#no explanation was forthcoming

[foldingfittedsheets]

My betrothed came up to me as I was getting ready for bed. I was putting my rose oil on my face and when I opened my eyes they were right there.

They started sniffing me aggressively from my cheek to shoulder, then said in quiet satisfaction, “You pass the smell test, you’re not an imposter.”

[cwritesfiction]

the vibe of my past month can be summarized by the fact that this weekend i had to print out and mail an email

[oliveroctavius]

Regarding your latest hot take. How does it feel to be the smartest and hottest bitch in this city. You understand me.

thank you for your understanding.

[tacit-semantics]

Haaaate trying to figure out finance shit like buddy I spent the last nine months in a panicked fugue yall think I know what’s going on???????

[mostlymarvelsstuff]

Reader receives Nats nudes accidentally

Authors note: Just in case you didn't see, you can now buy me a coffee/commission something. See this post for more info 🥰

Authors note 2.0: trying out a new thing with a drabble series

Word count: 803

Marvel Masterlist Natasha Masterlist How They React To Masterlist

   A while ago, Tony had been feeling generous and had offered to update everyone's personal computers. And Nat was definitely in need of an upgrade, she was still using the old laptop she was first given when she joined SHIELD years ago. It still ran, which she was grateful for, but it did lack speed and some other niceties. So she took him up on said offer.

   Which is why she now finds herself sitting at her desk with two laptops in front of her while she transfers over her multitude of files and data. It's a bit of a tedious task to go back through everything and find out what is actually worth keeping, what's important and what can be trashed before she hands it back over to Hill, but in the end it’ll be worth it. 

   She's just finishing up now, sending over the last few miscellaneous things. But what she hadn’t realized was that she had not selected her new computer as a transfer location this time, but had selected your computer. Likely unnoticed because she had forgotten about even connecting her laptop to yours during your last mission, and because her eyesight was beginning to get strained after so many hours of sitting here. Regardless, off they went, and she was none the wiser

   Meanwhile you're just returning to your desk from a much needed break when you see the file transfer notification light up. This confuses you, as you hadn’t asked anyone to send anything over, nor had anyone told you to expect anything. But since you apparently have some more things to attend to, you sit back down and open the file. This proves to be of little help however, because nothing is labeled. All you know is that it contains several documents and one picture. 

   You decide to open the picture first, as it would hopefully not require reading. It's clearly been taken in a dimly lit room so it takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the darkened screen to discern anything, but soon enough you're greeted with the side profile of a naked woman. This confuses you even more, but you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away. And that's how you spot it, a small scar to the left of the belly button

   “Oh my god!” you exclaim as you register who you're seeing, and you quickly close the tab

   Your hands start sweating as you wrack your brain for a rational explanation. You knew Nat was a playful flirt, the two of you did so all the time. But to send an explicit picture, unprompted, and by file transfer at that, just didn’t make sense. That's when you remembered the other contents of the file, and you quickly skim through them to see if they would be of any help piecing things together. When you discover that they are just after mission reports and weapons specs your hunch of it being unintentional is confirmed. Now, you just had to figure out what to do about it

   A few minutes later, you're standing outside the redhead's door as anxiety bubbles inside you. But you fight through it and knock. 

   “Come in!”

   She's turned enough in her desk chair to see who's entering and a wide smile spreads across her face as she registers that it's you. You feel guilty now, because you have a feeling your demeanor and what you have to say will cause that smile to falter, but you need to do this. Afterall, you’d want someone to be forthcoming if they received something like this of you.

   “Uh, hi Nat” 

   She notices your nervousness, but sets aside the observation for now “Hey Y/n, what's up?”

    “I think you accidentally sent me a few of your things during that last file transfer”

   “Oh, shit. Sorry about that, I’ve been at this for a few hours now and I guess I hit yours by mistake” she explains, “I didn’t even realize we were still connected”

   “Neither had I. But Nat, there was a picture of you among the documents”

   “Yeah? I hope it was a good one at least” she jokes, not realizing what you were trying to say. You're silent for a moment too long however, because she fully turns her chair to look at you, with her brows furrowed with worry, “Y/n, what's wrong with the picture?”

   “Nothings wrong with it!” you reply, a little too enthusiastically when you think about what's yet to come, “It's just that, well…. You're naked”

   Her face turns a shade of pink you’d never seen before, and her head swims with insecurities and nervousness. But she manages to bring out an air of confidence and gives you a sultry smirk

  “So, answer the question. Was it a good picture?”

Taglist:@wandaromamoff69 @mmmmokdok @nataliasknife @natashasilverfox @when-wolves-howl @danveration @naomi-m3ndez @sheneonromanoff @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @readings-stuff @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid @xchaiix @iaminluvwithnat @lovelyy-moonlight @blackwidow-3 @mistressofinsomnia @that-one-gay-mosquito @yomamagf @yourfavdummy @justarandomreaderxoxo @scoutlp23-blog @whoischanelle15 @lissaaaa145 @eline03 @wizardofstories @imthenatynat @marvelonmymind @fluffyblanketgecko @bitch-616 @dakotastormm  @zoomdeathknight @rayeofmoonlight @aeroae @sashawalker2

[cheolism]

seeing middle-aged women online saying that kate middleton and the royals don’t own anyone an explanation is so weird. prefacing what i’m about to say by saying i’m against monarchies in the 21st century, but they do owe the british public an explanation. it is the british people who pay for her lifestyle. she is a figurehead for them. it’s like if joe biden got sick and was taking cancer treatment while being president; he would owe it to the american people to be forthcoming with this, because he is representing us. she is not just an individual, she is, first and foremost, a representative of the british as a whole, and she knew this when she married william. she gets to have a private life of course, but when it is the british public paying for her everything, she owes transparency. i think, also, the royal press handled the whole thing extremely badly and that’s why there’s such a hullabaloo regarding the situation.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Hey. You.”

The most beat up pair of purple Chucks he’s ever seen enter his line of sight. Following them up the person they are attached to, he squints, trying to make out a face in the backdrop of the bright midday sun.

“What,” Nico says flatly.

Kayla is unbothered by his attitude. “I need your help.”

Now that is a sentence Nico does not often hear. He waits for a following because someone has died and I need you to handle it, or perhaps a more interesting because there is a ghost terrorizing camp that you need to take care of, but no explanation is forthcoming.

“Because…?” Nico prompts, eyebrows raising. Kayla huffs.

“My dumbass older brother has been working for seventy straight hours. Every time we try to drag him out he just — I dunno, talks around it. He’s fast and disorienting and none of us have managed, but if he doesn’t sleep soon he’s going to collapse. Again.”

Nico blinks. He’d wondered why he’d been having so much peace over the last couple days — there has not been, in hindsight, even one knock on his door at an obnoxious hour, nor has he been bagged about missing breakfast or lunch or dessert or whatever else. He has, for the most part, woken up well past noon and spent his time wandering the woods.

…Huh.

No wonder he’s been so bored.

“Don’t know how I’m supposed to help you with that,” he says shortly. “Knock him unconscious and drag his body back to bed.”

Kayla shakes her head. “Tried that. He has a very thick skull. Just made him mad.”

Nico was kidding, mostly, but the idea of Kayla tiptoeing behind a distracted Will and walloping him upside the head in the name of sisterly love makes him smile despite himself. Just as quickly, he twists it into a scowl, because he does not like the teasing expression that has wormed itself across the daughter of Apollo’s face.

“Well, then, pray, I guess.”

“Just talk to him,” she says, exasperated. “He listens to you.” She turns and strides off before Nico can say no, actually, Solace is a stubborn pain in the ass who delights particularly in ignoring everything I say, not sure where you got that from. And somehow, Nico feels like this is not something that’s just going to go away.

He groans, and curses at the heavens, and stomps towards the infirmary.

———

The infirmary is, when Nico walks in, surprisingly crowded.

It’s never really empty, not at camp, but it’d been a lot quieter the last time Nico had been dragged in (he got a papercut. Well, a sword gash to the artery, but nothing a square of ambrosia couldn’t fix, and definitely nothing worth a forty-straight-minute lecture from Will, that was for certain). Then, maybe a third of the cots had been occupied, and most patients where lucid enough to be complaining. Medics were either actively arguing with difficult campers, or chatting amongst themselves.

Now, not a single cot is free. The infirmary swells with pained groans and sounds of retching. Medics and medics-in-training rush from bed to bed; none of them as hurriedly as Will Solace, who might as well be a blur of movement.

“Woah,” Nico says, darting his arms out to catch the aforementioned blur of movement as he rapidly approaches the ground, having tripped on a supply cart. “Slow down, Solace, or you’re gonna end up on a cot.”

“Sounds good,” he mumbles. His eyes are bloodshot. “Gimme ten, and I’ll come check you out, okay? Unless you’re dying. Are you dying?” He frowns, concentrating. A familiar glow comes from his hands, but it’s — weak, almost. More of a flicker than anything. “No, you’re not dying. Good. Be back soon.”

Despite his parting words, he doesn’t move.

“Did my legs stop working?” he wonders, and promptly goes fully limp. Nico yelps, scrambling to keep from dropping him.

“Um, help?” he yells. “Medic down?”

“Cot!” someone yells back. “Be there soon-ish!”

Nico glances side to side, but, as he expected, everything is occupied, and every medic is busy. Several people, he is now noticing, are covered in the same, pulsating red welts, clutching bowls and buckets to their chests, faces green with nausea. Some kind of outbreak. Austin, Will’s brother, is sprinting from bed to bed, checking fevers, firing off hymns. Kayla ducks in from the back doors, throwing on a scrub shirt, and rushes to help. A few other people Nico recognises as regular volunteers are doing what they can to keep people upright and as comfortable as possible, until one of the healers can get to them.

Will is still unconscious.

Nico ducks into the nearest shadow, and disappears.

———

part two

[speechlessxx]

new addition. [henry cavill x reader]

summary: anything henry does instantly goes viral.

warnings: mention of fangirls. plot twist?

word count: ~850

It was a poor choice of words on Henry’s behalf – and he knew that.

You knew he knew that.

Ever since you’ve met him, nearly three years ago, you’ve noticed that Henry relished in the chaos he created from just one simple post. Whether it was a clip of him working out or him panting after his jog or even a simple picture of Kal, he sent the internet into a frenzy each time he broke his silence on social media. In fact, you would say he’d get off on it – but of course, he would only respond with a amused smirk and a shake of his head.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he liked to drag you into his mess.

So, when your phone dinged once, then twice, then a million times after one afternoon, you knew Henry had done something yet again.

At first, you ignored the incessant chimes of Instagram and Twitter. The colorful purple and the calm blue icons staring up at you, tauntingly as if saying, “we know something you don’t”. But this wasn’t your first time on the Henry post rollercoaster, and you opted to just turn your phone on Do Not Disturb, silencing the annoying chimes and buzzing.

But only for a few hours … until curiosity got the better of you, and you found yourself exchanging your novel for your cell phone.

You noticed that your accounts had an influx of new followers and posts had more likes and comments than usual. The culprit for this sudden popularity was a single tagged post from your beloved boyfriend.

It was a rather strange occurrence. Henry was keen on keeping your relationship as private as his career would allow. You’ve graced his stories once or twice throughout your two year long relationship, but he had never been so outright and forthcoming on his public feed.

The photograph was nowhere near risqué – which brought a bit or relief to your anxiety. It was a photograph of you curled up on Henry’s bare chest, sleeping your fatigue away. You were covered up enough with the nearly sheer night slip and Henry’s muscled arm wrapped around you. However, it was the caption that caught your eye.

“Our new addition kept her up all night.”

Your jaw dropped and eyes widened as you read that line over and over again. That cheeky little –

There were multiple “congratulations” comments beneath the post, followed by various celebratory emojis. Of course, there was a heavy amount of jealous fans’ inputs, but you considered yourself a veteran at this point – their comments became an inherent risk the moment Henry asked you out on a date.

Speculations, articles, “Baby Cavill” trended worldwide. You couldn’t help but slap a palm onto your forehead before groaning. Despite being frustrated because you were trending for such an obscure reason, you couldn’t help but find the entire situation amusing.

You came out of your shared bedroom just as he was walking into the house. Normally, you would take the time to admire your sculpted-by-the-gods boyfriend – especially after a run or a work out – but today, you wagged a finger in his face.

“You,” you said, in a mock scolding tone, “owe the world an explanation, Mr. Cavill.” Behind Henry padded in Kal, who ran to greet you, nudging your calves with his wet nose. “Your dad has gotten me into big trouble, bear.”

The dog stared up at you with big eyes but you knew that the only thought going through the Akita’s mind was, “treat?”

Henry burst out laughing as he pulled out his phone, undoubtedly reading through the mess he’s created. He seemed almost as elated as he was when he saw the reactions to his PC building video.

“Hennn,” you whined, pouting.

Before your boyfriend could respond, a high pitched bark could be heard as your new puppy ran  towards its family. Energic from his afternoon nap, the little guy jumped and pawed at you, trying to get your attention. He’d occasionally bump into Kal but the older dog didn’t pay him any mind, opting to lay down on the wooden floors, exhausted from his run with his dad.

You bent down to play with the little puppy, cooing at it and handling its tiny paws as Henry recorded.

He’d eventually post the multitude of photos and videos of you and the new puppy with the caption, “Just to clarify, we got a new puppy.” The simple caption would ease the fangirls, but the new puppy news did not stop Baby Cavill from continuing to trend.

Henry loved watching his family grow. The puppy testing Kal’s patience, but Kal proving time and time again that he is a very good boy. And you were an incredible dog mom. Going through the photos on his new post brought a smile to his face as he found himself getting lost in a day dream. He couldn’t wait to introduce an actual little one to the family (though you’d argue that the puppy was indeed your baby).

[ginnsbaker]

Bulletproof (5/?)

Part Summary: Daisy's fingers intertwined with yours isn't a sign of a budding romance, but rather the result of a game... The explanation has been long overdue, but in the days since your return, Wanda has made it abundantly clear that she wants nothing to do with you.

Chapter word count: 3.2k+ | Tags: Light Angst, Still Unresolved Sexual Tension, Still Gay Disasters, Wanda is in denial, So are you

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Next Part | Series Masterlist

-

Daisy's fingers intertwined with yours isn't a sign of a budding romance, but rather the result of a game. 

On the flight back to the compound, you, Daisy, Vision, and Natasha, played a card game to kill time. You and Daisy, unfortunately, were on the losing side. Natasha, with her ever-sly grin and penchant for mischief, came up with a penalty—whichever team lost had to hold hands for the rest of the day. 

The explanation has been long overdue, but in the days since your return, Wanda has made it abundantly clear that she wants nothing to do with you. Initially, you thought getting out of her way would give her the space she needs after you revealed to her that you willingly participated in her sex dream—something you still constantly beat yourself up over.

But it has become evident that she requires more than just physical distance; she wants you completely out of her life.

On top of this, despite Daisy having moved out to her own room a week after she put in the requisition, your sleep hasn't improved much. Every time you close your eyes, memories flood in: Wanda's voice, her warmth, even her distinct scent, all haunting your dreams just as vividly as they do during your waking hours. 

The lack of sleep begins to take its toll, especially during training sessions. You're off your game, your reactions slowed, and your focus wavering. It's hard to stay sharp when your brain feels like it's swimming in a haze. 

Natasha, always direct, just told you straight up that you look like hell and that you should get more sleep.

Easier said than done.

One evening, after another training mishap, you finally decide it's time to face the root of your sleeplessness. Clearing matters with Wanda isn't just for your peace of mind now; it's essential for the team's safety.

Taking a deep breath and gathering your thoughts, you make your way to Wanda's quarters. In your hand, a small olive branch: her favorite snacks, hoping it might soften the forthcoming confrontation. As you near her door, the muffled sound of laughter stops you. It's her voice, paired with another's—a voice you don't recognize. 

As you inch closer, discreetly peeking into the slightly ajar door, the scene before you sharpens. The unfamiliar man stands closer to Wanda than anyone has in recent memory. Their laughter, her bright eyes, the casual touch of her hand on his arm—it's evident she's enjoying his company.

But it's not just any company, it looks like a date. And to make matters more intimate (and worse), they're headed into her quarters. The man holds a bottle of wine in one hand, suggesting a night in, and she's leading him, her fingers lightly grazing his as they move.

The snacks in your hand suddenly feel out of place, almost childish in the face of the mature, romantic scene unfolding before you. You spin on your heel, a new mission in mind, and beeline straight for Steve's office. Pushing through the door without knocking, you find him hunched over some paperwork.

“Steve,” you start, your voice edged with urgency. “What's the protocol for late-night visitors?”

He looks up, surprised by the sudden interruption, and takes a moment to process your question. “Well,” he begins, scratching his head, “As long as they're not on any criminal or watch lists, they're allowed in the compound.”

“Even this late?”

Steve's eyes dart away from yours for a moment, his cheeks tinting a soft pink. “We're all adults here,” he mumbles, the tips of his ears turning red. “As long as they're... respectful and discreet.”

Feeling the sting of frustration boiling over, you grit your teeth, barely getting out a terse “Fine,” before making your way out of his office.

On the way out, your gaze lands on a bottle of wine perched on a shelf, an apparent relic from a past era given the thick dust on its label. Without a second thought, you snatch it up.

“Hey!” Steve calls out, rising abruptly from his chair. “That's been aging for decades!”

But you're already gone, the echo of your footsteps a testament to your swift departure. Steve stands still for a moment, listening to the diminishing sound. Shaking his head, he mutters an exasperated, “Kids these days,” before turning back to his desk with a sigh.

–

Draining the entire bottle solo does little to coax sleep. Your healing powers, frustratingly, tend to neutralize the effects of intoxication almost immediately.

Still, you appreciate the brief, fleeting buzz. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows morph and play tricks on your eyes. You consider maybe you should've joined Sam on his night flight practices. At least then you'd be physically tired enough to drown out the noise in your head.

Shifting in your bed with a sigh, your thoughts drift to the first time you saw Wanda Maximoff.

Rogers had you cornered, your back on the cold ground, his knee pressing firmly into your chest. The skirmish had been intense, your side versus theirs, and one by one, your allies had been captured or incapacitated. You were the last holdout, defiant to the end.

With Rogers' weight pinning you down, and your arms restrained, you could only tilt your head to the side, ears picking up the sharp, rhythmic clicks of boots against concrete.

Wanda Maximoff made her entrance, and even in your vulnerable position, her presence commanded attention. Those signature boots, the flow of her skirt, the cascade of mahogany hair—all of it painted a picture of power and poise. But it was her eyes that held you—a deep, entrancing gaze that seemed to see right through you.

And now it’s those same eyes that keep you up at night. The same ones that used to lazily open each morning, taking a moment to adjust before locking onto yours, almost lighting up when they did.

And fuck it—you really want to see those eyes right now.

With a sudden surge of boldness, you spring from the bed, with every intention to barge into Wanda’s room and throw out the man from earlier. 

But as you violently yank the door open, you're met with the most unexpected sight: Wanda.

She's standing there, fist raised, poised to knock. The proximity is startling. You can sense the faintest heat coming from her, so intimate it's almost intrusive. Her eyes widen in surprise, but you're too entranced to even process it. Your breath hitches, time seems to slow, and a million thoughts race through your mind.

Before any words can leave your lips, she closes the distance, her hands finding your face as she pulls you into a searing kiss.

Thrown off by the intensity of her kiss, you stagger back a few steps. On instinct, your hands slide down to the back of her thighs, lifting her with ease. She responds instantly, her legs wrapping around your waist, her grip on you tightening. The world blurs for a moment as your focus narrows down to the sensation of her against you.

With a swift kick, the door to your room slams shut, and you quickly reach behind to lock it. Your steps falter when the back of your knees hit the bed, causing both of you to tumble onto the soft mattress. The sudden change in elevation doesn't deter Wanda; she swiftly positions herself, straddling your hips, her hands exploring the contours of your face and neck. 

Drawn to the warmth of her skin, your lips meander down her throat, eliciting soft sounds with every touch. The moment you nip at her pulse point, a deep moan escapes her, its vibrations going straight to your own core.

The sound causes you to pull back slightly. “Wait, Wanda–”

Wanda's brow furrows in annoyance, her crimson lips parting in a soft pout. “Why are you stopping?” she huffs, her tone sultry but also slightly slurred.

That's when you realize it—the faint but unmistakable scent of alcohol on her breath, the slight glossiness of her eyes, and the way her movements, while passionate, are also a tad uncoordinated.

“Wanda, have you been drinking?”

Her head tilts slightly, as if trying to understand the question, her lips parting in a lopsided smile. “Just a little,” she admits, her fingers playing with the collar of your shirt.

You gently cup her face, thumbing away a stray strand of hair. “We shouldn't do this if you're not sober, Wanda.”

“Me being unconscious didn't stop you before,” she hisses, a dark undertone to her voice. The air in the room suddenly grows thick and heavy. Wanda's words, stinging like a slap. 

Your stomach drops, guilt and regret flooding through you. Carefully, you slip from Wanda's hold, swinging your legs off the bed to sit with your back turned to her. That night was something you'd replayed in your mind over and over again, beating yourself up for crossing a line you never should have. The hurt in Wanda's voice only exacerbates the pain.

“Wanda, I—” you start, risking a glance over your shoulder.

“I shouldn't have said that,” Wanda whispers, looking as if she's on the verge of tears. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” you quickly counter, a lump forming in your throat, “You meant that. And you have every right to. It's something we should've confronted a long time ago. Whatever happens next, I'll accept any consequences for my actions.”

Wanda reaches out to place a hand on your shoulder, her voice shaky, “If you're ready, then I'm ready too. I'm not innocent in all of this. I took advantage of the situation as well.”

You shake your head firmly, turning to face her and then grabbing her chin gently, making her eyes meet yours, “No, Wanda. You weren't aware. I was. I knew better. That's on me, not you.”

In response, Wanda dithers, then gently kisses the fingers you have placed under her chin. But she doesn’t stop there. A fire still kindling in her veins, she surges forward to claim your lips once again.

You kiss her back for a fleeting second, getting lost in the softness of her lips. But then you pull back, placing a palm against her chest. “Wanda, you need to sleep. You’re not…We'll talk. I promise, in the morning.”

She sighs, her fight melting away as the weight of the alcohol and exhaustion take over. Relenting, she nods, and you help her get situated under the covers.

You start to arrange some pillows on the floor, intending to make a bed for yourself. But as you're about to lie down, Wanda's sleepy voice stops you.

“Stay with me,” she mumbles. “I've been having trouble sleeping without you. I just... I want you near.”

Drunk Wanda feels like a whole other person, wearing her heart on her sleeve in a way that just makes you want to wrap her up and protect her.

After all that's transpired tonight, you're wary. But seeing her there, curled up and looking so small in that big bed, it's hard to resist. You exhale, "Just for tonight," you murmur, more to yourself than to her.

Climbing into the bed, you maintain a respectful distance at first. But, as minutes tick by, you find Wanda inching closer, until her head is nestled into the crook of your neck. Her warm breath tickles your skin, and you can't help but wrap an arm around her, pulling her close.

With everything that went down tonight, you'd think sleep would be impossible. But with the bed being so comfy and Wanda so close, you feel your eyelids getting heavy. It’s strange how having someone next to you can make things feel a bit better. Even with all that’s happened between you two, Wanda’s still your calm in the storm. 

And you hope, deep down, you're that for her too.

-

The next morning dawns, and you find the space beside you empty.

It's not entirely unexpected.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you notice the other side of the bed is empty. It’s quiet, and the room feels a bit colder than before. Splashing cold water on your face helps you wake up a bit more, but it also makes everything from last night crash back into your mind.

Alright, deep breath. You've got this.

For now, giving Wanda her space feels like the right move. You can't even begin to imagine what's going on in her head. But you–

You've got a pretty clear picture of what you want, and if that means waiting a bit longer for her to figure things out, so be it.

Pulling on some clothes, you decide to bury yourself in work and maybe hit the gym later. A distraction is just what you need right now. But as you leave the room, you can't help but hope that once everything cools down, you and Wanda can finally sort things out. 

Whatever that might look like.

-

The timing couldn't have been worse. Of all the moments for disaster to strike.

The piercing shriek of alarms tears through the compound right before dinner.

It is quickly followed by an earth-shaking rumble. 

The compound is under siege, and this isn't a regular assault. It's planned, strategic, and designed for maximum devastation. The ground quivers beneath you as you scramble to your feet.

Missiles rain down from all directions, their impacts causing blinding explosions and sending shockwaves that rattle the building's foundation. Dust and debris cloud the air, limiting visibility. The familiar hum of the building's defenses rises, but it's evident they're struggling against the barrage.

Steve's voice, steady yet urgent, sounds over the intercom. “All hands on deck! Secure the compound. Natasha, Clint, get the personnel out now.”

You grab your gear and rush out, adrenaline surging. The corridors are chaos—agents, staff, and superheroes all trying to restore order while dodging blasts and the intruders now inside.

You take a sharp turn, making a beeline for Wanda's quarters. As you approach, your heart sinks. The area is a mess of crumbled concrete, twisted metal, and shattered ceilings. The sight is gut-wrenching, and a cold dread fills your chest.

“Wanda!” you shout, your voice raw with fear. Debris crunches under your boots as you race towards the wreckage of her room, trying to find any sign of her.

Distant explosions and shouts echo down the corridor, but they're just background noise to the panic tightening in your chest. You start to dig through the rubble, tossing aside chunks of wall and broken furniture.

“Wanda!” you yell again.

Suddenly, a muffled groan reaches your ears, and you zero in on its source. Frantically clearing away the debris, your hands finally find the familiar fabric of her jacket. Pulling with all your might, you manage to free her from the wreckage.

Her face is smudged with dust, a small cut bleeding on her forehead, but her eyes—those eyes you had lost sleep over—flutter open, meeting yours with a mixture of relief and pain.

“Hey,” she coughs weakly, a small smile forming on her lips despite the situation.

As you reach to help her up, she lets out a sharp, agonized scream that stops you dead in your tracks. Your gaze shifts down, and horror sets in as you spot a length of steel rebar protruding from her side, clearly having pierced through her abdomen. Blood seeps around the intrusion, staining her clothes a dark, foreboding shade of crimson.

“Wanda!” The name escapes your lips in a choked whisper, panic overtaking your every thought. Dropping to your knees beside her, your hands hover above the injury, unsure of what to do. Removing the rebar might cause more damage, but leaving it could be just as lethal.

The anguish in Wanda's eyes is almost too much to bear, tears spilling down her face as she clutches weakly at the protruding metal. “I–It hurts,” she manages to gasp out, her voice trembling.

Distant footsteps grow louder, echoing through the shattered hallways. The approach is too rapid, too relentless. Friend or foe, you can't determine. You don’t have the luxury of time to find out.

With urgency mounting, your eyes, stinging with tears of your own, dart around the destroyed corridor, searching for an exit, a hiding spot, any kind of advantage. But every moment counts. “Hold on, Wanda,” you whisper, your voice thick with desperation. “Just hold on.”

But she's weakening fast. You know you need to act, and quickly. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you place one hand above the wound and the other below. “I'm going to pull it out, okay? I need you to stay with me.”

With a nod from Wanda, albeit a weak one, you summon all your strength, both physical and emotional, and in one swift motion, you remove the metal. Blood flows more freely now, and Wanda's scream fills the corridor, echoing off the walls.

Using your powers, you immediately start to heal the wound, the warm glow surrounding your hands as they work their magic on her injured torso. Wanda's once steady heartbeat is now all over the place under your touch. 

The process is agonizingly slow, and every second feels like an eternity. You literally feel your powers leaving your body, as you concentrate on focusing all your energy on the gaping hole on Wanda’s stomach. You dig deep, pulling out energy you didn't even know you had. It's like trying to stay afloat when every wave tries to drag you under. But bit by bit, you watch the wound start to close, the bleeding halting, and the raw edges of her skin fusing back together.

Wanda's shaky breaths slowly stabilize, but her complexion remains worryingly pale. By the time you've healed the wound to just a scar, you're on the brink of passing out, every bit of energy sapped from you.

“Y/N…” Wanda weakly squeezes your hand. “You... you saved me again,” she says, her voice a raspy whisper.

Your head leans into hers, and you muster a faint smile. “Always for you,” you whisper back. 

You both start leaning in, faces just a few inches away, when–

When suddenly, a sharp pain lances through your chest, quickly followed by another agonizing jolt in your stomach. Not so long ago, you shrugged off a sniper's bullet like it was nothing. But now, these bullets burn, and the shock of not being invincible all the time hits you harder than the actual shots.

Wanda's eyes, previously filled with gratitude, are now wide with horror. The transition from relief to shock to rising fury is evident. Her eyes blaze a menacing shade of red, her powers swelling with her emotions.

“You... you were bulletproof,” she stammers, a trembling hand reaching out to you.

“I thought I was,” you choke out, blood pooling in your mouth and trickling down the side of your lips.

Your strength is fading fast, and everything's starting to go fuzzy. All around, the place is falling apart, but there's this sudden burst of red energy. 

Wanda. 

She's letting it all out, and the power's intense. 

The last thing you hear, right before everything goes black, is Wanda's voice, raw and choked with emotion, screaming your name. “Y/N!”

[celtic-crossbow]

Blood Ties Chapter 7

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, vomiting, minor injury, confirmation of minor canonical character death

Moodboard by @dannyo000 💙

The silence inside the truck was so uncomfortable that it teetered on the border of unbearable. Daryl hadn’t spoken a single word, not even when the caravan stopped to discuss forthcoming plans and you were invited to join. He didn’t have to speak. The intense glare that could have burned a hole through Rick’s head said everything his mouth didn’t.

You noticed Jacqui’s absence at once. There was an ache in your chest at her loss. She had been kind to you the few times you had interacted. You didn’t need an explanation. She had perished at the CDC. Whether or not it had been at Jenner’s hand was irrelevant. It had been his intent to trap you all there. In the end, it would still be blood on the doctor’s hands. 

“So, we’re all in agreement? Fort Benning?” The former sheriff met the eyes of everyone as they nodded. “Alright, that’s settled. I think we need to discuss our means of travel. We’ll burn a helluva lot of fuel taking so many vehicles. Any suggestions?”

Looks were exchanged, but Dale spoke up first. “I know the RV is by far the worst on the fuel but it does provide space and a means of shelter beyond what the others do. I’m probably biased but there it is.”

“No, I think as long as we can keep the RV running, it should stay.” Lori agreed with a nod and a hand on the older man’s shoulder. 

“Alright, okay.” Rick continued. “That still leaves four others.”

“We can ditch the van. Ride in the RV.” T-Dog offered quickly. 

“I can lose the Jeep and ride with you, Lori, and Carl.” Shane leaned against the vehicle in question and awaited a response. Rick shook his head almost immediately. 

“We’ll take Carol and Sophia, keep the kids together. You can go in the RV.” 

The first emotion that passed over the other officer’s face was sour, you noticed, but swiftly turned into a compliant smile and nod. You narrowed your eyes but held your tongue. Not your circus, not your monkeys.

“M’a take the bike.” Daryl stated matter-of-factly, not even waiting for input before he dropped the tailgate of the truck. “Ya help me with this?” He waved a hand toward the truck bed with a glance at T-Dog.

“That’s good, Daryl. Real good. Lori, Carol, the kids, and I in the Cherokee. Daryl and Y/N on the bike. The rest in–”

“Just me.” The redneck interjected, not looking away from the task of unloading the bike. You didn’t need confirmation to know what he meant. 

“What?” Rick asked anyway.

“She can ride in the RV.” Daryl huffed. Rick raised his eyebrows but ended with shrugging a shoulder and moving on. 

You, however, continued staring at the archer. It wasn’t public knowledge that the baby was Daryl’s. Amidst the panic and confusion at the CDC, no one took notice of the exchanges between the two of you. You assumed he’d like to keep it that way. Assumptions were all you had to go on at the moment because the bastard was refusing to speak to you! Still, if he continued with the very obvious disdain toward you, he was going to give himself away.

“Y/N?”

“Huh?” You turned to find all other eyes on you. 

“Rick was asking if you’re okay being in the RV.” Lori was tilting her head, watching you with a look you didn’t really like. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine wherever you want me.”

“Probably be more comfortable there.” Carol smiled that gentle smile of hers. “At some point, we’re gonna have to address the elephant in the room.” Shane’s tone was condescending. You curled your lip when he shifted to cross his arms and spit off to the side. His eyes remained on you, flickering down to your stomach and back up. You were starting to get the feeling he didn’t like you much.

Lucky for him, the feeling was mutual. “We’ve got time.” Lori interjected before you could even open your mouth. “One thing at a time. We need to find somewhere safe to stay first. Get off the road.” “She’s right.” Rick started grabbing the fuel cans and hoses to siphon the gas from the vehicles that were being left behind. The rest of the group scattered to move things and automobiles around, leaving you and Shane in a staring match. You wanted to smirk when he looked away first, granting you one last glance before disappearing around the RV.

“Anything I can do to help?” You walked up to the door of the RV as Dale stepped down. He gave you a sweet smile and traipsed out of your way, motioning to the inside. 

“You don’t need to be pulling and tugging at things. You just go on inside.” 

You snorted. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid. I can help.”

The older man was obviously torn but with a glance toward Andrea, he finally relented. Another story there, you supposed. “Maybe move some of the lighter bags and supplies from the other cars. They may have beat you to it, but that’s really all I know of that would be okay for you.” 

“Okay, I’ll check with Lori.” You smiled at him before he went about with whatever he was doing in preparation to leave. You really did appreciate his concern but you were new to the group. You had to show them that you could be an asset. It wouldn’t do for you to end up on your own with a baby on the way. You made it to the back corner of the RV before you felt eyes searing into the back of your head. Maybe Shane had seen the exchange with Dale. Glancing over your shoulder, you locked eyes with Daryl. This time, it was you who looked away first.

You had chosen to all but hide in the back of the RV, on the bed with a book that Dale had let you borrow. You weren’t really reading as much as you were listening to the exchanges between Andrea and Shane. He was showing her about maintaining a gun. When she mentioned her father, you felt a twinge of pain in your chest. 

The nausea had returned with a vengeance. Sips of water, you could handle with enough time in between. The constant rolling of your gut had you turning away from anything substantial. You knew you should eat. You needed to eat. Maybe when the next stop was made, you could ask about some crackers or something. 

Lost in your head, it wasn’t until you heard Dale’s distressed exclamation that you actually looked up, leaning out to be able to see what was going on from your hovel in the back room. 

“Oh jeez. Aw no. See a way through?” 

You tossed the book to the foot of the bed and swung your legs over the edge to get to your feet. Glenn was suggesting to turn around for a bypass but Dale quickly shot down the idea. 

“We can’t spare the fuel.”

“Jesus.” You whispered when you got your first glimpse of the disastrous cluster of cars and debris. As the RV idled, there was a pop and a white cloud drifted up in front of the windshield. “Shit.” You followed the others out the door, taking in the scene when you heard Daryl’s bike. The hunter weaved through the maze of vehicles and stopped in front of the RV. 

The others discussed options, a conversation you purposefully avoided. They were including you but having a say in things was a totally different matter. You didn’t feel like you were there yet. 

“There’s a whole bunch’a stuff we can find.” Daryl was right. The owners of the abandoned cars didn’t need the things they’d left behind in their panic. Except—not all of them had left. You could clearly see a corpse in the passenger side of a sedan. Was it a walker? Couldn’t be. It would have responded to the noise. 

“This is a graveyard. I don’t know how I feel about this.”

“I’m with Lori. It feels like—grave robbing.” While Lori’s comment went ignored, yours earned a look from Shane that made your skin crawl. He eventually sneered before his expression smoothed out and he gave the order for everyone to go searching. 

You stood still, biting your lip in hesitation. The thought of someone taking your father’s belongings from the camp just because he was dead made you see red. How could you possibly go along with this?

Maybe you could stay behind in the RV. Andrea was there, so it shouldn’t be a problem if—

“Go on.” Daryl gave you a shove you would almost define as gentle. It was the first time he had spoken to you since the CDC. You wanted to retort with something snarky, but what would that do other than piss him off more than he already was. “Grab anythin’ ya think could be useful.”

“Okay.” You kept your tone soft, picking up your pace to catch up to him when he brushed past. “Can we talk?” You really did want to smooth things over. You told yourself that the connection with Daryl was solely physical, but now you’d be raising a child together in an apocalypse. That would definitely be easier if you could communicate on some level at least. 

He never missed a step when he glanced at you while maneuvering between the automobiles. He’d peek in the windows of some but continued further out, probably to keep everyone else closer to your own cars. 

“Nah.” He finally glowered, walking backwards away from you a few steps before turning around and disappearing behind a cargo van. 

Sighing heavily, you took stock of your surroundings. There was no point in following after him. You didn’t have the energy anyway. The nausea was worsening and there was little to no water left in the RV. You allowed for a disgruntled breath, pressed a palm to your belly, and opened the driver door of the nearest car. The sooner everyone got what they needed, the better. 

The smell of the decaying corpse was horrific and forced you to pull things out with one hand while the other pressed over your mouth and nose. Luckily there wasn’t much more than a suitcase that held some men’s clothing. You weren’t sure what the men could use so you left what was there, with the exception of one shirt. Strategically ripping, you fashioned a cover to tie around your face. You’d work faster with both hands. 

After several minutes, you had found a damn treasure trove, including a beautiful knife in a holster that you had taken the liberty of securing around your thigh. It wasn’t a firearm but it was better than nothing. 

You were climbing backwards out of the backseat of a little hatchback when you took a break to steady yourself. You were drenched in sweat and felt a little dizzy. Maybe it was time to gather your findings and go back to the others for a break. You had gone pretty far ahead. 

The silence on the roadway was unnerving. You’d give almost anything for bumper to bumper traffic with an orchestra of angry shouts and sounding horns; for everything to go back like it was. You’d be in the woods at that time of day, tracking rabbits or squirrels. It didn’t take much to feed just you and your father. You didn’t have a smokehouse, so smaller game was ideal. You could still see his proud beam when you’d walk through the door. 

Those days were gone now. 

Back at your pile of finds, it occurred to you that you couldn’t carry it all back alone. Loath as you were to admit it, Daryl had been the closest. You pulled down your makeshift mask with a groan, but there was no other option unless you wanted to walk all the way back to the RV just to bring back help. They would likely demand you stayed put, but you didn’t want them to see you as incapable. Daryl was already annoyed with you, so requesting his assistance was your best bet. 

Your steps were dragging by the time you made it to the cargo van where he had so casually rebuffed your request. Barely around the rear bumper, your stomach decided to rebel. You lurched forward with a repulsive retching sound, stomach muscles cramping from the force of the heaves. Your stomach was empty. Rancid acid and bile burned your throat, the intensity of your gagging ensuring you could be heard all the way at the RV. 

Your stomach still contracted uncomfortably, excess saliva gathering in your mouth. You had just managed to wipe away any remnants on the sleeve of your flannel when a hand clamped down around your jaw. Fight or flight activated, you scrambled for the knife at your thigh, managing a single swipe before a hand caught your wrist. 

“Quiet, goddamnit!” Daryl hissed faintly against your ear. He was pulling you toward the back of the van and hastily shoving you inside before climbing in himself. You loured at him and sheathed your weapon while he scrupulously pulled the doors closed. 

“What—” His hand bore down over your mouth a second time, a finger raised to his lips. You only managed an indignant huff before something struck the side of the van with a thud. Vibrant orbs widened with realization that he had just saved your ass from what sounded like a sizable number of walkers. 

Daryl haltingly lowered his hand as if you’d yell at him despite the threat lurking just outside. The man was sweaty and panting, as if he’d been running. Giving him  once over you noticed the carmine liquid slowly saturating his shirt just above his hip. 

Your movements were slow and deliberate to ensure silence. He didn’t seem to notice you until you were almost next to him, resulting in him reeling back with a vexed expression. 

“You’re hurt.” You mouthed, reaching behind your head to untie the ripped section of fabric you had used as a mask. When you extended it toward the wound, he swatted at your hand. You couldn’t risk speaking so the two of you engaged in an intense staring contest. The hunter finally relented with a shake of his head, deeming alertness toward the flock of undead to be priority. You smirked and pressed the wadded strip against the injury. 

He let out a grunt but stayed still, eyes remaining on the doors. It didn’t take long for the bleeding to let up, giving you a chance to peel back one side of the slice in his shirt. The wound was superficial, wouldn’t need stitches, but it was abundantly clear that you had nicked him when he grabbed you. You felt your stomach drop. Or maybe that was just the nausea. 

“Think they moved on.” Daryl quietly informed you. Oblivious to your revelation, he opened one door, barely wide enough to see outside. “We can prolly head back to the—what?” He stopped short, your apologetic expression giving him pause. 

“I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t mean to—”

The hunter rolled his eyes. “S’fine. Won’t kill me.”

While he was quick to dismiss the event, you still felt terrible. It could have been so much worse. The whole thing made your desire to talk things out with him that much more crucial. “Daryl, can you just listen to me for a second?”

There was the briefest of moments when you thought he was going to acquiesce. There was something more than anger in the way he looked at you. Then he was shaking his head. “We gotta get back. Check in with ev’ryone.” You grabbed his arm with both hands when he shifted to climb out. “M’serious. I ain’t doin’ this.”

“I get that you’re angry—with me.” You swallowed hard against the strange taste in your mouth, ignoring the protests of your inexorable stomach. “You have every right to be.” Daryl growled and snatched his arm away. He climbed out and stood just outside the door, clearly not confident enough with the degree of safety to leave you behind. 

“Drop it, Y/N.” He warned. 

You had climbed out and blocked his path, hands hovering in front of his chest. “The least you can let me do is—” It happened just as suddenly as before. You had no time to react. You could only clutch your abdomen and pitch forward, vomiting up what little bile that had accumulated since the last episode. All over his left boot. “—apologize.” 

If it had been any other situation, the deadpan examination Daryl was currently giving his footwear would have been arguably hilarious. 

“I’m, uh, sorry about that too.”

His eyes moved up to glare at you from beneath his lashes. You didn’t think a mess on his boot would be enough to really set off a man who spent the majority of his time identifying—and very often stepping in—animal waste. This was just the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. He took a step toward you. Though you didn’t think he’d hurt you, even for reasons beyond the baby, you couldn’t say you knew him well enough to bank on that theory. Therefore, you took a step back. 

“Listen, woman, just ‘cause ya got my kid inside ya don’t mean I hafta—” He cut off suddenly, angling his head in a way that was familiar to you. You did the same thing while hunting; listening for sounds to indicate an animal was nearby. 

“What is it?” 

He shushed you harshly. When you focused on the sounds around you rather than the whirlwind of thoughts in your own head, you could hear it too. 

Your blood ran cold with dread. 

“Sophia! Lori, there’s two walkers after my baby!”

[nobodyfamousposts]

The Hero of Paris

...so when Gabriel was in the bathroom on that train when he transformed and tried to akumatize someone...

...you think anyone could have just...I dunno, recorded it?

__________________________

Michael Donahue was the hero of Paris.

In truth, he was an American tourist. And about as American as one could get.

And AS a young American in a foreign country, he did what most Americans do: abuse his phone's camera function for anything and everything he thought was interesting and likely to get him likes on social media.

He recorded a man feeding pigeons before being run off by a police officer.

He recorded some curator at a museum telling a wild fanfic idea at the Louvre.

He recorded a bunch of people chasing after a blond haired kid and screaming at the sight of him. Which...okay, weird?

Well, he'd known Paris would be weird. But he didn't think it'd be THIS weird.

But then THAT day happened. And what he thought was perhaps the silliest…even the downright dumbest thing ended up being what made him go viral in the last way he ever expected.

Some would consider it uncouth. Most would have just politely ignored it.

But Micheal was a young American with a need to record everything.

And he was already in his seat in a train waiting for it to depart for his next travel destination...only to be delayed due to some reason that he, not being French-speaking, didn't understand.

Ultimately, that made this the perfect combination of bored and impulsive in JUST the right way to achieve a miracle.

So when he heard what sounded like shouting and insane laughter coming from the bathroom on the train, Michael—in true American fashion, decided to record it.

"Dude, some guy has taken over one of the restrooms and is yelling like crazy!"

…and for the sheer hell of it, he started livestreaming.

And his chat started to come alive.

What's going on?

"The train's held up. My French isn't that good. An 'akuma' or something?"

What's an akuma?

He looked over his shoulder.

"I dunno. But that guy in the restroom has been shouting about it a lot."

On the other side of the door, the faint sound of yelling could be heard. Most of it garbled that Michael couldn't quite make out except for a few words.

"—akuma—"

"—Ladeebuug!"

What's he shouting?

"Something about Ladybugs and noir? Is he shooting a movie or complaining of a lack of pest control? Lol."

Out of all his vids and livestreams, he hadn't expected the one about some random making a scene in a bathroom to be the one that got attention, but more people were joining the chat and he saw his numbers rise more than they ever had.

"Wow. Okay. Didn't expect to get this level of response."

He made sure to keep the camera on the bathroom door the noises were coming from rather than himself. It was what the people wanted to see apparently and it allowed better audio quality.

What was perhaps the most interesting was that he started getting comments in French.

In all caps.

With many exclamation points.

Is this real!?

HAWK MOTH!

IT'S HAWK MOTH!

WHERE IS HE?!

"Hawk Moth? What?"

Then a particularly insistent commenter named LadyWifi joined and started to spam the chat.

Où est-ce?

Où est-ce?!!

OÙ EST-CE!!!

"Wait hold on. What?"

Où

où!

WHERE?!

WHERE IS IT

OÙ

wherewherewerewhere?!!!!!!!!11!!1

He balked at the repeated demands. Given the chat seemed to be repeatedly questioning where in English, he could only presume that's what they were asking in French, too. But he had no idea why and no explanation was forthcoming! Any attempts anyone made to tell him what was going on quickly got lost in the flood of comments demanding a location.

Before he could comment further though, his thoughts were interrupted by a cry of outrage from the restroom, loud enough to ring his ears.

Silence.

Then…

"Nooroo, detransform moi."

There was a strange sound from inside. Muffled, but distinct enough. Like how sparkles should sound? Something from one of those magical girl shows his little sister watches.

A click signaled the door unlocking.

"I think he's about to come out!"

The chat was going wild. Everyone commenting. Making random names? Maybe trying to guess who the person on the other side of the door was?

Then some blond guy in glasses and a really unfashionable suit came out of the restroom.

…and his livestream promptly exploded.

[cuubism]

@magnusbae a surprise for you. finally, more silly rabbit au

--

Dream always listened intently when Hob spoke about his workday. Dream had mentioned, at least once, actually coming to Hob’s lectures to “experience his expertise in person.” Yet somehow, none of this had translated in Hob’s mind into the actual, heart attack-inducing experience of seeing Dream walk into his lecture hall.

He hadn’t really believed it would happen. Not for lack of trusting Dream’s word, but because his presence seemed so incongruous. This was Hob’s normal life. His normal human life of work and chores and errands and bureaucracy.

Dream, meanwhile, was from Hob’s other life, the one made of secret meetings in taverns with an ethereal stranger, the life that knew that magic, in some way, was real. That life seemed, in some ways, realer, for all that it was brief, hidden, threaded between lifetimes of normality. Being with Dream was to dip back into a deeper well of truth he usually had to lock away; his own truth, their truth.

That was not a life that was supposed to be striding down the stairs of his lecture hall and taking a seat in the front row.

“So, um…” Hob trailed to an uneven stop halfway through his description of the first printing press. Dream just smirked at him from where he’d sat down. He’d taken off his coat and everything, as if he really was settling in to listen to the lecture.

A few students’ heads swiveled in his direction, drawn by Dream’s not-so-subtle entrance and Hob’s uncharacteristic stumble. Dream’s gaze didn't leave Hob's.

“So.” Hob forced himself back into motion. “So, in 1482—”

It was only his years of experience that got Hob through that lecture without breaking, and even then, it was a close thing. Every second, he could feel Dream’s eyes on him. Saw more than one of the students looking at Dream, too. God, what was he doing here?

But Hob did manage it, and ignored the curious glances of the students as they filed out of class, leaving only Dream behind. Dream, who stalked over to him with a predatory little smile, stopping by the podium where Hob was shutting his laptop.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Hob asked idly, trying to pretend Dream’s presence here, in this normal part of his life, wasn’t throwing him completely off balance.

“I merely wanted the see the professor at work,” Dream drawled.

Hob chuckled and leaned in quick to kiss him on the cheek. “Not much of a show, to be honest.”

Dream’s brow pinched as if he hadn’t quite gotten the reaction he expected. “Does it bother you for me to be here?”

“No, no, of course not.” Hob held Dream’s arms tight, made sure he was looking at him. “I always want to have you wherever I am.”

Dream’s expression eased, and he tilted his head, waiting for the other half of Hob’s explanation he knew was forthcoming.

“It’s just… a bit odd to have you in such a normal place,” Hob tried to explain. “This is like… my ordinary life. And you, you’re anything but ordinary. I got used to thinking of our meetings as… kind of separate from all this, I guess. Like, you know. A dream.”

Or perhaps it was Hob’s ordinary life that was the dream, for everything snapped back into multicolored focus whenever he saw Dream himself.

“I have not been around for much of this… normal life,” Dream conceded. “I do wish now that I could have seen more of it.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Hob rubbed up and down his arms. “Though not sure how interesting you’ll find it all, to be honest.”

“Everything about you is interesting to me,” Dream said. He seemed completely sincere about it, too.

“You’re sweet.” Hob kissed him on the cheek. It was flattering—if occasionally unbelievable—to be interesting to The King of Dreams. Though Hob supposed Dream had had vanishingly little normality in his long life, to the point where what should have been mundane had become novel.

“I only hope I am not a disturbance,” Dream said. “You have always managed your life independently. I do not wish to derail it.”

Hob sighed. “My love, even if you were a disturbance, which you are not, I wouldn’t care? I love this job, don’t get me wrong, but you’re so much more important than that.”

Dream’s brow furrowed. “You have always held life most dear.”

“Well, life, sure, but life has infinite variations, doesn’t it? This version falls apart, I’ll make a new one. So long as you’re there.”

Dream still seemed confused, and Hob couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have Dream questioning his importance in Hob’s life.

“Look, you like pictures, right? I’ll draw it for you.”

Hob picked up a blue marker and drew a series of circles on the board, all in a line, touching end to end. “See those? That’s my life. Well, each of my lives, every time I have to start a new one. See how they’re all separate and only touch once one’s had to stop? Well.” He picked up another marker, this one black, and drew a line through the middle of the series, from one end to the other, bisecting each circle. “That’s you. Now do you get the difference?”

“I would have said that your ‘lives’ were more like concentric circles, compounding on each other, not in series,” Dream said, but it sounded weak, an automatic retort.

“The timeline accuracy doesn’t matter. This—” Hob touched the black line. “This matters.”

Dream studied the line. “That is a heavy meaning to draw from me,” he finally said.

Hob stepped back into his space, laid his hands lightly along his hips. “You’re the king of dreams, don’t people make meaning of you all the time?”

“Through me,” Dream said. “But you. See it— in me.”

How could I not? Hob thought. When you’re… it. You’re so much of it. “That’s what it’s like when you love someone.”

“Love,” repeated Dream, with the same awe he seemed to feel every time Hob said it.

“So yeah,” Hob said, “you can join my normal human life if you want to. Only don’t complain to me when it can’t compare to the crazy spectacles of your dreams.”

“You could not be uninteresting to me,” repeated Dream.

Hob leaned in to kiss his cheek again. “Sweet thing,” he said, and felt Dream’s tiny smile against his lips.

Dream clutched onto his hand as Hob packed up the rest of his things, and Hob let him, even though it made the process twice as long. “So did the lecture compel you, then?”

“I know these historical facts, but I enjoy your retelling of them,” Dream said. “However, the students seemed distracted.”

“Ha! That’s your fault, love.” He started leading Dream towards the door. “You created a spectacle. They’ll be mad curious now.”

“I was attempting to be unobtrusive,” Dream said with a frown.

"Oh, unobtrusive, is it? That's what that devious little look meant, hm?"

"...To draw your attention," Dream conceded. "Not the students'. I was affecting an appearance of average humanity.”

Hob snorted. “My love, I don’t think you could be convincingly human if you committed the rest of your eternal existence to the study of it.”

He led Dream out into the hall, and closed and locked the lecture hall door behind them. Dream’s nose scrunched adorably. “Oh? What am I doing wrong, then?”

“For one, you’re too pretty.” Hob tugged him close and kissed the tip of Dream’s nose. “Pretty like a fairy tale creature that’s meant to lure you into the woods. Don’t you dare change it, by the way!” he added, and Dream smirked.

“Is that all?”

“Nope. The other thing is, it is impossible to look at you…” he stepped in close to hold Dream by his hips— “and forget that you are a king.”

Dream raised an eyebrow. “You seem to forget frequently.”

“Willfully ignoring is not the same as forgetting,” Hob told him, grinning. “Besides, I’m not one of your subjects. It’s my job to ignore it and get you to let your hair down.” He scrubbed a hand through Dream’s already-messy hair, which Dream made no move to stop. “But I picked out the regality on you all the way back when we first met, it’s all in your jaw, and the tilt of your brow, and your spine—” he touched each spot as he spoke— “and especially in those eyes. Humans might play at being kings, but you are a king. Divine right and all. You’re a king from another world, a story, or—” he smiled— “a dream.”

“You have made a proper study of me.” They were standing very close now, hovering in the doorway to the lecture hall.

“Only for seven hundred years,” Hob told him. “Still think there’s lots to learn in Dream Interpreting, though.”

Dream touched his face to Hob’s cheek, leaning in close. “Interpret, then.”

Hob turned and kissed him, hands falling to Dream’s hips as Dream’s fingers curled around his jacket. and for a long moment, he forgot they were meant to be going home, as the wet heat of Dream’s mouth kept him firmly in place.

“Um. Professor Gadling?” squeaked a nervous voice from beside them, and they  broke apart, still holding onto each other.

One of Hob’s younger students was standing there, blushing furiously, binder held tight to their chest as if it could somehow block the embarrassment of witnessing their professor snogging on campus.

Hob could just see Dream smirking out of the corner of his eye, and poked him in the side. “Yes, Lily?”

“Um.” The student’s blush only deepened. “Do. Are you still supposed to have office hours after class?”

Fuck.

Hob looked at Dream. The bastard looked triumphant now. He sighed and turned back to his student. “No, I don’t think so. But email me and I’ll find time for you, okay?”

“Thanks,” they whispered, and practically fled, scurrying back down the hall.

Hob turned to glare at Dream. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Me?” said Dream, duly offended. “Govern your own behavior, Professor. I am an unobtrusive bystander. I am not even here.”

“Oh, unobtrusive my arse, you—”

But Dream was gone, only a swirl of sand and a tiny smirk left in his wake.

“Bastard,” Hob swore to the empty hallway. Then went to go find him, inevitably, at home.

[ineffablyruined]

A Game of Spy vs Spy

(Or is it more Mr. & Mrs. Smith?)

Buckle up, because this one's about to get a little.. out there? Maybe. You decide for yourselves. I had this thought at 3am and I couldn't get it out of my head.

This following is based on two assumptions:

1. Aziraphale has a Plan (capital letter included) - see my explanation of why I believe that's the case in this post.

2. Crowley has been working on his own Plan since he dawned there Tactical Turtleneck - see this brilliant post by @justhereforthemeta .

Putting the rest under a Read More because it's a little lengthy.

To summarize both in case you don't have time to read both posts:

1. I believe Aziraphale's scary smile in the elevator is a smile he learned from spending so much time around Crowley and that it's reflective of him coming up with a plan to avert the Second Coming that he thinks is so clever that Crowley would absolutely approve.

The fact that Crowley is seen wearing his Super Secret Spy Gear multiple times throughout the series means he's actively working on his heist. He's plotting, he's planning. He disappears on Aziraphale when the angel is remembering Job. Disappearing on Aziraphale? That's not like Crowley at all.

2. Crowley is so enamored with the spy life (bullet hole decals anyone?) that he begins plotting a heist as soon as he finds out the Book of Life is a threat to Aziraphale. And the turtleneck is his spywear.

Crowley saves Aziraphale. It's his thing. He's done it over and over, countless times throughout history.

But listen to what Aziraphale says. Rescuing me makes him so happy. Rescuing me.

And the times Crowley asked Aziraphale to run away with him? Well, those times, it wasn't Aziraphale's life that was threatened. It was Crowley's. Hell found out he screwed up the baby switch? They were coming for him, not Aziraphale. Armageddon't? Isn't it demons that burn in a fiery pit for eternity when the world ends, not angels?

My point is.. M' point is..

Crowley isn't asking Aziraphale to run away with him at the end of Episode 6 only to chance The Metatron erasing Aziraphale from the Book of Life when they get there.

Crowley already has the Book of Life.

My bet? He had a little side project up in Heaven with Muriel off-camera. He was wearing the beige turtleneck after all.

And when we leave Heaven?

Turtleneck gone. Mission accomplished.

But let's not stop there!

Because Aziraphale has a Plan of his own now that he's returned from Heaven. And I'm betting at least part of it involves the Book of Life. And when he goes to look for it? GONE! And when he checks the files? Sure enough, there's Crowley sneaking it into his pocket. (And if we get an "Oh Good Lord" repeat at seeing Crowley's Heaven outfit, I'm not going to complain).

Alternatively, Heaven is going to find it missing, and they're going to know it was Crowley who took it and Aziraphale has to get it back to try to save Crowley.

Either way, he's going to have to get it.

And I'm betting Mr. BackOnHisOwnSide Crowley isn't going to be too forthcoming when the Supreme Archangel asks for it back.

And let the Spy vs Spy hijinks commence.

..................

Below is one conversation I've dreamed up in my head about all this, if you're into that kind of thing. Enjoy:

Crowley: If only I had access to a place with a truly ridiculous number of old books where one new addition would go completely unnoticed.

Aziraphale: Well, it's a good thing I know this bookshop better than anyone then, isn't it?

Crowley (bearing his teeth): I've reorganized.

Aziraphale: *gasp*

[starstruckwillows]

owling the daily prophet — james potter ♡

requested by 🐍<3

james potter x fem!reader, sirius’ sister!reader, fluff, humour, mention of sex (joke), some emotional bromance

sirius finds out james is dating his sister

james and you had decided to not keep your relationship a secret. it hadn’t ever been plausible, both such affectionate people.

nothing really changed. you were already close, already all over each other. most people saw it coming, others nodded sagely and murmured makes sense, but there was one person who hadn’t noticed the difference.

by sheer coincidence rather than any plan with forethought, sirius black had not worked out his younger sister was dating james. and had been for almost three months now.

it was a warm evening in may, sixth year, so the two of you weren’t physically as close as you had been through the winter. the slight warmth in the still air didn’t allow for that.

instead, your hands were linked over your exposed stomach, tank top cutting off. your head was in james’ lap as he moved any hair stuck to your face. usually you sat the other way round, but with the longer waves, you had priority in the heat.

“erm... bit weird guys.” your brother descended the stairs from his dorm, frowning.

his face matched yours. because you thought he was in denial, not the dark.

“pads...” james started, “i know you don’t li-”

you cut him off, “no, it’s time to be blunt. james and i are dating, sirius, it’s not weird.”

your brother blinked dumbly. his mouth parted just a fraction and you begun to doubt your words.

“sorry, you’re what?”

from your angle, you could see james’ adam’s apple bob slightly as he swallowed, “padfoot-”

sirius held up a hand to silence him, “no, no. answer the question.”

“i-”

“answer the question, james.”

“we-”

yet again sirius interrupted him to demand his forthcoming answer, causing you to huff and sit up.

“he’s trying to answer, siri. we’re dating.”

sirius began to gesticulate and stutter, cheeks tinted slightly as he grasped for some explanation. ever the performer.

it would’ve been a whine if it wasn’t half a shout, “james fleamont potter!”

your boyfriend visibly winced at the use of his middle name, pushing himself from the sofa to defend.

the dramatics unfolding before you attracted your circle of friends. except remus, he turned the page of his book and ignored you all.

“you are fornicating with my sister?” he screeched.

you clamped your hands over your ears, “ew! sirius, shut up. you had to have known we were together.”

sirius jabbed an accusatory finger in your direction, “how? you never told me. james never told me.”

marlene scoffed, “they never told us, we knew.”

he sputtered, “wha- how long?”

“like three months,” peter shrugged, chugging the remains of his water bottle.

“peter.” sirius gasped, scandalized, “you didn’t think to tell me?”

lily patted him on the shoulder, “don’t take it personally, we assumed you had eyes. c’mon man, it was obvious! it’s been obvious. we weren’t exactly owling the daily prophet when we found out.”

in the midst of the greatest revelation of the century (for sirius), you and james had snuck away, hand in hand, trying not to laugh on your way out of the gryffindor common rooms portrait door.

“that wasn’t as subtle as it could’ve been,” james chuckled, sweeping his arm around your waist as you headed for the courtyard.

“my brother knows many words, subtle isn’t one.”

james smirked, “your brother does not know many words.”

you nudged his shoulder, “i was cutting him some slack, he had a big shock today.”

“he’ll move on.”

“i know.”

later that night, james was awoken by his bedside lamp switching on. there, silhouetted, was sirius, with his arms folded.

“we need to talk.”

given sirius’ experience that day, james decided not to challenge his timing, instead inviting him into the confines of his bed curtains and casting muffliato.

he nodded for sirius to speak, who sighed before doing so, “i’m not surprised you guys didn’t tell me. but i wish you had. i’m not like, mad. i mean, y’know, if you ever hurt her i will have to chemically castrate you, but you know that.” he paused.

“i do. continue.”

“is this why we haven’t been talking so much? cos i thought you just didn’t want to talk with me about things anymore.”

james shook his head adamantly, “i will always want to talk to you.”

“i know, i guess. but when was the last time we did this. sat at two am to chat and then lie to everyone else and say we got a good night’s sleep because lily would have our heads if she knew we did this before exams.”

“i get it, mate, i was just avoiding talking about your sister. i missed us too.”

sirius fake-teared up, “bro.”

james nodded with similarly shiny eyes and a downturned smile, “bro.”

you cleared your throat at the door. you had been unable to sleep, a rasp to your throat as you said, “you guys aren’t that good at that spell anymore.”

🏷️ — @faeriieblush @poppet05 @it-be-me-ella @songofpatrochilless @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @saturnband @juneberrie @ell0ra-br3kk3r @shefollowedthestars @sillylittlenonbinarygremlin

[forasecondtherewedwon]

trading paper dolls - chapter three

Fandom: Masters of the Air Rating: T Chapter: 3 / 3 Word Count: 3982

Summary: Tired of the pin-up girls, Alex draws Buck Cleven in a similar style, never intending for the sketch to fall into the hands of Bucky Egan.

read on tumblr: one | two

Gale drowned himself. He took the drawing to the sink that was crowded in the mornings but not at that time of day and watched the door as he held the paper underwater, shredding it until he could push the pulp into the drain with his fingertips. The task wasn’t difficult or strenuous; the paper was already so soft that it tore with ease. When it was done, he wiped his hands dry on his overcoat and went out. It had only taken a few minutes.

He had never tried to attract more attention than what was necessary for the boys to respect his rank. He didn’t boast, didn’t dance, didn’t get drunk. He stepped into leadership as a major because it was what he had to do, and he thought he did a fair job of it, keeping a level head and watching out for his boys. But it seemed he had attracted more attention than he’d been aware of. He had been not only observed but commissioned, commissioned into a drawing his fingers had since turned to a mush that hadn’t appeared dissimilar to many of their meals.

John had claimed responsibility, but it wasn’t as though Gale didn’t know where the sketch had come from. In their very bunkhouse lived the man who provided such things for the camp at large. Unless there were another man who did the same sort of drawings—but of male subjects—in secret, Gale knew the artist was Alex. Alex had been quiet, then, quickly, after Gale made the effort to speak with him, Alex had been forthcoming and warm. He was sharp, he was keen to be useful with his mapping abilities, but now Gale saw that he hadn’t yet learned everything about the lieutenant, because he hadn’t expected this from him. It left Gale feeling exposed.

Aside from destroying the drawing, he attempted to stick to his regular routine. He soon decided that no one else knew. The other option—that his boys were not only liars but incredibly good liars—was impossible. Gale couldn’t start doubting everyone around him, everyone he had flown with and trusted. He would be dishonouring them and himself to assume the worst of them after all they’d been through together. He wouldn’t bring the disease of paranoia into this camp, not amongst their forces. The problem of the drawing was a strange but isolated one, which should’ve been some relief to him.

He knew. Alex knew. John knew. John had barely told him, and Alex hadn’t told at all. Of course, Gale had been tempted to confront him. He felt he was owed an explanation, because surely being drawn like that was a sign of disrespect. That was where it got tricky though; Gale didn’t believe, in general, that pin-ups were disrespectful. Maybe they weren’t exactly appropriate either—not the kind of art you’d want shipped home to your mother with your effects if you bought it over Germany—but they were meant for admiring. They were tokens of the softness men missed in places like this, in circumstances like these. Was he that type of token? Was he an ideal?

The thought made Gale feel imaginary. It was hard enough to keep tabs on yourself here, to wake each day still knowing who you were. Where did you preserve your identity when nothing really belonged to you? On a piece of paper?

But the paper hadn’t been his, so that couldn’t be right. What need did John have to preserve Gale in a drawing when he had the real person? This puzzled Gale. It kept him subdued around the boys, and around John in particular, which was strange. He’d been feeling, lately, these urges to reach out for John. They all moved in such close contact, lived in such cramped quarters, that Gale would sometimes lie awake in the night and imagine digging a tunnel only he knew about. Not for escape—just for a place to go be alone for a while. John was the person who drove him closest to the edge, but he was also the only one Gale couldn’t leave, even in these fantasies where he burrowed into the earth and panted hot breaths in the dark. He had touched John at last—their two hands in John’s pocket, Gale’s light contact with John’s rough cheek—and then John had tucked the folded drawing into his palm. He had put the page between them.

Gale wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t given in to his instinct to slip his hand in alongside John’s. Would John have ever told him about the drawing? Would he have wept when he did? Gale wasn’t sure he understood the crying anymore than he understood the sketch—not the reasons behind them—but he was beginning to understand how they made him feel.

The revelation happened over the course of several days succeeding his discovery of the drawing. The food was shit. The wind whistled through the cracks in their bunkhouse walls. The thin patch in the heel of Gale’s sock had worn into a hole. The realization couldn’t fill his stomach or block the wind or darn his sock, but it changed something he couldn’t physically feed or shield or warm. He saw that he was treasured. He was. He, who had never felt less worthy, here in what seemed like a cold hell. There was a stalwart sense of brotherhood between the prisoners of this camp, but he hadn’t believed tenderness could survive in these conditions.

Reflecting on the drawing’s wear, Gale felt himself an accidental witness to not only gentleness but passion. Flapping in the cold wind hadn’t done that to the paper; it had been transformed by heat and sweat. Those things had touched a paper body that wasn’t his… but was meant to be.

—

The day Buck asked the question, Alex didn’t see it coming.

Though it wasn’t providing much warmth, the sun was shining, and that was a comfort they hadn’t enjoyed in what seemed like weeks. The wind had gotten itself tangled up between the trees, or lain down in some field; wherever it was, it was elsewhere. Sitting on the step outside the hut was almost pleasant, if you forgot about who was watching the step and where the step was and how they had gotten there and why they had to remain. But you did have to forget sometimes in order to breathe. Alex planted his hands behind him and leaned back while Buck stretched his legs out ahead of him.

He'd been describing the P-51 Mustangs again. Buck always wanted to hear about them. It’d gotten so Alex could tell Buck was imagining himself inside one, eyes closed as he asked where was this gauge and that, how were his sightlines if he turned his head just so.

“You could fly that baby blind,” Alex said, grinning.

Buck grinned back.

“Wouldn’t that be something.”

Alex agreed that it would, then he explained how, when you flew something so sleek and fast, it felt like an extension of your body. Instead of rushing to give Buck an account of missions he’d flown, Alex lingered over sensory memories of getting a feel for those planes. He recalled early days in training as he talked. His eyes were closed too when he spoke of easing a Mustang into a smooth bank, tilting her until it seemed he was sailing along on sunbeams. At the time, he’d sweat—damn near cooked—in the cabin, but now, he tried to feel just a little of that warmth, draw it through time to nestle up against. He was hunkered right down in the memory until he heard Buck say, “How’d he ask for it?”

Alex opened his eyes and frowned. “Say again?” He was lost. Buck wasn’t looking his way.

“When Bucky came to you about the drawing, how’d he… what did he say?”

“Oh. Well…”

Alex’s heart was racing, but Buck looked as calm as anything, staring out at the yard while Alex watched the side of his face.

There was so much information in the question. First, it informed Alex that Buck had found out about the drawing, someway, somehow. Second, it told him Buck had connected the drawing to Alex and Egan both. Third, it said Egan hadn’t ratted on him, since Buck didn’t know about the drawing’s exact origins. Finally, the question meant Buck wasn’t angry with him. He definitely didn’t sound angry, just like he was placidly working on a problem. Alex had seen him that way before during the meetings he and Macon were now included in, meetings for plotting escape routes and learning the fastest and quietest ways to incapacitate the enemy if they had to fight their way out.

But how to answer such a question? Now that Buck knew Alex had sketched him without his knowledge, he probably owed him the full truth, and telling him that meant admitting Egan hadn’t come to him at all. And what about the silent deal he’d made with Egan whereby they kept each other’s secrets? If Alex’s had been exposed, did that void Egan’s as well? Or did Alex ignore it all? Maybe the way forward here was to find his own escape route from a matter that no longer involved him. He could see what his role had been and he felt, for better or worse, that he’d played it. The rest was between Buck and Egan.

“It wasn’t much of a conversation,” Alex said. The explanation, though evasive, wasn’t a lie—Egan had snatched the paper during a raid of the bunkhouse.

Buck looked disappointed that Alex had failed to satisfy his curiosity.

“You know,” he said, eyes still forward, “Bucky ran and got recaptured more than once after parachuting from his plane. He fought like hell trying to escape. He could’ve died. They meant to kill him.” Buck turned his head to look back at Alex. “He gave me that drawing like a surrender.”

Alex’s lips parted, but he didn’t know how to respond. He understood how the most difficult thing was sometimes to go willingly. For a man with grit, a man with strength and ideas and convictions, it was easy to value control over everything else. You got so used to protecting your right to make your own choices, Alex thought, that it was hard when somebody came along who made surrender seem not only possible but appealing. Alex had learned this lesson with his sweetheart back home, but not everybody had a sweetheart back home. Not everybody got to learn to let go on a porch swing in Detroit while the condensation on a glass of lemonade hid their nervous, sweaty palms. Some people had POW camps and paper dolls and that was the best they got.

“That doesn’t mean he’s weak,” Alex proposed cautiously.

“No,” Buck agreed. “It sure doesn’t.”

“If you find you’ve got to know just what it does mean, I’d suggest asking him.”

“No two ways about it, huh?”

“There never seems to be for anything worth doin’.”

Buck rose. Alex hadn’t meant for him to act right then, but it wasn’t as though they had a list of pressing duties that needed attending to.

“Thanks for your thoughts, Alex,” Buck said, leaning down to where Alex still sat and extending his hand.

Alex nodded, shaking it. “Buck.”

When he expected Buck to withdraw his hand, Buck tightened his grip instead.

“One more thing,” he said. He leaned a little closer. “There aren’t any others of me out there, correct?”

“That’s correct,” Alex promised, meeting Buck’s assessing gaze with his steady one. “And there won’t be.”

Buck released his hand and, sitting forward once he was alone, Alex released a heavy sigh. Not too bad, he thought. It was behind them now. He’d even managed to resist joking that, if there had been other pin-up drawings of Buck, Egan surely would’ve collected them all up by now. No, he’d handled things the best he could’ve. The rest was for the two majors to sort out.

With the day as fine as it was, Alex eventually pushed himself up off the step and took a walk across the yard. He could see Macon and DeMarco busy with something. They were looking at the ground. As he neared, he panicked, but tried not to show it. They’d drawn a ring in the dirt and, staring at it, DeMarco kneaded the back of his neck in frustration. What the hell had they done? Put a goddamn map in the yard, right where the goons could see? Alex fought the urge to walk faster.

There were stones scattered across the dirt.

“What’s this?” he asked Macon lightly.

“I’m plottin’ my move,” Macon said. “What would you do?”

Alex’s eyes widened at his friend’s casual tone. He didn’t realize his expression had been observed until he heard DeMarco’s laugh, rough like the scruff on his cheeks, and looked up.

“It’s marbles,” he said. “We’re playing marbles with rocks.”

“Oh.” This was an amused huff from Macon. He had glanced up to see why DeMarco was explaining and also caught the look on Alex’s face. “Shit! Speakin’ of marbles, Alex here’s thinkin’ we fuckin’ lost ours, Benny. Thought we was out here holdin’ cartography club.”

He doubled over laughing while Alex rolled his eyes. Well, at least Macon appeared to be feeling better.

DeMarco crouched to consider his next shot. Alex angled his head close to Macon’s ear.

“I’ll just leave you and ‘Benny’ to it. I just got an idea for another drawing. Maybe two guys from our bunkhouse this time?”

Macon glared at him, but Alex was grinning now.

“It ain’t like that,” Macon protested. He took a playful swipe at Alex, but Alex stepped clear. Macon winced as he twisted, hand hitting nothing.

“Watch your neck, now,” Alex cautioned. “Then again…” He glanced to where DeMarco had circled away from them, lowering his hand to the dirt in preparation to flick a stone towards their makeshift target. “I saw him rubbin’ his neck. Maybe he could do yours.”

Macon pointed a warning finger.

“Don’t interfere in other people’s business.”

Alex only smiled and backed away. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. If this Buck and Egan thing worked out, it might be nice going two for two. It’d be a way to pass the time.

—

“Right where I thought you’d be.”

Bucky smiled at the sound of Buck’s voice and allowed the chair he’d rocked back on two legs to fall forward again onto four. He listened as Buck’s even steps entered the room, their room—everybody’s room, but their room at the moment, because it was empty but for the two of them.

“Creature of habit,” Buck continued as he strode into Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky glanced up and his smile broadened.

“Imprisonment’ll do that to a guy.”

“S’pose so.”

Buck grabbed a chair and dragged it around, then straddled it backwards, facing Bucky. He crossed his arms along the back. Bucky couldn’t help his light laugh, waiting for Buck to speak. They hadn’t done much of that (talking) in days. Bucky was scared, not that he’d say it. The laugh was more of an anxious giggle, which was meant as a question: Where are we starting from? Because he didn’t know how to begin anymore. He didn’t know how to step back into the last normal conversation they’d had without his feet going out from under him, slipping on the bloody wheel of his heart. He kept trying to get his balance, but that heart-wheel kept spinning, faster each time Buck caught his eye or called his name. He felt choked; he wanted to run. He fixed his gaze on Buck’s face and, grinning with a nervous brand of hilarity, said, “Hi.”

Buck smiled back, amusement in his eyes. Bucky thought he looked like maybe he didn’t know how to begin either.

“Hey there, stranger,” Buck replied, soft and low.

Now, as long as Bucky didn’t cry—he started to, and thumbed the tear from the inner corner of his eye.

“We got some business, Major?” he asked, smiling at Buck, at himself, at his control leaving him like a kite string jerking through his hands.

“We do,” Buck said. “You wanna lead?”

“Buck, if I knew the steps, I’d already be on the floor.”

Bucky pressed his finger into a crack in the table, tracing back and forth until Buck’s hand hovered over his. After a breath or two, it landed. Bucky stared at it covering his own.

“You don’t have anything to say?” Buck urged.

Swallowing, Bucky shook his head.

“I’d ruin it.” His voice came out hoarse.

“Maybe”—from his tone, Bucky could tell he was teasing—“but isn’t it worth trying?”

“I don’t really know… how to apologize for somethin’ like that…” Bucky fumbled out.

“You wanna apologize for it?”

Surprised, Bucky glanced up.

“Don’t you want me to? Isn’t that what this is about?”

Because the hand—it was comfort. The words were a return to their old friendliness. The privacy was necessary for the topic at hand, until they buried it deep and left no marker.

“No,” Buck said simply. “I was hoping we understood each other now.”

Bucky laughed loudly then, head thrown back, hand on his chest. When he looked at Buck again, his friend was blushing.

“Well, radio man,” Bucky started with a grin, “I think we got our wires crossed somewhere ’cause—”

“You’re in love with me,” Buck blurted. The abruptness, so unlike Buck, would’ve been enough to stop Bucky in his tracks, but then there were the words—petal-strewn overkill if the point was just to shut Bucky up.

“Tell me quick if I’m wrong,” Buck went on, “’cause I’ve looked at this every which way and it’s all I’ve got, John.”

“Buck. Gale.” It was possible the world was ending and Bucky couldn’t seem to clear his throat.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” Buck said, so faint Bucky wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear. All he could do in response was shake his head to show he didn’t follow. “I thought I’d see it comin’. You snuck up on me, John.”

If Buck kept using his name like that, Bucky believed he might do something impulsive, like bite his friend’s lip between his teeth.

“Me?” he checked.

As though to demonstrate just how impossible the idea of him sneaking up on anyone was, Bucky scraped the chair back as he staggered to his feet. He needed to pace. He couldn’t deal with this unless he was moving.

But Buck’s leg shot out and kicked Bucky’s chair.

“Sit your ass back down and listen to me,” he snapped. Bucky stared at him. “I’m tryin’… I’m trying…”

Slowly, Bucky reached for his chair. He lifted it off the ground so its legs wouldn’t scrape. He set it down close to Buck’s. He put his hand on Buck’s knee.

“You love me too, huh?” he guessed, as crazy as it seemed. “That the size of it?”

“Just about.”

They chuckled over how badly this was going, how well. Bucky booted the leg of Buck’s chair.

“What’d you do with my pin-up?” he demanded jokingly.

“Got rid of it.”

“Yeah? You got some nerve, Buck. That was my property.”

“You don’t need it anymore,” Buck told him.

Bucky leaned in, taunting. “Says who?”

“Little closer and I’ll show ya.”

Bucky went smiling. He got as close to Buck as he could before the tiny bit of him that was still unsure he hadn’t made a mistake somewhere and misunderstood hit the brakes. He could feel Buck’s breath on his face; he’d have bet Buck could feel the same on his. He could see, up so close, where the cold had chapped Buck’s skin, and he could see when Buck made up his mind to kiss him. Bucky closed his eyes between that moment and the next, and then there was the pressure of Buck’s mouth, making him almost leap out of his skin.

He'd spent weeks sharing a bed with that sheet of paper, like a lover. Before that, he’d spent months lugging his heart around, heavy with the enormity of his infatuation. Years he’d known Buck, liked Buck, cared about Buck more than he cared about anyone else he knew or had known. It wasn’t sudden. And yet, as Buck’s mouth opened just slightly and Bucky felt the difference between his dry lips and his wet tongue, it was. He moaned because he’d never been shy, and that put his lips in contact with Buck’s teeth—another new feeling—because Buck smiled at the sound.

Determinedly, Bucky cupped the back of Buck’s neck and kissed him harder, deeper, tilting his head. They couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want a pause to let Buck speak or to stare into his eyes. He knew what he sounded like, knew how he looked. Really, Bucky would’ve kept going even if he hadn’t been able to breathe. He held Buck greedily against him, wishing there weren’t a chairback between them so it could be more than their mouths, more than his hand now on the back of Buck’s head. I did, he thought. I thought it’d be exactly like this.

Buck was like a food he’d been deprived of, though Bucky couldn’t think what that might’ve been just then, because there was nothing he wanted to taste more than Buck’s mouth. Again and again, he opened it wider with his lips, dove forward with his tongue. He found Buck a little coyer until Buck snatched him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to the edge of his seat. Bucky had to feel blindly for the table and grip it hard to prevent himself from knocking the chairs aside like he wanted to. He wanted so much.

He surprised himself by being the reasonable one, the thoughtful one. He eased Buck’s grip from his shirt and slowed their kisses to a last lick from Buck’s tongue over his bottom lip.

“Welcome to the goddamn bunkhouse,” he whispered. “We got roommates, and they’ll come back sooner or later.”

Gaze lowered and mouth pink from Bucky’s efforts, Buck smirked as he straightened Bucky’s shirt.

“Ain’t that a shame.”

“I know some good hiding places though,” Bucky bragged.

“Do you now?”

“Kept that drawing secret, didn’t I?”

Buck shook his head in amusement. “That’s a little different. You can’t hide me between the pages of a book.”

“I didn’t hide it between pages,” Bucky informed him, smiling devilishly. “I hid it between sheets.”

“You can’t hide me in your bunk.”

Bucky slouched back in his chair and smirked at Buck.

“You can’t,” Buck repeated, fighting not to laugh at the way Bucky was so clearly uninterested in listening to him.

“That’s one opinion,” was all he would allow.

“An opinion,” Buck echoed in disbelief. “I call the other option insanity.”

“You call you in my bed insanity? I call it somethin’ to live for.”

And Bucky meant it in that big way, in that grand way. He meant it in a small way too: that he would live little by little for it, that the sun rose and set on his wanting of Buck, but it would’ve risen and set anyway. He would live for the possibility of Buck in each moment, from his first stirrings of wakefulness in the morning to the final shift on the sheets that let him sleep with some modicum of comfort in this forlorn place. Someday, mark my words, his sly smile and raised eyebrows said to Buck, you’ll be on those sheets with me. And, boy, won’t we live then, Buck. Won’t we live then.