#steve is down ROTTEN lmao

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 19

part 1 | part 18 | ao3

November

As annoyed as Steve is to admit it, Dustin’s plan actually works.

(And he is annoyed, for the record. That little shithead should be glad he’s still grounded because Steve’s sorely tempted to invite him over just to give him a wedgie.)

Somewhere in the weeks following The Abduction Incident, he and Eddie become friends. Like, real ones. Friends who talk and laugh and shoot the shit in passing, who trade movies and mix tapes and ask each other if they saw the latest headlines in the morning paper.

They haven’t really had much chance to properly hang out, but Steve sees him most mornings, because he promised Wayne to keep making sure Eddie doesn’t sleep in on school days, and sometimes when they’re both around in the afternoons they’ll have a couple beers together, share a cigarette on the lumpy loveseat on the front porch of Eddie’s place. 

And Eddie’s…

Eddie’s funny. Oddly charming. Theatrical and weird. Steve already knew that last part, but it’s so much better when it’s not being used as an offensive weapon against him. He likes being in on Eddie’s jokes. 

Just plain likes Eddie, if he’s honest. 

“Steve?”  

Which should be crazy. It is crazy; if someone had told him a couple years ago that he’d be spending his free time with The Freak — that he would regret missing the guy’s Halloween show because of a Family Video shift, or that he would spend a week working up the courage to ask him if he wants to ride to school with Robin and him in the mornings? He probably would have kicked their ass for the mere suggestion. 

But now he’s half-orphaned trailer trash who knows that monsters exist, so. Eh.

“Steve! Hello? Earth to Steve.”

Steve blinks, focuses on the fingers Robin’s snapping in front of his face. “Huh?” he asks dumbly. 

He expects her to roll her eyes and pretend to chastise him with some butchered version of his name— ‘Steven Cardamom Harrington, were you daydreaming again?’ — but she just snaps her fingers again and begs, “A little help here? Please?” Her eyes are wide, her shoulder scrunched up to her ears with stress, and Steve realizes that:

a) he’s been staring blankly at a cart of go-backs for ten minutes instead of actually doing his job, and

b) the store is suddenly packed.

Friday night, and the rain that’s been hanging over Hawkins all week finally let up, so now everyone and their mother is apparently out running errands. 

He moves to man the front desk because the line is almost out the door, and Robin buzzes around the room like a shaken can of pure panic, her bangs sticking to her forehead as she zooms up and down aisles with the restock cart. She keeps making crazy eyes at parents when they stop her to ask about new releases or the age-appropriateness of films, because the parents are distracting her from intercepting their little gremlin children, who keep putting movies on the wrong shelves on purpose just to piss her off. 

“Dumbo! Does not go! In the horror section!” Steve hears her bark at a group of third graders, and he has to crouch down behind the counter for a second so she doesn’t see him laughing when she follows that up with a strangled, “Ugh!!!”

Okay. 

Entertaining as this is, he’s not getting chewed out by Keith again for missing quotas because Robin blew a gasket and scared off all the customers. 

“Hey, Rob?” he calls out to her as he hands a woman her change. 

“What?” 

“Go take a smoke break?” 

He knows she doesn’t smoke. He also knows that sometimes rushes like this get to be too much for her — the noise, the lights, the chaos of a crowd (“the mouth sounds, Steve; good god, the mouth sounds”) — and she needs a minute or twelve to go stand outside in the cool air, flap her hands around and scream behind a dumpster or whatever until she calms down.

Her eyes flash at the suggestion like she’s about to snap at him, but then she takes a deep breath and marches herself out the back door without another word.

With Robin cleared out, the crowd thins out pretty quickly. Steve gets the line taken care of at a speed he’s definitely not getting paid enough to maintain, and the kids get bored of playing ‘rearrange the inventory’ and wander off to the arcade. 

It’s sort of soothing, the mindless flow of it: scan, click, click, make change, “thanks for choosing Family Video,” print receipt, repeat. His mind wanders again as he works, but it doesn’t sink into its usual sludge of despair; doesn’t wail ‘house bills mom pills stress fuck-fuck’ like a tornado siren in his head until he gives himself a migraine. 

No, he’s thinking about denim. About cigarette smoke.

Crooked smile; Chiclet teeth.

Patches and pins with strange names and stranger artwork.

And then he’s thinking about how this is the second time tonight he’s started daydreaming about Eddie and wills himself to knock it off.

What? The guy’s friendly with him a handful of times, and suddenly he’s, like, obsessed with him?

He’s not. 

He’s not. 

He's just… pleasantly distracted by him; that's all.

“Thanks for choosing Family Video,” he tells the last customers as he hands them their receipt. The second they turn to leave, he slumps over the counter with his head pillowed on his arms, a wave of exhaustion hitting him because holy shit that was so many people and thank god the store’s finally empty. 

The bell over the door dings.

Goddammit. 

Steve lifts his head, reminds himself not to scowl at paying customers because he really needs this job, but then— 

“Eddie! Hey!”

— 

part 20

tag list part 1 below cut let me know if you want to be added tomorrow

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[xhoneygirlxx]

One Of The Girls

Modern King!Steve x Fem Reader

summary: Steve only hits you up when it’s convenient for him and you’ll always answer because it feels nice to be what he wants, even if it’s just for a night.

warnings: fboy!Steve, modern au! circa 2018. reader and Steve are both in their early 20's. reader is given the nickname 'trouble'. ooc steve, he's a big meanie and pretty much a douche bag. angst. Minors DNI smut: unprotected p in v (wrap it up kiddos), fingering, oral receiving (m), daddy kink, swearing, slight dom/sub, cream pie, insinuations to reader being on birth control, possessive steve, toxic steve! hair pulling. Steve's job is mentioned briefly, I like to think that this version of him works for his dad landscaping, so that's what i put lmao. this is named after The Weeknd's song from the idol and I also use his song 'Try Me' in this, awe well. if i miss anything please let me know! also bad writing and grammar mistakes, not proofread.

a/n: hi my loves! i was inspired to write something based off of this blurb. again, smut is so not my strong suit so i beg that you be nice to me :) i also want to mention that when i was looking for pics for this fic, i couldn't find one picture that gave me fboy vibes bc joe keery is simply bf coded lmao. thank you all for interacting with my posts and just being so lovely to me! i appreciate you all and i hope you enjoy this <3

divider by: @saradika

You knew from the moment you met Steve Harrington it would be trouble, that he'd have you locked down for as long as he wanted. The pretty boy with the nice smile, who said all the right things and made all the right moves. You were a fool from the get go and he knew, he knew it the moment you let him hit that you were his.

Everyone knew about 'king Steve', the boy with the puppy dog eyes but a closet filled with so many skeletons that the door refused to shut. From what you heard he wasn't a relationship kind of guy, that he collected bodies like he was paid for it, and then went on his merry way no matter what carnage he left behind.

He was bad news and you swore you would stay away, not get swept up in the honey like vortex of his eyes, but when he said your name it sounded so right and who were you to refuse someone as tempting as him.

The name satan isn't far off for him, both so beautiful and angelic but rotten to the core, so evil that you often wonder if they were ever created with a soul.

As much as you wanted to let him go, block him out of your life completely, you simply couldn't. All your friends thought you were stupid for playing such a dangerous game but they didn't know him like you did. They didn't know how he actually took care of you when he was done abusing your poor hole, how he'd buy you little gifts simply because it reminded him of you, and they certainly didn't know the boy who would make you laugh so hard your ribs bruised.

At least that's what you tell yourself, how you sugar coat the simple fact that Steve Harrington treats you like trash because let's face it, he does. For every thing he does 'right' he does a million other things wrong. He goes weeks without texting you and the only time he does is when he's desperate. He only takes you to secluded spots just so he can get a nut. And most importantly, he tells you everything you want to hear so that you stay.

You were connected to Steve by a string, no matter how far you pulled away he would pull you right back in. If you were a masochist then he was a sadist and you would take whatever torture he gave you with the biggest smile on your face because at the end of the day you were his and only his.

It's a Friday night and while you'd usually be out with friends, you opted to stay in tonight, too tired from the work week to physically get out of bed.

Under the warmth of your comforter, you scroll through Instagram blindly liking different post on your timeline. The white numbers in the corner of your screen read a little bit past midnight and as badly as your eyes wanted to shut, your brain simply couldn't resist the glow of your screen.

A notification pops up at the top of your screen and your ready to fling it away to dismiss it when your heart rate picks up at the name.

IMessage:

Harrington 🙄

Your finger moves faster than the speed of lightning, hitting on the bubble to open the messaging app.

Harrington 🙄: wyd?

It's a simple enough message but you sit and ponder how to respond. You don't want to come off too desperate but you also don't want to wait too long to respond knowing he has other options lined up. Without overthinking too much more, you move your thumbs across the keyboard and sending your message.

Harrington 🙄: wyd?

You: nm, why?

Waiting with bated breath, you watch the text bubble pop up to notify he's typing.

Harrington 🙄: wya? lemme scoop you

Bingo.

You: im at home. how long do i have before you get here?

Harrington 🙄: bet. gimme 15 mins.

Your heart shouldn't be beating as fast as it is and you shouldn't be hopping around with joy like Snow White when she's singing to the birds, but like always Steve says jump and you say how high.

It should make you sick how he hasn't texted you in two weeks, only now asking to come get you so he can fuck. It should make you sick when you put on your brand new panties, that you may or may not have bought for just him. It should make you sick when you spritz yourself in his favorite perfume, growing flustered at the memory of him complimenting you for it.

All of it should make you sick to your stomach but that's not a possibility when he chose you. He chose you to keep going back to, he chose you to continue seeing and not one and done your ass. A twisted part of your brain is so convinced that he has some sort of feelings for you, the way you do for him. It's like a kaleidoscope, no matter how you twist or turn it, the colors are always so beautiful.

And if everyone wanted to tell you any different, all you had to do was show them the sparkling diamond necklace that hung from your chest. A thoughtful gift from the man they all claimed didn't have any love in his heart, even though you and everyone else knew it was a way to show his claim on you.

The familiar sound of Steve's blacked out Jeep pulling in your drive way makes your heart jump with excitement. Wasting no time, you dash down the drive, not wanting to keep him waiting any longer.

Pulling the door open you're met with the all too familiar scent of him, Ralph Lauren Ultra Blue swirling in your nose and going straight to your head.

He looks so good in his grey joggers, hugging his thick thighs that he knows drive you crazy. The white Hanes tee he wears is crisp, like he ironed it before putting it on. The sleeves wrap about his toned chest oh so perfectly causing some of his wild chest hair to poke out. To add the icing on the cake he's wearing that gold chain, that damn gold chain you loved looking at when he had you on your back.

"Hey trouble." White teeth flash in the darkness of the car, like the moon that's hung in the sky.

"Hi Stevie," You internally cringe at how needy it sounds, "how was work?" He gives you a small chortle at your question, still smiling that damn smile that could cure deceases.

"It was fine, had to cut the college's lawns. Ya know, the fun stuff." You nod your head at his answer, too nervous to even give a spoken response.

"Anyway, I thought we could take a ride down to lover's." It's said like it wasn't common knowledge already. Giving him a small okay, he leans over and places a quick peck on your lips, before putting the car into drive.

The ride to lover's lake from your house was a short seven minute drive but for some reason it felt like the roads were getting longer and longer. You want to jump out of the car, bile rising in your throat knowing how this is going to end. The heartbreak, the sadness you were gonna feel the minute he pulls out was already hitting you and it hasn't even happened yet.

His radio plays at a louder volume, The Weeknd's 'Try Me' bumping through the speakers.

You're the best I ever had

Baby girl, remind me, mind me

Let me now if it's on

And you know where to find me, find me

Havin thoughts you never had, yeah

You want to roll your eyes at the words but then again maybe he put this on because this is how he felt about you. The logical part of your brain tells you to get real but when you feel the fuzziness in your cheeks, your logic is all but ignored.

Maybe this time will be different, you think.

When he pulls onto the dirt path, he pulls the car under the big oak tree he always does. You wonder if this is where he brings all of his hookups but decide to push that though in the back of your head, not wanting to ruin the night.

"I missed you, trouble." Steve leans his back on the driver side door, watching you with those eyes you feel for all those months ago.

"And I bet you say that to all your little girlfriends." You jest back, making him roll his eyes dramatically.

"You and I both know that's not true." The low husky tone in his voice makes the fact he didn't deny the accusation of having other girls around, go down that much sweeter.

"You're all talk Harrington," You say seductively, leaning over the center console, "Why don't you show me how much you missed me?"

Steve's smile is wicked, pulling the keys out of the ignition, pointing you to get into the back. When you're settled in, he maneuvers ungracefully over the center console, making both of you laugh.

Sitting his body in the middle seat, you swing your leg over his lap, immediately locking your lips with his. Steve's not as rough as he usually is, taking his time like he's trying to memorize the way your mouth felt and tasted.

When you try to speed it up, he wraps his hand in your hair, yanking you off of him.

"Slow and steady, baby. We have all the time in the world." With your hair wrapped around his fist and his hard cock digging into your thigh, his voice is all but calm and sweet.

Moving back in to meet his lips, you match his energy. Rolling your hips slowly, you relish in the way he groans into your mouth. When you drag your hips over his again, you shudder with the way his hard on catches on your throbbing clit. Wetness starts to fill your panties, tummy tightening with want.

Steve's hands move to your hips, guiding your movement. Spit soaked lips leave yours, moving along your jaw down to your neck. Leaning your head up to the roof of the car, he takes that as invitation to massacre the tender skin.

He sucks hard, right where your vein pumps frantically with lust, leaving another mark for you to carry around. One more tattoo right on your heart that beats for him.

Pulling away, a thick finger grabs onto the chain that hides under the collar of your sweatshirt. The small diamond glittering softly in the darkness of the night.

"Look at my baby, wearing her present so proudly. Isn't that right?" It's cocky and it should make you shiver with an ick but it doesn't. It only fuels your delusions.

You hum in response, too dumb off of his kiss to even open your mouth.

"Nuh uh, I asked you a question." Moving your sight down to him, he's already looking up at you. His lips are shining, cheeks puffed from the smile that glitters up at you.

"Yes, daddy." A deep growl comes from the back of his throat, a feral look painting over him.

You pretty much get whiplash from how fast he rips off your sweatshirt, revealing the pretty lace bra in the color he adores so much on you. His lips suck harshly on the skin of your chest, leaving reminds of him for only you to see.

"Can I suck you off, daddy?" It's breathy and so desperate leaving your mouth, all that talk about not wanting to look needy right out the window.

When his head moves away from the valley of your cupped breasts, he looks like a kid on Christmas. Eyes twinkling with excitement, like he's been waiting for all year round to hear those words.

"Don't need to beg me now, trouble. It's all yours." The smirk that paints Steve's lips is devilish and if you were in the right headspace you'd scoff at his condescending tone. But right now he was giving you exactly what you wanted and you weren't about to complain.

Clambering off of his lap, you move into the seat next to him, kneeling down. You could double as a dog who waits patiently for their owner to drop their treat, tail wagging and heavily panting.

Steve lifts his hips pushing down his joggers and underwear in one go, his heavy cock jumping up in excitement, bouncing off of his stomach.

The saliva in your mouth pools, almost escaping through your slightly parted lips. Your metaphorical dog bone waiting in front of you but you can't have it until he tells you to, so you wait for him to get get comfy again.

Looking over at you, he raises an eyebrow as if to say 'well?', and that's all you need to hear to move forward, making sure to arch your back when you do.

You decide to tease him a bit, kitten licking the head before sliding your tongue up the prominent vein that sat on the underside. The feeling of him shuttering spurs you one even more, bringing a hand up to his heavy ball sack and gently running a finger over it. You can feel your panties being drenched even more with wetness, just from the thought of how he tastes.

As weird as it might sound, you loved Steve's dick. It was a good seven inches, with the slightest curve that made him hit that special spot every time. He was thick too, so thick you that he always needed to prep you with his three of his fingers before hand.

Bringing your head back to the tip, you dripple spit onto it, smearing it with the precum that's already beaded out. Ever so slowly, you take your hand and begin you jerk him at the base of it. Looking up at him, you can see him eyes closed, brows furrowed together, as his chest moves rapidly up and down.

Deciding that you can't wait any further, you put him in your mouth and start bobbing up and down. Not even halfway down his shaft and you begin to gag around him. Using your hand to take whatever your mouth can't, you move faster. The raunchy sounds of you slurping him up fill the small space of the car.

When Steve jolts his hips forward you can't help but choke, throat closing around him, making him moan deeply.

"I know but you can take it, right?" You do your best to nod your head with him in your mouth. You look up at him with glassy eyes, drool coming out both sides of your mouth, and he chuckles at you.

"So fuckin' pretty." Steve says breathlessly and you beam at the praise, going back to taking him further in your mouth.

You push through the want to gag, putting more and more of him in your mouth. You want to prove something to him, prove that no one else can make him feel like this and it seems to be working when he whines so loud it rings in your ears.

Pulling your hand off of the base, you cup his balls in your hand, messaging the sack gently in your hair. The heavy weight of his hand lands on the top of your head, once again yanking you by the hair.

You whine at the loss of his heavy cock in his mouth, pouting childishly at him when your at eye level with him again. He's panting hard, cheeks fleshed pink, and his hair messy from him running his hand through it.

"It was so good, honey," he breathes, "but I really wanna finish inside of you."

The sentence makes your belly burn even harder than before. Trying to move around in the cramped backseat is challenging, both of you pausing to laugh when your pants get caught on your foot awkwardly.

Once your leggings and panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, Steve takes his time admiring you. His gaze burns you with every movement of his eyes. Here you are, clumsily sprawled out for him in the backseat of his beloved Jeep.

Bringing a hand to your thigh, he rubs it up and down the skin, causing the skin to raise in goosebumps every time his finger would catch on the lip of your heat.

You whimper at him, raising your hips trying to meet his touch where you need him most. Tisking down at you, he shakes his head.

"What's the magic word?" He teases and you pout even harder.

"Please, Stevie? Need you." You say wetly, the burn of tears coming back in your eyes. Steve leans over you, so close that if you brought your head up just an inch, your noses would touch.

"The right answer was, 'Steve is the coolest', but I'll let it slide since you sound so cute." He whispers to you, placing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose.

The tip of his finger runs along your slit and you mewl at the feeling.

"Do you always get this wet, trouble? Or is this just for him." The smile pulled on is one like the joker. Sick and twisted and yet all you see is an angel from above.

"S'for you. S'always for you, daddy." It comes out like a slur, so drunk off of one little touch.

"That's my girl." It's more like a whisper when it comes out of his mouth.

His finger diving into the sticky mess that's been made in between your legs. Swirling his finger around your hole, spreading the wetness up to your bundle of nerves, moving in slow figure eights around it.

Steve hasn't even put a finger inside you yet and the lewd squelching of your pussy can probably be heard for miles. The feeling of him putting more pressure on your clit makes you jolt with pleasure. When the first finger breaches your hole, your eyes close in euphoria.

Even with just one of his fingers inside of you, it feels way better than anything else. The thickness of it stretching you further than two of yours could.

Still using his thumb to circle your clit, he pushes another finger in. Starting off slow, he pumps both into you, curling them up in a 'come hither' motion.

You're high off of him, off of the way his hands feel, and how good he's making you feel. All of that waiting and wondering when he'd reach out to you paying off in this very moment.

"You can take another one, right? You gonna take three of daddy's fingers like the good girl you are?" His voice is intoxicating and you drink it right up.

You nod your head, babbling 'please daddy' and 'more, more, more". He's eating it right up, the way he's got you dumb and he hasn't even fucked you yet.

Without another word, another thick finger joins the other two. This time he decides to go faster, hitting that spot you struggle to reach on your own. With his thumb still swirling around and now three fingers deep, you can feel the tightness in your stomach building.

You can feel your slick dripping down your ass onto the leather seat beneath you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, legs pulling up from where he's sat between them, toes curling in a death grip.

"I'm gonna, fuck, I'm cumming," The sentence gets cut off with the air that's trapped in your throat.

His movements don't stop, guiding you through your orgasm. When the waves of your orgasm washes over you, your legs relax like they're filled with jelly, slobber running down the side of your face, and your chest moving unsteady as you try to catch your breath.

You hiss when he removes his hand from you, mourning the loss of feeling full. Moving his fingers to his lips, he sucks your juices off of them one at a time, releasing them with a pop when he's done.

Using his other hand, he brushes some of the hair that's sticking to your face with sweat behind your ear. Placing delicate kisses to your cheeks and forehead, he glances down at you. The harsh black that once enveloped his irises are now softened with a look that you have yet to decipher.

"You did such a good job for me, sweetheart." He coos at you, running his thumb along your jaw. "You okay? Need a break?"

"No, I'm okay Stevie." Your smile is nothing but pure happiness. Blame it on the after glow of your orgasm all you want, but the happiness is purely due to his attentiveness to you.

Placing one more kiss to your deprived lips, he moves his attention to his aching cock. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he jerks himself a few times before lining himself up to your entrance.

Pushing in gently, his tip breaches your hole and all the air is punched out of your lungs. Even with his prepping, you never seem ready for the real thing.

Going inch by inch, stopping every so often for you to catch your breath, he finally pushes all the way in. After waiting for the okay, he doesn't hesitate to pound into you.

You swear you can feel him in your stomach, reworking each and everyone of your organs, but you could careless when it feels this good. You want this feeling forever, the feeling of his weight on top of you, him spreading you out so well.

The gold chain that hangs from his freckled neck dangles in front of you, hypnotizing you with the way it moves back and forth. With all the strength you have, you watch him trying to remember how he looks when he's inside of you so when he ultimately ghosts you, you can close you eyes and imagine it.

Steve looks so beautiful like this, eyes closed tightly, browns pulling together, pink puffy lip tucked behind his straight teeth. You want to take a picture, hang it in a museum for all of the world to see, but this is for only you to see. Your own little memento for you to keep to yourself.

"Fuck you're so wet, hmph, and warm. Jesus" Steve grits out, bringing you back to reality.

Skin slapping off of skin echoes out, loud moans and groans making a lovely soundtrack just for you two.

"Shit, right there!" You cry out when his cock hits just perfectly on your cervix.

"Bullseye," He whispers to himself before ramming into you even harder than before.

Your mouth curls into an O shape, no words or sounds coming out. The feeling of your finger nails raking down his back backs him grunt loudly.

"You and this pussy are mine. Tell me you're mine." He demands but you can't do it, too overwhelmed with the way your stomach has started to tighten.

Because you don't answer right away, he snakes his hand down to your abused clit, circling it again causing you to jolt from overstimulation.

"Don't make me tell you again, trouble." He spits out.

"I'm yours Steve. S'yours." You shout, your orgasms approaching faster and faster.

"S'always gonna be mine, right? No one else?" He question and it sends your head reeling.

"Always yours, always fuck, yours." You're babbling now, tippy toeing on the brink of your release.

"Come on baby, cum for daddy. Cum on my cock." He pants, going faster and faster as he does.

Without argument, you're hurdled over the the edge, gushing and pulsing around Steve. He continues to fuck into you, chasing his own high now.

"Cum in me, daddy. Wanna feel it so bad." You coax, wanting to feel the warmth of his seed filling you up.

"I love how you feel, baby. You got, motherfuck, no idea." His strokes are starting to lose rhythm, sloppily moving as he continues.

"I love this pussy s'much. Fuckin' love yo-" Before he can finish his statement, he cums with a guttural moan.

Your mind goes blank, eyes snapping open with confusion. Was he about to say he loved you? Is that what he was going to say? Every single question runs through your mind while the boy in question is collapsed on top of you, breath choppy and erratic as he comes down.

After what feels like the world's longest minute, he removes himself off of you, pulling his dick out from your cunt. You whimper at the feeling, missing him even more than before.

Wordlessly, Steve pulls open the center consul and takes out a couple of napkins. Returning his attention to you, he wipes down the mess of you and his release off of you, causing you to shudder. He repeats 'sorry' over and over again as he does.

After that, he uses what's let to clean himself off before getting redressed. You move from your position on your back, sitting upright to ungracefully put your clothes back on. In the darkness of his car, you can't find the panties you were once wearing, deciding to forget about them and pull your leggings back on.

The blissful after glow that was once there is now demolished, a big elephant taking up most of the space now. When he moves back to the driver seat, you follow right behind him, planting yourself in the passenger.

Steve doesn't turn the car on just set, he just sits looking straight ahead through the clouded windshield to the darkness of the woods that sit in front of you. You want to say something, break up the awkwardness that sits between you two but you don't know what to even say.

It smells like sweat and sex, every window is fogged up with both of your hot breath, and the only sound that can be heard is the breaking of your heart.

You know he won't be back in two weeks, you know that his texts will stop rolling in, and that he'll eventually find someone to fill your spot. The bloodshed that's now left, of whatever this was, now fills the backseat of his car. A crime scene that will haunt him every time he looks in the rearview mirror, a murder by his own hands.

This cat and mouse game isn't fun anymore for Steve, not when he's lost at his own game. You're the cause of his demise, the girl that's broken through all his barriers.

Unbeknownst to you, you're all that Steve thinks about. Every morning, noon, and night, it's you that is on his mind. The months of seeing you, feeling you, the taste of you, were killing him softly. Steve didn't buy gifts for other girls, yeah he fucked around, but he never kept one around the way he did with you and he surely didn’t fuck them raw the way he does with you.

Steve was falling for you, opening himself up in such a vulnerable way that it scared him. He stopped the late night drive going nowhere, switching it to strictly going to lover's lake. The talks that he had with you, all the times you made each other laugh, were now replaced with short answers. Meeting up with you almost all the time now became once every couple of weeks.

You were the one thing, the one person Steve wanted and needed in his life but he couldn't give into it. He was a bad person, an asshole who turned good people into shells of themselves, and out of everyone he couldn't ruin you. He wouldn't ruin you.

Putting the keys into the ignition, he turns the car on, headlights illuminating the trees around you. Cracking the windows, he lets the cool air sweep the scent of you out of his car. Putting the car in drive, he presses down on the gas as hard as he can, taking off of in a flash.

The car ride home is silent, only the hum of his music can be heard with the whooshing of the wind. Anxiety fills your body, picking and pulling the skin around your nails with your teeth.

The loud ding of his phone rings out, a notification popping up on the Apple radio screen. Your heart cracking when you see it.

IMessage:

Jess💦: Still coming over?

Taking his phone out of the cupholder, his eyes are still trained on the road. As he pulls up to the red light, he types out something quickly and then puts it back down.

Another ding is heard and another notification pulls up on the larger screen.

IMessage:

Jess💦: See you soon daddy

Tears fall quietly from your eyes, your heart now completely shattered in the front seat of his car. You should've know, you did know and you still did it. You let your naïve heart believe that maybe you could change him, and you ended up looking like the idiot everyone said you were.

You can't even be mad because they were right, you were a goddamn idiot to think Steve Harrington loved you, let alone liked you enough to change.

More tears fall onto your cheeks, the burning feeling of a choked sob sits in the back of your throat. It feels like everything that could've went wrong, did just that.

The cold nip of the night air can't compete with the way your veins have frozen over and your heart slowly turning into a lump of coal. When he pulls in front of your house, he puts it in park and looks over at you.

“So,” he hesitates, “do you need money for a plan b?”

Your mouth hangs low in shock and he’s looking at you cluelessly. Scoffing at him you pull the handle to the door open.

“Don’t worry Harrington, I’m on birth control.” Putting a foot onto the ground, you got to get out, pausing turning your head back to him.

“Not like the world needs another you in it.”

Getting out of the car, you slam the door so hard you're surprised the glass doesn't shatter.

This was the end of whatever you and Steve were, him being the one to cut that pesky string that kept you close to him. Steve Harrington has changed you, a hateful person now replacing the sweet girl he loved so much.

The girl that Steve Harrington loves was now dead and Steve Harrington was now dead to you.

Thank you all for reading. The ending is rushed but we won't speak on that lmao. Love you all <3

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_

_

[dirtytransmasc]

imagine Steve spoiling his friends/partners/etc. with his shitty excuse for a father's money. cause gift giving is totally one of his love languages, I will die on this hill.

now apply this to any of these scenerios (this is all on top of the general but utmost spoiling):

little!Billy - getting him all the nicest toys, being able to make him his own safe room, taking care of his little ones every wish.

trans!Billy (transfem, transmasc, gender fluid, etc. this works for any of them). getting transfem Billie cute little dresses and lingerie, any makeup she eyes in the store, the finest jewelry, helping her get any cosmetics or hormones she desires, spoiling her absolutely rotten. filling gender fluid! Billy's closet with whatever they want. paying for transmasc! Billy's top surgery and T.

trans!Tommy - similar to billy, paying for his medical care, buying him all the clothes he wants, packers too (his boy deserves the best).

puppy!Tommy - getting him his first hood and tail, getting him a pretty leather collar and harness.

kinky!Eddie - getting him the best toys (for him to use in that was a typo but I'm leaving it there lmao Steve later), the finest sheets, the cutest lingerie (again, normally for Steve to wear and for Eddie to enjoy). he makes sure to splurge on the nicest rope and doesn't cheap out in the new headboard.

~SFW AND PLATONIC FROM HERE ON~

Chrissy - going grocery and clothes shopping with Chrissy, helping her ignore all the sizes and nutrition values. making sure she gets everything she wants, and never feels ashamed for it. getting her flowers when she goes out of her comfort zone on something.

the kids - taking the kids to the arcade and giving them like 20 bucks each and letting them run wild. getting max the best skateboard/skate gear for her birthday. getting the kids stuff for their campaign's. helping upgrade the schools av club material. giving Erica, max, and El money to go to the mall (had it not been destroyed or linked to evil Russians)

Robin - splurging in robins safe foods so he always had some in him or at his house. buying her whatever fidgets and expensive but insanely comfortable clothes. buys her new books/instruments/writing materials/etc. (I hc her as very creative. she likes to read and write poetry, write and play music and songs, she loves to read in general). he finacially (Nancy deals with the paperwork and legal aspects) helps her copyright and publish her own books, stories, music, and poetry.

Nancy - she takes her combat/gun skills seriously even after the upside down and he invests in her classes/guns/gym membership. helps her start her own press, and doesn't let her give him a free subscription.

shoulders some of the parents (minus the wheelers, cause they suck) bills here and there when they let him. he normally finds ways to do it indirectly so they don't realize it.

Jonathan - he buys him new cameras here and there, spots him for the good weed when argyles not around. (pretty neutral on stonathan, so that's why he's down here)

tell me he wouldn't.

[the-furies]

i'm fine i've just been going insane /lh

had to take more hours at our second job for financial reasons + been doing almost nightly tutoring with my kid brother (the semester just ended for him). very busy but no like emotional turmoil or anything.

today's music rec theme is showtunes! i'm recommending totally fucked from spring awakening for billy, hard to be the bard from something rotten for eddie, never ever getting rid of me from waitress for steve, take it like a man from legally blonde for your jonathan, and all that's known from spring awakening for will+the party. honorary mention to tatoue-moi from mozart l'opera rock, considered recommending it to steve but idk if any of y'all're partial to french music/foreign languages.

also, dr. crane wants poe to listen to the fear song by amanda palmer

VIRTUALLY HUGS YOU !! (IF!! YOU'RE FINE WITH THAT OFC IF NOT THEN. VIRTUALLY SENDS U A HIGH-FIVE /LIGHTHEARTED)

We're!!! So glad y'all are okay jesus we were worried HFJSKDKF but we.,, worry easily. Hashtag Paranoia Things BCJDJD but anyway!! Jesus that sounds like a lot, we hope shit calms down soon!!

Great songs as usual tbh!! We aren't a Musical Fan™ but all of those songs are hella catchy I'll be damned /lighthearted -Billy

our recs:

Every Day is Exactly The Same - Nine Inch Nails (Steve's rec)

ooookay so We May Have Had Another Steve Form. Newer Steve is s1-2 era so we refer to him as Asshole Era Steve (/lighthearted) but ANYWAYS this is moreso his rec than OG!Steve's rec but they both agree that it is A Good Song and also A Relatable One as of late. Everything Always Feels The Goddamn Same All The Fuckening Time Forever! Hell On Earth!! /lh -Billy (neither of em are up front atm so I'm relaying for em)

Thermodynamic Lawyer Esq, G.F.D - Will Wood and the Tapeworms (my rec!)

ok so first off, suicide bait tw riiight at the end of the song, it's like the second to last verse gjsjdjf

Sooooo we love will wood's music but we Especially love the it when his songs are,,, Angry™ HFHSJDJFJ. WE JUST,, LIKE ANGRY MUSIC IDK WHY. Anyways top ten songs that are Full Of Emotion That We Enjoy!! NCNDJ -Billy

Acid King - Malibu Ken (Eddie's rec)

a couple tws for this one too: Major drugs tw and, if you watch the music video, uhh... emeto and body horror/General Gross Shit tws too djiakdjf. Very cool music video, it's all animated, but it's also a bit Detailed™ HFNSJDJ

The song basically goes into the story of the Acid King/"Say You Love Satan" killer, Kasso, so,,, If you already know about that then you already know what's up with the song BFNSKDKD but it is. CATCHY. We love it. Especially the outro!! Like,,, can't explain it but the outro lyrics are Important to me for some reason. -Eddie

Sweet Sweet - The Smashing Pumpkins (Jonathan's rec)

We recently sat down and did our like, Monthly Listen Of Siamese Dream™ so a lotta the album is still stuck in our head,, This song's very short and not a Favourite of ours but something about it struck a chord with me!

Honestly, we'd rec the whole album to y'all (and anyone. and Everyone tbh. it's one of our collective all time favourite albums ever) but we'll just,, do so in bits n pieces for now lmao. But if you do happen to decide to listen to it in full, please tell us what you think!! :D -Jonathan

Get The Lead Out - A Perfect Circle (Will's rec)

Now Will hasn't been fronting much recently (no particular reason, he's doing fine dw) so I'm also relaying for him rn.

I actually… Straight up lost track of where he is the past few days? The headspace is huge as hell though but we can keep in contact easily so I'm not, like. Worried, y'know. But I like mentally asked where he was and he replied with bits of this song (because communicating via music is his thing now it seems /lighthearted) -Jonathan

The Raven - Nevermore Musical (Poe's rec)

The perfect time to recommend a song from a musical it seems!! This song, or poem really, is where I got my name… And form. Well, one of them!

We had a huge Hyperfixation Moment on The Raven innnn uhhhhhh late 2019-early 2020? Twas when I was created and such! This rendition of it though is indeed a favourite of ours! Very emotional and fun to sing along to!! :} -Poe

[meant-to-be-a-hero]

Season Four, Chapter Six: The Dive

I can't believe Jason still thinks Eddie did this after seeing how scared he was on the boat. Idiot child.

From beneath you, it devours, and all that.

Hats off to the tortured dude, he holds out for a long time.

Walkie talkies are the saving grace of these kids.

"I can't stand to see those doe eyes of his break again." I feel like that was written after Joe Quinn was cast lmao.

Oh no, the Cheaper By The Dozen house!

Love At First Argyle.

They really do a good job of trying to keep all of the separate plot threads interesting. They're all so different but they're all pretty compelling (although Will and Mike is definitely the weakest one, while the Hawkins gang is the best without question).

That spread looks like something out of Vikings or Game Of Thrones.

Henry talking about One is that "Of course I know him, he's me." meme from Star Wars.

Robin's matchmaking is somehow both more and less subtle than Murray's.

"Jonathan and I are good!" Tell that to your face, Nance.

Honestly if Jonathan HAD been in Hawkins instead of at home, Will and Mike would probably be dead.

The town meeting makes my blood boil something rotten. People are so fucking dumb, especially when you put loads of them together.

We love the smell of Satanic Panic in the evening. Sigh.

Oh and now Jason's quoting scripture. For fuck's sake.

Somehow Powell and Callahan are even less effective now that Hopper's not around than they were when they were just normal officers. It isn't even ACAB, it's All Cops Are Morons.

Americanintendo as a cover story is...flimsy. But Suzie's gunna do it for Dustin, because love conquers all.

They should really lock that circuit breaker cupboard.

March of the ineffectual parents, and somehow Ted is still even more fucking useless.

Snack sized gate!

Those pyjama pants Steve is wearing are...a choice. Although knowing he's got those compression pants on underneath does make me feel better.

Dustin's enthusiastic boinging up and down is adorable.

It feels counter-intuitive for Brenner to be telling the kids not to let emotions into their thoughts since that's what makes Eleven more powerful. Unless he's leaning into the whole emotionless assassin thing.

"What's the internet?" Oh, Jonathan, you're going to wish you never asked.

Suzie's dad has that "did we have more kids and I didn't notice?" look that Mister Weasley had in Chamber Of Secrets when Harry turned up.

And the Fruity Four set sail at last, literally launching two ships into the lake on one little rowboat.

Nice to see that bullying even extends to secret bases for psychic children. I guess some things are universal.

Shirtless Steve. Same Nancy, same.

Max with the binoculars is very funny.

The fact that there's no clear shot of shirtless Steve this entire season is truly homophobic (and also good for not exploiting Joe Keery, but it can be two things).

I do enjoy the fact that Steve is clearly in shape but not like, ripped. Realistic body standards! Also the fact that they let him be hairy rather than shaving it all off is a nice change too.

I was actually really pleased with where Volume 1 ended, because if it'd been here, with Steve actively being strangled to death, I would have been PISSED for an entire month.

[samingtonwilson]

my little love

summary: there is a difference between hiding the grey of falling in love accidentally and shining in the brightness of choosing to grow in love purposefully-- so you’ll choose him as many times as you can.

pairing: bucky x reader

warnings: language, some angst, a lot of pining, very tiny sex mention. it’s me so there’s a lot of fluff and jokes.

a/n: no tag list because i couldn’t compile one lmao. this is just a former-fwb to friends to lovers fic that i started writing before wandavision or fatws came out so let’s pretend those shows don’t exist for the sake of this story! shout out to my best friend @allcaps1928​ for the text “IDIOT!BUCKY RIGHTS” after she read this.

also yes i know what the adele song i took the title from is about but it’s also about feeling love in a time of loneliness. 

The sip of coffee turns to ash on your tongue— acrid. Caustic when you swallow. 

You smile, though. Bright, it convinces Bucky. 

He grins around a sip of his latte. Cinnamon, brown sugar— something warm and sweet which sticks like glue to ribs gone brittle under decades of ice burn. His tongue sweeps over his lips, still smiling. 

You could keep it up for that. Hide the grey and let your smiles radiate every color he needs. 

Blue like ice when he’s on fire, green like sycamores when he needs to breathe. Something yellow to keep him warm, white to guide him home. Pink and red crêpe paper hearts, roses and boxes of chocolate— Valentine’s Day grins glowing with love. 

There’s something purple about this one. Velvety and comforting. A promise in the curve of your lips, in the twinkle of sleepy eyes. Lavender aromatherapy turns to smoke when he looks away. Soot in your lungs, you cough. 

It burns, doesn’t it? Singes your tongue with every breath? Maybe that’s why you can’t speak. 

Maybe it’s why you haven’t spoken for weeks now, the extent of contact lying in a wave to say good morning across the line of treadmills and ellipticals, a nod to say good night as elevator doors slide shut. 

He’d asked about it. Had the good manners to not blame you entirely with a soft concession that he hasn’t been around much lately anyway. Not good enough manners to leave you be as you’d gotten up to walk out of the conference room, though. Not good enough manners to just let some things go with a shrug— manners rotten enough to demand coffee in the name of playing catch-up. 

The café is a familiar space. 

It began as a place of refuge from missing the echo of Steve’s voice in the quiet halls of the Tower. A place so different from Tony’s labs where Peter and Morgan would spend hours tinkering with suits left behind for no one in particular while Pepper handled business. Somewhere you wouldn’t find Natasha’s hair ties or those pastel pink plates and mugs which she knew would be met with questions only to preemptively decree that she likes pink, okay? Sue me. 

It hosted the two of you after a mission in Kolkata and withstood the degradation of its lukewarm, overly spiced chai in comparison to the sweet, piping hot doodh cha in clay cups you’d snuck out of the hotel for at four in the morning, sleepy Sam in tow. The mustachioed chaiwala had made no comment of your black eye, the bump on Sam’s forehead, and the limp in Bucky’s step and instead offered striped packets of Parle-G. The café walls didn’t hear the end of that for the hours the two of you spent huddled in the corner. 

It kept the two of you cool in the summer of 2024 when a teenager in cork sole sandals and a light blue mesh top with cloud print told anyone who would listen— and yelled at those who would not— about how you are all so fucked, how climate change is gonna get us all because of the oil companies and the fucking government. You think the fires and disease are gonna stop? Get a goddamn clue, New York! You’d nodded along, applauded by snapping your fingers in agreement while Bucky glared down anyone who even contemplated opening their mouths in opposition. 

It calmed the fire behind your ribs after nights— and sometimes afternoons— marked by urgency, a solution to loneliness and a-far-from-guaranteed tomorrow. Iced green tea with a squeeze of lemon and a brown sugar latte with a touch of cinnamon, a shared slice of apple crumble. Shyness in the colliding of your forks despite the bareness of only a small while before, unacknowledged and ignored intimacy beyond physical forcing your silverware apart. An echoing of the promise to maintain brick boundaries, words unsaid aching in the hand you want him to hold, the lips you wish he’d kiss outside the darkness of your bedroom.

It’s your space. Yours and Bucky’s. Holy perhaps to no one, but sacred to the two of you.

And it feels ruined now. Under snowfall and ash, frostbitten noses, your fingers burnt from desperately clutching the few remaining embers of wasted emotion, the café feels ruined. Your crumbling Parthenon. 

He smiles at a tricolored corgi seated on the floor a few tables over. His question takes a sledgehammer to one of the remaining pillars, “Fuck the sneezing. I should get flowers anyway, right?” 

“Flowers?” an attempt at a nonplussed expression, a casual sip of tea. You aren’t sure of your success.

“Yeah, my ma would make a big stink about it whenever I’d take a girl out.” His smile is fond, nostalgic. Only a little sad— he’s been working through it. “S’a li’l old-fashioned, I know. But it’s been three months. Feel like it’s the right time to get a little cheesy.” 

You’d thought about calling it off. The bricks had fractured, grout eroded from love which burnt like acid. 

But he’d beat you to the punch. Something about a third date. Something about going steady. Monogamy. He’d smiled, too, as if the words tasted like candy. Perfect white teeth bearing down on your heart as you could only grin along. Yellow with warmth even as you felt yourself freeze over. 

Was it all his responsibility? 

Or was it your palms, blistered and sore from pushing, pushing, pushing?

“Flowers are nice.” You draw the number 8 in your drink with a paper straw. “A little cheesy is nice.” 

He returns your smile with one of his own, flicks a finger against your knuckle. “Tell me what’s goin’ on with you.” 

You shrug. “Nothing to report.” 

“Find that hard to believe. I can hear you an’ Sam getting back late at night, you know?” He taps the curve of his ear. “Super soldier hearing, remember?” 

Eyes rolling, you skate a fingernail around the rim of your tall glass. “I’m coming back with Sam. What could I have to report if I’m coming back with Sam every night?” 

“Fair enough,” he says after a moment of thought. There’s laughter in his voice, bright and happy, and, though you know he isn’t taunting you, there's the pang of an insult in your stomach. “Just thought something— someone— outside the Tower might be keeping you busy.”

It’d started on a Wednesday. Rainy and so windy you’d watched a woman lose her umbrella from your window and hissed sympathetically through your teeth. After one of those dinners Sam arranged on a night most of you were free, smiling over Doordashed gnocchi in an attempt to keep the few of you who were left together. 

Wanda, green eyes dull and haunted, had spoken for the first time in ten days. Told Sam he should be proud she’d dragged a brush through her hair for him, stared at her plate with sight blurred by tears when he said he was. 

Peter had dropped a can of soda and screamed at the burst, apologized with his hands over his ears. 

Sam, for the first time since you’d known him, had looked defeated. Something so profoundly fractured deep within him rose to the surface. The shield comes with a lot, he’d once said after a mission went south. Just gotta find the right stance to balance it all. 

During the mission he’d smiled, but that night over dinner you’d seen beneath it. 

So, since that Wednesday night, you’ve taken up more missions. Carried more responsibility. Played Mother Goose to Wanda and Peter. Become Sam’s sounding board for strategy. A lap for him to lay his head in on nights in and a shoulder for him to lean against in cab rides after nights out. 

If he needs reminders, you’ll paste Post-It note affirmations to his mirror. If he needs to forget, you’ll take him to his favorite bar and match him drink for drink.

He’s healed since that night. Found a stance which favors balance, set the fracture and let it mend under a cast wrapped in red, white, and blue. 

Yet, because of the nights you drink more than he does and the nights you cry into a bowl of popcorn at movie scenes meant to bring warmth, he lets you imagine you’re stitching his heart together when your fingers really work to keep together the walls of your own. 

You held his hand through it so he’ll hold yours. No matter whose benefit you think you’re doing it for. 

“Work things,” is your explanation to Bucky. You smile then. “Saving the world is more time consuming than I thought it’d be.” 

“S’a real shame they don’t cover that in orientation. I went into this thinkin’ it’d be a straight-forward nine to five.” 

“Those ‘out of the office’ emails just don’t work the way they used to.” Before he can smile, you sit up straight with an apologetic frown. “So sorry.” You slow your speech, raise your volume, and make large gestures, “An email is electronic mail. It’s sent via this thing called the internet through, like, electronic devices—” 

“Christ’s sake,” he laughs, loud and happy. Rolls brightened blue eyes. “You think you’re a real fuckin’ riot, don’t you?” 

“Absolutely,” you say through laughter of your own. “Why? You gonna tell me I’m not?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sits back, grin firmly in place. “Who am I to tell you the sky ain’t blue?” 

“Wow, don’t give out compliments too freely now. I might start to think you missed me.” 

He hums out a sigh. There’s a gentleness despite the intensity in his stare. “You wouldn’t be wrong if you did.” 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“I know,” he nods. He drains what remains in his cup and smacks his tongue against his lips. “Work things.” 

An uneasy silence seems to set over the café. Something unsaid and ignored in the skepticism of his voice is a suffocating blanket spread over words which, free of context, are innocent enough. You think you could scream under the heavy blanket and go unheard, struggle with all of your strength and remain tangled. Fleece in your fists, fleece in your lungs, fleece between your teeth. It may be easier to lay there, may be more difficult to struggle. 

It’ll all go unseen anyway.

An incoming notification brightens the screen of your phone. 

Two hours have passed. 

Two hours in asking if he should go with the grey button-down— it’s smart, brings my eyes out, too— or the black sweater— I like black, always have. 

Two hours in wondering whether the restaurant Pepper suggested is a good option— Stark took her there n’ I’m no fuckin’ Stark; that Depression frugality stuck— before he settled on Sam’s suggestion— Wilson knows a good plate-a food, I’ll give his dumb ass that. 

Two hours in thinking about some chocolate— hell, I could use some chocolate myself. Maybe flowers— is sneezing unattractive? Because roses fuck me up fast. 

You sit in the ruins, temple pillars reduced to dust and rubble at your feet, and remind him, “You’re gonna be late.” 

He shakes himself from the daze of expectation. “Right.” A drag of his hands down the lap of his jeans and he gestures vaguely toward the exit. “Come on—” 

“Sam’s actually my ride. Pepper signed us up to build sets for Morgan’s play.” Setting your chin in your palm, you look up at him as he stands and smile. Shake the snow from weeping willow trees to make it reassuring. “Have a nice time tonight.” 

It’s interesting to inspect the damage to the temple once he leaves. To see the debris of delicate stone deities and the spilled wax of burnt out candles. To hear the echoes of prayers once whispered and laughter once sung like hymns. To feel Earth stop its slow spin in mercy. And to be the only one to experience it. 

The barista still places cardboard cups under the espresso machine, her manager coaches himself into presenting customers with rehearsed smiles. A family of three sits by the window, two smoothie glasses and three straws between them. A girl in a tennis skirt places a kiss on the pouted lips of a girl in tight black jeans, eyes wide and loving. Small temples of Pentelic marble. Complex, but sturdier. Foundations of intention, rather than accident. In their golden age while you sit, Athens fallen around you in a loss against Sparta. 

Sam orders a three-shot oat milk latte, extra hot— to go, even though he moves to sit for a couple-a minutes. Murmurs something about having a long night ahead of him when he takes the seat Bucky had occupied. There’s concern in the deep brown of his eyes as he appraises you. 

Frowning, he means to ask but twists his mouth in a grin instead when the café manager— rehearsed smile in place— sets a slice of reine de saba in front of him. 

“On the house, Cap. I mean, Mr. America,” the manager, a tall short man with a mop of brown hair, pauses as he registers what he’s said. “Mr. Captain Wilson, sir.” 

Sam has enough manners to only smile. You, however— forced to cover your lips with your hand to laugh quietly— seem to have forgotten the concept of manners. 

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, digging a fork into the slice. “S’why we do what we do. The free cake.”

Sam wastes no time once the manager walks away. Scooping up what should be a decent mouthful of cake and slivered almonds, he asks, “Wanna tell me why you look like that?” 

“Like what?” you take the fork he offers you and cut a small piece for yourself. Eyes narrowed, you drop the mere morsel and cut a bigger portion. “Keep in mind that I’ll suffocate you in your sleep if you say anything other than ‘ethereal’ or ‘radiant.’ I know where you live, Mr. Captain Wilson, sir.” 

“I was gonna say ‘like shit,’” he tells you. He laughs when you hold your fork up to threaten a stabbing. “I’m sorry. Like radiant, ethereal shit.”

“Sleep with one eye open,” is your response, accompanied by a glare. To answer his question, though, “I didn’t get much rest last night.” 

“Why’s that?” You shrug. “Those melatonin gummies are a damn lie. S’just shitty candy.” 

He doesn’t buy it. Skeptically, “You sure?” 

“Yeah, it just sticks in my teeth. And what kind of flavor is ‘midnight berry’ anyway?” 

He says your name. In that low, sighed way. Pushes what remains of the gateau in your direction so he can focus more directly on his coffee. “If you’re—” 

“I’m fine,” you say with a laugh. You poke at the cake. “Gonna try that Sleepytime tea nonsense tonight and if that doesn’t work, I’ll come to your room. One of those painfully boring stories of yours and I’ll be out like a light.” 

“Boring, huh? I think you might be mistaking me for Barnes.”

“As if. Look how handsome you are,” you reach across the table and roughly pinch his cheek, grinning when he slaps your hand away. “Barnes doesn’t even compare.”

“Don’t think flattering me is gonna get me to stop worrying,” he warns. “I’m persistent.” 

“I think what you mean to say is ‘a pain.’” 

He rolls his eyes but otherwise drops it. The sip he takes of his latte is long and slurped, the sound drawing a laugh from you. “Tastes better that way.” 

“Yeah? Does obnoxiousness bring out the notes of chicory?” 

“Molasses, actually.” 

A fond shake of your head and you rise when Sam does, waiting as he stuffs a small bundle of bills into the tip jar on the counter. 

“Did you ever find out what play they’re putting on?” he asks when you walk ahead of him to the door. He reaches around you to pull it open, holding it as you pass through. 

“Jack and the Beanstalk.” 

He frowns in consideration as the two of you reach where his car is parked. “Do we know which character Morgan is playing?” 

“Not yet. Auditions are tomorrow. She’s gunning for the bean saleswoman.” 

“The what?” 

“Bean saleswoman,” you repeat just a little louder, laughing when Sam exaggerates his confused expression further. “She’s the one who takes Jack’s cow and gives him magic beans.” 

“I thought that was supposed to be a scary old man.” 

“Morgan thought about all the characters and their motivations and decided she liked the bean seller’s motivation the most.” 

“Which is what?” 

“According to Morgan, ‘the bean seller has lots of beans and no cow. And she really wants a cow.’ Morgan likes cows.” Grinning when Sam snorts, you sit back against the plush passenger’s seat. 

“Why isn’t Barnes helping?”

“He has a date tonight,” is your sighed reply. It earns you a brief look from Sam. “And with the way his relationship’s going, probably his wedding next week.” 

“He’ll have to postpone holy matrimony.” Sam shrugs when you glance at him. “There’s a situation in Kyiv and I’m sending you two on Saturday.” 

“You were sitting on that in the café?” 

“The car’s a secure location, right?” 

Shocked laughter is fractured by a nervous tremble. The world turns slowly once more. Your mouth opens, shuts, and opens again until you land on, “But the play—” 

He offers you a strange look. “It’s only three days. You can build sets when you get back.”

Your movements feel slow, as if you’re moving through syrup. You feel each aching centimeter of your stomach falling, each flexing and stretching muscle when you nod. “Okay. What’s the situation?”

“Ukraine’s got parliamentary elections coming up. Prime Minister Shmyhal is worried about what the Svoboda and Batkivshchyna parties have planned.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee and puts the cup in the holder again. “There are rumors of a repeat of 2012 and 2013 when Svoboda and Batkivshchyna deputies accused MPs of voting for absent colleagues. It escalated to fist fights and xenophobic chants during a televised speech, and the Batkivshchyna stormed the podium in parliament to prevent swearing-ins. These guys have attacked members of the press, allegedly killed four national guardsmen, and constantly threaten violence if they don’t get their way. All the rumors are made worse by the new president dissolving parliament during his inauguration.”

“Can he do that?” 

“Court said it was legal when the last guy did it and called for snap elections. The Svoboda hate this guy and the idea of losing whatever seats they managed to hold onto during the Blip. So it’s not a good scene.” 

“And all of that is only gonna last three days?” 

He shakes his head but keeps his eyes on the road. “Fury’s had his agents in place since the presidential election. They noticed Svoboda party members flyin’ in from Lviv and getting rooms near the Verkhovna Rada building two days ago. Timing’s off, need to do some recon to see what it’s about.” 

“You can’t come with me instead?” 

Another strange look. “Barnes can speak Ukrainian, spent a couple months there when he was on the run so he knows his way around. You gotta talk yourself into some places, blend in in others. You can’t do that with both of us knowing fuck all about the language.” 

Sam watches as you attempt to burrow into the seat further, your arms crossing over your chest. “Fine.”

A brief pause, thick and lingering like smoke, floods the car until, “Is something goin’ on?” 

“Huh?” You watch the light change from red to green. You ignore the burning feel of Sam’s stare. “No, not that I know of.” 

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁 

You sit in the glow of five bright screens. 

Eyes narrowed beneath a pair of thick glasses, your fingers are sticky with grains of sugar and citric acid. One leg rests on the dining table, one is bent with your knee at your chest. A tablet sits unsteady on your thigh, blueprints of the hotel suite and floor digitized with X’s marking the areas covered by a camera, their scope accounted for with dashed-line borders. 

Bucky winks into the camera he’s set up. The leaves of a fern— which sits in a corner of the living room— cover part of his left eye, blur the cockiness of his expression. He grins when your scoff rings through the comms. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Buck.”

“Got a good view?”

“Wouldn’t know,” you reply, popping another Sour Patch Watermelon into your mouth. Bucky can hear the smile in your voice. “Your giant head’s in the way.” 

“Oh, that’s the best view, honey.” Your poorly suppressed laughter receives a small smile in return, more to himself though it’s captured by the camera. “Can you see both couches?” 

“Not really. Turn the pot about 30 degrees clockwise.” 

“Come on, it’s been 15 minutes of turning the damn—” 

“We can argue later. Agent H said their session wrapped as of four minutes ago and they’re heading back.” 

Sighing, he crouches out of sight and the view shifts. You have a clearer view of the desktop— not clear enough, however. “S’better,” you say. “There’s a leaf in the way.” 

Vibranium fingers struggle to tuck the leaf aside and a handful of too-long seconds pass this way. You watch as his frustration grows. Exasperation shines over his features until he rips the leaf from its branch, the force of which moves the camera a few inches. “Fuckin’ stupid—” 

“If you’re done fighting a leaf, you just moved the camera.” 

His eyes meet the lens. Pleading. You almost feel bad. “I can’t just stick this shit on a table?” 

“This is a better vantage point. The tables are too close to the center of the room.” You glance at the other screens. “Okay, slide the pot two inches to the right.”

He crouches again. Once the view shifts very slightly, “That good?” 

It’s fine. Yet, “Not really. Slide to the right.” 

You hum when he complies. “Now slide to the left.” The plant is moved less than a few centimeters to the left, leaves rustling. “Take it back now, y’all.” 

The plant is scooted barely half an inch back before Bucky stands and glares at the camera. The chill of ice is felt through the screen. 

Nonetheless, “One hop this time.” A pause. “Right foot, let’s stomp.” 

A roll of his eyes. 

And he stomps his right foot. 

“Left foot, let’s stomp.” 

He stomps his left foot. 

“Cha cha real smooth.” Drumming a beat against your thigh, you attempt to beatbox along with it, not deterred in the least that he is standing entirely still. “Turn it out.” 

Bucky— long-suffering expression, long-suffering tone— asks, “Can you see the whole room?” 

“Can you do the Cha Cha Slide?” When he only glares, you sigh. “It was fine before. Move it up half an inch and to the right half an inch, buzzkill.” 

“Is that right? I’m a buzzkill?” He rights himself once the plant is in place. “Who was it that told Sam about my plan?” 

“You wanted to tie these guys up in our room until the elections were done without evidence of wrongdoing. That’s kidnap.” 

“It’s incapacitation, you li’l tattletail.”

“Incapacitation by kidnap.” 

A dismissive wave of his hand. “Semantics. Besides, I wasn’t gonna charge ‘em ransom.” 

“You don’t have to ask for ransom money for it to be a kidnap.” 

“Yes, you do. Otherwise it’s just hangin’ out. And a spectacular waste of time.” 

A less than attractive raspberry bubbles past your lips. “Your legal knowledge is changing my life, Bucky.” 

“And it’s free of charge. You struck gold when you met me.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Your phone buzzes with an incoming message from Agent H: Entered hotel lobby, heading toward elevators. 

“They’re headed to the elevators.” You check each screen, note the perimeters. “The cameras are fine where they are. You should—” 

The door to your room clicks shut.

Bucky— much too casually in your opinion— makes his way to you as he removes his gloves. He snorts at your gun still pointed in his direction, his jacket landing in a pile on the couch as you flip the safety back on.

He doesn’t notice your incredulous stare until he’s beside you, checking each camera angle for himself. He returns your stare with one of his own, brows lifted. “What?” 

“What ‘what’? I could’ve shot you.” 

You receive a skeptical look in return. “You aren’t rash enough.”

“You don’t even wait for my signal? You just stroll back?” 

“You said they were headed to the elevators,” he shrugs. His hands are set on the table, one on either side of you, so he can stare at the monitors comfortably. The warmth rolling from his chest seems to thaw the tension in your shoulders. “Don’t worry. I checked if the hall was clear.” 

“What if the camera angles were still off?” 

“I prioritized not getting caught,” his voice is now an absentminded mumble, chin set on top of your head. 

He slides the hotel service folder toward himself and flips through the laminated pages with vibranium fingers. There’s a faint scritch scratch of his stubble against your hair when he asks, “How do you feel about dessert for dinner? They’ve got medovyk.” 

He pumps his eyebrows twice when you tilt your head back to look at him. He grins wide in an attempt at persuasion.

The person who boarded the Quinjet just two days ago was resolved to maintain a modicum of professionalism. A certain strength of boundary. That person sat far from the cockpit. Played music loud enough to ache the eardrums below shaking buds. Cracked open a book which had gone unread for eight long years. 

It took one conversation for that person to vanish. Just a casual question about exfoliation and you set your book aside. After all, should one really break an eight year pattern?

You and Bucky fell into your usual rhythm over those two days. You shared looks across Verkhovna Rada chambers when you posed as security guards. You hid your laughter behind cups of coffee as you met with Agent H and Agent L for morning briefings. You took half of his deruny at dinner and he took half of your varenyky. No pillow border divided you at night, nothing to stop your toes from burying themselves in the warmth of his legs or his nose from nudging your forehead. 

You wave a dismissive hand and use the tablet to disable the looped footage you’d sent to the hallway security camera feeds. Both of your legs now rest on the table, crossed at the ankle. “Order what you want. I’m not too hungry.” 

He straightens and shakes his head in disappointment. “How can you be when you fill up on junk?”

He scoops a handful of tiny sugar-coated watermelon slices from the bag of candy and tosses it all into his mouth. He wags his finger in your face as he chews, nearly striking your nose. “Shit’s awful. You’re gonna pass out one day from malnutrition.” 

You hum and watch as he takes another handful. Your lips curl in playful anger. “Yeah, maybe I’ll adopt your diet. What’s it called? The ‘everything in sight’ diet?” 

“Are you saying I eat a lot? That’s rude, sweetheart, and I’m sensitive.” 

He rolls his eyes at the pout of sympathy you offer him while you set your hand under his chin, guiding his head to the left, then the right. Eyes narrowed, you inspect his features and place your fingers against his pulse point, concluding seconds later with, “You’ll live.”

His sole response when you laugh and sit back, thoroughly satisfied with yourself, is a sarcastic smile. 

A sarcastic smile which shifts seconds later into something genuine. Something soft.

Two days of stepping in that old rhythm and Bucky’s taken a dive into familiarity. Headfirst. Nothing graceful, not at all coordinated. He’s sure he’s going to bash his head against concrete soon enough, yet he kicks and kicks hoping it’ll get him there sooner. 

It’s sadistic, isn’t it? 

Craving the pain of it. The crimson blood stains going brown against the sidewalk. Everything inside of him— all the sadness, the devotion, the love— spilled at your feet only to be scrubbed away moments later so your steps aren’t given a chance to falter. He’s prepared an apology for the marks on your shoes, for the heart your heel goes right through.  

It may be for the feel of the fall. The floating when his legs ache from kicking, the soaring when he spreads heavy arms. A smile and wordless conversations over morning coffee, a laugh if he’s lucky. He would spill his blood all over the pavement, let you tear his heart to shreds under your soles, for that. 

“You got time for the café when we get back?” 

“You’ll have to ask Morgan.” Your voice comes muffled, head in the minifridge in the search for a cold bottle of water. Bucky has a plain look over his face once you stand. “She’s in charge of scheduling for the play staff and has taken all of my free time. If I want time off, I have to file a request at least 48-hours in advance. She has forms and everything.” 

“Christ, is this a Broadway production? Is she in charge of that fuckin’ John Adams show?” 

Water bottle at your lips, you pause. “Do you mean Hamilton?”

“I guess,” he shrugs.

“No,” you snort, “but she’s taking her job very seriously.”

“Play hooky,” is his simple suggestion. He pushes the menu aside, determined to order all three entrées he finds appealing. He then attempts to level you with a wide-eyed look. “C’mon. It’s a post-mission tradition.”

A frown pulls at the corners of your lips. “I made a promise. Besides, don’t you have to go see a certain someone when we get back?” 

He scoffs away the playful lilt of your voice. “I’d still make time for you.” 

You smile. Warm as the sun. You watch him melt in it. “Well, that’s sweet but I’m sure she wants all the time with you she can get. I’ll make you a latte with brown sugar for the debrief with Sam, though. I’ll even write ‘Bunky’ on it and it’ll be like we’re right there in the café.”

His own smile is brief. “S’not just about the latte, you know?” 

If you tell him the temple has been leveled under ash and snow, that all the candles have been extinguished and all the hymns have come to an end. If you tell him deities you’d sculpted from delicate clays and sands have fallen to dust, if you tell him the sight of the ruins breaks your heart all over again, would he hear you? 

Has he seen it? 

Has he felt the universe pause in mercy? 

He stands on a foundation of intent now. Not like the foundation the two of you built in search of something else. Can he feel the difference?

“I know.” 

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

“You wanna hear my Cab Calloway impression?” 

Passing him the plain black duffle you’ve spent nights begging him to replace, you receive a sideway glance from Bucky. It lingers for a beat too long, even as you avert your gaze to the tear running parallel to the struggling zipper. “You have a Cab Calloway impression?” 

“Locked and fucking loaded.” You’re emptying your weapons locker into your own bag intending to clean the guns later, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “You know the Betty Boop version of Snow-White? From 1933?” 

You start humming St. James Infirmary Blues in an attempt to jog his memory, giving him your bag, too. You gesture with your hands, widen your eyes as you walk down the jet’s ramp to the helipad. “You know?” 

Bucky stops even as he’s several steps behind you, stopping you as well with a simple, “I’m sorry.” 

You turn to see him staring confusedly, brow furrowed at you. “How the fuck do you— Are you older than what you’ve been letting on? Because if you’re from the fucking thirties or forties, too, —” 

“No,” you say once you’ve laughed sarcastically. “Turns out some of the nonsense from those racist, anti-Semetic, awful times manages to be great now, too. Some of the music, some of the movies, —” 

“Some of the people,” his smile growing as his voice trails off. 

You tilt your head. Features twisted in question, you blink. “What people?” 

You can’t help your laughter when his teasing stare slowly fades into a glower. “Like Cab Calloway, you mean? Yeah, he’s still cool.” 

His sigh is heavy, lips struggling against another smile. 

“Do you mean Steve?” you ask, voice higher pitched as it pinches in withheld giggles. “Miss that guy.” 

A step in your direction. “No, I don’t mean Steve.” 

“One of the other Commandos then?” you punctuate your question with a wink, a nod in sly understanding. But his budding grin falls as soon as you say, “That Gabe Jones? He was hot. Drew hearts all over his picture in my history textbook and everything.” 

Your laughter grows louder as he walks right up to you, a dark look in the grey-blue of his eyes. “You’re such a fuckin’ little punk, I swear to—” 

His name is hollered behind you. Voice higher than yours, lighter than yours. There’s an effortless joy to the way she says his name, to the way she races up the ramp to meet him halfway. She stands a few inches shorter than you do, but her smile stretches miles wider. She’s uncorrupted and bright, stares up at him with an unrivaled openness. Just like he deserves.

You don’t notice the way he continues to watch you, don’t notice the halfheartedness in the hug he barely manages to return.

But you smile at her when her eyes find you. She’d hesitated looking away from him. Didn’t want to tear her eyes away for even a second. It’s sweet as honey, and you hate her for it. “It’s good to see you.” 

She says something back— something kind— and Sam approaches the three of you only to throw an arm around your shoulders, but Bucky’s only focused on your outstretched hand. Your eyebrows lifting when he only gapes back. “I can take my bag. You two probably wanna catch up.” 

“No,” Bucky answers even as you manage to wrestle the bag away. He notes the narrowed look being sent to him from his left, but keeps his attention on you and Sam. “No, we have to debrief and—”

“I can handle it.” The reassurance he finds in your smile feels like a cold breath to aching lungs. A forest the morning after rainfall. It shifts to something tighter when your eyes lower to his left. “Have a nice night, you two.” 

Sam and Bucky nod at one another as the latter passes. Soft fingers thread through those of vibranium, and their departing steps come with the low hum of hushed conversation. Bucky’s eyes meet yours before the elevator doors shut and cut the thread between you, and you exhale a burning breath from your tight posture and slump onto Sam’s shoulder.

Knowing, he asks, “Have a good mission?”

“Incredible,” your gaze is still fixed on the elevator, voice strained. Sam notices. He’s always noticed.  

“In love with Bucky?” 

You nod and meet his eyes. Deep brown— coffee-hued, coffee-warm. “Yeah.” 

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁 

You used to find an empty gym blissful. A quiet space in a Tower that always bustled enough with laughter, and arguments, and life to echo in memoriam for months. 

Those echoes began to linger like ghosts. Waiting for you behind every corner, refusing to be drowned out by the hum of a treadmill or the smack of a fist against a punching bag. So you played your music as loud as you could, you laughed at Sam’s jokes with all the joy in your body. Pulling it from your limbs, your fingertips, your toes.

In the morning it was as if you could see them in thick rays of carmine yellow when the sun shone in through the long wall of windows. And at night they rode along the sparkle of city lights. Often you asked FRIDAY to roll down the panels of blinds Tony never expected anyone to actually use, often you asked the AI to keep the overhead lights as bright as they could go. Hiding from shadows, from the sun like the moon and from the moon like the sun. 

But you refuse to hide now. You refuse to muffle the echoes that sound like home. The sun shines on your back, your shadow dances against the wall. 

Your heart aches in your chest, but it beats. Full and rhythmic. 

“Haven’t heard from Peter in a while.” 

Sam is sent a few centimeters back with the strength of your punch against the bag, shoes sliding over the smooth floor. He braces the bag tighter. “I know. It’s great.”

You level him with a plain look, lowering tired arms. “Sam.” 

“Keep going,” he says. He waits until you assume your stance again to continue, “Happy’s keepin’ track of him.” 

“Is anyone looking out for Wanda?” The angle of the next punch you throw is off, an ache splintering along your wrist. “She hasn’t called me back in a while.” 

“She’s—” he sighs, allows you to relax for a minute when he lets go of the bag. “She’s hard to find if she doesn’t want to be found.”

You catch the roll of tape Sam tosses you, unraveling the mess around your knuckles. It’s an easy task, sweat wetting it loose. “So it’s just us three on the roster?” 

“For most jobs.” 

“Which means, hypothetically,” you begin— slow and easy, “if I said I was benching myself for a little while— that’d be a pretty big problem, huh?” 

You meet gentle eyes when you look up. Watch him smile something adoring. “I don't know how long I’ve been asking you to take a break and now that you finally wanna take one— Ain’t a problem at all.” 

“You sure?” 

“Barnes and I can handle the field.” He catches the tape you throw to him easily. “Did you attain enlightenment overnight?” 

“In some ways,” you laugh. Shaking out your shoulders, you find your stance. “I’ve wanted to take a break for a while now. Since Berlin, maybe. I just kept waiting for the world to calm down enough or for something to force me into it. But then we got snapped away and— I need to do the things I want. Wanting them is a good enough reason to.”

“The world’s never going to calm down.” 

“It can’t. And trying to make myself less of a person won’t ease the pain of that. I need to heal, which I can’t do if I keep acting like I’m not hurt.” 

Sam stares at you silently for several moments. “Should we start paying your therapist more?” 

Snorting, you throw a hard enough punch to force him into a stumble. “Make the check out to yourself. Your little support group’s been helping.” 

“I’ve never seen you at—“

His mouth screws shut when you smile at him. “Baby, I’m a spy. You only ever see me when I want you to see me.” 

“You creepy shit.” 

You drop your stance to laugh, hands on your knees before you take a short leap and flick your fingers against Sam’s forehead. Screaming when he springs into action, you spin around immediately and run across the gym as fast as your feet can take you. Your words and laughter jumble together, “You called me creepy!” 

“You fuckin’ are!” he shouts back, chuckling, too.

You face him once you’ve rounded the long line of treadmills, shifting from side to side just as Sam is. There’s a teasing glint in the brown of his eyes, his usual warmth omnipresent as the machines divide you. “Still shouldn’t say it! I don’t point out how— how—“

“How what?” he asks. He’s grinning as he takes off in the direction you decide on. “Can’t find jack shit to say. S’what happens when you’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

“If you’re perfect,” you start, coming to a slow stop when Sam is only a few feet from catching you, “then I really did attain all enlightenment last night and am now Buddha.” 

You emphasize your point by placing your hands in abhayamudrā and shutting your eyes for less than a second. You open them in time to see him lunge for you and are only able to whirl around before he wraps a strong arm around your waist to lift you from the ground. Your gasp easily fades into a laughing scream, breath knocked from you. 

“Is this kinda workout not available for anyone else, Sam?”

Sam sets you down, still chuckling as the door comes to a slow close behind Bucky. “I’d throw my fuckin’ back out trying to pick you up.”

Bucky, short hair damp from a long run, snorts but nods a moment later. “Yeah, fair enough. Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Buck,” is your grinned response. It glows in pink and red, loving and bright. He can almost taste chalky heart-shaped candy. 

“Haven’t seen you since Kyiv.” 

Sam leaves the two of you to gather his water bottle, phone, and headphones from the bench closest to your punching bag and you shrug, smiling at Sam when he nods, supportive. “Yeah, I’ve—“

“Been busy?” Bucky guesses. He lets his eyes run along your profile. The slope of your nose, the length of your eyelashes. The smile still comfortably on your lips, reaching the subtly creased corners of your eyes. 

You shake your head and meet the curious blue watching you. “Not really. I’ve been around. Doing paperwork, training, —“

“Being creepy as hell,” Sam interjects, passing you to the door. His eyes are narrowed. 

“Building sets,” you amend to Bucky. Door shutting behind Sam, you call, “I’ll see you in your dreams tonight, Sam. There’s no hiding.” 

You can hear his laughter even as he walks down the hall, smiling to yourself at the sound. 

“What’s that about?”

“Apparently hiding in the shadows during his support group meetings is frowned upon,” you snort. “Go figure.” 

“He just doesn’t know how to take a compliment.”

Sighing, you nod. “You always get me.” 

Warmth blooms in your chest at his chuckles, his small grin.

Going to Kyiv felt like coming home. 

Riding alongside Bucky in the Quinjet, laughing and holding his stare a little too long, felt like home. 

Seeing him now, smiling at you with that same playfulness in his eyes and comfort easing his posture, feels like home.

“Bucky.”

A home with a foundation you can strengthen by acting purposefully. Intending to choose Bucky and doing so over and over. 

He nods. He’s rolling tape onto his knuckles, placing his phone on the bench as you sit. “Hm?”

You pick at the tape around your own hand, peeling it slowly. “I kinda— I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

“Okay.” 

It’s silent for a few beats. Long enough that he looks over his shoulder, eyes kind and questioning, before he turns to face you completely. He smiles and whatever bricks remain of that terrible wall your heart had spent months clawing at crumble away. 

He’s so handsome. So sweet, so kind, so understanding— 

“What’s—”

It pours from your mouth on the notes of a quick exhale, “I love you.” 

His smile falls and that little wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens. 

“I’m in love with you. And I know you’re— That you have someone and I think she’s great. I’m really so happy for you.” You hope your smile is as green as you intend for it to be. “And I don’t want to blow it up by saying something I probably have no right to say but— I've been losing my mind holding this in. I need to do right by myself and by you and finally be honest.” 

He’s still silent, still staring. He looks like he’s expecting you to say more. Unmoving, unsure. 

You stand, thick band of orange tape hanging off your palm. “That’s all.” 

“I don’t—“ his voice stutters as miserably as the heart in his chest.

“You don’t have to say anything.” You jab your thumb in the direction of the door. “Morgan’s got me on a tight schedule so— So I’m gonna go.” 

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁 

Bucky’s pacing. Cockpit to his locker, his locker to the cockpit. His boots barely make a sound, steps so light Sam is scared out of his mind every time he hears a heavy sigh just inches away. 

It’s been days of this. Watching Bucky pace, hearing him sigh like the weight of the world is compressing his lungs. He’s lost several slices of pizza to Bucky’s insistence that he’s not hungry only to practically inhale everything Sam’s ordered for himself. He’s lost hours of sleep to knocks on his door at three AM, because Bucky needs to ask about the plan again. 

What’s the strategy? Who’s rescuing the hostages? How much are they willing to negotiate? Are they willing to negotiate at all? Is it true a cat took Fury’s eye?

Frankly, Sam’s had enough. 

But he’s resolved to not interfere. It’s not his business. 

But it’s been three fucking days. “If you sigh one more fucking time, Barnes, —” 

“Sorry.” Nonetheless, Bucky sighs again. Falls into the co-pilot’s seat, leg bouncing and thumbs twiddling. “Sorry. I wasn’t— I thought we had another two days before coming back. It’s throwin’ me off.” 

“Thought it was a good thing to wrap shit up early,” Sam mumbles. His gaze remains focused beyond the windshield. “Get a nice break. I can make it to Morgan’s play, you can see your girl. Maybe take a fuckin’ nap.” 

“We—” another sigh. Sam might put his foot through the jet’s damn wall if this keeps going. “I ended that. I couldn’t pretend to be available to her when— when—”

“When the girl you love said she loves you.” 

Humorless chuckle, and he shakes his head once. He should’ve known you’d tell Sam. “Well, yeah. But I ended it the night we got back from Kyiv.”  

The way Bucky says your name— like something so soft and precious, almost intimate— makes Sam think it’s wrong for him to even hear. “It felt too good to be around her again, felt like I was cheating. And that day in the gym, when she said she— I didn’t know what to say.” 

“I don’t think she expected you to say anything.” 

“Sam, she ran off last time. When shit started to get real, she pushed me as far away as she could and ran off.” 

“I can’t promise you anything. But the change I’ve seen in that girl,” he shakes his head. So much for none of his business. “She’s takin’ a break from work, letting herself be a person. She lights up at someone even mentioning you and brings you up whenever she can. She’s different now and wouldn’t have told you what she did if she was plannin’ on running off.” 

Bucky’s leg stops bouncing, but his thumbs still knot together. The vibranium plates of his left palm pinch his delicate skin. Voice rough as gravel, “Still fuckin’ scary.” 

“Yeah. Shit works out sometimes, though.” 

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁 

“You know, there’s no shame in saying ‘no.’” 

“Yeah? Did that get you here?” 

You look up from the student in the seat placed before yours and meet Pepper’s gaze. Her eyes sparkle in humor, her smile poorly hidden. She nods toward your hand, covered in stray flecks of face paint and makeup, and then at the sponge you’re using to spread white paint. 

“I don’t count,” you press. You get back to work, holding Keith’s face in one hand to get the white paint as close to his ear as possible. “I’m not her mom. And I like doing makeup. Especially Keith’s.” 

Keith grins at you, chubby cheeks blown wide when you wrinkle your nose at him. Dipping a thin brush into a pot of black paint, you nod at him. “Okay, no more smiling. Your spots will look weird if you do.” 

He nods back and immediately drops his smile, letting loose a single giggle at his own abruptness. He peeks at you with a teasing green eye and looks away as soon as you gasp. 

You smile to yourself as you outline a series of black spots. One or two on each cheek, one around his right eye. “You can’t let Morgan throw an after party. She’s a kindergartener. You can’t start letting them throw after parties until, like, third grade. Gotta set boundaries.” 

“And you know this from all the kids you’ve parented.” 

“I don’t have kids,” you reply, tongue poking through your lips in concentration as you fill the spots using a new sponge. “None that I know of, at least. I’m just a genius. Keith, I need you to hold still if you want to be the cutest little cow this school has ever seen.” 

He stops wiggling and Pepper snorts. “He looks like a dalmatian.” 

“A cute dalmatian.” Once the spots are filled, you paint on a small pink nose and allow him to place the headband with floppy cow ears into his chestnut hair. “Those beans better be worth their weight in gold.” 

He straightens the white and black crewneck sweatshirt he wears and turns to the mirror, grinning at his reflection and bursting into laughter. “I’m a cow!” 

“You are!” you cheer back, laughing with Pepper when he moo’s as loud as he can. He hops out of the chair and onto his feet. “Be careful, you’re not fully dry yet! How much you wanna bet he’s gonna fuck up his makeup before the show can even start?” 

“I’ll put more on you getting caught cursing before the show can start,” Pepper says with a roll of her eyes. She sits in the seat Keith had occupied, the wood creaking under an adult’s weight, as she helps you clean the sponges and brushes. “I know Morgan hasn’t said it yet— she was planning on making a speech at her after party— but we appreciate how much you’ve been helping.” 

“It’s no big deal.” You look to the mirror and take a cleansing wipe to the streak of white on your forehead. “I’m trying to take a break from avenging and haven’t really found other things to do yet. This was a nice way to get out of the Tower.” 

Pepper hums. “Morgan’s got a whole thing about how her favorite Auntie Avenger saves the day and the show.” 

You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you should let her have this party.” 

She barks a sarcastic laugh and stands when she hears a shrill “Mom!” shouted across the backstage area. “Try to hold the ‘fucks’ in.” 

“No promises!” 

One more swipe across your forehead to fully clear it of white paint, and you sigh to yourself at the creaking of the chair. “In those five seconds, I managed to hold the fucks in—” 

Blue eyes— so soft, so gentle and kind— watch you expectantly. He waits for you to focus on him, pays little attention to the relaxing of your grip and the package of wipes which falls to the floor as a result. A small smile, one he can’t help, begins to pull at his lips. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Buck.” The silence which settles over the two of you is comfortable, broken when you reach to pick up a brush. “Did you need your makeup done?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Well, backstage is cast and crew only,” you pout playfully and grin when his shoulders shake in a silent chuckle. 

“I guess I don’t have long to say this.”

He sits up straighter, drags his hands— metal and flesh alike— down the lap of his dark jeans. He rehearsed what to say on the drive over, asked Sam if what he wanted to say was too blunt. Asked if he should add a preamble of some kind, maybe a disclaimer that he hasn’t had a grip on his mind or heart for months. 

He can’t remember any of it now that you stare at him from that canvas and wooden chair, blinking owlishly and looking at him with so much love it steals the breath right from his lungs. 

“I— I forgot everything I wanted to say.” 

“That’s okay. Take your time.” You lean in and he feels himself pitch toward you as well. At your smile he feels the softness of velvet, the comfort of lavender. “If anyone tries to kick you out, I’ll fight ‘em. I’ll fight a kindergartener.” 

He laughs, loud and bright. “Fight a kid, huh? You must really love me.” 

He watches you sober, he watches you choose him. 

Your grin shrinks to something pink and you take as deep a breath as you can. You nod. “Yeah, Bucky, I do.” 

He hums, he chooses you, too. “So do I.” 

“What?” 

“I love you. And I’ve wanted to tell you everyday since you took me to that café.” 

[aurumacadicus]

It's all smoke and mirrors for the title meme?

You ever get a title and you're like........... this title is way too good for whatever I'd come up with lmao

It's All Smoke and Mirrors

"I hate these things," Tony mutters darkly, striding through the stone hallway leading to the opulent ballroom where he's meant to meet with other faction leaders.

"Everyone hates these things," Natasha says in his ear. "You're not special."

Tony waves his hand near his ear to try and bat the spider apparently clinging there away. "Cut it out."

"No," the spider says, and he realizes it's her, not one of the spiders simply under her control. He feels a smidge less anxious. "I should be allowed to harass you since I'm here too."

"Fine," Tony sighs, and does not flinch when she shifts her legs over his ear in a way that tickles so that she has a better grip. "Why are you hiding? They'll figure out you're you quickly."

"Tiberius is going to be here this year," Natasha says darkly. "I know he likes touching your ears even when you tell him no. I intend to bite him and inject every ounce of venom I have."

Tony forces himself not to smile, because one can never tell if there are ghosts hovering in the halls. Still, he's amused. "I don't know that that will kill a vampire."

"I don't need it to kill him. I just need it to make him suffer," she replies, and if she had shoulders, she'd shrug.

"Here we go," Tony says as he approaches the doorway, partly to Natasha but mostly to himself.

The room is already mostly-full. It looks like the vampires haven't shown up, but that's because they enjoyed being fashionably late. The werewolves are here, though, and the representatives of the Unseelie Court. Tony lifts his hand to wave at Doom, who gamely waves back before turning back to his underling. There are some mermaids that Tony's never seen before, dripping in their seats, and when he catches their eyes they smile with sharp teeth. He starts peering around for the fairies, hoping to see a familiar face.

"Tony!" Jan squeals and bashes into his face for a hug.

"Ow," Tony says, but lifts his hand up to hold her back.

Jan ignores his pain and instead immediately begins chattering on about all the gossip he's missed because time moves differently for him. She only pauses when she notices Natasha perched delicately on his ear. "...What are you doing?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm going to bite Tiberius," Natasha replies.

"Oh! Good. I hate him," Jan replies.

Before she can say anything else, smoke begins billowing from the center of the table, and everyone goes quiet, leaving their mingling to find their seats. Even the vampires who had meant to make an entrance come in and sit down.

"Wonder who it's gonna be this time. I hope it's Steve. He blushes so pretty when the succubae hit on him," Jan whispers. "It's adorable."

"I hope it's Bucky. He somehow even scares the ghouls," Natasha whispers back.

Tony secretly hopes it's Bruce, because Bruce likes him, but he's on the roster for this rarely, because he has no patience and he destroys things when he's angry.

It's Thor. They can't help the murmurs that roll around the table in surprise--Thor rarely shows up to these events. He's the most powerful member of the Table, even if he doesn't always act like it, and whatever happens with humans never affects him.

"Before we can come to agreements, you must clean your own houses," Thor says solemnly. "There is a rottenness in them, beings conspiring with humans to exterminate us. There can be no meeting of council until we know there are no double-agents. This meeting is adjourned."

He disappears as quickly as he'd come in a burst of lightning. Everyone stares at where he was standing, stunned, before they all get up and leave, ostensibly to go interrogate the members of their people. There's a cacophony as everyone flees through their assigned halls or into the pool leading outside. Then there's silence.

Tony stares at the table blankly, then sighs. "This seriously couldn't have just been an email?"

"Tony!" Jan gasps.

"I was fucking busy," Tony snaps back at her. "Natasha, take a note--"

"Noting," Natasha says.

"Threaten everyone for good measure and then send a scroll up to the Table saying our court is sorted. Maybe mention that email exists," he adds sourly.

"You're sure that there's no corruption in your court?" Jan asks in surprise.

Tony scoffs. "Pepper and Happy would simply not allow it."

Jan opens her mouth, then closes it again, conceding. Ever since Obadiah had been ousted, Tony, Pepper, and Happy had been incredibly suspicious of anyone else in court. Tony had relaxed some now, but Pepper and Happy were still vigilant, and both of them more willing to beat people soundly about the head.

"Well, I suppose I should go scare some of my fellow fairies," Jan sighs instead, then leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. "Let's go out for drinks soon, okay?"

"I haven't been--okay," Tony sputters as she zips off.

Natasha waits a moment, then says, "Were you going to tell her you weren't drinking tequila anymore since the last time you guys went out for drinks?"

"I vomited margaritas out my nose," Tony begins, then screams when he notices someone standing behind him and spins around.

"Tony," Thor says solemnly. "We need to see you at the Table."

"Why? It definitely can't be because I suggested the Table run train on me while I was drunk," Tony answers defensively. "I said that in the safety of my realm."

"What," Thor asks, voice cracking.

"Nothing," Natasha cuts in hastily, waving her front legs at him. "Forget you heard anything."

"Did you actually leave in a burst of smoke or was that a fucking sleight of hand," Tony continues. "Doesn't it take effort if it's real magic? What--"

"Can you just--" Thor sighs, then grabs Tony by the scruff to carry him away.

Natasha panics and buries her mandibles in as deep as they can go, injecting all of the venom she'd been saving for Tiberius.

"I knew we should have sent Bruce," Thor sighs, frustrated. "Damnit."

[yikesharringrove]

Hello, I hope I’m submitting prompts correctly. It’s my first one :) I was reading your older works and just finished the “PTA Steve/Billy” ones and would love to see them in the mango AU. I just love all your AUs

Masterlist

Part 35

-

This is a little different, than PTA dads, but I was trying to find a way of working this into the story lmao

These are the letters I mention in the story, I had them in my bedroom all growing up and I LOVED them

-

“We just wanted to hold this meeting with you to discuss Mina’s progress.”

Billy and Steve had been called in to meet with Mina’s preschool teacher about something extremely important.

Billy had come straight from work, but Steve was running late, as he tended to do. He was sitting in a chair across from Mrs. Anna, Mina’s teacher.

“We’ve noticed some trends in her behavior and we just wanted to get them sorted out.” Billy couldn’t fucking believe this. He thought about the meetings his parents were called into, meetings for his aggressive actions, acting out in class. If Mina had gotten his rotten streak, he would never forgive himself.

Steve came scrambling in the door. He was wearing his big glasses, had a spit up on his shirt from Zara who was screeching in her carseat. He sat down next to Billy, pulling Zara out to place her on his shoulder, patting her back until she quieted down.

“I am so sorry for that, I was ready to leave, and well, it wasn’t pretty, and I missed my bus.” Billy just smiled at him, squeezing his knee. Anna stared at his hand.

“My apologies, are you the nanny?” Steve’s face crumpled.

“No, I’m Mina’s father.” She looked fucking shocked, turning to Billy.

“Then I’m sorry, who are you.”

“Mina’s father.” Billy was shifting his jaw. She looked confused before it finally dawned on her.

“Oh, okay. Well, um, okay. Let’s begin.” Her cheeks were red. “As I was saying to Mr. Hargrove, we’ve noticed some trends in Mina’s behavior.” Steve sat up a little straighter. Zara gurgled.

“What, what kind of trends?” Anna was rummaging for a file.

“She’s behind where she should be in terms of the alphabet and basic reading.” Steve’s face went dower. This was the exact meeting he’d been forced to sit through with his parents almost every year. He was determined to say the exact opposite of everything they did.

“She’s doing her best.” Billy squeezed his knee a little firmer.

“Do you read with her every day? Have an alphabet where she can see it?”

“Yes, we’ve been working on her spelling for a long time now, we read every day, and she has wooden letters around her bedroom.” Steve had found these cute little wooden clown people forming different letters, had hung them up near the ceiling all the way around her room.

“Well unfortunately, her best is not where she should be.” Steve was getting heated.

“She is trying. I mean, she’s three years old!” Billy chimed in.

“We’re not saying she’s not trying, but-”

“She works hard, we’re not going to make her miserable slaving over her readings.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mr. Hargrove if you please.” Steve didn’t even realize he was standing.

Whenever his father was in one of these meetings, one about how behind Steve was, he would simply promise to make Steve work harder, would breathe down his neck and make him feel like shit. He worked hard, school was just difficult for him.

“Mina struggles with certain words. She gets confused with rhyming and often makes mistakes while speaking.

“Okay, but like, she’s three.” Billy shrugged.

“These are all early signs of dyslexia. We are going to watch her closely, and recommend you do the same at home. As she continues learning to read, if more signs present themselves, you should discuss with her doctor what the best course of action may be.” Billy relaxed in his chair.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. Steve is dyslexic.” Steve had only just found out himself. Mina hated when he read to her, would only have Billy do it. He stumbled through simple books and while he was studying to get his GED, he had opened up to Billy about how hard school was for him, and Billy had encouraged him to have some testing done.

Anna furrowed her brows.

“But are you, genetically related?” Steve just gave her a blank look.

“I mean, if growing her in my uterus from one of my eggs and giving birth to her makes us genetically related, then yes.” Her eyes went huge.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t realize you’re an omega.” Billy rolled his eyes. “I’ve never met a male one before.”

“Can we please stop talking about my husband’s presentation and discuss our daughter?” Anna looked flustered. She cleared her thought, trying to get herself together.

“Well, it is hereditary, so I supposed you may have passed it to her. That’s all I have to say. If she begins showing more signs, early intervention can help her to be wonderfully successful in school and work despite any dyslexia.” Billy stood up, smiling tightly at her.

“Thank you for your time, we’ll make sure to watch for more signs.

Steve was quiet as they picked up Mina from the extend day program, loading both girls into Billy’s car. His hand was clammy in Billy’s on the way home.

“Okay, Pretty Boy. Spill it.” Billy was standing next to Steve in the kitchen, making dinner together.

“I just feel like shit. You know how hard school is for me. I can’t believe Mango has to deal with all that crap now, too.” Billy knocked their shoulders together.

“You heard what that nosy teacher said; early intervention can help. You literally didn’t find out until you were twenty-one because your shitty parents refused to help you. Remember when you were first pregnant, and we promised we would do the opposite of what our parents did? Helping her is doing the opposite.” Steve nodded, but still looked glum.

“I was also thinking about, that teacher was so weird about us being together, and, and about my presentation, and I’m so scared that the girls could get shit for us, for, for me.” Billy put down the knife he was using to slice tomatoes, took Steve’s shoulders to make him face him.

“Baby, I know it sucks, but we can’t control that. We can defend ourselves, and defend our pups, but shitty people are always gonna be shitty, and we just have to hope we’ve raised some badass chicks who won’t take any shit.” Steve laughed.

“I already know Zara’s gonna be ready, willing, and able to fight at any given time.”

“She’s gonna be such a tough little bitch. I can’t wait.”

[starker-au]

Yo I'm dumb as fuck and accidentally posted this so I had to ss lmao

But anyway thanks for sending an ask in

((Sorry the writing might be bad, I feel like I went a little all over the place))

__________

Peter supposes he should've known sooner, he'd met each of the people that had shown up as missing and much worse, murdered. His husbands weird behavior towards the specific people and his weird behavior the day after those partys or events, where he'd try to keep Peter out of the house or in bed all day and then continue like he hadn't tried to do any of it were hints too, Peter guesses.

The rotten smell from the basement was probably the most noticeable hint. Peter refused to go down to the basement but Tony had never cared and went down daily, he only assumed the older man was trying to fix the smell.

So when he had to go down to the basement to look through his unpacked boxes for May, who thought he had taken something that was hers on accident, Peter was frightened when he found a blonde man, who had talked to him at the latest event Tony had taken him too, chained to a wall with both legs broken.

Peter wasn't sure what to do with himself or with the man, Steve Peter recalled, Peter thought he should call the cops, knew he should but he was so sure that his husband, that Tony had done this because who else could it be? No one. And he loved Tony and it would be so hard to watch the man he married and loved be put behind bars.

But the reminder that a man was chained to a wall and possibly dead because of his husband was the only thing he needed to make up his mind and go grab his phone upstairs.

But he didn't make it upstairs because of the tall and muscular man at the end of the stairs staring at him with a panicked expression.

"Peter" Tony said after he calmed himself down "What are you doing down here?"

"I need- I needed t-to see- see if I had something of M-Mays" Peter stammered repeatedly over his words but he made sure to make sure he wasn't stammering over his words when he asked Tony what this was.

"I was just disposing of a rat, Peter" Tony stepped forward and down from the last step he was on and Peter instinctively stepped back in fear but Tony hadn't stopped his movements and walked past Peter towards Steve.

"I did this for you" Tony added "for us"

Tony bent down and reached out to wrap his hands around Steve's neck and Peter now knew the man is alive, for now.

"Tony-" Peter choked at the sight of the older mans hands tightening "-please don't kill him"

"I have to, he was a threat to us when you met him and he's even more of a threat now, baby"

Peter stood panicked watching as Tony's hands squeezed the life out of a man who wasn't a threat because he knew Steve Rogers was a good man.

The body fell limp and Peter started to feel as though he couldn't breath anymore and Tony noticed and let go of the body.

"Hey, Hey sh"

Tony came over to Peter and wrapped his arms around him, Peter stayed stiff in the mans arm for a while but eventually he was able to calm down with Tony's hands rubbing his back and Peter hated that Tony was still able to calm him down after he watched the older man murder someone.

"Let's go up stairs, baby, I'll make you dinner and then you'll go to bed"

Peter didn't feel he had the choice to refuse.