him elronds weird uncle thats really funny :)

A NOTP I have with said character: difficult. i think silvergifting can be interesting if done right but its so evil and toxic and bad for celebrimbor i just sorta dont want him there. get out bestie!!!!

A random headcanon: narvi pierced his nose bridge. it looks very cool. and an evil one because im thinking about narvi still: sauron tried his best to shapeshift into narvi when celebrimbor was taken captive, for pain and torture reasons but he could never quite get it right. first the eyes. then the piercings were on the wrong side. no the hair was never that neatly brushed. the eyebrows are too thin right there. it drove sauron crazy so he eventually stopped trying and celebrimbor held onto that little victory all the way to mandos.

General Opinion over said character: i dont think about him enough! hes fascinating really

[unhonest-iago]

Monikers

'What kind of name is Fun Jonatahan Micahel Vincent Georgina James Sus Dy the third? Also isn't Wilbur your dad, how the fuck can you be 'the third'?' Felps read the man's drivers license. He was trying to come up with a nickname after Fundy's insistent whining that 'Funds' was a stupid nickname. But he also didn't like fox boy so Felps decided to ask for his drivers license, figuring he could call him by his middle name. Then recalling that all he knew about Fundy was that he was Wilbur's kid from a previous relationship before the island and Tallulah. 'You're one to talk having Felipe Augusto Moderato Silva Loro Timoto Gradual Do Sao Paulo Trupolo Ghadul Kisake Naruto da Silva de novo Porta de Tras as a name. And it's my mother's side, some great-great-whatever grandpa's name.'

'We've never heard Will talk about you or your mom, what she like?' Fundy ignore the deep stab Felp's words inflicted, but he guess he could understand wanting a fresh start. It's exactly what he did when first arriving on the island. 'Uh, she wasn't exactly in the picture.'

'Oh, so she died in childbirth, that kind of thing?'

'No, she just up and left one day. Broke dad's heart doing that, thought I'd never see him again after he left for Utah but then found out from Quackity that he was here.' His tongue loosened by the alcohol Felps had provided. Buying a round for a round, not bringing up the fact that his mother was a salmon. 'What was he doing in Utah?' The pick seemed awfully out of character for Wilbur to Felps. 'Hell if I know, think it might've had something to do with this burgervan that he was running.

'Sorry, but think fox boy's gonna stick.' Felps found it cute how Fundy wore his emotions on his sleeve, especially his ears. Flattening any time a conversation subject made him sad. Or when they perked in excitement.

'Ugh, fine. At least it's not furry.' Voice filled with resignation.

[scaryspears]

Why don't you apologise? (Draft)

I'm gonna start by saying this is a chapter I wrote on this fanfic I'm writing. I'm really happy with this chapter and I'm wondering about the opinions of whoever reads it. The story is on the Archive of our Own website. It's about Fem Severus Snape who raises the son of Sirius Black and doesn't become a death eater. One of the ships is a one-sided Sirius Black/Severus Snape, where Sirius has an obsession with Snape but she doesn't return his feelings. If anyone wants more context I'm gonna slyly suggest (advertise) reading my story. Spoilers: The son in question is named Caesar and Sirius doesn't know it's his son, but believes it's Regulus' son. Caesar was adopted by Snape.

Have yet to see more obsessed Sirius so I'm writing them myself.

Sirius was at home alone, sitting in the living room in silence downing some whisky. The home in question used to be owned by his uncle Alphard, and while Alphard was a purist and dark wizard, he loved his nephew very much, or maybe he hated Walburga that much. As a final middle finger to his older sister he gave everything he owned that wasn't directly connected to the Black lordship to her most disgraced child. It was weird of Alphard to leave him some gold and a home, but he was always the strange one in the family.

Sirius never understood his dear uncle. Alphard and Regulus had the same doppelganger, and Sirius himself had the face of Sirius the 2nd, and was less like either of them. Walburga also made sure he was a walking copy of her. That didn't stop Sirius from theorising, it helped with his investigation skills.

Sirius always hated the leash she kept on him, and Alphard saw that. Alphard discreetly rejected his own father's ways, in what, Sirius had yet to discover. Alphard taught him well, guiding him on how to piss off his own mother. Sirius did every step in understanding glory. He made it his mission to show her who should be in control by doing the opposite of what she wanted, and while a lot of his punishments included the cruciatus he grew accustomed to them. He even grew to enjoy them. This is love isn't it? Walburga did that to show him she loved him.

So Sirius pissed her off even more. He made friends with a Potter, who came from a light family, and joined Gryffindor house, the breeding ground for blood traitors and mudbloods everywhere. What was great about James is that he wasn't like any other light child Sirius came across, there was a familiarity with him. Sure, he turned out to be equally as dark, but you'd think he'd at least try to be light. Remus as well, who was alright for a half blood. Those were Sirius' thoughts at the time. Who knew there was a beast underneath Remus? Sirius secretly admired Moony, the creature could cause so much destruction, and Sirius honestly believed he should let Moony take control more often. 

Why did any of this matter? He was going over what his nephew had told him. He knew what he should do, but didn't understand the steps. Even if the answer was clear it was hard for him to get to the point of it.

I was taught that I was showing love. Sirius thought to himself. I know that everything is wrong now, but how much of it was?

"It's not real love you felt for mum." came a voice in the back of his mind. It sounded like Caesar. His nephew. "I read about it. I've seen it. I've felt it. My eyes don't spark up like yours do when I think of my dear Lavender." Sirius didn't recall his nephew saying those things. "There's no way a crush looks like that. I don't doubt that you loved her, but there was no way everything was love."

The intruding voice said it like an echo.

"Grandma didn't love Grandpa, now did she? She only loved the ownership, the power. She claimed him ever since she first saw him, just like Pollux saw Irma. Just like Cygnus saw Druella." He felt a chill. "Just like you saw mama."

Sirius did claim her, this was true. He decided she was his. His darling. A strong woman to break, and when she starts accepting him into her heart he treats her well. It made sense at the time. Surely it still does. Petunia loves hurting him, she likes the pain too. It wasn't bad for them.

"You're just like them. Your family. Insane, carrying some kind of sickness or oddity. And each curse has a counter to it."

As eager as Sirius was, there was no way he'd bed anyone by the age of 13. Sirius didn't hate muggles. Severina was half blooded, his heart decided she was the one, there was no way. Besides, Petunia... The feelings he felt for her were natural. She made him submit.

"Thankfully for her, too bad for you, someone got to her first. Loved her before you could."

Oh, Regulus. Regulus! That dear little brother of his. Death was announced in the daily prophet, Sirius recalled reading the words. They didn't know who the killer was. And then came Orion's passing. Sirius wasn't invited to the funeral but it was right there on the daily prophet. Right after Regulus' own announcement. Sirius didn't understand why it was important for everyone to see, but it was important for him.

How was it for Regulus? Loving her? Was it natural or was it something else? Did he hurt her? There was no way, Walburga hardly saw the point in Regulus, he had Orion's weakness. What was that weakness? 

That's why Regulus never had to apologise. He never hurt anyone, physically. James' wife says otherwise, she believed he broke Sev's heart. Nothing Evans said could be trusted, she wasn't that smart, but she knew the most about Severina's past self. She knew that Severina and Regulus went out. She approved. He must've been good to her if Evans approved.

All Sirius did was hurt her, he would know. He enjoyed doing it. He even made up a nickname for the best memory, she never cried afterwards. He hasn't seen her cry since their first year. Looking back, maybe that was best. He didn't deserve that privilege. Seeing a happier version of her was more preferable. She didn't damn him, but she hid her contempt. He saw it in her eyes but with how unreadable her face was he didn't see it, too busy enjoying her presence.

Sometimes it was like looking at a different person.

What else did Sirius do, to have his own nephew confront him about it? He now concluded the pain part, but there was something else. Something else. Something else.

Wait, that night.

That full moon.

He wanted to share his secret with her. 

His best friend, Prongs saved her. That was his fault.

She almost died. He almost lost her, that was him. Sirius could never murder his own wife, but that night said otherwise and Dumbledore did nothing about it. He just made it worse. They all deserved to rot in Azkaban.

"That's right, you're getting there. Keep thinking, old man." came Caesar's voice.

I almost killed her.

"Bingo."

"I almost killed her." he said out loud.

If Sirius didn't understand the saying of blood going cold he definitely did now, as the image of those scared black eyes replayed in his mind.

Yes, I fancasted Aya Cash as fem Snape while she was in her Stormfront attire.

[poundfooolish]

The whole debate in my family about whether or not Great Gramma Grace was jewish kicked off like over ten years ago because my sister's nazi boyfriend at the time decided to do a 'social experiment' by posting an extremely anti-semitic status on her facebook, resulting in my Grandfather's absolute meltdown because-

Like, so Great Gramma Grace died young, right, she died in her mid-late forties, I think it was, from overwork, my grandpa was young, but he loved his mom. He was your traditional stoic Maine Lobsterman, he didn't get emotional about much, but two of the things I knew that truly gutted him were

When my mom hyphenated her name on the wedding invitations and my grandfather thought she was getting rid of her middle name, which had been given in honor of GGGrace

This fucking post because he went off about how dare she say such things about not only her great-grandmother, but her namesake.

And we have never been able to settle this because again, GGGrace died in the 1960s, and NONE of her children can agree what was up with her religion-wise, except that her eldest daughter vividly remembers a whole Shituation involving a bunch of pregnant nuns and her sainted mothers' outrage at the way the church covered it up and her refusal to attend after. I have not confirmed the Shituation at all but like, rural maine in the 1930s? Who the fuck knows what was going on there, they had to take a fuckin horse and wagon to church.

Anyway none of that even matters because I was raised a sort of folk christian blend of about 10 different spiritual-philosophical fragments, but also 'getting pissed at the church and refusing to attend on moral grounds' is apparently a family tradition no matter WHAT she thought.

[hardyorange]

hey so what's the story behind your new name?

oh, it's a bit of a joke about how nb people choose plant names for ourselves! my real first name starts with an 'h', so I searched up a list of plant names that did as well, and there are very few (in english!) that aren't super gendered like 'Heather'; 'hardy trifoliate orange' was one of barely three or so!

plus, the name 'Hardy' actually has some history in my family: it is my trans sister's old middle name, which came from our great grandfather (I think) on our mother's side; however, after she had been named after him, some family tree research turned up that... that most likely WASN'T great grandpa's original legal name!

we don't know why exactly, but great grandpa apparently decided to change his name when he moved to the area my mom's family is from, as evidenced by some incomplete documents that otherwise match his details that my aunt found in her attic; theoretically he was fleeing something in his past by hiding his identity, but we have no idea what

so, I thought there was something poetic about choosing my grandpa's chosen name that had been cast off by my sister; perhaps it can only be properly passed by choice?

[crouton-knight]

Talk about that time that Old Uncle Hubert found buried "treasure"

OH BOY OLD UNCLE HUBERT TIME

((Link below is where the game starts to be clear))

Okay so this was a long time ago before I was born, and probably before my great grandma on my grandmother's side was abducted in the jungle somewhere in Davao (though that's probably a story better told another time.)

Old Uncle Hubert as we called him wasn't actually an uncle? He kind of got the title posthumously because we realized he was in SO many of our family stories from way back when that it bore mentioning he had to be a cousin or uncle or something. Hubert's kind of a weird name for a Filipino dude of that time but I've never seen pictures of him so he might've been actually American or something.

Anyway, all that prelude aside, sometime in like the 30s or 40s, when All That Stuff Was Happening here in the Philippines, my grandma's (mother's side) family had A Lot Of Land. It's actually a bit awkward talking about that point in history with grandma because she insists that the Philippines was doing GREAT, that's how much land and how rich and unaffected she was at the time.

Old Uncle Hubert, of course, knew my grandma's family was filthy fucking rich. SO filthy rich in fact that there were rumors going around that they weren't JUST as rich as they were, obviously, they had to be Richer. I don't know how it happened, I don't know how he heard about it, but there got to be a rumor that there was buried treasure ALL over the property and you just had to go to a bunch of different spots, dig for like six feet, and find cases full of like, bags of Spanish silver or pre-colonial gold and gems or whatever.

Uncle is convinced that this is true, though I don't know the specifics of why. The fun part is that instead of trespassing, he decided to come up to my great great grandpa, the head of the household, and tell him in probably better ways than I'm about to say:

Uncle: Hey I think you have buried treasure on your property.

Great great grandpa presumably thought this was stupid but also didn't want to refuse Uncle's digging around in case it attracted more people digging around for Reasons. Whatever the case, he gave Uncle and a couple of the other guys in the family his blessing to dig up wherever the spot Uncle said was full of treasure.

They did not find treasure.

Uncle of course, having spent the better part of a day convincing great great grandpa to let him dig, tries digging in a spot like, a few feet away? Must've been a miscalculation, right?

Finds some old bullet casings under the topsoil but nothing else of interest. I unfortunately don't know what happened to the bullet casings, I would've wanted to see one.

ANYWAY this goes on for a pretty stupid amount of time, everyone's tired and filthy and most of the guys just go home and leave Uncle to his digging. I think grandma told me it was like, after dark that this next bit happened? It was past sundown, it was dark, crickets and snakes are about, that sort of thing. Not a good time to be out in the middle of a large pre-electricity area where nobody can hear you scream.

Uncle's shovel hit something really hard and he screams loud enough that people come running anyway, all the way from the house.

Unfortunately for Uncle, well, something you need to know about this island is that it's made of pre-historical limestone reef, and also is a "floating" island, in the sense that not too far down there's a lot of seawater and ground water and other subterranean waters going through caverns and tunnels and wearing away at the rock.

Old Uncle Hubert did not find treasure in the traditional sense.

What he did was he managed to break open a weak part at the top of a cavern like an eggshell, which proceeded to collapse under him for a few meters and leave a gaping hole in the middle of the property.

Luckily it wasn't a deep cavern and he wasn't actually all that hurt, just cold, wet, shocked, and probably traumatized for life.

And that's the story of the time Old Uncle Hubert found buried "treasure".

[astralfist]

Since Tweek occasionally gets featured or mentioned on this blog in the threads I write with my mutuals, or in random ic posts, may as well write up some headcanons about the man, which I have been meaning to do for a while, but couldn’t find the time or energy to do so.

Before we dive into Tweek on this blog, note that he is NOT the main focus of this blog (and neither is the whole Creek ship, despite that I headcanon they are both still together and have been since around their senior year or high school, but that’s probably something for another post whenever). This blog is also NOT a duo blog for Craig and Tweek. This blog focuses on Craig and his perspective of things that happen in life and all that.

Now onto our favorite Tweek Tweak!

Yes he has a strange name: Tweek Tweak. His first name being Tweek, and his surname being Tweak. His family name is Tweak, but later on he changes his surname to Tucker. Since he and Craig have been together since their senior year of high school and also after they started living together for some years and got an apartment together, they’ve been considered to be in a “common law marriage”, hence Tweek changing his surname to Tucker. Why did his parents name him Tweek? Who knows? Tweek tends to think they were on drugs when they named him, but according to his parents, he was named after his great grandpa, who is from his mother’s side of the family: Tweek Barclay.

Tweek use to highly despise his name since he was a kid, being called a tweaker and all because of how shaky and anxious he tended to be, also being easily triggered and panicked. A lot of people thought he was probably some weirdo on drugs, which… although Stick of Truth says his parents put drugs in their coffee, that’s not canon on this blog (though I’m not against the idea either), Tweek’s family was framed. They had a manufacturer that put their homemade coffee together but his parents were unaware of that manufacturer actually putting drugs in the coffee, so Tweek and his family, even the customers they were getting, had been drinking drugged coffee the entire time which caused Tweek constant anxiety, panic attacks, and him being quite shaky, sometimes even hallucinating. Him and his family don’t find out about their coffees being drugged until around the time when had Craig started college. Even without the drugged coffee however, Tweek is still prone to having anxiety and panic attacks. He’s not very shaky anymore, nor does he stutter a lot anymore since he stopped drinking those drugged coffees. He doesn’t hallucinate anymore either. If he’s shaky, he’s either cold or having anxiety/panic attacks, and if he’s stuttering, it’s when he’s very anxious or having a panic attack.

While Tweek may come off as being all anxious or panicky, he’s definitely more than that. He’s pretty fit, and he too has hidden powers which he actually inherited from his great grandfather and Tweek did not discover his super powers until he was in middle school. Out of all the people he’s been friends with and hung out with, the only one who knew about his secret powers was Cartman, who eventually told just about everyone in the school about Tweek’s powers, despite promising him that he wouldn’t say a word about it, and later on while Tweek was having a panic attack and nearly destroyed the school with his secret elemental powers, Craig was the first one to actually try to calm his best friend (at the time) down. Once Tweek had finally managed to slowly calm down, he talks in private to Craig about his super powers, also mentioning how he has no idea how to control them. Craig mentions he has no idea if he can be of any help. but he’ll do his best to try to help him when he can as Tweek had been there for him whenever Craig was feeling down.

Eversince discovering his super powers that he wanted to keep a secret from everyone until Cartman decided to tell everyone about it and humiliate Tweek about it, Tweek tries to keep to himself these days. The only person he would share secrets with is Craig, although Tweek is also friends with Jimmy, Tolkien and Clyde, out of everyone in their little friend group, the one he trusted the most is Craig (despite how the two boys were not off to a good start long ago sometime way back in elementary school). Tweek tries not to use his powers for anything except for maybe little tings like using his ice powers to try to cool down his hot coffee a bit, or water powers to water the plants.

Interests and hobbies:

Tweek loves to bake and sometimes he’ll sell his homemade baked goods at his family’s shop. Sometimes during festivals he’ll also have his own stand and sell his baked goods along with some homemade coffee. Aside from his love for baking, he still enjoys boxing and getting fit. He’s usually training with Craig these days to stay fit, or he goes over to Tolkien’s house to train since Tolkien has his own gym. He likes to build legos because he finds that fun relaxing, though sometimes building legos can be challenging, and he also enjoys programming, and sometimes acting.

Tweek and his family:

Tweek doesn’t hate his parents, though sometimes he’ll have his arguments with them when he feels they don’t understand him. Though he has his ups and downs with his parents from time to time, he still loves them dearly. He has a fairly good relationship with his parents, and he still works at their shop full-time. He is still unsure what he wants to do for his career, but he thinks about going into acting or computer science, hence still working at his family’s coffee shop. He also doesn’t blame them for having drugs be put in their homemade coffees for their shop because none of them at all were even aware of the manufacturer actually being full of drug workers and such. It’s like the “manufacturing team” made themselves look so good that no one would have ever thought that they were sketchy.

Tweek’s relationship with Craig:

Not gonna go too much into this since it’ll just end up being another long post, but Tweek had actually started to slowly fall in love with Craig sometime in middle school around the time Tweek discovered his own super powers. Whatever Tweek would tell his “bestfriend”, Craig would always keep it just between them as Craig tended to believe that there are just some things that is not exactly his business or problem and neither should they be anybody else’s. Ironcially the two boys did not get along very well in elementary school until they got into a physical fight to the point of being sent to the hospital and then they decided to call it a truce. Since then, the two boys kept their distance until they were assigned a group project. Tweek invited Craig to his group project with Clyde, Jimmy and Tolkien, and later Tweek and Craig had become friends, and then way later on in their last year of high school they had become lovers.

Tweek’s powers:

He inherited them from his great grandfather, Tweek Barclay. His great grandfather had elemental powers where he could control the weather. Barclay was able to make thunderbolts and lightning happen to an extent. He was also able to make icicles fall, and used water to be able to heal. Tweek inherited those powers from him. He has the elemental powers of lightning, ice, and water. He’s able to make rain and thunder, or even hail if he wanted to. He uses his water magic to heal wounds/injuries. He can zap others with his lightning magic, also causing his opponent to become paralyzed or stunned, depending on how much volts from the lightning Tweek had used on them. Tweek can also create icicles and freeze his opponents with it, depending on how cold Tweek decides to make his icicles to be able to freeze his opponents temporarily. In addition, Tweek also throws some pretty good punches, thanks to the boxing courses he took his Jimbo and Ned since he was a kid.

[supercreig]

Since Tweek occasionally gets featured or mentioned on this blog in the threads I write with my mutuals, or in random ic posts, may as well write up some headcanons about the man, which I have been meaning to do for a while, but couldn't find the time or energy to do so.

Before we dive into Tweek on this blog, note that he is NOT the main focus of this blog (and neither is the whole Creek ship, despite that I headcanon they are both still together and have been since around their senior year or high school, but that's probably something for another post whenever). This blog is also NOT a duo blog for Craig and Tweek. This blog focuses on Craig and his perspective of things that happen in life and all that.

Now onto our favorite Tweek Tweak!

Yes he has a strange name: Tweek Tweak. His first name being Tweek, and his surname being Tweak. His family name is Tweak, but later on he changes his surname to Tucker. Since he and Craig have been together since their senior year of high school and also after they started living together for some years and got an apartment together, they've been considered to be in a "common law marriage", hence Tweek changing his surname to Tucker. Why did his parents name him Tweek? Who knows? Tweek tends to think they were on drugs when they named him, but according to his parents, he was named after his great grandpa, who is from his mother's side of the family: Tweek Barclay.

Tweek use to highly despise his name since he was a kid, being called a tweaker and all because of how shaky and anxious he tended to be, also being easily triggered and panicked. A lot of people thought he was probably some weirdo on drugs, which... although Stick of Truth says his parents put drugs in their coffee, that's not canon on this blog (though I'm not against the idea either), Tweek's family was framed. They had a manufacturer that put their homemade coffee together but his parents were unaware of that manufacturer actually putting drugs in the coffee, so Tweek and his family, even the customers they were getting, had been drinking drugged coffee the entire time which caused Tweek constant anxiety, panic attacks, and him being quite shaky, sometimes even hallucinating. Him and his family don't find out about their coffees being drugged until around the time when had Craig started college. Even without the drugged coffee however, Tweek is still prone to having anxiety and panic attacks. He's not very shaky anymore, nor does he stutter a lot anymore since he stopped drinking those drugged coffees. He doesn't hallucinate anymore either. If he's shaky, he's either cold or having anxiety/panic attacks, and if he's stuttering, it's when he's very anxious or having a panic attack.

While Tweek may come off as being all anxious or panicky, he's definitely more than that. He's pretty fit, and he too has hidden powers which he actually inherited from his great grandfather and Tweek did not discover his super powers until he was in middle school. Out of all the people he's been friends with and hung out with, the only one who knew about his secret powers was Cartman, who eventually told just about everyone in the school about Tweek's powers, despite promising him that he wouldn't say a word about it, and later on while Tweek was having a panic attack and nearly destroyed the school with his secret elemental powers, Craig was the first one to actually try to calm his best friend (at the time) down. Once Tweek had finally managed to slowly calm down, he talks in private to Craig about his super powers, also mentioning how he has no idea how to control them. Craig mentions he has no idea if he can be of any help. but he'll do his best to try to help him when he can as Tweek had been there for him whenever Craig was feeling down.

Eversince discovering his super powers that he wanted to keep a secret from everyone until Cartman decided to tell everyone about it and humiliate Tweek about it, Tweek tries to keep to himself these days. The only person he would share secrets with is Craig, although Tweek is also friends with Jimmy, Tolkien and Clyde, out of everyone in their little friend group, the one he trusted the most is Craig (despite how the two boys were not off to a good start long ago sometime way back in elementary school). Tweek tries not to use his powers for anything except for maybe little things like using his ice powers to try to cool down his hot coffee a bit, or water powers to water the plants.

Interests and hobbies:

Tweek loves to bake and sometimes he'll sell his homemade baked goods at his family's shop. Sometimes during festivals he'll also have his own stand and sell his baked goods along with some homemade coffee. Aside from his love for baking, he still enjoys boxing and getting fit. He's usually training with Craig these days to stay fit, or he goes over to Tolkien's house to train since Tolkien has his own gym. He likes to build legos because he finds that fun relaxing, though sometimes building legos can be challenging, and he also enjoys programming, and sometimes acting.

Tweek and his family:

Tweek doesn't hate his parents, though sometimes he'll have his arguments with them when he feels they don't understand him. Though he has his ups and downs with his parents from time to time, he still loves them dearly. He has a fairly good relationship with his parents, and he still works at their shop full-time. He is still unsure what he wants to do for his career, but he thinks about going into acting or computer science, hence still working at his family's coffee shop. He also doesn't blame them for having drugs be put in their homemade coffees for their shop because none of them at all were even aware of the manufacturer actually being full of drug workers and such. It's like the "manufacturing team" made themselves look so good that no one would have ever thought that they were sketchy.

Tweek's relationship with Craig:

Not gonna go too much into this since it'll just end up being another long post, but Tweek had actually started to slowly fall in love with Craig sometime in middle school around the time Tweek discovered his own super powers. Whatever Tweek would tell his "bestfriend", Craig would always keep it just between them as Craig tended to believe that there are just some things that is not exactly his business or problem and neither should they be anybody else's. Ironcially the two boys did not get along very well in elementary school until they got into a physical fight to the point of being sent to the hospital and then they decided to call it a truce. Since then, the two boys kept their distance until they were assigned a group project. Tweek invited Craig to his group project with Clyde, Jimmy and Tolkien, and later Tweek and Craig had become friends, and then way later on in their last year of high school they had become lovers.

Tweek's powers:

He inherited them from his great grandfather, Tweek Barclay. His great grandfather had elemental powers where he could control the weather. Barclay was able to make thunderbolts and lightning happen to an extent. He was also able to make icicles fall, and used water to be able to heal. Tweek inherited those powers from him. He has the elemental powers of lightning, ice, and water. He's able to make rain and thunder, or even hail if he wanted to. He uses his water magic to heal wounds/injuries. He can zap others with his lightning magic, also causing his opponent to become paralyzed or stunned, depending on how much volts from the lightning Tweek had used on them. Tweek can also create icicles and freeze his opponents with it, depending on how cold Tweek decides to make his icicles to be able to freeze his opponents temporarily. In addition, Tweek also throws some pretty good punches, thanks to the boxing courses he took with Jimbo and Ned since he was a kid.

[briamichellewrites]

11

I’m Surrounded By Idiots. That was the onesie Stephanie wore when Bria brought her into the studio to meet the band. Brad dropped them off before going to run errands. Stephanie fell asleep on the car ride over. Bria attached her car seat to her stroller before coming in. The band was looking forward to a much-needed baby break, so they were thrilled when they showed up. They got up and gathered around to meet Stephanie. She didn’t want to take her out and wake her up.

That was fine. They could wait. Where did she get the onesie? Target. Her father bought it for her because they both thought it was hilarious and cute. She wanted something from The Lion King and that was the only unisex onesie they had available. How was being a mom? It was so much fun but she was also so tired. She liked holding her and talking to her, even though she didn’t know if she could understand her.

Her father told her it didn’t matter because she heard the sound of her voice. They didn’t know what babies understood because they weren’t experts. After a couple of hours, Stephanie cried to let her mother know she was awake. She took her out of the car seat and held her out, so they could all see her. They agreed she was beautiful! Her little face scrunched up as she continued crying. She got her bottle to see if she was hungry. Nope. She was just being grumpy.

She found her pacifier and put it in her mouth. That did the trick. She stopped crying and started sucking on the plastic.

“My dad calls her pacifier ‘the Shut Up’ plug.”

They laughed.

“Well, I guess you can say whatever you want because she doesn’t know what you’re saying yet”, Phoenix said.

Since they came home from the hospital, Stephanie has been wrapped around his finger. Was he calling himself, Grandpa? No, he was Papa. He didn’t like Grandpa because he thought it made him sound too old. They laughed again. Where did she get the name, Stephanie? Stevie Nicks. It was her father’s idea. She didn’t even know who Stevie Nicks was until he played one of her songs. Then, she decided she liked the name.

Her middle name was Margaret for her mother, Maggie. If she was a boy, she would have named him, Thomas Bradley. They remembered her talking about that. That was a cute story of how she chose her name. She nodded. If she ever met Stevie Nicks, she would tell her she named her daughter after her. What band was she in? Fleetwood Mac. She was also a solo artist.

“Maybe I’ll save Thomas Bradley for the future. The far-distance future, like when I’m thirty!”

“Don’t have another baby until you’re ready”, Mike said.

“Maybe when she goes off to college.”

They laughed. That would be eighteen years, so she would be in her thirties by then. She told her father that if she graduated high school without getting pregnant, she would give her a hundred dollars. He was going to match that. How old were her parents? They were eighteen and had to drop out of school, so she was the second in her family to get pregnant as a teenager.

Their parents disowned them and kicked them out after they discovered their pregnancy, so they had to leave school to work. She was going to do everything she could to make sure she graduated high school. Good for her. Was she going to homeschool her? No, she wanted her to have a childhood with birthday parties and sleepovers with her friends. Though, she would be careful about sending her daughter to sleepovers. She would have to meet the parents first.

While talking, they suddenly smelled something horrible. She excused them because she had a diaper to change. They laughed as she grabbed the diaper bag. She was doing a great job being a mother! They could tell she was thinking of her daughter before herself. Chester wanted Stephanie to break the teen pregnancy cycle in her family and graduate from high school. So did they.

Maybe she could go to college. Brad had aspirations of going to law school after getting a communications degree. Instead, he chose to be in the band. Mike and Joe studied art, which they used to create their album covers and merchandise. Rob studied accounting while Phoenix graduated with a degree in philosophy. Did they use their degrees? Not really but going to college was a stepping stone in becoming Linkin Park. Since Chester didn’t finish high school, he never went to college.

When the girls came back, Phoenix asked how bad it was. It wasn’t too bad. She couldn’t wait until she could use the bathroom herself in a few years. They laughed. That meant potty training. She would need her father’s help with that. Yeah, changing diapers wasn’t fun but it had to be done. If you put her on your chest and hold her by her butt, she lifts her head.

She demonstrated what she was talking about. Yeah, that was to prevent her from suffocating. Did she do tummy time yet? No, her umbilical stump hadn’t fully healed yet. She was going to go to the doctor tomorrow for a well-baby checkup, so maybe they could tell her if she could do it. When Brad came to pick them up, they all exchanged hellos with each other. Were they having some baby time? They laughed and said yes. It was what they needed.

“Bria said you don’t want to be known as Grandpa”, Brad said.

“No, I don’t even have grey hair yet. I’m not ready to be called Grandpa. I’m Papa.”

They laughed. He made sure Bria got Stephanie in the car seat correctly. She was still getting used to doing it. He told her good job when she did it by herself. Did she need to be changed? She already changed her, but she might need a bottle on the way home. They could feed her when they got home, then. After getting everything together, they said goodbye to them.

Bye! They hoped they would visit again soon! She promised that they would. Wow. That was Brad Pitt. He didn’t have an ego or anything. It was just like he was a friend they hadn’t seen in a while. He was a huge celebrity but if they didn’t know who he was, they never would have guessed. They took him for a guy who loved his daughter and granddaughter. They wondered what it would be like not to be able to go out in public without the paparazzi and media attention. That had to be tough.

They were fortunate enough to have fans who respected their privacy. It was more about their music. They would never be able to put themselves in his shoes. On the way home, Bria distracted Stephanie from her stomach rumbling. She talked to her and gave her a finger to suck on. That worked for a while until she spat it out.

That wasn’t milk! She wanted milk! Finally, they were home. She took her out of her car seat and put her into her arms. After grabbing the bottle from the diaper bag, she put it into her mouth. She sucked on it happily. Finally! She was dying of hunger! Her little newborn life was fading away. Bria called her dramatic but that was why she loved her. That made him laugh. Babies were demanding. He grabbed the diaper bag and they both went inside.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia @boricuacherry-blog

[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

[sirensmojo]

"Big Bank!" - Hubby! Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Big Fluff, Old Money love story vibes.

Summary: Tommy decided to let his wife take care of his Gin. He comes to taste it for the first time after the Gin was met with great success.

A/N: We stand for a caring & trusting Thomas, sorry not sorry.

*Masterlist*

It was a windy day when Tommy entrusted you with his Gin distillery.

The sun was out, as your children were running around the garden, their giggling easing his mind. His head dropped backward on the garden chair as fingers of one of his hands were fidgeting with his cup or whiskey, as a cigarette was locked in between his lips.

Spring was early this year, much to your family’s pleasure. Spending time outside was something you loved to do, and knowing Tommy’s busy agenda, you made sure to make every family moment the best one.

No need to say time flew so fast, the days becoming months, becoming years.

Tommy and you was an evidence. From the day you bumped into each other in the London’s library his sister Ada used to work, you were inseparable. Thus you didn’t know each other for very long, but everything between you made this fact questionable.

You were acting as if you knew each other since children, a single look and you understood what the other thought. Not too many words were said, but not too many words were needed.

Although you weren’t Tommy’s first wife, you were “the perfect two”, making all the people you knew jealous and envious.

“My love,” you announced your presence when coming closer to the garden table as your husband was eyes closed. “I did some thinking.” You added, catching his attention.

Tommy straightened back his head and he was now facing you as you seated in front of him, glimpsing from afar of your three little boys.

“You know I don’t like your whiskey or any type of alcohol, truly.” You raised your brows, and he puffed on his cig, waiting for you to continue. “I want to make Shelby’s Gin.” You let out outright.

No need to turn around your wish, by the way he shifted position you already knew he was ready to hear anything, and you didn’t want to disturb him from his peace. You knew how he dearly appreciated those little moments in which he didn’t have to think about running a business or dealing with dirty gangsters and rude people.

“You want to do what?” He raised a brow not too sure he heard you well, but when he caught eyes of your lips curling at the corner of your mouth, he knew he had heard it well.

His family was his haven of peace and you would do anything to take off some weight off your Shelby’s shoulders. it was a regular task, a daily basis habit that you quickly took and that you’ll probably never lose.

“I already tried a mixture.” His deep voice accentuating your smile.

“It’s my turn now, you played enough with that, you need to focus on real business now. Put your mind elsewhere and let me fill my bottles.”

You couldn’t quite put your finger on what changed precisely, but you noticed a shifting in your husband’s expression along with the gleam animating his iris.

You thought it was worry.

You lost your father a few months ago due to lung disease and your mother died long ago when you were the age of your own children, and as an only child, you were now all alone without your parents.

Gracefully you had Tommy and the kids because if you hadn’t you didn’t know how you would’ve handled this loss.

As being a sensible cord, your husband didn’t bring it up, and he wasn’t the type of comforting people with words anyway, but he tried it his way, which means he bought you a ridiculous amount of new jewellery and books because he knew how much you liked to read and how you were a simp for big diamonds.

Incidentally, Tommy always found it funny how much time you spend with your nose in books while having a voracious appetite for jewellery. He would never miss an occasion to make fun of you when catching you reading as you had to wear glasses, and it was all funny and stuff till he too, had to wear glasses to read.

Now, in bed, you looked like two old people, instead, you were reading adventure and dramatic novels whereas he was stuck with political subjects.

“Okay.” He didn’t hesitate a single moment which made you smile.

“Okay?” you repeated, your smile growing as seconds passed. He straightened back, leaning over the table to you and his hands reached for yours.

You intertwined your fingers together with ease, sparkles spreading at the tips of each of it.

It was that way with every of his touches. He just had that power over you, which you were proud of as it was just love. It could never be anything else.

His deep blue eyes were anchored into your Y/C/E’s ones and you knew he was trying to bring you comfort. He knew what it felt like to lose people, and was ready to give you whatever if that meant to ease your pain.

You neared your faces and he ran his thumb over the end of your nose, down to your lips as cupping your cheek with his palm. Tommy’s head was slightly tilted to the side, his only purpose being to reach your soul with either his touch or his soul hidden behind his iris.

You leaned your head into his touch and closed your eyes for a second, enjoying that moment between the two of you as the breeze made its way to your neck under your mane.

Now, nearly five weeks later, all Birmingham was only speaking of the Shelby family as the people making “the good priced good gin” according to what you heard in the streets. From the fancy restaurant to the underground pubs, everyone in town had tasted of that oh so liked liquor.

Tommy first heard how good the gin was by his brother Arthur. He, who liked to get drunk all day long and all night long, was always keeping a bottle of it in his car or even on himself.

Then it was Ada, always offering him a drink of it whenever he would visit her.

(...)

It was 4 in the afternoon when Tommy walked through Charlie’s yard to join the Gin factory, when opening the door he was surprised to see you, seated at the old dusty desk filling paper and sipping on several cups.

Your husband frowned, “Y/N?”. He didn’t know if he should be worried or glad to see you working in such a place while drinking a lot knowing you’re not even a drinker in the first place.

You lifted your gaze to him and a huge smile instantly warmed up the atmosphere in the space, “Tommy!” You exclaimed as you got up. Being a bit dizzy you were strongly holding onto the table while getting up but you wanted to join him, and that’s when Tommy noticed your reddened cheek and little eyes.

“You’re drunk,” he stated, concerned. His expression shifted. He seemed a bit worried as he took one of your wrists to help you walk correctly.

You waved your free hand before you as to blow away his remark, “I was trying a new mixture for the Gin.” You informed him. You slid a hand into his rough one and stepped backwards, to the desk. “Here, choose one and tell me.” You proudly pointed to each of the cups. “This one on the left is spicy, the middle one a little too sweet for the Americans, this one to the right is the version that is out, and the last one is a bit strong. If the sadness hit too much.”

“The sadness?” Tommy asked while grabbing the third cup, being the gin that was already out. He was quite startled by how implicated his wife seemed to be, he didn’t actually think she would invest that much time and energy in this activity, but he was relieved she found a reason to get up every morning other than their beautiful family.

He knew how living a life without having or serving a purpose was meaningless and boring, even more, when being saddened by something you can’t control such as the death of a loved one.

The Shelby brother will sleep better now, knowing his other half found purpose somewhere, even if seeing her drunk was a sight he could never get used to…

At this moment, he felt the need to feel her skin under his touch before doing anything else, and that’s what he did, putting his hand at the end of her back, he pulled her closer, his thumb rubbing her skin over the fabric of her dress.

Tommy then drank from the cup and took his time judging the taste of it.

He opened his eyes and dropped the cup on the desk before turning to his wife, she was looking at him, impatience spreading all over her face. She seemed ready to hear Tommy’s opinion on her Gin... On their gin.

The blue-eyed man grabbed her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to Y/N’s. She closed her eyes a couple of seconds before opening them to a staring Tommy. He was fondling her cheeks with his thumbs before exhaling deeply, “I now understand why everyone’s talking about us, Shelbys, being fucking genius’, eh” He got distracted by her lips.

“This,” he pointed to the bottle standing at the corner of the table, and, once again, Tommy got distracted, he noticed words were present on the bottle down the name. “Distilled for the eradication of incurable sadness.” He read out loud.

A faint smile was found on his face before he agitated the bottle in his hand. He was proud.

He put down the bottle and directly sealed his lips to Y/N’s, the calling for love being too loud to resist.

That was exactly why it was her and no one else, she was always unpredictable and versatile. Who would have thought his bibliophile wife could be a real gem in the making of gin?

She put away, gasping for air before looking him in the eyes, “What? Did I never tell you the fact that my grandpa was making alcohol?” She teased his lips by speaking inches away from them, “I know one or two tricks. That’s why it’s selling well.” She concluded before pressing their lips together eagerly.

“This is a big bank, yea” He succeeded at saying in between two kisses.

[deniigi]

Please have some Skywalker Babies + Uncle Rex.

----

Title: skittles

Summary: Padme dies, but Anakin doesn't turn and as a result ends up with two little ones who are, naturally, adopted by the 501st--well, Leia is. Luke keeps getting stolen by a filthy thief.

------

Rex has the twins for now. He has never felt terror like this before. He can’t stop checking over his shoulders for threats to their teeny tiny persons.

In his humble opinion, it should be illegal for humans to be born this small. He ran it past Ahsoka recently and she agreed, but she also provided intelligence that the twins’ size was not necessarily average for their species, either.

The other brothers helped him investigate this. They all gathered round and put the holonet searches on the projector so that they didn’t have to smash buckets over a datapad screen to be educated. Their search for ‘newborn natborn human baby’ was rewarded with images upon images of reddened tubies with big, round bellies and curled up limbs.

They did a new search for ‘2 weeks, natborn human baby’ and were rewarded with even more pictures, to which they held the twins up next to and found them wanting. The twins’ proportions were all wrong, their limbs were too skinny, their faces pinched. The babies on the holonet didn’t have hair, but their baby girl did.

The conclusion was that the research was inconclusive. Further, it was interrupted by the resident thief coming in to take his chances. Cody told them later, upon returning their baby boy, that they were better than this. Kenobi wasn’t slick. They needed to stop letting their guards now.

He said all this while ignoring the way the baby boy burrowed into the side of his throat and made smacking noises.

Such a strong man, that Cody. He is, unfortunately, not available now even though Rex has both twins and a heart attack waiting to happen.

The Thief is nearby. Rex can sense him. He heads back the way he came.

 --

The baby girl, who has a name, but Anakin is too heartbroken to speak it, fists her hands at Rex and shakes them as if to threaten him into compliance. He does not know how to help her understand that he has not taken the blanket off her face out of malice, but rather to keep her from suffocating. She is angry with him regardless. She is often angry with him and endlessly crying when he does not put her exactly where she wants to be exactly when she wants it.

The thief calls her a princess, and so everyone else has started doing the same in lieu of her name. The child is bound to grow up thinking her name itself is ‘Princess’ at this rate. Ahsoka has been trying out different titles for her, but she doesn’t respond to them in the same way.

For all that the princess is royalty through and through, the baby boy is thoroughly a commoner. Catching him awake is a miracle. Part of that is because his waking hours are spent with the Thief, since Kenobi has decided, for some mysterious reason, that this child is his favorite of all in existence. He will not be separated from this child and when he is, he gets crafty in his attempts to get him back.

The princess does not like Kenobi. At all, period. He touches her and she screams and reaches her stubby hands for Rex. If Rex is not available to be screamed for, she will wail until her father comes to stuff her in his tunic.

Anakin is fine to hold the princess, but he cannot look upon the baby boy, even to feed him. He looks so much like his mother. It is a struggle for everyone—except Kenobi. Rex wonders aloud to Ahsoka if Kenobi will raise the boy on his own and a moment of silence fills the canteen.

Ahsoka throws herself from the room and goes sprinting for the masters’ quarters.

 --

 The twins are tested for Force Sensitivity and it becomes abundantly clear why Kenobi continues hoard the baby boy against all sense and wisdom. He is described by the jedi as a ‘sun’ in the Force. The princess too, but her presence in the Force blends in with her father’s until she is gazed upon in Rex’s Force-empty grip.

Only then is she, too, declared a star.

Twin stars, they are called.

‘Kenobi, put that down,’ the boy is named. ‘Kenobi, give that back,’ is his middle one.

The first time Rex sees the baby boy awake, he is startled by how blue his eyes are. His sister’s are dark, but his are light like water at the base of a waterfall. He makes a little sound and turns his heavy head to the side to blink at Rex’s forearm.

He is the older of the two, but the Princess is already overtaking him in weight. Kenobi has been scolded for this. In return, he locks everyone out of his quarters.

 --

 The twins are two months old when they stop being blinky-maggots and turn into smiley ones. Anakin cannot put the princess down or she will scream until she is blue in the face. As such their dedicated General can be found with his arms full, slowly banging his head against the nearest hard object.

He calls her ‘Leia.’ Princess Leia.

The baby boy is ‘Luke.’ Just Luke.

Anakin spends his time these days bouncing Leia and on the hunt for his son. He walks like a zombie towards Kenobi’s door and plasters his back against it. He slides down and tries desperately not to fall asleep at the bottom.

He will not let Rex take the princess when he’s in this state. He wants only for Kenobi to open the door so that he can fall back onto his floor and demand his son. Kenobi never gives him his son back. There is no longer any question that baby Luke is Kenobi’s child. The fact that he’s been produced by Anakin and Padme is a footnote in the broader history being made here.

Kenobi will, however, take Princess Leia, too, if left unsupervised. She still hates him—more than ever, really, but he doesn’t mind. He likes to lay the twins out together so that Leia’s jerky fussing will ruin Luke’s sleep cycles.

Kenobi is a man with no respect for the law in these parts. More jedi masters have to step in to get him under control. Master Koon takes the most pity on Anakin and gives him both of his children. The masters and the clones watch him stagger up with both babies and drunkenly return to their quarters.

A note is made to check on all three of them in fifteen minutes.

 --

 The twins, at 6 months old, have developed even more distinct personalities and hair. So much hair. Ahsoka puts Leia’s hair in pigtails and Leia will scream if anyone tries to adjust them or if she feels that they are falling out of shape.

Rex’s hands were once clumsy around ring-sized rubber bands. He is now an expert. He is such an expert that he can even make the occasional one stay in Luke’s slippery hair, which, of course, invokes an expression of betrayal in Luke that is so comical, Rex can’t see it without being brought to tears.

Luke hates him for this. He whimpers for his father—no, not that one. The good one.

These days, Kenobi is a cat who has gotten the cream.

The boy called him ‘dada’ before he gave the name to Anakin, and Kenobi nearly lost his life for it. He regrets nothing. He is technically barred from being around Luke, both by the other jedi and by Anakin specifically, but rules are things for other people in Kenobi’s world.

Anakin threatens him with bodily harm at every opportunity that he is not holding his daughter upside down.

She enjoys this. This is not just a daddy-thing to her either; she expects everyone to carry her like this. If not feet-to-the-sky, then at least draped over an arm, face-down like a sack of flour. She hums the way a cat would purr.

 --

 At nine months the babes are mobile and it is the worst thing that has happened to Anakin besides Padme’s death. They are not effectively mobile, but they are professionals at grabbing things and hauling themselves up to their chubby feet. Leia holds onto the fingers of anyone she can get and makes every brother who passes her walk her on their feet to her chosen destination.

Luke is a little slower.

He can get to his feet, but what he wants is to bounce there. If anyone tries to hold his hands, he clams up and falls down and doesn’t get up.

Anakin has begun negotiating with Leia to be more like her brother. She laughs at his face in great peels when he does this. She finds his serious expressions hilarious and wants to cuddle him anytime they appear which is great for domestic time and not so great for council or state meetings. Anakin has taken to appearing before these people with Leia latched around his ankle. Only her, though. Luke can’t bear being in the presence of so many bodies at once. He becomes overwhelmed and handles the pressure by going to sleep. Or crying.

For Kenobi, of course.

And when Kenobi is not around, they all may as well go start digging their own graves before the guilt propels them to do it anyways.

Luke is not a big crier. Anakin can’t understand him. They’ve had many conversations about telling adults when he needs things, all of which Luke elects to ignore in favor of trying to eat bugs and dig in sand.

The latter is the greatest sin that Anakin can dream of.

--

I just think that, given the opportunity, Obi-Wan would be the best grandpa ever and by best, I mean he would see his chance to have a baby and Anakin would end up chasing him around going ‘he’s MY mistake and MY responsibility, you crusty old fucker, give him back’ while Obi-Wan talks to Ahsoka about how nice the weather is.