#CW Panic Attack

[dxrkl1ght]

CW: Panic attack, musophobia, and scratches!!

everything's okay...

Part 5/5

- Part 1/5

- Part 2/5

- Part 3/5

- Part 4/5

DCA! Serial Killer AU by @ayyy-imma-ninja & @moonlit-dreamers

This comic is not canon to the AU!! This is just made for fun :)

[solarmorrigan]

Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope

cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse

-

The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.

“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.

Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.

“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”

As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”

Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.

Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”

“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”

His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”

“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.

“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.

“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.

“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”

Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.

“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”

Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.

“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”

“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”

Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”

“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.

Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.

Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.

“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”

Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”

The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–

Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.

It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.

Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.

(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)

(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”

Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).

“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”

Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.

“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.

Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.

When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.

It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.

“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.

“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”

“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.

“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”

In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.

He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.

[Prompt: Embracing your partner]

[eemamminy-art]

Can we get up and try to feel okay again?

[spark-river]

Lucifer - Hiding

Headcanon:

While most of his brothers don't come to him with highly emotional matters, they sometimes need to feel safe. Especially if one of them has a panic attack or generally a lot of stress.

When he senses one of his brothers being this stressed and the situation allows it, he'll shift into his demon form and stretch a wing as invitation. His brother will run to his side as he covers them up with his wing.

Mammon takes the moment as a break, letting down his guard and persona. It's not always that he needs to cry because of something happening. Life can just get stressful.

Leviathan will come down by the lack of sensory inputs. Despite his preference for less physical contact, he's completely content in Lucifer's wings. The texture of them distracting enough to stay in the moment but not in a way that makes him itch.

Satan will sometimes pretend he doesn't want to be hugged but will be overly angry for the rest of the day if he doesn't go for the hug. Once he's hugged he'll either let it spill how much he loves Lucifer despite everything or how 'this doesn't mean anything'. (He's lying, he loves his brothers.)

Asmo easily calms down in the hug, closing his eyes and relaxing. If Lucifer deems him important enough than maybe it's okay. Depending on how deeply routed the stress he feels is, he'll let go of it or talk about it with Lucifer. Though Lucifer is not that good with emotional matters so it often ends with him suggesting a very pragmatic solution.

Beel may prefer hugs but once he's disregulated enough to need such a hug, he doesn't have it in him to feel the happyness he otherwise would. There's little chance that he will talk and if it will sound nonsensical. He takes all the comfort he can get.

Belphegor will hug Lucifer without hesitation. At this state of distress he doesn't even think about his 'hatred' (that he pretends to have). It's rather quick that he'll fall asleep once in Lucifer's wings. Somehow the darkness and warmth is incredibly soothing for him. There can be no melancholy about stars when you don't see them.

[conspicuous-clown-car]

pushing boundaries

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico wakes up to gagging and a soft glow coming from the bathroom.

His first thought is, bizarrely, that Hazel’s home. But her bunk is still empty, and her shoes aren’t by the door, and she didn’t wake him when she came in. She always wakes him when she comes in, even if it’s four thirty in the damn morning, because nothing makes her cackle quite like Nico choking back curses and tweaking under her smothering pillow.

“Shit,” comes a small voice from the bathroom, followed by more retching. “Shitshitshit, no —”

Nico bolts for the door.

“Hi,” Will says, or tries to. His scarred knuckles clench with every gag, wrapped too tightly around the rim of porcelain to tremble like the rest of him.

Something about the wobbly smile he keeps trying to form in between gags. Something about the sweat that has drenched his t-shirt, something about the deep circles under his eyes, something about his spot in the bed completely cold, wrinkled.

Something is not adding up.

“You’re not sick,” Nico murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. Will mutters something about bliss, leaning into Nico’s hand; he smiles again, but it is strained, and at odds with the glassy look in his eyes. The sharp, rapid breaths.

“Just don’t — feel good.”

Every word is punctuated by a big, heaving gasp, like he’s trying to breathe through heavy cotton. On a hunch, Nico slides his hands down Will’s face, brushing the goosebumps on his neck, the irritated, pulsing tendons, and rest flat against his chest, over his heart.

His heart that is pounding, so quickly it is actually challenging to recognise as a beat rather than a buzz.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Nico says quietly.

Will shrugs. He gags again, but clamps his mouth shut before it goes anywhere, breathing deeply and carefully through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds faster, and the rapid movement of his chest grows shallow, but he manages to choke back his bile, swallow down whatever nausea is plaguing him.

“I’m — fine.” His laboured breathing is the loudest sound in the cabin. In the camp. “I’m handling it.”

Nico watches him. Watches him clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and make a noise like he is being betrayed, like he is being sold for thirty silver by his own body, his own mind; watches him flex his muscles rigid and hold himself still like he can stop the nails and thorns from coming. He thinks of wide smiles and far away eyes and mental health pamphlets and cheerful slogans on infirmary walls.

“I think one of those things are true.”

“I don’t need —”

Whatever he doesn’t need is forgotten, because he is heaving again, only this time his body finds something to dredge up, even if that something is stomach acid and he cries as it burns its way up his throat, and in between heaving he wheezes, horrible whistling gasping noises, and his hair plasters to his forehead, and his body slumps into Nico’s hold and jerks away from him like rocky waves against a lakefront.

“How long have you been here?”

Will just shrugs again, and he cries, and he says “Leave, please,” and Nico wraps an arm tighter around his waist, and presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, lingering, holding, tasting salt from Will and from his tears both, and squeezing his eyes shut, and holding back the anger. Gritting his teeth and softening his hold, deliberately, resting his fingers delicately on the dip of Will’s hip, the raised pink of the stretch marks along his ribs.

“I hate it when you run from me,” he murmurs, and Will sobs again.

“I can’t breathe,” he says, and Nico squeezes and promises he can. “I’m dying. I’m dying, I’m gonna —”

“I’m here, Will.” He doesn’t say you’re not dying. He doesn’t say you’re fine, because this is the longest they’ve sat together in five days, because it is the the quiet middle of June, because yesterday Kayla spent half her shift screaming at Will to get out and ignoring him when he shouted back. Because the bandage around Will’s wrist has been worn to threads, because Lee’s hoodie has not been washed in weeks, because there is a newcomer named Michael and Will cannot even look at him. Because it has been bad. “I’m here.”

It is as much a reminder as it is a plea as it is a reprimand as it is a fruitless nothing, because when Nico struggles he gets angry, when Nico struggles he gets mean and biting and violent, but when Will struggles he wants the world to kill him. And for all that Nico is halfway to the grave he has clawed and chewed and fought his way to survival. And when Will scratches at the skin around his ears and screams into his hands and opens the chapped over scars on his lips his palms his fingers, Nico can only hold him, Nico can only gently pry his nails from his flesh and tell himself that one day they will get to the point where Nico wakes up. Where Will wakes him up, where he burrows into the place between his arms and his chest and hides in someone else for once. Where he trusts someone outside of himself enough to bare his back.

“I’m here,” he whispers again, and he presses his lips to Will’s hair and holds him as he sobs, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

[servantserah]

Crêpes part 34

Previous | First | Next

May I offer you some angst? I am sorry and not sorry for making Aziraphale have to go through this but it's the blorbo curse. And this realization has been long overdue, I'm afraid.

I hope everyone had nice holidays and a good start into the new year! Wishing you all the best that 2025 may be a somewhat uneventful year haha,,,,

ℹ️ You can find a guide with all my Good Omens AUs and comics >>here<<!

[peanut-jelly]

hey you! can you breathe?

no? you may be having a panic attack!

listen to me. or… read this. idk.

breathe in for four seconds. hold it.

now exhale for four seconds.

there you go, you’re doing great. repeat.

let’s do something else to calm down now.

keep taking deep breaths

write down your thoughts

write in a journal

write a story

think about someone or something you love

squeeze a stuffed animal

draw, or just scribble

listen to music. whatever kind, i won’t judge!

keep breathing

remember you are worth it. talk to someone.

i know it’s scary but you’re gonna be okay

[emziess]

I'm just gonna grab something outside. The Bear, S03E10

[breannasfluff]

It’s fuck as balls cold. Jason’s gloves are nothing compared to the ice and snow in the area. Also, Danny failed to inform him there were yetis. So. That’s a thing now. 

“Frostbite, I was hoping you could take a look at the ectoplasm Jason’s got. There’s something wrong with it. I can feel it when I touch him.” 

Danny is floating, chatting with the yeti-like it’s no big deal. And maybe it’s not, for him. Maybe Jason shouldn’t be surprised either, not after dealing with Gotham’s rogues. Ice-covered bones are probably in style for ghosts. 

Frostbite turns to Jason, frowning as he shivers. “Would you mind removing your glove, young Jason?”

He does mind, because his fingers will fall off without a layer between them and the air. He takes it off. At least Frostbite doesn’t grab his hand with the ice…paw. 

The Pit crackles to attention at the touch, rather than purring to sleep under Danny. It snarls and Jason knows his eyes are flaring green. It reflects off the ice around them. Frostbite hums and does…something that has the Pit screaming.

Green washes over everything and Jason loses track of his surroundings. He’s lost to rage and fear and he needs to make them pay–

“I see what you mean, Great One.”

Jason pants as awareness comes back. Danny is a good few feet back and Frostbite is rubbing his arm like Jason punched him. Maybe he did. 

“What the hell did you do?” he spits. “I fought for control of the damn thing for years and that just–wiped me out in a second.”

Read the rest here

[the-kr8tor]

Hiii! I just wanted to request a Baby's breath and ⭐/❣️ for Simon Ghost Riley for the apothecary. Ghost and the reader could be going on a family trip with their baby to the zoo or aquarium. I'd like to kind of see him stuggle with his past, and wonder why his father couldn't enjoy his time with his kids like he does. I'd also like to see him go to the reader for comfort too.

A Simon req!! Thank you so much for requesting! Hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem! reader

Word count: 1.3 k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, dad! Simon, mom! Reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, cw abuse mention, cw panic attack.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Perks of wearing a mask at work means that no one recognises you once you're out of it. Another pro, is that no one will bother you at the yearly family day that Price shamelessly told his lieutenant that it's mandatory for the entire 141 to join. Even though Simon knows it technically isn't, he still decided to bring you and his little ones to the zoo just because, A. The entrance is free, and B. He gets to spend time with you, little Tommy and baby Ellie, which is rare these days. A win/win for Simon, as long as nobody recognises him and decides to chat him up while his kids are clinging onto him like peanut butter on bread.

The entire zoo's speakers are blaring with random animal noises that irks Simon. Cows mooing, monkeys screeching, dolphin noises and snakes hissing; he has no idea why a zoo would even play animal noises when the animals themselves are particularly screaming in his ears. The sun is blasting on him, making the back of his neck sweat, and his kids irritable. Baby Ellie gurgles on her stroller, shielded by the folding canopy (and her towering dad) with a portable fan clipped on the handle. She's comfortable and happy enough just staring at the colourful parrots flying around. While Tommy is clutched behind his leg, afraid of the pointed beaks, and sharp claws. He jumps when a bird suddenly flaps its wings too close to him. Even with all the sounds and his kid grappled around him, he truly enjoys their company. He smiles down at Tommy, fingers brushing along the boy's soft curls.

His mind wanders back to his childhood, that his own father never showed the same enjoyment when he's out with his family, enjoying his time more with a bottle of amber liquid in between his crooked fingers instead of spending time with them without a metal hanger in his hand.

Simon pats Tommy atop his head, cowering and hiding his face on Simon's denim. “'s alright, just a bird.”

“I know dad, but they're so scary when they fly. I want mum.” He mumbles back, Simon can feel the tears coming as his son's fingers dig into the denim of his pants.

“Mum’s comin’,” he hears sniffles, and he thinks he's not doing a good job at this. “She's gettin' your drink remember?”

Tommy looks up, big brown eyes filled with tears. “I don't like the birds, dad.”

“Okay, let's move along then. Want to look at the giraffes again?”

Tommy sniffles again, pouting but nodding a quick yes. “Carry?”

Simon sighs with a brief smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, surrendering to the whims of his five year old. “Right, arms up, Tommy.” With one swift move, his son is wrapped around his arm while his free hand pushes the stroller away from the bird enclosure. Wheels squeak, and Ellie is out of the trance signaled by her piercing shriek. “Damnit,” Simon whispers, going around the stroller, he takes his crying daughter in his other arm like a professional. “You're okay, El, what's wrong?” Ellie continues to cry, mouth wobbling, eyes that are similar to yours look at him through tears with her fists wrapped around her dad's shirt.

“Dad, the birds!” Tommy hides behind the crook of his dad's neck, crying in tandem with his sister when he realizes that they haven't gone that far from the scary birds.

“Tommy, they're just birds.” His son wails from his accidental cold words, and in turn, making Ellie sob louder. People stare at him, stopping to give him the stink eye, some even stop to stare at where the ruckus is coming from. It's like he can hear their thoughts, ‘look at that dad who can't handle his own kids.’ or ‘What is that big brute doing to his kids?’ He doesn't care what they think of him, but he doesn't want them to think that they're crying because he hurt them. He'd never do that, he'd never be like him.

All the noises, the heat, the pointed stares, and how Simon's heart pounds at every cry of his children, children that he can't even calm down without your help. It all makes his breathing stagger, muscles tightening, and his palms clammy and tingling. Symptoms that he's awfully too familiar with.

He thinks after having two children he'd be good at this, not great or even amazing, just okay, average at raising his kids so they'd grow up normally and well adjusted. Is he even built for this? Is he capable of loving without leaving teeth marks? Without turning out like his father? Or is he ruining everything?

“Lieutenant, is that you?” A sudden voice calls out, a head of dark hair and bushy beard pops out from his peripheral. Great, someone that recognises him without the mask. Just what he needs.

“No.” Simon answers gruffly above the cries while he uselessly bounce his wailing kids in his arms.

“Nah, I know that's you! I can never forget those terrifying eyes of yours.” The sergeant bounds up to him, he remembers him from the last three missions the man was a part of. Simon regrets lending him his lighter once, now that he's all friendly to him. “That your kids? They're adorable.”

“Sergeant.” No, I stole them, Simon wanted to quip back. The man clearly cannot read the room while his babies are bawling their eyes out. He suddenly wants to punch something. Or just walk away, huffing and puffing. “A bit busy here—”

“They look a lot like you! I never thought you had a face under that skull mask.” If looks could kill, Simon has committed murder in the middle of the zoo. In front of the bird enclosure for that matter. “‘The Ghost’ being a dad,” the sergeant shakes his head in bewilderment. “Sounds weird,” he backtracks quickly, “a g-good kind of weird though.”

Simon's seething, his blood rushing in his ears as everything overwhelms him. From how Tommy's overalls scratches on his side, from how the sweat flows down on his back, snaking along his spine. And the noise, people chatting endlessly, birds squawking, the fucking speakers blaring— he swallows thickly, jaw tightening, eyes darting along the crowd, alert, and pupils blown out. Then, a hand reaches out to his bicep, warm, soft and comfortably familiar over his searing skin. His heartbeat slows down at the mere sight of you.

“Hi,” you smile, eyes roaming around his ‘deer in the headlights’ look. Squeezing once, twice and thrice for good measure, you quickly place the plastic bag full of cold drinks on the stroller. Without missing a beat, you take Tommy in your arms, easing his cries almost immediately. “You must be sergeant Willems, it's nice to meet you but can we take a raincheck on the pleasantries? A bit busy here.” Smiling sweetly, Simon's subordinate nods, giving you and Simon a curt nod and then scampering away.

Simon gazes upon you with softness in his brown eyes, saccharine affection as he slides next to you closer. Hip to hip, he tries hard not to melt into you. Even if you glance at him with the same tenderness.

“Mummy,” Ellie murmurs, tear stained cheeks greeting you. You pat her back as she lays her head down on her father's chest. Lips still frowning, and nose scrunched, she looks like Simon during Tommy's birth. Her cries subsides, a tiny fist wrapped around your finger.

“I'm here, baby.” You coo, fixing your hold on Tommy while you flick your eyes towards Simon, meeting with his own. “I'm right here, Si.” You seem to always know what's going on inside his head, knuckles brushing along his cheek, you wipe away a bead of sweat. He wants to lean into your touch, if not for the numerous eyes roaming around.

He inhales shakily, a restart button for his breathing. Muscles relaxing, forehead pressed on your own briefly and palm spread across the small of your back, he lets his ugly emotions fly away with the wind as you chastely peck his jaw.

“You're good, Simon.”

[solarmorrigan]

It's Coming From Inside the House

For the @steddie-spooktober day 5 prompt: "Did you hear that?" Rated: T | Words: 2472 | CW: panic attack, mentions of recreational drug use | Tags: Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington friendship, pre-relationship, sorta, Eddie Munson being an asshole, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, he has the range, Steve Harrington has PTSD, post season 2, pre season 3 Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Now look, Eddie has never claimed to be the world’s nicest guy. He’s often claimed the opposite, in fact, in the name of getting shithead bullies and jocks to leave him and his alone.

And Harrington is no saint, either. Sure, he’s turned over some kind of new leaf since last year, ditching the assholes he used to hang out with and mostly keeping to himself (particularly since November, when his busted face had been the talk of Hawkins High), but he’s been part of enough sportsball-related hazing rituals for Eddie to assume he can at least take a joke.

Anyway, the point is, when he’s given occasion to realize that King Steve seems to be afraid of the dark, Eddie isn’t quite able to resist the urge to poke at him. Just a little.

He’s got Harrington in his trailer, just dropping by for a late-night transaction, and they’ve got an unexpected spring storm raging outside. It had just blown in, heavy winds and rain and all, surrounding the trailer with the sound of nature’s howling fury, and Harrington already seems on edge (probably why he needs the weed, really).

And then the lights flicker–

Flicker–

Flicker–

And cut out.

Both Eddie and Harrington freeze, plunged into darkness cut only by the frequent flashes of lightning.

“What just happened?” Harrington asks, his voice gone tight.

“Seems like the power went out,” Eddie snarks, because that much should be obvious. “Probably the wind. The grid isn’t as secure out here where it’s only us poor people.”

Harrington has no comeback, which is a little disappointing. He’s so quiet that the only way Eddie can tell he’s still there at all is because he can see him illuminated by brief lightning strikes.

Eddie sighs and starts shuffling in the direction of the kitchen. “Gimme a minute, I think we’ve got an old camping lantern somewhere.”

He bangs his knees on just about every object he walks past, swearing up a storm, but he finally makes it to the kitchen and feels around in the cabinets for the lantern he hopes is still there. He knocks over a few pots and pans in the process, but finally – success!

Eddie gropes for the switch on top of the lantern as he pulls it from the cabinet, praying that the battery inside is still good, and flinches and blinks the sparkles from his eyes when the thing lights up about six inches from his face.

Illumination acquired, Eddie uses it to find the junk drawer and pull out the flashlight they keep inside (might’ve been easier to find that first, instead of knocking into all the cookware, now that Eddie thinks on it), and then heads back to where he’s left Harrington standing in the living room.

“Let there be light,” he says, holding up the old lantern in victory.

Harrington, again, says nothing. He looks pale in the light of the lantern, nearly frozen where he stands, staring out the window. He almost reminds Eddie of a frightened rabbit, eyes wide and body locked up in a fight, flight, or freeze response heavily weighted in favor of the third option. And if he’s the rabbit, Eddie is like nothing so much as the wolf, ready to sink his teeth in.

Just a little. Just as a joke, that’s all.

As he places the camping lantern on the table, he pauses and cocks his head, pretending to listen.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Harrington finally turns to look at him. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Harrington rasps, eyes darting back towards the window.

“I don’t know, it was… like sort of a scratching sound? It’s– There!” Eddie jumps, playing at being startled. “There it was again, did you hear it?”

Harrington swallows heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t hear anything, are you sure–”

“I think it’s coming from the door,” Eddie hisses, voice gone low, nearly covered by the steady roll of thunder.

Harrington whirls back around, looking at the shadowed shape of the door where it sits just outside the halo of light the little lantern is throwing out.

“What if something’s trying to get in?” Eddie’s practically whispering now, low and dramatic. “Should we– should we check?”

Slowly, Harrington nods. “I’ll check,” he says, and he sounds so resolute about it, so resigned, like he’s agreeing to go off to war, that Eddie has to bite down on a laugh. So fucking serious, this guy.

“I’m right behind you,” Eddie says, though Harrington barely seems to register when Eddie sidles up at his back.

They cross from where they’d been standing by the coffee table and over to the door, standing in front of it as another crack of thunder booms overhead. Harrington reaches for the handle.

“Go ahead,” Eddie breathes, raising his arms. “I’m… right… BEHIND YOU!”

As he shouts, he grabs Harrington around the middle, digging his fingers into his sides almost like he’s trying to tickle him, and holy shit, Harrington’s reaction does not disappoint. He jumps and jerks like he’s just been electrocuted, letting out a strangled yell as he pulls away from Eddie, whirling around to face him, and Eddie can’t help it– he laughs.

Like, not a cruel laugh, just the laugh of a prank successfully pulled off.

“I can’t believe you actually fell for that!” he wheezes out around his giggles.

And Eddie isn’t fully ignorant to the idea that there are consequences for his actions; he’s pretty sure at this point Harrington is going to start yelling, maybe start swinging, almost definitely cussing Eddie out – except he doesn’t.

He doesn’t actually do anything. He’s just standing there, eyes blown wide, one hand clenched over his chest while he almost heaves for breath.

“…Harrington?” Eddie tries, as his laughter dies away. “Hey. You good?”

Harrington doesn’t reply. Eddie’s not even sure he’s seeing him right now; his gaze looks glassed over in the low light, staring at something in the middle distance that Eddie can’t see. It’s kind of freaking Eddie out.

“Harrington. Hey. Can you hear me?” Eddie reaches up to wave a hand in front of Harrington’s face, and the reaction is immediate.

He jumps again, swearing and stumbling backwards until he hits the wall by the door with a hard thump, where he slides down into a sitting position on the floor, knees pulled up in front of him and arms wrapped around his middle. He’s still breathing hard, and his eyes are darting around the trailer, still looking for something, but fucked if Eddie knows what.

And fuck. Shit, Eddie feels like an asshole, he’s just given Harrington some kind of full-blown panic attack. Shit.

“Harrington,” he says, trying to sound firm and reassuring even though he has no goddamn idea what he’s doing as he crouches down in front of the guy. “Listen, there’s nothing to be scared of, man, it was just me being a dick.”

Harrington’s eyes flick in Eddie’s direction, but Eddie’s not all that convinced he’s registering what Eddie’s saying.

“Okay, I’m gonna – just a second.” Eddie holds a finger up and stands again, darting over to the coffee table to grab the lantern and, almost as an afterthought, the flashlight. “Okay, here we go,” he says, kneeling in front of Harrington and placing the lantern between them. “Do you wanna hold the flashlight? Would that help?”

He’s barely held the flashlight up for Harrington to take when the other boy’s fingers are wrapping around it, nearly jerking it out of Eddie’s hand. He flicks it on and sweeps the beam around the room, nearly blinding Eddie at least twice in the process.

“See?” Eddie says once Harrington’s performed as much of an inspection of the place as he can from his position on the floor. “Nothing here. Just you, me, and the storm.”

This doesn’t seem to be as reassuring as Eddie would have hoped; Harrington is still on the hysterical edge of hyperventilating, flashlight clutched in one fist and the other hand clenching his jacket where it’s still wrapped around his middle.

“Harrington. Steve,” Eddie tries, and he finally gets a long enough look from Harrington that he thinks he must actually be hearing him. “You’ve gotta breathe, man. Deeper breaths, c’mon. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

And it looks like maybe he’s trying, but the air keeps stuttering back out of his lungs before he can hold it for long. He shakes his head, and Eddie bites his lip, thinking.

“Here. I’m just gonna– don’t freak out again, okay?” Slowly, Eddie reaches for Harrington’s free hand, and with an air of confusion, Harrington lets him take it, unwrapping his fingers from where they’re clutched in his jacket and letting Eddie pull until his palm is pressed flat against Eddie’s chest. “Copy me, okay? In… and out.”

Exaggerating his breaths, Eddie takes big gulps of air, in and out, and waits for Harrington to follow suit – and after a few long moments, he manages it.

Slowly, his breathing deepens out, no longer coming in quick, shallow gasps, and his posture seems to deflate as it does. He sags back against the wall, the flashlight still clutched tight in his fist, and lets his head fall back.

“Better?” Eddie asks.

Harrington shrugs. He flinches at the next flash of lighting, and Eddie squeezes his hand, which he is, for some reason, still holding.

“Just the storm,” Eddie says, and Harrington shoots him a vaguely bitchy look that feels a lot more on par with how he should be acting.

He doesn’t take his hand back, though, so Eddie just keeps holding it.

He holds it and he talks, trying to drown out the rumbles of thunder that are growing more and more distant, trying to distract from the flashes of lightning that seem to be distressing Harrington more than anything else, trying to make up for the fact that he’d caused this whole mess in the first place. And Harrington seems to listen, watching him with eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, even cracking a tiny smile a few times, when Eddie gets particularly animated.

Then, after about an hour of nothing but the warm glow of the camping lantern, nothing but the sound of Eddie’s voice and the dying storm, the power kicks back on. The lights come to life and the fridge starts humming from the kitchen, and Harrington squeezes Eddie’s hand hard, eyes falling shut for a moment in apparent divine gratitude.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, and Eddie can’t help but agree.

Slowly, he lets go of Harrington’s hand, and Harrington takes it back, awkwardly handing over the flashlight as if in trade. He stands from the floor, a little shaky, and Eddie follows suit, ready to catch him if his overtaxed body doesn’t prove to be up to the task, but Harrington manages to stand on his own two feet, so Eddie takes a step back.

“Uh… thanks. For all of that,” Harrington says quietly, voice a little wrecked.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m the one who gave you a fucking panic attack in the first place. Sitting with you was literally the least I could do.”

Harrington shrugs. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“Common decency—and my conscience—beg to differ,” Eddie says, and Harrington lets out a little huff that might have been a laugh.

“Anyway, I should get out of your hair,” Harrington says. “Do you still have the, uh–”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Eddie had nearly forgotten why Harrington had come over there in the first place. He crosses back over to the coffee table, where he’d dropped the bag when the power had gone out, and snatches it up, offering it to Harrington. “Here you are, my liege.”

The title, caught somewhere between mocking and actual friendliness, makes Harrington huff out another laugh, and he reaches for his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

Eddie almost can’t believe he’s about to say it, but– “Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.”

He’ll eat the cost if it’ll assuage his guilt – if it’ll get the image of Harrington crumpled on the floor, gasping for air as he searches the room for some kind of threat, out of Eddie’s head.

Harrington frowns. “You don’t have to do that.”

Eddie shrugs. “Call it even for having given you all the more reason to need to smoke it.”

Harrington is still frowning, hand still poised to pull his wallet from his back pocket, so Eddie shoves the baggie into his free hand, closing his fingers around it and letting go.

“Looks like it’s in your hands now, no takebacks!” Eddie insists. “Or, you know, no givebacks, I guess.”

Harrington rolls his eyes, but he drops his hand and tucks the baggie into the pocket of his jacket. “Well, thanks, then. I think.”

Eddie nods, searching over Harrington’s face; he’s still pale as shit, and it makes the dark circles under his eyes, previously barely noticeable, stand out in stark relief. He looks like he’s almost swaying where he stands, and Eddie frowns.

“You gonna be good to drive?” he asks, not really sure what he plans to do if Harrington isn’t.

“I think I’ll be fine, man,” Harrington snarks, and it’s close enough to what Eddie’s used to hearing from him that he’s willing to let the matter drop.

Harrington turns for the door, but pauses just before he reaches for the handle. Eddie wonders if maybe he’s still thinking of Eddie’s stupid prank, unable to shake the idea that something really might be waiting at the door to get him, when Harrington turns back to look at him.

“Don’t mention this to anyone, okay?” he says, possibly going for demanding, maybe even threatening, but landing somewhere closer to a plea. “I don’t need– I just don’t need anyone knowing…”

“Mum’s the word, man,” Eddie assures him quickly, miming zipping up his lips, locking them, and tossing the key over his shoulder.

With a tiny smile crossing his face, Harrington nods. “Thanks. I’ll, uh – see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah. See you around.” Eddie nods.

And with that, Harrington is gone, out the door and crunching across the wet gravel to his car, taking the strangeness of the night with him.

Eddie stands in the middle of his living room for a long moment, feeling as though something about his view of Steve Harrington—possibly even his view of something larger—has shifted, though he can’t quite put his finger on how.

He puzzles it over for a bit before shrugging it off, stooping to grab the lantern and put it back where it belongs. It doesn’t really matter, he figures. It’s not like he and Harrington will have much reason to interact after this.

[rhapsoddity]

Cuteguy Arc Part 13 - 6

[dailydelulu]

"Code Coffee" Bucky x Reader

Pairing- Bucky x fem! reader

Fluff with angst

CW: Panic attack and mentions of former abuse

(Bucky attempting, and failing, to use GenZ slang)

Context: Reader is a former HYDRA experiment adjusting to life in the Avengers Tower, unused to this life without orders, until their newfound companion Bucky comes along to help them out

Part of my fic "In Your Eyes" but can work as a oneshot

Note: Set pre- FATWS which explains Sam and Bucky's behavior and is NOT the Sam x Bucky divorce after Thunderbolts

link to fic: In Your Eyes - Chapter 1 - daily_delulu - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own]

Code words, only a few small phrases, made up every fraction of your life for the past few years. Letters strung together made your every step, syllables your every action, and a sequence your every choice. 

Funny how a few words could burrow into the grooves of your brain, sink claws into the mind, and scar your memory for the rest of your life. Honestly, it terrified you how any day someone could waltz right in, say a few words, and you would fall right back into the hands of HYDRA. Those words made the world feel blank, as if a darkness shrouded everything with one singular focal point on the target ahead. Everything and anyone would be blurred out with whatever orders are given, the only clear thing. Nobody knew what it was like to have your body out of your control, to feel so far away as if a ghost looking at their own corpse while being in synch with every single twitch of a muscle, to feel even the slightest stroke against a hair to know an opponent was behind, ready to strike. As if one were with everything all at once. 

Early mornings were a habit by now, especially with your nightmares. Sleeping late had no point when only more nightmares would come. Besides, by getting up earlier, you could avoid running into anyone. 

The bitter smell of coffee filled the air, waking you up further before stopping in your tracks. Who would be up at this hour? It was 5:30 in the morning, and you hadn’t run into anyone before. 

Standing in front of the break room’s coffee pot was Bucky in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white tee shirt, hair messy from bed, gripping a cup of coffee in his metal hand.

Carefully, you walked up behind him, trying to act as normal as possible, hoping to avoid any awkward interactions. After your conversation the day before, you had no reason to distrust Bucky. He shared a similar past, holding no fearful looks or judging stares. 

“Getting coffee, too?” you asked quietly, causing him to jump, nearly spilling coffee onto the counter. Great, you’d forgotten about assassin steps, being able to walk without a noise behind anyone. For once, it didn’t come in handy.

“Wow, you scared me,” Bucky muttered, turning to look at you, “I forgot how quiet we can get.” 

Stepping up beside him, you set some coffee grounds inside. “Sorry about that.” Bucky reminded himself that none of this was your fault. 

“No, don’t worry,” his gaze softened only a fraction, “I literally had to retrain myself to remember to walk more loudly here at the tower after I kept sneaking up on everyone.”

“Tony used to yell that I was trying to assassinate him every time I snuck up on him,” he added with a laugh, although it was a bitter one. 

“So you get up early like this, too?” you asked, glancing in his direction.

“Most days, yeah,” he took a sip of coffee, “You get used to it, but you would know that, right?” Bucky wasn’t sure whether or not his early rising came from his time as a soldier in the military or from his decades spent at HYDRA. Memories from those days with the troops were somehow nostalgic and haunting all at once. Things hadn’t been easy, but at least they were easier than before he’d been kidnapped.  When he had first returned, his sense of time had been so messed up he would find himself trying to talk to Steve at 3 in the morning, feeling as if he were in the afternoon, or sleeping until noon on the rare occasion he didn’t have nightmares. 

All you could manage was a small nod, appreciating the small talk rather than the usual avoidance from the rest of the team.  “I haven’t been sleeping much,” you said as steam rolled off the coffee as it poured into your waiting Styrofoam cup below. For such a rich guy, Tony was really cheap when it came to his coffee pot. You’d considered bringing up the nightmares to Bucky, knowing he likely had experienced similar, asking if they ever went away. No, talking about your nightmares with someone was too much openness for now. 

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” he shrugged, leaning his back against the counter, “I used to be in the military, so it could be that.”

“Really?” you asked in surprise. He had been a soldier before becoming an assassin?

“For how long?”

“A while,” is all he would say, giving you the idea the subject was still too hard to talk about, so you quickly dropped it. 

“So you like coffee?” he asked, hoping to change the subject to something a little more normal. He shifted on his feet, usually rigid like a statue from years of training as an assassin. Small talk never came easily for him, always feeling so forced and out of place, pretty much like everything else in Bucky’s life.  Giving you a sense of normalcy was the only thing he could offer for now, which, from his experience, was more than anyone could give. As much as he appreciated the same sense Steve and the rest of the team had given him after wiping clean his past, there was always that distance between them. None of them understood the past could never quite be wiped clean; those who did knew blood could be washed off, but the stains forever remained. Sin of the past lingered in the shadows, hovering above like a ghost. Seeing you up and about sent the warm feeling in his chest again, one he still couldn’t quite grasp. The air was stagnant, still, with a startling lack of tension as if the air was open with so many unspoken words and unanswered questions. Where would he even begin to ask? 

He watched as your eyes darted to and through, from his metal arm, to the coffee pot, to the door as if expecting a threat to walk in any second. Analyzing and watching seemed to be the only way you could see the world. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted truthfully. After so many years of being unable to make a single choice of your own, a life defined by codes, simple acts such as making coffee felt free. Could you even make choices without feeling the sting against your skin from every punishment received from disobeying? 

Anger rose in Bucky, remembering how HYDRA took everything- your name, choices, and preferences. Pouring a cup of coffee became a struggle against orders. One thing separated the two of you. Bucky had Steve, an anchor to his past, while you had nothing, severed from any connections. Both your minds had been made blank, nothing except a vessel for HYDRA to fill up with lies, except he had someone there to fill in the blanks. Bucky felt out of place enough, so he could only imagine how much you did. A person without a name or a past, stuck with all these strange people. Lost. 

 He had asked Tony last night if anything had turned up in the search for family from your life before. Still no answers. 

 “Maybe I could find out,” you suggested, snapping him out of his thoughts, calling back to his words the day prior with a slight upturn of your lips- a not quite smile. He loosened the grip on his own, taking the last sip. 

Reaching for the cup, a slight brush of your arm against his caused a tremble to run down your body, not unnoticed by Bucky. 

“It’s okay, doll,” he assured, voice still a bit groggy from the morning, “Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

Bucky remembered the feeling, the feeling of how your skin would crawl at the slightest contact, anticipating pain. Even Steve’s pats on the back would nearly set him off, taking everything in him not to lash out. He was surprised you hadn’t tried to jab him in the gut for touching you, even by accident. Browns and whites blended together as you stirred cream into the mug, watching as a memory came back in bursts. 

Mud against snow, your face pressed into the dirt as a faceless figure held you down.

“Think about running away again, птица, and I’ll cut your wings right off!”

A knife slid down your back, along the curve of your spine, aiming to clip the nonexistent wings after daring to try and fly. 

Struggling, you’d tried to get up only to get a boot to the side, knocking the air from your lungs. 

“Big mistake,” the figure had gripped your hair, making you look him in the face- a face nothing but a cruel outline made of shadow in the blurry memory, “Stay in your cage, little bird, and this time I’ll make sure you never run away from me again.” 

Gripping the counter, you caught your breath, trying to focus as the air came in gulps as if you’d been kicked all over again. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Bucky’s hand hovered over your back, too afraid to touch. “Do I need to get Dr. Lee?”

“No,” you gasped, feeling the dizzying edge of falling into a black out, “I’m fine.”  

Asking for the doctor was useless; Bucky knew exactly what was happening. Recognizing a memory was as easy to him as knowing his left from his right. 

“Breath, just take deep breaths.” He urged softly, lowering himself a bit to meet you at eye level, “Deep ones.”

Breathe. Breath. Breath. All of this was real, not the past anymore. One, two, three…

“Good, that’s it,” he nodded, not looking away for a second, “Keep breathing.” You kept staring back at him, focusing solely on the man in front of you, noticing how his words were gentle. Not harsh, or angry, or judging…just true understanding. 

“I’m alive,” you whispered, making Bucky’s heart nearly shatter again.

How many times had you felt as if you weren’t going to make it to the next day? For some odd reason, you began to calm in his presence, which he could never begin to understand. Bucky was the image of terror, stone still and broad, with a scar that still remained carved into the edge of his brow. Slowly, you reached out, pulling his hand to your chest as he felt the rise and fall of your chest. Bucky nearly backed up from shock, not expecting you to willingly touch him, let alone get him to touch you. If it were possible to be any more shocked, you had grabbed his metal arm. The one most people shied away from or found disgusting. Your fingers had it in a death grip, making him thankful you had subjected the metal to your unnatural strength instead of breaking his fingers. A steady thump of a heart rattled against the cool metal, as his own pace began to quicken for reasons he didn’t understand altogether.  Hard and steady vibranium, soft is how the hand felt against your steadily slowing chest, more humane than anything in HYDRA, all while being the least human part of him. 

“Tell me to breathe,” you gave him a pleading look, “I need to breathe.”

Worry knitted his brow as he stared back at the desperation written across your face. Did you think you needed permission to breathe? The thought almost made his own breath go away, to think HYDRA had put you through who knows what to make you think that way.

“No more orders,” he reassured, pressing his hand firmly against you. No more orders. 

Suddenly, a gap was between the two of you, making the metal feel strangely colder than usual, leaving him confused at the change until the person he wanted to see the least. 

Idiot always has the best timing. 

“Those morning runs really help your time, not like it matters when you’re trying to keep up with Cap.” Sam sprinted into the room with a box of a dozen donuts, with a smile, completely oblivious to Bucky’s obviously annoyed glare. “I had to grab myself something sweet, so I grabbed some for everyone.”

A mask had slid into place, one worn so many times before, as a perfectly calm look settled on your face. Bucky found the change almost startling, but understood that hiding those scars running so deep was easier than exposing them to others. 

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, taking a bite of a sprinkled donut with a near-teasing smirk. 

“No,” Bucky gave him a near warning look, daring him to suggest anything from the proximity the two of them shared moments ago while he tried to think of an excuse. Anything, think of anything, Buck. “We were…uh, spilling tea.”

“What?” you and Sam said simultaneously as you stared at him. “Do you even know what that means?” you asked now in too much shock from seeing a man from the literal 1940s saying “tea.” At least the panic attack was forgotten for now. After browsing some online records while you were recovering, you had discovered Bucky had been kept alive by HYDRA for decades, explaining how Steve and he were so close. You were aware he was technically from a completely different time than you, yet it still left you in disbelief at times. Steve was easy to see, since he stuck out with his inability to turn on a computer. Bucky had adapted, probably due to HYDRA preparing him for assassinations. Something that had stopped you from looking into his life any further, unlike the rest of the team. Those stories you wanted to hear from Bucky’s mouth himself. 

“I do, it means sharing gossip or something,” Bucky crossed his arms defensively. “Shuri taught me a few words and phrases while I was being treated in Wakanda. When young people want to talk about stuff, they say tea, and when they think someone is charming, they have rizz.”

“ I don’t think rizz and charming should be used in the same sentence,” you said as Sam burst into a fit of laughter. 

“No way!” Sam nudged Bucky, causing him to shove him back lightly, “Explains why you can text so well for someone older than my grandpa, although your use of emojis could use some work.”

“Touch me again, and I’ll shove that donut somewhere you’ll never find it,” Bucky huffed, giving Sam another steely glare. You looked between the two as Sam left, giving Bucky a mock salute before going with another donut in hand. Why did these two get along so horribly?

“Sam wants you to like him, you know,” you said. 

“What?” Bucky looked at you as if you were insane. “Sam hates me, has since day one. He’d probably jump off a building without his wings before he admits he even tolerates me.”

“Don’t you see how he tries to get your attention? Or yesterday when he tried sharing those playlists with you?” 

“So?” Bucky sounded unconvinced. “He’s just tired of me playing nothing but 40s music. Where’d you get this idea anyway?” Connecting with others wasn’t his strong suit, so attempting anything with a guy like Sam seemed impossible. The whole idea was a lost cause. 

“I’m an assassin.” Something akin to a smirk tugged at your lips. “Observant, remember?” He shook his head, pouring another cup,

“How could I forget? Always watching, aren’t you?” 

Glancing over at his coffee, you teased, hoping to lighten the mood from the earlier panic, “Black? No sugar at all?”

“No, I just prefer it this way,” he said, setting the cup aside. “Always have, always will.”

“I knew it,” you pointed at his arm, “You really are a robot, no human could like plain coffee.”

“I am not a robot, technically the Wakandans called me a cyborg in a sense,” Bucky took another sip. “Plenty of people drink black coffee.” 

“No, they don’t,” you argued before taking a long sip of your own and choking on it. The coffee was bitter and rancid, with a strange, lingering aftertaste that reminded you of dirty water.

“This is awful!” you sputtered, “Why do people drink this?” So this is what people stayed in line for so long at Starbucks?

“Have you never drunk coffee before?” Bucky asked, suppressing a laugh at the way your nose scrunched up at the taste.

Conversation was difficult for him, and small talk was even worse. After so many years stuck in HYDRA, unable to speak unless ordered, social skills weren’t exactly top priority. Talking to you came easily in a way he couldn’t understand, maybe because you both felt just out of place.  No matter the explanation, having someone to talk to, someone who understood, was a nice change of pace. 

“Guess not,” you said, pouring the unholy caffeinated mix into the sink, “I just assumed I had before I was, well, taken.”

A darkness settled over the conversation again at the stark reminder, making the room heavy compared to the lightness of banter only moments before. 

“I should go,” you turned to the door before he spoke up, “If you ever want coffee again, let me know.”

Although you knew the “coffee” he was referring to wasn’t actual coffee, instead, what he had done for you, pulling you out of a waking nightmare. 

“I will,” you agreed before turning out the door, feeling as if a small weight had been lifted, falling away. 

“By the way, sugar helps with the taste,” he called down the hall as you went back towards your quarters. “I’ll keep that in mind!”

Coffee. A new code word. One that felt a lot like a new beginning. 

[v-albion]

….

He’ll be fine

…

Eventually

Context

Masterpost

@tmntaucompetition

[angeart]

what did you do—?!