#To support my supposed ducks team

[freebooter4ever]

PENGUINS thank goodness you dodo birds had me worried for a sec.

[lovelybarnes]

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises. 

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

-

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you. 

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

-

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

-

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug. 

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

-

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains. 

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

-

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

-

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably. 

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. 

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously. 

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

-

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks. 

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?” 

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.”��

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons. 

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

-

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose. 

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend. 

-

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path. 

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

-

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down. 

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh. 

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back. 

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve. 

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

-

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

-

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

-

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit. 

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily. 

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can. 

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability. 

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.” 

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues.  “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

[diorsluv]

die for you , part 1

“ swear i couldn’t sleep a wink last night ”

series m. list next chapter

( socialmedia!au )

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→ ilia_quadg0d_malinin say that to me when you land a quad

→ yourusername I LITERALLY DID IT BEFORE YOU THO????

→ ilia_quadg0d_malinin that’s a lie and we both know it

→ yourusername STOP GASLIGHTING ME THIS IS NOT BEST FRIEND BEHAVIOR

lhughes_06 Ma’am, would you like to visit the Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey to watch us practice prior to our game against the Anaheim Ducks?

→ jackhughes you’re supposed to dm her, not publicly comment…

→ lhughes_06 YOU TOLD ME TO COMMENT ON A POST

→ lhughes_06 this is ur fault

→ yourusername YES I WOULD

→ lhughes_06 see it worked anyways jackhughes

t.harley48 you messed up the ice before practice 🤬🤬

→ yourusername stop whining start grinding 🥶

→ wyattjohnston_ stop whining start grinding 🥶

→ logan.stankoven stop whining start grinding 🥶

→ mush__27 stop whining start grinding 🥶

→ t.harley48 once i get on that zamboni it’s over for you all

yourusername

liked by miroheiskanen, trevorzegras, _alexturcotte, and 300,024 others

yourusername someone tell him i’m outside waiting rn 🙏

view all comments

username29 PLEASE TELL ME “HIM” IS TREVOR

ilia_quadg0d_malinin oh! when did you start posting about your crippling love life 😍

→ yourusername you’re like the only person i told and you proceed to make fun of me 😃😃

→ wyattjohnston_ no you told me

→ logan.stankoven and me

→ jpav8 and wyatt told me

→ hhinee you told me as well

→ miroheiskanen i also know

→ matt9duchene so do i

→ tseguin92 oh you told me too

→ t.harley48 don’t forget about me

→ jake30oettinger you literally told me too

→ mush__27 good lord how many people did you tell (i know about it too)

→ ilia_quadg0d_malinin you told an ENTIRE nhl team. yourusername

→ yourusername ……..i told you first…..?

→ jasonrob19 what are we talking about

nickrobertson01 that’s not one of your jackets…

→ yourusername how would you know if you haven’t been in my closet 🤨

→ nickrobertson01 you just gave me a closet tour on ft yesterday…..?

→ jasonrob19 then whose jacket is it?????

→ yourusername no one i swear it’s mine 😰😰

jamiebenn14 is that not a literal nightgown?

→ yourusername stop judging my stylistic choices 💔

→ tseguin82 THAT’S WHAT I WAS THINKING

→ yourusername you old men are NOT hip with the kids

→ jpav8 you’re breaking our hearts here 😔😔

username33 is that or is that not the outside of an ice rink???

username20 i swear to god she’s seeing trevor

username94 someone tell me i’m insane because i swear i’ve seen the ducks practice there before

→ username17 no no you’re not insane i think you’re right 😰

→ username11 lmfao maybe she just practices there too???

hhinee so to be clear, “him” is HIM right?

→ yourusername yes yes you’re right roop

→ jasonrob19 why do i not know what you’re talking about

username6 IF I’M RIGHT, i think i’ve seen that backpack in the background of one of trevor’s stories before…

logan.stankoven so what i’m hearing is if you hang out with him, you leave us alone?

→ yourusername what happened to the kid that BEGGED for my autograph when i showed up to one of the texas stars games

→ logan.stankoven YOU SAID YOU WOULD NEVER BRING THAT UP

→ yourusername 🙄

→ wyattjohnston_ HE BEGGED?????

_quinnhughes cool fit i like it 👍

→ yourusername aw thank you ☺️

→ username37 OH MY GOD IS IT QUINN

→ username72 WHAT THE FUCK WAIT A SECOND

colecaufield i see you’ve been gaining more attention..

→ yourusername are you saying i’m not successful enough to regularly get attention??

→ colecaufield oh my god YOU ALWAYS DO THIS

_alexturcotte i have never seen someone leave mid-convo as quickly as i just did

→ yourusername you were with him?

→ _alexturcotte no he just stopped typing all of a sudden

→ yourusername so you were.. texting him????

→ _alexturcotte yeah??

→ yourusername THEN HOW TF DID YOU SEE HIM LEAVE??

→ _alexturcotte I DONT FUCKING KNOW I WAS JUST YAPPING

→ yourusername you know for someone so smart, sometimes you make no sense 😭

mush__27 you being 1,500 miles away should be a crime

→ yourusername oh stop complaining i was literally back home like 8 hours ago

username17 has trevor not commented yet??

→ username99 it’s not as if he comments frequently

jake30oettinger you’re so not slick

→ yourusername that’s great i’m so glad you noticed even though you literally didn’t know until i told you!

→ jasonrob19 PLEASE GOD JUST TELL ME 😔

next chapter notes ) your bitch is back with a trevor au and this time it’s gonna be irl + smau because i was fucking STRUGGLING with feather.. and also i’m thinking of the nickname being lacey because i think it’s just so cute and also i got a whole backstory and all… 😈 but regarding ilia malinin and all of my favorite dallas stars.. yall might have to know some stars and figure skating lore for this one but i don’t really think it’s gonna affect the plot of the story or the story itself (you just might not know who anyone is 😭😭) as always if you wanna be tagged, just comment or dm me!!

[novaursa]

Hi Novaursa! I saw that you are taking in requests. Can I make one with Targaryen!Reader (supports team black) and Gwayne Hightower? They had a feelings with each other but they don't act on it (at least on public).They are now in the battlefield and must fight each other.

Divided Banners

- Summary: When the Dance came you picked your half-sister. And now you have to face a price for choices made.

- Paring: niece!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: The reader is a second daughter of the late King Viserys I Targaryen and Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower. The reader is bonded with Grey Ghost.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

The roar of the battlefield surrounds you, a cacophony of clashing steel, screams, and the eerie screech of dragons. You sit atop Grey Ghost, his massive wings beating against the wind, your silver-white hair whipping in the air. You scan the chaos below, searching for your enemies—your family. They are the ones you should be fighting for, but you’ve turned your back on them. For Rhaenyra. For the throne she deserves. For your half-sister, who should wear the crown instead of Aegon.

But even now, in the heat of war, you can’t shake the lingering feeling of dread. You’ve heard the Hightower banners are here, which means he is here—Gwayne.

It has been months since you last saw him. Months since you shared stolen kisses in shadowed alcoves, behind closed doors where no one could see. But in public, you were enemies now, just another Targaryen who had betrayed the Greens, who had turned your back on your mother, on your brothers. On him.

Grey Ghost lets out a low growl beneath you as the enemy comes into view—green banners fluttering in the wind. You feel a pang in your chest, but there is no time for hesitation. You spur Grey Ghost forward, your heart pounding in your chest, as you descend on the battlefield.

The sea of green soldiers swarms below like ants, and you unleash a torrent of fire, scorching the ground beneath. Screams of agony reach your ears, but you block them out. This is war. There is no room for mercy.

Suddenly, a flash of silver armor catches your eye. Gwayne.

He is on horseback, leading a charge toward you, his sword gleaming in the fading light. His face is hardened with resolve, his jaw clenched. He knows it’s you. He always knows.

You curse under your breath, gripping Grey Ghost’s reins tighter, but you can’t look away from him. He’s still so beautiful, even in this moment. Even with the blood on his hands, even as he rides toward you with the intent to kill.

He raises his sword, and you realize with a sickening clarity that you are his target.

“Gwayne!” you call out, your voice lost in the roar of the battlefield. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

You dive down, forcing Grey Ghost to pull up just as Gwayne slashes at the air where you once were. His horse rears back, and for a moment, you see his face—pained, conflicted.

He’s struggling. Just like you.

You land on the ground a few feet away from him, dismounting from Grey Ghost as he flies off to circle above. Gwayne’s horse snorts nervously, sensing the tension, but he holds the reins steady.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you. The battlefield fades into the background, and all you can see is him. Gwayne, the man you love, standing before you with a sword in his hand, ready to strike you down. And you—his enemy now, with fire in your veins and blood on your hands.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. There’s something desperate in his eyes, a plea hidden beneath the hardness. “You’re making this harder than it already is.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you snap back, your voice trembling. “Stand by and watch as you kill my family? My sister?”

“They’re my family too,” he growls, stepping closer. His sword is still raised, but his hands shake. “I never wanted this, none of this!”

“Neither did I, Gwayne,” you say softly. “But we can’t change it now. We’re on opposite sides of this war.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Is that all we are now? Opponents?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The truth is too painful to admit. You’ve always been more than that. You always will be.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world pauses. You remember the nights spent together, the whispered promises of love, the stolen moments of happiness. But those memories feel like another lifetime now. This is war. And in war, love is a luxury you can’t afford.

He takes another step toward you, his sword lowering ever so slightly. His voice cracks when he speaks. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please, don’t make me do this.”

“I won’t make it easy for you,” you whisper. “I can’t.”

There’s no more time for words. You both know what has to happen. You draw your sword, your hands trembling as you face him. His eyes widen, the hurt in them cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

And then, you clash.

The sound of steel meeting steel echoes around you. Every strike, every swing feels like a betrayal. You don’t want to hurt him, but you know if you hesitate, you’ll die. He’s stronger than you, more experienced, but you’re quicker, your strikes more precise.

He blocks your blows, parrying with practiced ease, but there’s hesitation in his movements. He’s holding back. You know it.

“Stop holding back!” you shout, your frustration boiling over. “Fight me, Gwayne!”

“I can’t!” he snaps, his voice raw with emotion. His sword wavers in his hand, and for a moment, you think you see tears in his eyes. “I can’t do this!”

“You have to!” you scream, slashing at him again, your sword narrowly missing his shoulder. “We don’t have a choice!”

He parries your strike, his breath ragged. “There’s always a choice.”

Before you can respond, a deafening roar fills the air, and you see it—Criston Cole’s scorpion ballista being aimed at Grey Ghost. Your heart stops in your chest.

“No,” you breathe, your blood turning to ice. “No, no, no!”

You turn to run toward Grey Ghost, to scream out a warning, but Gwayne grabs your arm, pulling you back. “Wait!”

“There’s no time!” you shout, struggling against his grip. “They’ll kill him!”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, and then, with a grim resolve, he lets you go. “Run,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

“What?” you breathe, confusion clouding your mind. “Gwayne, what are you—”

“Just go!” he shouts, pushing you toward Grey Ghost. “Before it’s too late!”

You hesitate for a moment, your heart warring with your mind, but then you see it—the way his eyes flicker toward the scorpion, the way his hand tightens around his sword. He’s going to stop them.

“Gwayne, don’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a pained smile.

“Go,” he says again, his voice breaking. “I’ll buy you time. Just... go.”

Tears blur your vision as you mount Grey Ghost, your heart shattering into pieces. You don’t want to leave him. You don’t want to lose him. But you know if you stay, you’ll both die.

With one last glance, you urge Grey Ghost into the sky, the wind whipping around you as the world blurs beneath you. You don’t look back. You can’t.

You hear the scorpion fire, but there’s no strike. No deathly roar. And you know—Gwayne sabotaged it. He let you live. 

But at what cost?

The war rages on, but a part of you died on that battlefield near Duskendale. And as you fly away, the tears streaming down your face, you know you’ll never forget the sacrifice he made for you.

Or the fact that you may never see him again.

[dragonmama76]

Working on part 2 of Beginnings, but until then here’s a small interlude. You can read the first bit here Part One

“Are you excited to start high school?” Steve feels like every lame adult he’s ever known, but he’s been wanting to have this conversation for a while now, preferably before his gang of nerds walk unprepared into his alma mater.

“I mean, sure.” Dustin says. “They have an amazing media lab and the AP science teachers are supposed to be really good. It’s never too early to think about college! Uh, sorry Steve.”

“Alright, shut it. If I had a brain like yours maybe I’d be in college now.” Steve rolls his eyes affectionately.

“And I heard Nancy say there’s an after-school club for D&D, so that might be okay. I mean, it won’t be as good without Will there but…” Mike trails off, a frown settling on his face.

“Yeah, okay I guess your demons and dingbats thing could be good.” Steve feels vaguely uneasy. Something to do with that club...it probably doesn't matter.

“Well, I’m also trying out for the basketball team.” Lucas adds softly.

“My man!!” Steve grins and holds his hand up for a high five. “I’m around if you want to get some practice in before tryouts. And I've got an in with the coach if you want me to put in a good word for you.”

“Nice! I'm always up for more practice!" Lucas grins back matching Steve's enthusiasm.

"And nepotism," retorts Dustin.

"Okay, brain boy. I don't know what that is, but it sounds gross and we don't have it." Steve smirks and cocks his head before remembering this was supposed to be a serious conversation.

"Anyway...I just wanted to talk to you guys about sticking together and always having each-other's backs." Steve starts and Dustin, of course interrupts, "Obviously, Steve. Who do you think we are?"

"No, man, I know. It's just that it can be pretty intimidating and the bullying can be...more intense than what you're used to in Middle School." Steve conceeds.

"Like you'd know anything about being bullied!" snorts Mike, "You were the bully."

"Uh...well." Steve doesn't want to scare the kids, but he does want them to be prepared. "I was kind of an asshole for a while..."

"Ya think?" Dustin chimes in.

"Shut up and let me talk!" Steve says in his best mom voice. "I had to learn to be harder in school. My freshman year this older kid made me his target and it was pretty awful. It got so bad I didn't even want to go to school half the time."

"That really sucks, man." Lucas gives Steve a supportive look.

"Aw, what, did he call you names? Make fun of your hair?" Mike sneers. He can't help but run his mouth sometimes. He likes Steve well enough, but not like Dustin and Lucas do and he can't stand how they worship him sometimes. Steve isn't that great.

"Dude. He pulled a knife on me for like, no reason. I was fourteen."

"Woah" Dustin just exhales. "So like, is high school....dangerous?" All three boys are seriously paying attention now, eyes wide.

"Nah, not normally. Anyway, it got better once I was deep in with the guys on the basketball team. So I'm just saying. Find a group that has your back. And you guys look out for other kids too, all right? And tell ME if anyone bothers you. I've got a bat that can sort them out."

"Dude....you can't just nailbat a teenager." Dustin snorts.

"I dunno, squirt," Steve ruffles Dustin's hair and he yelps ducking away, "If I find out anyone is messing with you guys....well, maybe not the nail bat, but just...promise to tell me okay? I don't want anyone of you going through what I did."

"We promise." They all chime dutifully.

"Hellfire!" Mike shouts as they all turn to look at him like he's got three heads. "What?" he says, "That's the name of the club."

"Hellfire." Steve mutters. Why does that name make his stomach hurt? He'll probably remember later. Meanwhile he's glad his twerps are going to have a good support system when they start school.

Read Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Tag list (ask if you want to be tagged for the full part 2) @swimmingbirdrunningrock @phirex22 @lilpomelito @thaliaisalesbian

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Walter Marshall

Summary: Your work friend oversteps in his attempts to help you.

Warnings: Size discrimination. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is short, female. No other physical descriptors used. This is my first time writing a short reader so please let me know what I got right/wrong!

Part 2

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

It's almost time for the company's Halloween party and you were one of the two security guards who drew the short straw to work late for it. At least you were still allowed to dress up, you just had to wear your regular uniform during the usual work hours. Your friends had talked you into doing a trio costume with them earlier in the month, the three of you going as the Powerpuff Girls, and you were looking forward to joining them.

When you told them you had to work during the party they understood but they refused to hear any talk of not wearing the team costume.

"We're friends," Bubbles is quick to retort. "And that's not something that goes away just because you have to work."

Newbie nods in agreement, "plus it'll be nice to join you at the desk."

You turn to Newbie and raise an eyebrow, "you're only allowed to visit me during the party if you finally get hot IT guy's number." She ducks her head and you feel a little bad. She's been pining over Rogers since she got hired and you and Bubbles have done your best to encourage her. "Tonight is a great opportunity," you tell her, softening your tone. "But I suppose I can let you visit me at the desk if you've at least tried talking to tall, blonde and handsome." She smiles and hugs you as you playfully roll your eyes.

Walter hates parties but he's desperately hoping to find you. The G's hadn't harassed him again since the teddy bear so he figured he was at least somewhat in your good graces. If not, he knew his costume would at least get you to laugh, if nothing else. That said, he wasn't going to show the costume in front of anyone if you weren't there. It was a humiliating costume, but that was the point.

Looking around the party he's not finding you so he approaches the G's, "have you seen Spitfire?"

Geralt raises an eyebrow, "no."

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"Why would we know where she is?" G adds.

"Aren't...aren't you friends with her?"

"No," Geralt says again.

"She's just our favorite of the security guards." G explains.

Geralt points to a couple of ladies, "those are her friends."

"Oh, thank you," Walter walks away as G looks at him like he's an idiot. Walking over to the two ladies, dressed as Powerpuff Girls he wonders if you're dressed up as the green one. "Excuse me," he gets their attention. "Have you seen Spitfire?"

The woman in the pink outfit looks him up and down, "are you the one who almost got her hurt?"

The woman in the blue turns to her, "the IT asshole?"

Walter grumbles as he lowers his head, "yeah, I'm that idiot. I'm trying to apologize to her."

They cross their arms and look at each other for a moment before the blue one says, "she's working the security desk. But you're not allowed to see her without us being there."

Walter sighs in resignation and nods his acquiescence.

The pink one says, "I'll get a plate of snacks to take to her."

Your friends text that they're coming to visit and they're bringing "the IT asshole". That definitely gets your attention. You look back at the teddy bear he'd gotten you. It had been followed up by a couple of apology emails. You hadn't responded to any of them. So now he was looking to apologize in person? You were glad your friends were going to be there to support you.

The three of them come out from the main area of the building, Bubbles and Newbie smiling, hugging you and giving you a plate of food they thought you would like.

Bubbles whispers, "if you want him to leave, we're here to help and support."

You smile at her before giving Walter a soft glare, "I'll hear him out."

Taking that as his cue, Walter approaches, while still keeping a respectful distance. He'd really, truly hoped he wouldn't have to do this in front of others, but he wasn't about to back out. He missed you and wanted to make things right.

He takes a breath, "I want to show you my costume."

You raise an eyebrow at him. He takes out a rather large piece of paper and rolls it up before putting it on his head. It's a dunce cap, complete with the word written on it. You have to bite back a laugh. He looks so dumb, but so sincere. You can't hide the fact that your body is shaking with the laughter you're not letting out and his look turns hopeful.

"Okay," you choke out. "Okay, I'll accept your apology. But if you ever pull that shit again, I'm hurting you and you have to wear that cap all day."

"That's more than fair," he smiles, relief written all over his face.

Part 2

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @changenameno; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen;

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kingliam2019; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

[wannabespacesmuggler]

D.D. | Shane’s Girl

Part One | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you're forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Merle Dixon being Merle Dixon, Shane Walsh isn’t great either tbh

Word Count: 1K

Author’s Note: This has been sitting in my google docs just collecting ~metaphorical~ dust. I was going to put all the parts into one very long one shot, but instead, decided against it because I really, really like what I’ve written so far and feel that some feedback can help cure the writer’s block plaguing me. Let me know what you guys think.

Extras: Playlist

Daryl Dixon didn’t think much of you and Shane when he first joined the ragtag team of survivors at the quarry, but he’s an observant man and Shane is anything but subtle.

It all started a few weeks after the world ended. Everyone was still recoiling from what they had seen and heard on their way to Atlanta, but they were trying to continue living. Shane was attempting to establish order in the makeshift camp. The women were charged with cooking, cleaning the laundry, and looking after the kids while the men were sent out to scavenge and hunt -- except for Dale, who spent most of his days working on his bucket of rust, and Shane, who has taken a liking to his newfound leadership and decided to become the watchful protector of the camp. Daryl thinks it’s a pretty backward way of thinking -- it’s the end of the world and we’re still worried about maintaining gender norms -- but who is he to argue?

It was one of the rare days Daryl wasn’t off on a hunting trip when you first piqued his interest. He was skinning the last of the squirrels he’d brought back from his latest hunting trip and Merle just had to open his mouth when you walked by.

“Hey,” Merle’s voice cut through the quiet conversations being had. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, including yours. “Why don’t you keep old Merle here company?”

Your eyes shift quickly to Daryl, who was trying to make himself look busy with the squirrel in his lap, before returning to Merle. You put your hands on your hips defiantly before answering.

“Looks like you’ve already got yourself some company, Merle.”

You motion toward Daryl while speaking. Daryl has to fight the grin that’s pulling his lips. He was expecting you to be like Lori -- quiet and submissive when the men are talking. But here you are, prepared to take on Merle Dixon all by yourself. He supposes he’s gotta respect that, even though he knows your answer is just going to rile Merle up more. Still, you’re here, standing up for yourself, which is more than he’s seen from others in the group. 

“What, you mean Daryl? C’mon sweetheart, he’s not much fun to talk to or look at.”

It’s the end of his sentence that has you turning to look toward Shane, who is once again sitting on top of the RV, a rifle in one hand and a canteen in the other. You’re hoping that Shane will look over and come to your aid. You certainly don’t need rescuing, but the support of your boyfriend would be nice right now. However, you’re met with nothing as Shane’s eyes never meet yours. You roll your eyes and turn back to Merle. 

Daryl watches you, squirrel in his hands forgotten for the moment. He can see the frustration on your face as you turn around, obviously not pleased with the fact that Shane is not paying attention to you in the slightest. However, despite your frustration, you don’t back down.

“I’d rather look at him than you any day.”

He knows you’re just saying that to get to Merle, but Daryl still ducks his head to hide the blush that spread across his cheeks due to your words. He quickly brushes the thought of there being even the slightest possibility that your eyes have wandered over to him during the past few weeks aside when Merle stands up. Daryl knows his brother and based on the look on his face, you’ve pissed Merle right off. This is bad news for everyone. 

Daryl stands as well, a hand already reaching out to stop Merle from advancing toward you. Merle swats Daryl’s hand away roughly. The action makes Daryl take an immediate step back, head ducking down again. 

“Don’t touch me!”

Merle’s raised voice seems to have finally gotten Shane’s attention.

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s going on here?”

Daryl lifts his head in time to see Shane make his way to your side. He places a hand on your shoulder as you continue your seething staring match with Merle. You’re about to brush off the encounter and tell Shane not to worry about it, when Merle opens his mouth again. 

“You better muzzle your bitch.”

And that’s when all hell broke loose. Shane launches toward Merle, yelling unintelligibly. You are quick to grab Shane off of Merle and Daryl follows your lead, pulling Merle back. Eventually, you and Daryl are able to wrangle Merle and Shane away from one another. You still have both your hands on Shane’s chest when he begins shouting again.

“You stay away from my girl. You hear me? You don't talk to her. If I see you even look at her, she won’t be able to stop me. Both of you.”

Shane’s eyes move from Merle to Daryl and the look in his eyes is ice cold, it damn near almost sends a shiver down Daryl’s spine. Daryl nods as Merle continues to struggle against him. Seemingly content with the response, Shane wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins moving you away from them. You spare Daryl a brief, apologetic glance before allowing Shane to drag you toward the RV.

Daryl pushes down the knot developing in his stomach as he watches Shane manhandle you. His hold is less protective and more possessive. It seems much less like he came to defend you from some unwanted attention and much more like he came over just to take back what’s his.

He shakes his head -- physically trying to rid himself of the thoughts ricocheting in his head. It’s not like he can do anything anyway. Shane made it crystal clear that you are off-limits -- and who is he to argue?

[iam93percentstardust]

*insert french laugh* Did someone say to send a prompt? Ahoy! Have no fear for I am here. How about stevetony kiss prompt with the dialogue "i think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me"? Could Steve be the one to also say it? <3

naferty fren!!! yesss always happy to write steve for you <3

@soliloquent-stark also requested this prompt + "If you win, I'll kiss you" so I rolled y'all into one

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

~

Steve does follow his physical therapy plan religiously, and sure enough, by the time the next season—his final season, as a senior now—rolls around, he’s declared fit to play. And, fuck, does he play. Determined to prove himself even better after his recovery, to prove that Rollins couldn’t get him down, he leads his team to victory after victory and then to the playoffs and now to the championship.

Tony ducks into the locker room before the game, ignoring the good-natured wolf-whistles and catcalls from Steve’s teammates as he picks his way through the equipment littered across the room. It’s been an open secret for ages that Steve was seeing an omega, and after his injury last season, it became an open secret that Steve was specifically seeing Tony because he kept showing up to fuss over him, but none of them would ever turn him in. They have too much respect for their captain and quarterback, and anyway, most of them think the zero fraternization rules are just as ridiculous as they do.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Steve says, beaming at him. “How was your exam?”

Tony makes a face. He hadn’t flown over with the team yesterday, being required to take an exam for one of his courses—something about mechanics, which Steve had listened to all the ranting about, nodding sympathetically since that was about as much as he understood.

“That bad?” Steve asks.

Tony scowls. “No. It was boring. If you’re gonna make a big deal about this exam being the ‘hardest exam of the entire semester’—” he adopts a suitably dramatic tone for the quote—“then it should at least be difficult, right? I overstudied way too much for that thing. I don’t think it took me more than about ten minutes.”

“Maybe that’s just because you’re impressive.”

“Or maybe Dr. Kean’s not nearly as scary as she thinks she is.”

Steve hums. He doesn’t completely agree—no one knows how smart Tony is better than he does after years of listening to Tony telling him about his inventions—but he’s not going to argue the point. He wasn’t there; for all he knows, everyone was done with the exam after ten minutes.

“I’m glad to see you here,” he says instead. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

Tony makes a dismissive gesture. “What’s a little light sprinting through the airport to catch the next flight?”

“And the TSA let you?”

“I told ‘em I was going to support my alpha, and they practically made a hole for me themselves. They’re big Steve Rogers’ fans, you know.”

It’s Steve’s turn to make a face. He doesn’t know how he feels about having fans. No, that’s not true. He knows exactly how he feels, and he doesn’t like it.

Tony laughs, “Yeah, exactly.”

Steve hears the coach starting to round people up for the pregame pep talk and says, “You better get out there. Don’t want you to miss the kickoff.”

“Hmm, yeah, probably,” Tony agrees and starts to walk away, grinning when Steve reels him back in. “What?”

“Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?” Steve asks.

“No?”

That innocent look on his face isn’t fooling Steve one bit. He reminds him, “Kiss for luck?”

Tony thinks about it, then gives him a teasing smile. “Hmm, I’m gonna have to go with no.”

Steve blinks at him. “No?”

“Yeah, no. But if you win, I’ll kiss you then.”

He darts away before Steve can catch him to kiss him himself, cackling like mad as he dodges his hand. Steve watches him go and shakes his head fondly. Well, now that Tony’s laid a challenge on him, guess he’ll have to win.

~

Looking back on it, he’ll be able to remember the game in excruciating detail. He’ll be able to sit down with Tony and watch the highlights and comment on what he was thinking at each moment of the game. Today though, it feels like barely a minute has passed before he’s standing in the winners box, looking at Tony beaming from ear to ear while someone asks him how he feels.

“Amazing,” he says honestly. He almost says something about Tony, but stops himself at the last second. That moment feels too private, too them to share on national television.  He gives another couple of soundbites before the mic moves to Peter, who’d made the winning touchdown in the last second, literally.

“I think I just kind of blacked out when I caught that last ball,” Peter says blankly, still clearly in shock. “I just ran for it. I’m lucky I moved at all.”

Everyone chuckles and then they’re finally allowed down off the stage. Steve makes a beeline straight for Tony, vaguely acknowledging the people who try to talk to him. Tony is waiting for him with a softer, more teasing smile.

“Congratulations, quarterback,” Tony says once he reaches him.

“Thanks,” Steve says, grinning at him. “Now, if I remember correctly, I think this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.”

“Oh, is that what part this is?” Tony asks, arching his eyebrows.

“Pretty sure. I did win, after all.”

“Well, if you won,” Tony says exaggeratedly, but grabs ahold of Steve’s jersey and yanks him in. He smiles again, bright and warm and so, so proud, and then leans up and kisses him. And it’s a perfect moment, the best way to cap off the best season Steve has ever had. Steve wraps his arms around him, holding him close, and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Common Grounds / Chapter 10

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Rating: Chapter is T, Series is E (smut, 18+)

Warnings: plot, pining, two idiots in love, cliffhanger ending

Summary: The night of your exhibition and the culmination of Marcus's case is going well, until an unexpected (and unwanted) guest shows up...

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to @prolix-yuy, who singlehandedly rekindled my passion for this story and finally gave me the push that I needed to write down the ending that's been swirling in my brain for most of the year. Thank you also to @littlebirdsbookshelf, beta reader extraordinaire, who takes every idea and makes it better. There will be 1 more chapter in this story, plus a short epilogue!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

[Previous / Next]

“Earth calling.”

You startle, nearly sending a large mixing bowl clattering to the floor.

“I’m awake!” you announce. If your volume is unnaturally loud, Sam doesn’t call attention to it.

“Is that why you just dumped all your diced apples into the trash instead of the bowl?”

“Shit.”

Serves you right for keeping both containers right next to each other, you suppose. You learned that lesson at home the hard way, too—that’s why you own two coffee mugs that read “Paint Water” and “Not Paint Water,” respectively.

“These stupid strudels are never going to get made,” you grumble to yourself as you grab another apple from the sink.

“Why are you off in the clouds, anyway?” Sam asks. “Marcus isn’t due for another hour and a half.”

“It’s not that,” you protest.

Sam raises their eyebrow as if to say, Really?

“Okay, it’s not exactly that,” you amend.

They hop up onto the counter beside you. “Spill.”

“I… I really can’t,” you say hesitantly, feeling guilty that you’re keeping a huge development in your life from your closest friend and supporter.

“Now you’re worrying me,” Sam remarks, frowning.

“Please don’t worry. It’s really nothing, it’s…” you trail off, unsure how you can effectively dance around the elephant in the room without giving Sam any actual details.

Sorry I’m distracted, I can’t stop thinking about the fake art exhibition I’m putting on tonight with the help of my FBI Agent boyfriend and his entire team in order to catch an art thief.

Sam looks troubled, regarding you with concern etched into their expression, but drops the issue. The two of you return to baking in companionable silence, and you try your best not to waste any more apples.

When Marcus arrives, as you could have probably predicted, Sam accosts him immediately.

“I’m gonna need you to tell me what’s going on with your girlfriend,” they say, clicking a pair of plastic serving tongs in his direction.

Marcus holds up his hands in surrender, amused surprise flashing across his features as he steps up to the counter.

“Is this a hold-up?” he jokes. “I’d have to ask her myself, since I just got here.” He turns to you, his eyes warming and smile widening as though he can’t help but do it when he looks at you. “Hello there.”

“Hey,” you grin, ducking your head shyly.

“Sam says there’s something wrong with you,” he says, raising his eyebrows playfully.

You return his smile and shake your head rapidly back and forth. “I’m great,” you insist, although you know Marcus can see the nervousness dancing behind your purposefully-cool demeanor.

Sam hands Marcus his lavender latte and one of the apple strudels—still warm from the oven. When they retreat to the back room for more supplies, Marcus is ready.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, sotto voce. “I hate to think I’ve put you in a situation that you’re uncomfortable with. Listen, the ball is in your court. If you’re nervous about any of this, I can pull the plug on this in an instant—”

“It’s not that,” you answer quietly. “It’s—okay, it is that a little bit, but it’s just hard to keep this from Sam. They’ve supported me for so long, and this is my first art show, even if it’s fake—”

“It’s not fake,” Marcus says insistently. “It might be a convenient front for an operation, but you’ll have very real buyers there, I promise you.”

It’s a reassurance he’s offered more than once over the last month that you’ve spent preparing for this show.

“I’m sorry to make you keep this from Sam,” Marcus adds softly. “We’ll tell them as soon as we can, okay? If everything goes well, you could tell them as early as tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you whisper gratefully.

“You’re gonna be incredible,” Marcus smiles. “You’ve put in so much work for this, and it shows.”

You smile, remembering the countless nights Marcus stayed up with you until the wee hours of the morning as you painted. Usually half-dressed, he’d sit quietly in an armchair he had pulled over to your “studio” from the other side of the living room. Sometimes he’d read, other times he worked, but most of the time he simply… watched. You lost count of the times you’d glanced in his direction and found him already looking at you, a small, serene smile on his face as he watched.

You’re so comfortable with each other, and it’s barely been over a month that you’ve been together. God. Sometimes—mostly late at night on the scant days Marcus isn’t warming the bed beside you—it spirals you into a panic. How devastating it would be if this ended. You aren’t supposed to get attached. You aren’t supposed to become emotionally invested. Your heart isn’t supposed to beat for one person, your entire body shouldn’t soar with happiness whenever you see their smiling face.

But it does. Oh, it does.

You’ve come close to blurting out the uncomfortable truth several times. After he brings you flowers at work “just because”—I love you. When the two of you make breakfast after sleeping in, using up every dish in the house to make the most elaborate crepes recipe you can find—I love you. In the dark of night, when your chest still heaves with exertion and he’s still softening inside of you, and his kisses are so gentle and unhurried—I love you.

“I’ve gotta run,” Marcus announces. He briefly places his palm over yours—never one to cause a scene while you’re working—before pulling back and giving you a meaningful look. “I’ll see you when you get off work, okay?”

“Okay.”

He gives Sam a little wave, grabs his breakfast, and leaves. Just before he disappears from view, his eyes meet yours for one last look in the cafe window.

I love you.

You wonder if the words will always be right at the tip of your tongue.

— — — — — —

After your shift, you only dither for a little while—okay, maybe the better part of an hour—over what you’re going to wear to your first exhibition. Too casual. Too dressy. Trying too hard. Too old. Too young. The pile on your bed is growing when you get a text from Marcus.

The team is ready for you whenever you are :)

Exhaling shakily, you grab a simple pair of slacks and a colorful blouse, dressing hastily, throwing on some makeup, and hurrying out of the door.

Even if your boyfriend is the team leader, it doesn’t seem smart to keep the FBI waiting.

You aren’t sure what to expect. Will he introduce you as his girlfriend? Will he hug you? Will he treat you like a colleague? Will he pretend you’re nothing to him? Will you mess everything up somehow? Will everyone at the gallery—including Marcus’s art thief—know you’re a plant?

As planned, Marcus meets you at the entrance to the building—to help you get signed in, get your visitor’s pass, and escort you up to the art crimes department. He smiles the same way he always does when he sees you—in that way that lights up his entire face—and gives you a quick kiss on the temple.

“I haven’t thanked you enough for doing this,” he says by way of greeting.

“I feel like I should be saying the same,” you comment as he gently guides you through the glass doors with a hand at your lower back.

So much for being worried if he’ll be cold and distant at work.

He walks with you to the visitor’s kiosk, and in no time at all, you’re outfitted with a real, actual building pass that reads ‘CONSULTANT’ in large, black letters. You focus on not freaking out as you follow Marcus up two flights of stairs and through a frosted glass door emblazoned with the words “Art Crimes.”

Heart hammering in your chest, you let him lead you to a large, open conference room where a dozen people are busying about. When you enter, every head turns to you, and you fight the urge to will yourself to sink into the floor. But then—a large, broad bear of a man in a tac vest cheers.

“This must be the girl!”

The entire room erupts in applause.

You blanch.

Marcus immediately turns a deep shade of red.

“Guys, I… I told you not to do that,” he says weakly, but the corners of his mouth are pulling upward in an exasperated smile.

“But it’s her!” someone shouts.

“Give her a kiss!”

“Out of line,” Marcus scolds, although the small quirk of his lips remains. “This is our consulting artist for the case. She is, for all intents and purposes, a member of this team and her contributions will be treated with all the respect and importance that the position affords. You already know how seriously I take the safety of every member of the team, and that our consultants’ and partners’ safety is the utmost priority.” He hesitates, looking down at the floor and grinning to himself. “And besides, she’s my girlfriend.”

“There it is!”

The team cheers again as you sheepishly butt your head into Marcus’s shoulder. You feel him press a soft kiss just at your hairline before straightening. “And that’s the only discussion we’re going to have about that,” he says, ears still tinged pink.

You listen carefully as plans are discussed. Most of Marcus’s team will be posing as waitstaff, carrying around h’ors d’ouevres on little trays through the gallery as they survey the room. There will be a backup team in an unmarked van in the alley one block from the gallery, where all the tech required for surveillance will be housed. And of course, Marcus will be by your side, playing the role of the gracious, dutiful boyfriend.

Caterers have been booked—all thoroughly vetted and background-checked—and are already in place at the venue. Your art was collected early this morning while you were already at work and displayed according to rough sketches you had provided to the team.

All that’s left is you.

Your heart is in your throat as you watch the agents get outfitted with invisible earpieces, unable to take your eyes off the way Marcus seems to naturally lead his team. He has the same earnest, open expression that endeared you to him the first morning he wandered into Common Grounds, but there’s also something… more. He’s effortlessly commanding, exerting authority without ever being domineering. He carries himself with ease, in his element as he goes over final preparations. He grins easily as he talks over directions with the head of the surveillance team, and when he looks up and locks eyes with you, the feeling hits you again.

I love you.

— — — — — —

Marcus’s team take several unmarked SUVs to the art gallery.

You take the subway.

Marcus’s arm is warm and solid around you, but you can tell he’s distracted; he’s staring somewhere into the middle distance with a somewhat vacant expression.

“Are you okay?” you ask, nudging him gently.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry. I’ve got twenty different voices in my ear tonight, you might have to be a little patient with me,” he says apologetically. “I promise I’ll look the part when we get inside—I’m just listening to everyone’s reports as they get in position.”

“Oh! Of course,” you laugh, feeling silly. Look the part. Right.

As if he can read your mind, Marcus gently runs the backs of his fingers across your cheekbone. “I know this isn't an ideal first exhibition, but I really hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am,” he says quietly. “And no matter how the op goes tonight, I want you to know that your success is just as important to me as catching the guy, okay?”

“What if it’s a flop?” you ask, grimacing at your own insecurity.

Marcus shakes his head fondly as his smile widens. “I genuinely don’t think it will be. You’re truly talented—I mean that, I’m not just saying it because we’re together, or because we needed an artist for this to work. All you need is an audience, and well—” he grins crookedly, “—we’ve got that covered, I think. Half the budget for this case went to advertising this show. We won’t just get the thief to show up—we’ll get half of D.C.”

You nod, awed, as always, by the man’s earnestness. As your stop is announced, he waggles his eyebrows playfully, making you laugh.

“You—you’re gonna be safe, right?” you ask in a small voice. “Like, I know there’s gonna be security and stuff around me, but like… what about you?”

Marcus chuckles. “I am the security detail. Try not to worry too much, okay? This is a highly competent team, and I’d trust every single agent here with my life.” He suddenly rolls his eyes, confusing you until he murmurs, “I knew you’d have a damn field day with that. Stop flooding the channel.”

“This is gonna be a confusing night,” you remark lightly as you step off the metro.

“Just focus on you.” Marcus squeezes your hand reassuringly. “The other stuff doesn’t exist anymore. Just you and me at your first exhibition.”

You and me.

You squeeze his hand right back.

Marcus plays his part outstandingly well. He hovers at your shoulder, a gracious smile pasted on his face as you greet guests and answer questions about your art. He lets you do most of the talking, keeping his responses to smiles and handshakes as more and more people approach you. It’s the perfect cover—you know he’s listening intently to the chatter in his earpiece as the agents canvas the spacious gallery, looking for their suspect.

You start to lose yourself in the whirlwind of the event. You hand out business cards in a haze of disbelief, shake an endless parade of hands, and watch in amazement as people look appreciatively at your paintings on the walls. Marcus was right—people are actually buying your art. You almost forget the real purpose behind the event.

“This is amazing,” you murmur to Marcus as you stroll through the gallery, taking it all in.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Amazing—I really do mean that.” He gives you a warm, if slightly strained smile as he balances his dual responsibilities. You beam back at him. He’s so brilliant. When the night is over—whatever happens—you really should tell him how you feel. Another patron approaches you, congratulating you on your success, and Marcus shoots you a wink before stepping back and letting you have the limelight.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t sweet cheeks and her Fed boyfriend.”

You whirl around. That fucking voice. It cuts through your contentment and makes your shoulders tense with anxiety. You swallow thickly around the bad taste in your mouth, and spit out your response.

“Derrick.”

[sassy-radio-hazbin-queen]

This is my version of Loonatics unleashed. I decided to do my own version. So some major differences are.

1- The Loonatics take place in 2017 which makes it's a bit more relatable to us. I love the designs of the future but I have to admit I found it weird with all the new technology the phones still look very early 2000s 😂.

2- The looney tunes are there Great Grandparents not 300th Great grandparent.

3- Duck and Rev are Girls. I wonder how come there was only one girl in the team. There supposed to be descendants not carbon copies 😒. I mean we're they saying girls can't be descendants from boys.

4- Ace and Lexi are Fraternal twins. Guys I'm sorry I just can't seem to ship them. They are descendants of Lola and Bugs bunny who are in a canonical relationship. It's a cute ship don't get me wrong. But for me it's just weird.

5- The Loonatics are young adults. Wikipedia says there teenagers but these guys are in universitys?? There ages are. Slam and Tech 22, Ace and Lexi 20 , Rev and Danger 18.

6- Zadalvia is NICE to Danger.

7- There backstories. Starting with Slam Tasmanian.

First off he can Talk. I never understood why they gave Wiles and Roadrunner descendants talking abilities but not him.

He lived in Tasmania and has an Australian accent kinda like Hugh Jackman. Some humans said they were going to take there home unless Slam comes up with 100,000,000,000,000,000 dollars. ( Which is impossible) so he signs up for American wrestling. He goes to America but finds out it's not what he thought. However a meteor changes his life forever. He has a younger kid sister who is his biggest supporter and lived with his mom after there father walked out on the family. Loves to cook. His birthday is May 4th and yes the others do joke and say May the 4th be with you much to his annoyance. Zodiac is Taurus ♉

Next up Tech e Coyote

His backstory is kinda complicated. He was diagnosed with Asperger's when he was 4 and was often bullied to the point where he is TERRIFIED of public speaking. He has lots of stim toys and sometimes didn't feel like talking. During college he befriended a shy bullied girl names Mallory and eventually fell in love with her. Unfortunately there was an accident he caused by mistake and she ended up becoming the Mastermind. He tried with inventing again but after several accidents he was kicked out of the university. However a meteor changes his life forever. Birthday Dec 30. Zodiac Capricorn ♑.

Next up Ace and Lexi

I decided to do these two together since there twins so they basically lived the same lives. Ace is the older twin and is a daredevil who got in trouble with his parents alot. As for Lexi she was a very sweet girl who everyone liked. She was definitely the angel to aces devil personality. However this came at the cost of her getting bullied and Ace getting detention alot in high school. ( Because no one messes with a guy's younger sister especially if she is your twin) at college though he seemed to mature a bit and Lexi learned how to deal with bullies with her one passion Dancing. She loves Ballet. And Ace wanted to be a Actor like his Great Grandpa Bugs bunny. Unfortunately try outs didn't go well for either. But a Meteor changes there lives forever. There birthday is Oct. 13 making them Libras ♎

And now for everyone favorite talkative roadrunner Rev Runner.

Ok so like I said Rev is a girl runner. She had a pretty standard life. However her parents never believed she had ADHD just thinking she was faster than normal or not paying attention to them. Her younger brother Rip is 10 in this world and as far as she is concerned. She is more his mother than there own. Harriet and Ralph are pretty rich and practically use there kids to help make money. Rev being the oldest was put under a lot of pressure growing up. Ralph often would push Rev to her limits. To make things worse he was Willing to Marry her to some Creep to get more money. Luckily she got away. Unfortunately she couldn't take her brother with her. Something that still crushes her. She started work at a diner as a waitress. She was miserable until a certain meteor struck earth changing her life forever. Her birthday is Feb 1. Her Zodiac is Aquarius ♒

For the Final loonatic. My personal favorite Danger Duck

( this is the only gif of him are you kidding me 😂)

Anyway like Rev she is a Girl. And the youngest of the team. Her life wasn't exactly easy at all. Her parents were murdered in front of her by psycho clowns at age 5. Then she went through several foster homes with all of them sending her back cause she was a ' problem child'. None of them realized she was lashing out in grief. She practically grew up in the system. She had only one friend. Pinkster Pig. However when he got adopted he started changing and bullied her throughout high school. When she hit 18 she was kicked out of the orphanage and was homeless taking off jobs just so she can sleep somewhere. Her latest job and place was at a pool place. After a hard day of work. A meteor changes her life forever. Her birthday is July 25. Her Zodiac is Leo ♌

As for Zadalvia. Since she is an alien I decided to make her more like avatar. She has a striped tail. And is green skin. Her outfit is Blue. And she has Orange hair. She is 35 years old. Her backstory is pretty much the same. Except I decided to have Optimus ( I dont know how to spell his name) is possessed by the robo stuff he wears. There parents died when she was young and he became an adult. After years of ruling freleng he found a robot costume and put it on. Unfortunately it possessed him. He imprisoned his sister but she escaped with the help of a rocket. Resulting in the meteor. Her birthday is September 3. Her Zodiac is Virgo ♍.

And that's basically my version of the Loonatics hope you like them 😊

[moonchildreads]

small town

Chapter 19 - We Built This City

IN THIS CHAPTER: Finals week, a friendly invitation, and the Hellfire Class of 86' takes a bow [7.6k]

WARNINGS: vague foreshadowing, mentions of fantasy violence? they play dnd, it's not real (again, taking the liberty of making them play 5e because i wasn't about to learn advanced dnd for this when i already play 5e)

A/N: whew! didn't think i'd ever get to finish this one lol. huge HUGE shout out to @gutterratt, who not only is a wonderful friend i was hugging and sharing the same air with just a few days ago, but also my dm (the best dm in the world, don't @ me). this chapter would have been impossible without your guidance, knowledge, and support. thank you for teaching me to dm through eddie. also shout out to brian murphy and NADDPOD for the inspiration for this chapter! check them out on spotify if you like dnd podcasts, they deserve all the love they get. onto the update!

masterlist - prev - next | playlist

We just want to dance here Someone stole the stage They call us irresponsible Write us off the page

Wednesday, May 28th - 1986

Finals week in Hawkins High was going pretty well or terribly wrong depending on who you asked. On Monday, freshman Cindy Jackson had come out of her Geography classroom sobbing, claiming that she had flunked the entire test and her GPA was going to fall drastically below average. Dustin and Mike had simply stepped around her in the hallway and headed to the parking lot to get their bikes without sparing a single thought for her. Eddie couldn’t believe how calm he felt whenever he sat down at his desk and a new test was placed in front of him. By the time Wednesday lunch period was upon them, he had already taken four of his six final exams, Dottie had taken five of her nine, and band practice had been suspended so everyone could study for tomorrow’s new round of tests, or in Eddie’s case, put the finishing touches to their upcoming D&D Friday session.

So far, their plan to stick to each other and not walk around the school alone like sitting ducks for the bullies had been working. Dottie only shared one class with Andy Humphrey, and it seemed that her threat to rat him out to their teacher had worked because no one in the basketball team had bothered them since then. At least, not any more than the usual jeers and disgusted glances they so often directed to her friends in Hellfire. Eddie had been keeping a low profile for the past couple of months, his entire thought process having been claimed by his ever growing crush on a certain short curly-haired girl; his frequent tirades in the cafeteria had been reduced to only one loud proclamation in the hallways every couple of weeks, and to be completely honest, no one cared about him or his unconventional opinions so close to the end of the school year, so him suddenly turning into a wallflower hadn’t really been noteworthy to his peers. Everyone just simply assumed that he was stressed about failing senior year for the third time in a row and left him alone to his devices.

When the group compared schedules on Monday and saw that Dottie was going to be headed to the same lecture as Andy three times that week, it was quickly decided that Donny would be her guardian since his Italian lessons were at the same time she’d be taking AP Spanish in the classroom opposite of his. Dustin and Mike were to be inseparable, and when they had different schedules, Mike was supposed to shadow Nancy as much as he could while Dustin stuck to Jeff on their way to the east wing for their respective classes. Eddie watched over Dottie like a hawk during their shared free periods, going so far as to stand outside the girls’ bathroom while she went about her private business in case any idiot got strange ideas about cornering her in a place where she was supposed to be safe. Ms. Kelly had looked very surprised to see all six boys waiting for Dottie to come out of their latest check-in session; it was strange to see how subdued they had all gotten in recent months and she knew it had everything to do with the sunshine girl that happily linked arms with the freshmen, Dustin excitedly skipping alongside her down the hallway while Mike dragged his feet next to them in protest.

It was, perhaps, that false sense of security that had her approaching the basketball team’s table after students had begun trickling out of the cafeteria, surely headed to their last classes of the day. Donny was supposed to safeguard her on their way to her second AP Spanish class of the week, but he had asked her to please wait for him near the teachers while he excused himself to the bathroom and promptly left her alone. When Dottie realized Andy wasn’t seated at the jock-filled table but one Lucas Sinclair was, she quickly forgot about her friends’ insistent requests to “lay low” until the school year was over and headed towards him without a second thought entering her mind. She stopped right in front of the freshman who eyed her curiously, brows raised in an unspoken question.

“Hi! You’re Lucas, right?” Dottie said, smiling brightly.

“Uh, yeah, I’m Lucas.”

“Nice to meet you! Would you mind giving these to Erica for me, please?” she extended her closed fist towards him and he instinctively held his palm open for her. Two pieces of shiny plastic hit his skin softly; he recognized them as part of his old dice set, the one he assumed had been gathering dust tucked away in his bedroom. “I must have accidentally taken them with me a couple of weeks ago - I would give them to her myself but I won’t see her until Friday and it’d suck if she bought a new set because she thought she lost these.”

“Yeah, that would really suck,” he chuckled uncomfortably, shifting in his seat knowing his new friends were watching the uncommon interaction unfold. “I’ll give them to her for you, don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you so much! Here, for your troubles,” she gave him a pack of Smarties as payment in kind. “See you around!”

“Thanks,” he managed to mutter before she bolted out of the room and into the hallway in search of Donny.

Lucas stared at the candy bag in his hand next to one d20 and one d4 that had belonged to him a couple of months before. They were black with gold numbers that he’d repainted himself with one of Will’s thinnest brushes, trying his hardest to cover the tacky white underneath. He hadn’t opened his D&D box in a while, the hard plastic container hidden away underneath his bed and pushed all the way back until it touched the wall. He’d yell at Erica for touching and stealing his things, but that would have meant admitting that he still cared about the part of him he’d been trying so hard to deny lately and he couldn’t allow himself to fail like that. Lucas was tired of being the bigger man; let his former friends apologize to him for once. Though, as days went on, he was starting to realize that maybe they would never come back at all.

“How do you know that chick?” asked Chance, one of his seniors.

“I don’t,” Lucas replied quickly. “I don’t have classes with her.”

“She’s a senior,” Patrick said. “I’m with her in English. She always sits with that Munson freak.”

“What does she want with you? Who’s Erica?”

“Erica, she’s my little sister. She wanted to return some dice to her, I think they are in a club together, I don’t know,” Lucas said, but he did know. He’d noticed Dottie sitting at lunch with his club members, he’d seen her wearing the same Hellfire shirt he owned, he’d heard Erica talk about her to their Mom. Lucas Sinclair knew exactly who Dorothy Burke was.

“Isn’t your sister like… eight?” Chance laughed.

“Eleven,” the freshman corrected him, but that seemed to peak Jason Carver, the basketball team’s captain’s attention.

“Your little sister is hanging out with those… freaks?” Jason asked, eyebrows bunching together.

“They play board games together, it’s so dumb-”

“She shouldn’t be around them, she’s just a kid. Who knows what they could do to her if… They aren’t good people, they- they could hurt her,” the captain said, tone stern.

“She’ll be fine, they’re just a bunch of nerds-”

“Lucas,” Jason insisted. “You’re a good friend and a good teammate to us. I’m sure you’re a good son to your parents too, but you have to be good to her as well. That’s your duty as her older brother.”

“Yeah, I-” he quickly put away the dice and Smarties in his pocket and nodded. “You’re right, I’ll talk to her about it.”

“You make sure you do that, okay? Take care of her,” the senior said, patting his shoulder in a friendly way and getting up. “Come on, guys, let’s go to class.”

Lucas walked behind his teammates until he reached his classroom and unassumingly disappeared from the group. He took his seat at the back and noticed Mike and Dustin sitting at the front, bickering with one another as usual. Bitterly, he recalled switching seats with the girl who now sat next to Dustin after Spring Break. Jason wasn’t being mean with his warning, he knew that. His captain had siblings too, he knew what being a big brother meant and he extended that same level of protectiveness towards his friends and younger members of the team. Lucas felt grateful that Jason, the current King of Hawkins High, was so willing to look out for not only him, but Erica too, if only because she was related to him. But when Mike snorted loudly at something Dustin had said, he couldn’t help but think that there weren’t people on Earth he would trust more to take care of Erica when he couldn’t watch her than Mike Wheeler and Dustin Henderson. And perhaps Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley too, but they didn’t have to know that, lest their egos got even bigger than they already were.

Friday, May 30th - 1986

The last day of finals week came towards them at neck breaking speed, causing Eddie and Dottie to stick to each other like velcro during the final three hours of the day. During third period, he’d had his Latin exam and she sat with him during every available second prior to it quizzing him on his vocab. After that, they both had had their Calc final, where they sat side by side suffering through it all together. He’d finished before her and quickly returned to his seat, noticing how her nerves seemed to be heightened every time someone got up and was granted permission to head to the cafeteria early. He slipped one of his rings off and slid it across the table until it bumped with her eraser; she smiled, thankful, and put it on her index finger to twirl with her left thumb while she concentrated on the numbers in front of her. After that came lunch and everyone was positively buzzing. Most of the student body had already finished all their exams and there was a sense of freedom in the air, a shared joy that couldn’t enter Dottie’s brain yet as she frantically reviewed her AP Spanish notes for her ninth final exam of the week. One look at her tired, wet eyes after someone had shouted a little bit too loud, and Eddie pulled her out of the room and into the back of his van where she could finally breathe and concentrate on reading her own writing before the bell rang.

After exams were finally over, Eddie headed to the woods to wait for Chrissy who had asked him if she could buy a rather unusual amount of weed considering her casual habits, and Dottie seeked refuge in The Weekly Streak’s newsroom until it was time for Hellfire to begin. She was helping Fred put together a mockup for a story he wanted to present to Nancy the next week when the editor-in-chief herself asked her if she wanted to go to the bathroom. Dottie, being well-versed in girl language, accepted without complaint and followed the blue-eyed girl into the nearest bathroom where she immediately began washing her hands in an attempt to hide the fact that she was so very much nervous about whatever she was about to say.

“Nance? Is everything okay?” Dottie asked, eyeing her carefully.

“Yeah- yes, everything’s okay. I just… I wanted you to know since you were the one that said I should just go for it so… I called Jonathan.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised that she was getting an update on the topic at all.

“We talked and he says he understands that I’m upset. We didn’t break up but we’re going to take a break, officially this time,” Nancy shut off the water tap and stepped to the side to wipe her hands dry with coarse paper towels.

“Well, how do you feel about that?”

“Good, I think. He says he has a job now, and he’ll go full-time for the summer after graduation so he might be able to save up some money to come see me,” she smiled, hope swimming behind her eyes.

“That’s great, Nancy!” Dottie said, giving a big hug to her friend. Nancy went stiff at first but after a second, she breathed out and hugged her back. “I’m so proud of you, I know that was probably a really hard conversation for you both.”

“It was but… I feel better now. I want to trust him again, and we agree that maybe this will help us get there.”

“So you’re still off the market then? Asking for a friend that’s totally not Fred,” Dottie joked, and Nancy let out a girly giggle that surprised the both of them.

“Off the market, and out of his league,” the editor-in-chief said, playfully stern.

“Oh my god, Nance!” she let out a loud snort that sent Nancy into a fit.

It felt good to laugh like this, to shoulder a silly burden together, to foster a new friendship and be vulnerable with one another. Growing up hadn’t been easy for either girl in wildly different ways, but the summer of ‘86 was right ahead of them and promised greener pastures if one could get the courage to take the first step outside. Nancy hadn’t let herself have a friend for so long. It had been easy with Jonathan - shared trauma bonds you like nothing else in the world after all - but it was undeniable that a part of her had died that day when Barb went missing. Even though Dottie wasn’t Barb, Nancy could feel like Nancy again right that moment, in that bathroom, hiding from their nosy journalist-aspiring colleagues and the junior that kept following her around like a lovesick puppy. She felt herself breathe a little bit easier almost a full year after the nightmare that still woke her up in the middle of night, prompting her to double check the guns she had stashed in the topmost part of her closet so her little sister Holly could never find them by accident.

The door to the bathroom opened and a group of cheerleaders came in, fussing over their makeup and hair before practice began. They were chatting excitedly about an upcoming party, and Nancy and Dottie moved aside to let them get access to the mirrors. They were about to leave when another girl pushed the door open in a frenzy; a slightly out of breath Chrissy Cunningham ran inside in haste.

“Where were you?!” shouted Melissa, rounding on her as soon as the door had slammed itself shut.

“I got held up by a teacher, calm down,” Chrissy lied seamlessly, but her glossy eyes were a dead giveaway to anyone that had spent any significant amount of time with the elder Hellfire members. “What are we talking about?”

“Your boyfriend’s party. What are you gonna wear?” Kathleen asked, putting away her lip gloss.

“Are we allowed to go?” Libby asked, eyes hopeful. Standing next to her was another junior tumbler, Valerie, who was downright pouting at their captain.

“Of course you are!” Chrissy said, taking full advantage of the fact that Jason would never complain about her inviting her younger cheerleader friends if she pouted at him a little. “Everyone is invited. Are you two coming too?”

It took a few milliseconds for Dottie to register that Chrissy was talking to Nancy and her, and she only realized because Nancy quickly put on a friendly smile and shook her head, a quick excuse on her lips.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I already told my Mom I would babysit my sister. It’s their date night and I’d hate it if they had to cancel,” she said, and Dottie knew she was lying because her eyebrows bunched upwards in the very familiar way they bunched whenever she lied to other people in the school’s newspaper about how great their ideas were.

“Aw, they still go on dates, that’s so cute,” Valerie said, ever the romantic.

“What about you, Dot? Are you coming?” Chrissy asked, ignoring the way her friends looked at her like she was inviting a rabid dog inside for dinner.

“Uh, I- I wasn’t aware there was gonna be a party.”

“It’s tomorrow night at my boyfriend’s house but I’m organizing it so it’s honestly my party,” she giggled, and Dottie swore she’d heard Gareth make that same sound whenever he was high. “We’re saying goodbye to senior year! I just told Eddie you were all invited, you should totally come.”

“You did what?” Melissa asked and Kathleen scoffed.

“It’s our last senior year party. All seniors can come,” Chrissy said in a tone that left no questions to be asked before she turned back to Dottie. “It’s gonna be really fun, we can probably convince Jason to let us play Queen at some point! Please think about it at least? For me?”

“Okay, I’ll- I’ll think about it. For you,” Dottie smiled, and Chrissy grinned.

“We should go now,” Nancy said, interrupting the awkward tension. “Lots of newspaper club things to do.”

“Oh, sure! We’ll see you around!”

Nancy guided Dottie out with a hand on her elbow; Chrissy and Valerie were the only ones that waved them goodbye. Just before the door closed, Melissa snarled “You invited the freaks? What’s wrong with you?” but they never heard what Chrissy replied. They made their way back to the newspaper club’s room in silence, each of them deep in their own thoughts. Nancy realized that she hadn’t been to a party since she’d broken up with Steve, her ex before she’d started dating Jonathan. Had it really been that long? It seemed like it had been ages since the last time Nancy tried to act like she was a normal teenager, like she didn’t need to keep a light on while she slept, scared of the shadows in the corner of her own bedroom. Like she didn’t have sleeping pills issued by a military doctor that she refused to take hidden inside a pair of old sneakers. Nancy would never be the same Nancy she was before November 8th, 1983, but she had to try.

“We should go,” she said, Dottie’s head snapping up from the papers in front of her. “To Chrissy’s party.”

“You wanna go?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“O-okay! I can ask my Dad to take us if you want,” Dottie offered.

“I drive, I can pick you up if you want.”

“Sure, if that’s better for you. Thank you!” the brown eyed girl smiled. “I actually haven’t been to any parties since senior year began.”

“We better make this one count then,” Nancy said, and went back to work with a timid but happy expression on her face.

Dottie tried really hard not to grin, but the thought of not only being invited to her first high school party in Hawkins, but also going with her newest friend and possibly her Hellfire gang made her impossibly giddy. Senior year had certainly sucked royal ass when it began, but it was definitely ending with a bang, not a whimper.

As Eddie ticked final after final on his list, he had allowed himself to think that he would be DMing his last session as the leader of the Hellfire Club that Friday. He had carefully crafted an emotional ending to the adventure they were currently on, and hoped his players would be on board to having a less action packed meeting than usual. They were, after all, not only saying goodbye to him as a leader, but also Jeff, Gareth, Donny, and Dottie. When classes started again in September, Mike and Dustin would be sophomores and the club would be in their hands, new sheep ready to be recruited walking down the hallways of Hawkins High.

The session had started, as usual, with a recap of the previous session's shenanigans. After finding out that their dead mutual friend Orfuel wasn’t, in fact, dead but instead trapped within Shadowfell, the party quickly realized what their next move was: to embark on a journey towards the Forest of Moonstone where Jeff’s character Tharivol had grown up and lived in, all in search for guidance and help of his elders. Orfuel’s partner in crime and girlfriend, Dedlock, had sacrificed him to Mask, the Lord of the Shadows, and was being kept in his divine realm inside Shadowfell - a castle known as the Shadow Keep. Dedlock wanted to rise above the ranks in the church of Mask, and this worthy act of manipulation was going to give her entry into the Circle of the Gray Ribbon, which is where his most loyal priests belonged.

The table was buzzing in excitement as they traveled through Eddie’s carefully crafted world in what would be their last time exploring it. They took their time on their way over to Moonstone, Eddie forcing them into lengthy conversations around a campfire, sharing stories about Orfuel and how they’d become such good friends with him that they were all willing to cross planes of existence to get him back in their lives. They attuned weapons and readied spells, and got a long rest in before the final challenge of the campaign finally arrived. Upon arrival to the Forest of Moonstone, they immediately seeked an audience with the druid that had taught Tharivol everything he knew. The slender elf advised them against their plan; they simply weren’t powerful enough to face the dangers of Shadowfell at this point in time. Instead, he proposed a different alternative.

The next steps were quite easy. They would wait until the new moon, which was, coincidentally, that same night. They’d hold a ritual to open a portal between the planes and bring back Orfuel from the terrible place he had been banished to. The eldest, most powerful cleric from the Circle, a halfling cleric named Portia, would guide them through the ritual, and they’d all have to contribute, each in their own time whenever Eddie prompted them to act. Between conversations and preparations, it was getting late, and so Eddie proposed a little bathroom break before the ritual began, which the boys accepted gratefully, cans of soda littering the table. Dottie inched her chair towards him, voice low like she was about to tell him a secret.

“So,” she began.

“So,” he said, curiosity piqued.

“I talked to Chrissy today and she invited me to a party.”

“Did she now?”

“Nancy and I are going.”

“Oh?” Eddie’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know you were interested in that.”

“I’m not but Nancy asked me to and I dunno, it could be fun. Our last senior year party,” Dottie said in a dramatic tone. “You’re going too, right? Chrissy said she invited you and the guys.”

“She did, but I-” he scratched his neck. “I’m gonna be honest with you, darling, I don’t really like those parties very much. I go to them, I sell a few ounces, and then we go to Jeff’s for a movie night.”

“But Chrissy wants us there, she said that all seniors should go. Please, Ed?” she pleaded, eyes rounded with weaponized innocence. “I like hanging out with Nancy but I’d feel so much better about going if I knew you were gonna be there too.”

Eddie sighed. I am so whipped for her and she knows it, he thought before turning to their other friends who were refilling the snack bowls while the freshmen got more sodas.

“Gentlemen!” he called, making Gareth, Jeff, and Donny look at him. “Princess here has a request.”

“What’s up?” Donny asked, sliding into his seat next to hers.

“Nancy and I are going to Chrissy’s party tomorrow night. I want you guys to go with us too,” she said, and the boys instantly laughed.

“Dot, we can’t go to Jason Carver’s house,” Gareth said between chuckles. “He hates us.”

“And also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one invites the freaks to parties,” Jeff added.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. The party is at Carver’s house, yes, but-” Eddie put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a piece of scrap paper with girly writing on it. “-Chrissy Cunningham is planning it. We got an invite this time, fellow weirdos.”

“Chrissy invited you to her party?” Gareth asked in disbelief.

“I believe she invited us all.”

“She did,” Dottie said. “She told me she told Eddie to tell you we were all invited.”

“Those are too many uses of the verb to tell in one sentence,” Donny said, poking fun at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Okay, so, let me get this straight. Chrissy Cunningham, the Uncrowned Queen of Hawkins High, invited all of us to her party? And you’re actually going? With Nancy Wheeler of all people?” Gareth’s eyes were wide open.

“How much of a discount have you been giving her?” Jeff joked, implying something less illegal than simply selling her weed, but also dirtier was going on between them.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie threw a ball of paper at his head. “She’s a friend, and she invited Dottie too. In person, not through me.”

“Yeah, Nancy and I ran into her in the bathroom and she told us to come.”

“What is it with girls and bathrooms?” Gareth looked at Donny, the only other one at the table who had sisters. He shrugged in response.

“So? Are we all going? If it sucks we can leave, but I just thought it’d be fun to, y’know, do something different for once,” Dottie said with a hopeful smile.

“Okay, I’m in,” Donny announced.

“Dude!” Jeff and Gareth looked at him like he had betrayed them.

“Oh, come on! It’s now or never, we’re never gonna see these assholes again after graduation. And you know those rich kids always have so much beer at their parties. Are you really gonna say no to free booze?”

“Okay, when you put it like that…,” Gareth conceded. “I’ll go if we all go.”

“Ditto,” said Jeff.

“Guess we’re going to Jason Carver’s house tomorrow night, boys,” Eddie said, reluctantly.

“It’s gonna be awesome, you’ll see,” said Dottie, right as Dustin, Mike, and Erica rejoined the group and settled for the next part of the adventure.

“If everyone’s ready,” Dustin looked around the table at his friends after a lengthy discussion. “-we go to the clearing.”

“You come into the clearing right before midnight and you see everyone sitting on the grass, making a big circle around a huge oak tree. This is where Tharivol’s Circle prays to Silvanus, The Oak Father, the God of Wild Nature. You can feel energy underneath your feet, coming up your legs and into your chest as you approach everyone else. This place is sacred, and the people here are willing to help you rescue your innocent friend. Do not take their kindness for granted,” Eddie narrated, solemn voice ringing through the tension in the room. “Portia is standing next to the base of the tree in beautiful, shiny robes, her long silver hair blowing in the breeze. She beckons you to come closer.”

“We go to her,” Erica said, firmly.

“The old halfling lady instructs you to sit at her feet where the tree’s roots come out of the dirt. She looks at her Circle and begins her speech,” Eddie held his head high as he embodied Portia with a mystic drawl. “Children of Silvanus. We are gathered here tonight to help our very own Tharivol and his allies restore order and balance to where chaos and injustice has spread. Pray with us. Let Silvanus help them return a lost friend home,” in his normal voice, Eddie continued. “Portia turns around and with her staff, she draws a line into the earth where the portal will appear, if, and only if you succeed.”

“Hang on, Portia is opening a portal?” Jeff said, holding in a chuckle.

“Portia the Portal Lady,” Dustin muttered, and Mike next to him snorted loudly.

“You’re killing the fuckin’ mood,” Gareth complained, kicking Jeff who sat opposite him.

“Moving on, please,” Erica rolled her eyes and motioned at Eddie to continue. He bowed his head in acknowledgement and carried on with his narration.

“Portia starts praying loudly in a language you don’t quite understand. At first, you think she might be praying in Elven but you quickly realize she’s praying in Sylvan, the language of the fey,” Eddie said, tense silence falling over the room once again. “Tharivol,” he looked at Jeff. “You recognize a few words and it sounds like she’s requesting access to a kingdom, to a place called Shadowfell. She’s asking the Raven Queen for help in rectifying a wrong that has happened within her realm. I want you all to tell me what you do to help Portia during the ritual.”

“What’s everyone else doing?” asked Jeff.

“They are still sitting in a circle while they pray.”

“I’m gonna pray to Silvanus too then.”

“Go ahead. Let me hear what you say to him.”

“Oh, Silvanus, God of Wild Nature, Old Father Tree,” Jeff began, in character as Tharivol with his head bowed, eyes closed and hands clasped above the table. “Orfuel saved my life once. Let me return the favor. Let me repay the kindness he showed me by righting what is wrong in his name. Let him come home to us. Let him live long and prosper.”

“Damn,” said Gareth under his breath. It was showtime at the Hellfire Club, and everyone was taking it seriously.

“I’m gonna pray to Moradin for assistance,” Erica said as Boldhild. “I’m gonna invoke my Oath, and say: Fight the Greater Evil. No Mercy for the Wicked. By Any Means Necessary. Retribution. I honor these values today, and tomorrow. In your name, Moradin, the All-Father.”

“I’ll pray too,” Dottie joined them as Holly. “I’m going to lay down my quarterstaff, my symbol of Lathander touching the earth, and I’m gonna call out to him for help like they did.”

“You can do better than that, darling,” Eddie crossed his fingers and rested his chin on them. “Show me how you commune with your god.”

“O-okay,” she said, attributing her nerves to the expectation of performing an impromptu prayer in front of everyone and definitely not because of the sultry voice Eddie was talking to her with. She bowed her head and began praying. “Lathander, I come to you as a child of the light to ask you for aid in a time of need. My siblings in arms are asking Silvanus and Moradin to come together and help, but I fear their calls might go unanswered. Morninglord, I beg of you, take pity on us. Take pity on Orfuel, who has been banished to the plane of shadows. Take pity on those who cannot walk in your light like we do every new dawn, and please let us be joyous when the morning comes.”

There was the sense in the room that this wasn’t just a regular end of a campaign. They could feel it in the way Eddie had guided the session so far: minimal combat, heavy on the roleplay, distinctively interested in character growth. He was gearing up to something, and from the looks of it, it was going to be something big. With the understanding of a party that trusts their DM to bring a satisfying story to life, they gave themselves to him freely and wholeheartedly. This wasn’t just the end of an adventure. This was the end of Eddie’s reign as the leader of the Hellfire Club and he deserved a proper farewell.

“I-,” said Mike, gearing up to join his friends in the ritual as Mozikith. “I don’t think I can pray to Asmodeus for help, I mean… Doesn’t really feel right. So I’m gonna give Silvanus an offering instead.”

“What kind of offering do you wish to give him?” asked Eddie.

“Uh, a blood offering? My own blood.”

“No!” cried Jeff. “Offerings to Silvanus can’t be blood sacrifices. You have to destroy something made out of wood or wooden materials and bury it.”

“Okay, well, uh- Do I even own something made out of wood?” Mike wondered aloud as he looked down at his inventory notes.

“You have your staff,” Dustin suggested in a sheepish tone.

“Can… Can I break my staff and still keep my arcane stone?” he looked at his DM.

“I’ll allow it but you can’t cast spells simply holding the stone. You either get a new staff or do something with it, like put it inside a locket,” warned Eddie.

“It’s fine. I won’t need it anymore anyways,” Mike reasoned. “I’m gonna break my staff in two and bury it under where the portal is supposed to be created.”

“Me too,” said Gareth, making Despair join the sacrifice. “I’m gonna add my javelins to his pile.”

“How many?”

“All four of them.”

“Very well,” Eddie smiled. “Anyone else has something they’d like to add?”

“I want to offer something to the Raven Queen in exchange for her to let us through,” said Dustin as Seebo.

“Oh?”

“She collects trinkets, right?”

“That she does, Seebo. What do you have to offer to her?” Eddie leaned forward. “It has to be something interesting, remember, she doesn’t exactly care too much about cheap junk.”

“I want to offer her my father’s ring.”

A few sharp gasps could be heard as Dustin held Eddie’s eyes as if he was challenging him to say no. Everyone at the table knew what that ring meant to Dustin’s character. The heavy brass ring was all he had to remember his parents by after a war had left him and his ten younger siblings as orphans, begging on the streets for a small mercy until Orfuel taught him to run petty scams and pickpocket. At first he’d been reluctant but he had ten mouths to feed and couldn’t afford to pity those who had so much more than he did. Dustin placed a tacky ring he’d gotten at a yard sale in the middle of the table. Trust him to always keep props on his body for D&D related purposes.

“Okay, I’ll take it. Let’s see if she does too,” Eddie accepted his token.

“I’ll offer her a memory,” added Donny as Odorr. “I know she collects those too.”

“Which memory are you offering to the Raven Queen, dearest Odorr?”

“I want to give to her the night I burned down my village. That’s why I was a hermit until Orfuel found me,” he turned to the table to explain. “I was exiled as a kid because I couldn’t control my Wild Magic and set a barn on fire. It spread to the rest of the village so they said I was a danger and casted me out.”

“Shit,” Erica said, impressed that he’d kept his origin secret for so long. “Did you kill someone or what?”

“No, but I hurt a lot of people. It’s in the past now.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” Dottie told him sincerely. Odorr had been her first friend on the campaign, and she cared for him like he was a real person. Donny squeezed her hand as a thank you.

“Okay, are we ready to proceed? Good. Since everyone has played their part in the ritual, I’ll explain how this is going to work,” Eddie brought them back to the game. “I’m gonna ask Tharivol to make an Arcana check, with advantage. To that you’re gonna add 1d6 of Inspiration for each member of your party, so that’s 6d6.”

“Can I roll Religion instead of Arcana? Since I’m praying to Silvanus,” Jeff bargained.

“Sure. Roll in front of everyone.”

Jeff grabbed 2d20 and breathed deeply, calming his nerves. He shook the dice in his hands, letting them fall to the tabletop, the two green and gold flecked pieces of plastic glinting in the moody lighting Eddie had set for the evening.

“18 and 19,” he announced.

“I’m guessing we’re starting with 19. Mozikith, if you will,” Eddie prompted Mike to start the inspiration dice rolls.

“Wait!” Dottie interrupted. “I want to cast Guidance on Tharivol.”

“Remind me again what that does, princess?”

“You touch one willing creature. Once before the spell ends, the target can roll a d4 and add the number rolled to one ability check of its choice. It can roll the die before or after making the ability check. The spell then ends,” she read with a smile. “You told me the other day that I always use the same two cantrips so I’m using a new one today.”

“I need to stop teaching you things if you’re gonna use them against me,” Eddie grumbled, but deep down was proud that she listened to his advice so intently. “Fine, Tharivol, add a d4.”

“Thank you,” Jeff said to Dottie and rolled. “2.”

“We’re at 21. Mozikith, please.”

“Shit,” Mike said. “That’s a 2.”

“We’re at 23. Seebo, your turn.”

“Fuck. Sorry guys, that’s gonna be a one,” Dustin mumbled angrily.

“Tough start. We’re at 24. Boldhild?”

“Four!” Erica cheered.

“We go up to 28! Despair, you go.”

“Please, please, please,” Gareth whispered. “SIX!”

“34! Odorr’s turn now.”

“Fuck yeah! That’s a six!” Donny punched the air excitedly. Everyone started becoming antsy but hopeful.

“We’re at 38. Holly, please.”

“Four?” Dottie said, timidly.

“That brings us to 42. Everyone in the clearing starts humming as Portia continues praying. Seebo, the ring in your hand begins burning until you can’t stand the heat anymore and drop it. It sinks into the earth beneath you as a gash appears where the line in the dirt was drawn,” Eddie began describing, his players waiting with bated breaths for confirmation of their success. “Tharivol, you feel a surge of magic from deep inside you, like a gentle warmth crawling up from your feet all the way up and into your chest. You see the oak tree begins glowing in the moonlight.”

“Holy shit,” Jeff said.

“The ground beneath you begins to shake and suddenly, Odorr, you feel a piercing pain in your head, like a needle pushing right in the middle of your forehead between your tiny horns. You fall to your knees in agony and see that the gash begins opening more, revealing fog on the other side.

“It’s working!” Dustin cried, and Mike shushed him immediately.

“Holly, you see your Lathander holy symbols begin to shine. First, it’s the one attached to your staff. Then, your armlet. It feels warm, like sunshine seeping into your skin on a cool day. The gash keeps opening and opening until it becomes a shadowy circle right in front of you. The pain in Odorr’s head stops,” Eddie said theatrically, making a pause for dramatic effect. “The DC you had to beat… was 40.”

“WE DID IT!” Erica screeched, and everyone began yelling at the same time.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, you piece of shit!” Donny yelled.

“Fuck, that was close,” moaned Dustin, bracing himself against the table, tension finally leaving his body.

“Congratulations, adventurers. You’ve just opened a portal to Shadowfell,” Eddie laughed, throwing his head back.

“Do we go in now? How does this work?” Dottie asked, wanting to continue the story.

“You have to speak the name of a creature and they’ll be sucked in through the portal towards your plane.”

“What was Orfuel’s last name?” Gareth looked at Jeff.

“Evensorrow,” said Mike.

“We call for Orfuel Evensorrow to come back to the material plane,” Jeff said, back in action.

“You see a shadow moving behind the fog, it seems like it’s fighting back the tendrils. Call out to him again, all of you,” Eddie instructed.

“Orfuel! Orfuel!” everyone began chanting. “Orfuel, it’s us! Stop fighting back!”

“The creature becomes prone when it hears your voices and lets itself be dragged into the material plane. A dirty human man lays at your feet, gasping for air after the shadowy vines retreat. Portia loses strength and the portal closes itself, severing the connection to Shadowfell.”

“I catch her before she falls,” Mike said quickly.

“Thank you, dearie,” Eddie said in a pitiful voice that belonged to an old frail lady. He continued in his normal voice. “Portia is okay, she just needs to rest.”

“We go to help Orfuel then,” Gareth looked at his friends, who nodded in agreement.

“Orfuel is a shell of the man you all used to know. His hair is long and matted, his beard is graying at the edges. He has dark circles under his eyes and looks like he hasn’t had a drink of water in days. He tries to speak, but his voice doesn’t come out.”

“I give him my water bottle,” Erica said.

“He drinks half of your waterskin in a rush and now that he feels better he looks at everyone surrounding him with fearful eyes,” Eddie began trembling, like it took a toll on his body to even utter a single syllable. “He’s coming. We have to- we have to hide. He’s coming.”

“Mask’s coming?” Donny asked.

“Mask’s just a pawn,” Eddie scoffed. “Orcus is coming.”

“Who’s Orcus?” Dottie looked around the table.

“The Lord of the Undead,” Dustin said, wary. “He’s the master of the undead that live in The Abyss. He wants to exterminate all life on every plane of existence until only his undead soldiers remain.”

“Wait, what do you mean Orcus is coming?” Erica asked Eddie, but really, it was Boldhild asking Orfuel.

“Mask knows Orcus hates the Raven Queen, so they made a deal. Mask kills the Raven Queen, and he becomes the keeper of Shadowfell for Orcus. Dedlock gave me up as a sacrifice to grow Mask’s power.”

“Shit. What do we do now?” Donny asked everyone else in the room.

“We fight back,” Dustin said, like it was obvious. “First we go for Dedlock and the Circle of the Gray Ribbon. Then we go for Mask.”

“And then…,” Mike mused. “We go into The Abyss.”

“And that’s where we’ll end our session,” Eddie said, and everyone groaned in protest.

“What the fuck, man?!”

“You said this session was the last one!”

“That’s such a non-ending, what is wrong with you?”

Eddie laughed and looked at his friends who kept begging him for more. More stories, more adventures, more guidance. They weren’t asking for entertainment. They were looking for more friendship. He moved to lower down his DM screen and hauled his prop box onto the table. Everyone stared at him curiously, wondering what trick he was gonna pull out of his metaphorical hat next. He simply reached in and grabbed two pins, putting them on the table: one said Chapter Leader, and the other said Dungeon Master. He’d had the first one for three years, and the second one for longer. He looked up at his club members with shiny eyes, and Dottie thought he’d never looked more at peace than in that moment.

“As you all know, my beloved sheep, I’m hoping I finally get to graduate this year. I don’t know if I am just yet, but in any case, this is my last session as Hellfire’s very own DM and leader. There’s more story to tell in this campaign, but I won’t be doing it here, on this throne, in this props room that always smells a little bit like glue,” he smiled when everyone huffed in agreement. “We’re going to take a break from this adventure until Dustin comes back from his nerd camp for geniuses-”

“Hey!” Dustin protested, but he looked proudly at Eddie while he did it.

“If you still want to find out what happens next after all that, I’ll be more than pleased to keep the action going outside of school grounds. But! A king shouldn’t rule over their kingdom forever, and it’s time for me to pass the crown onto the next generation. Wheeler, Henderson, please,” he motioned to the side. The freshmen followed him a few steps away from the table where Eddie dropped to one knee and bowed regally. “Michael Wheeler, you are Hellfire’s new Dungeon Master. I trust that the tales you tell will always be as grand as Mike the Magnificent was under my reign.”

“Woah,” Mike said when Eddie presented the Dungeon Master pin to him. “Eddie, this is- thanks, man.”

“Dustin Henderson,” Eddie continued, looking into the hopeful eyes of the kid he so very much admired. “The crown is too heavy for one man to wear alone, so I am choosing you to be the next Chapter Leader of the Hellfire Club. May you be as brave as Dustin the Daring was when he was under my wing.”

“I-” Dustin managed to get out before he launched himself across the floor and tackled Eddie into a tight hug.

“I won’t disappoint you, Eddie, I swear to god-”

But there was no need for him to promise anything, because Eddie knew that Hellfire was in safe hands with the two boys that had gone from looking at him like he was their Lord and Savior to simply calling him a friend. And as Eddie said goodbye to his time in high school, he was so grateful that even if he hadn’t learned a single thing valuable within those walls, he had come out of it with a group of people that he could always count on when life got too rough to handle on his own.

taglist (comment below or shoot me a dm if you want to be added!): @munsonology @kurdtbean

[earth-unicorn]

Game Night

These are RWBY characters playing D&D. Jaune is the DM in this one. I figured that he's nerdy enough for it. I didn't have anymore colors to identify Jaune so I just italicized it.

Weiss: I'll use my gravity glyph to keep him stuck in place then I'll finish him off with Surrounding Strikes.

Jaune: Ok Roll for your attack.

Weiss rolling a D20: I rolled a 14

Jaune: checks his notes before speaking: Using your semblance you summon the gravity glyph under his feet, keeping him in place. Afterwards you summon a circle of glyph around him, jumping into them you launch yourself at him thrusting Myrtenaster forwards. What you don't realize is your glyphs failed to fully activate which in turn releases him. He ducks out of the way and watches you sail by and slam into the wall. Now it's his turn.

Weiss: Wait what?!?!?

Jaune rolls a D20: Natural 20. Sorry Weiss but that's a crit. As you lay on the ground, the man thrust his sword into your back dropping your HP to 0 and killing you. That ends the game.

Weiss: That's not fair! There is no way my glyphs could fail like that! This game is stupid!

Ruby: Weiss all you did was focus on attacking.

Weiss: So! It's not like you were any help. You went down first.

Yang: Weiss this game is supposed to be played using team work.

Weiss: You guys were completely useless. All you do is get yourselves hurt or killed.

Blake: That's because you won't support us in battle. This game isn't any different from life. We all need each other to win.

Weiss: I suppose you're right.

Ruby: Come on Weiss, let's play again. If we want to win we have to work together. We all have ways of supporting you. You just have to trust us.

Weiss sighing: Fine one more game. This time I'm going to put my trust in you three.

Ruby: Don't worry Weiss we have your back. We always will.

Weiss: You better. You Dolt.

Jaune: Ok we'll from the beginning. As you enter the hideout…

On the other side of the room

Ren: They do know it's just a game right?

Nora eating pancakes: Who? What game?

Pyrrha: I think it's less about the game and more about the trust between them.

Ren: I guess it is. Maybe we should play next.

Pyrrha: Yes we should. I love watching Jaune DM

Nora: What!

[sol-consort]

What's your favorite load out when it comes to weapons/companions? Who's on the permanent roster? I remember you're fond of snipers. This is for the og trilogy or Andromeda

Thank you for this, you're really kind.

Yes! I love snipers, sometimes more than a normal amount. Idk I just like the appeal of taking out a whole enemy with a clean crisp shot to the head. The recoil afterwards and the heavy sniper gunshot sound are so satisfying.

I prefer the ones with one bullet like the M-98 Widow (sorry Black Widow sniper rifle I'm loyal to the og goat) And all the dmg% increase attachment + dmg boost cloak bc yes

I'm confident in my aim but my reflexes are the problem, they have a delay, rhyme games help me account for the delay by finetuning when the clicks register but it's hard to implement in fps games. That's why I absolutely loved the time slowing effect of the cloaking mechanism in Mass Effect, even one second of leeway made a big difference for me in actually landing the shots.

Powerful glass canon is my go-to build in most games, I want to be deadly, but also, you gotta protect me >:^/ So I take big tanky companions or support ones to help me not die since I'll be doing the big pp dmg. I may or may not refer to them as my personal cheerleaders from time to time <3

The requirements to make it into the cheerleaders team are simple, you gotta at least have one (1) of the following or more:

Supportive Biotics (Optional)

Tanky build (Optional)

Good looks (Optional)

I need to have a crush on you (Mandatory dealbreaker)

So Kaidan was a stable, his biotics came into clutch a lot. So much so I actually missed them more than I missed him during the breakup in ME2, I wanted to march into court and demand a shared custody of his biotics because I need my batman utility yellow belt! How am I supposed to carry without my pocket biotics support, huh?

Everyone else's biotics were too offence centred :( No one was like him. I'll forever mourn my mercy main boytoy.

Wrex and Ashley also were golden choices for me meta wise, having a shotgun-weilding bulletsponge dive head first into the enemy lines and giving me space to snipe them from the safety of my cover was a wet dream come true. It's why I always loved taking Grunt with me in ME2.

But those were meta teams for hard fights, while my "fun" teams were the characters I had crushed on! Hooray. It's why Thane was allowed a spot in my personal cheerleaders line despite me parking Garrus in the Normandy for life since no two snipers can be on the same team without starting a biggest dick competition and he is a sore loser! I'm clearly better + my gun is longer and bigger.

Like buzz off man! Stop copying my flow. Snipers were MY thing before you came, and now you're here and your attachment scope isn't even that impressive.

Well that was ME trilogy, Andromeda playstyle is very different and comes with a lot of questionable decisions like who thought this was a good idea? I played a good portion of it vanilla before saying it fuck it, this is starting to feel like a chore and went and installed mods to buff weapons, increase mobility and make enemies actually interesting.

One thing I love about Andromeda enemies is that when you shoot them through a scope, they can duck out of the way of the bullet. Literally jumping to the side. Same thing if your shot was misaligned and slightly missed them. They dodge and go find a cover like a realistic soldier would when aware a sniper is after them.

It's annoying at times, but heyho. Silver lining and all.

The companions meta wise are trash in Andromeda. They are super weak, their abilities are useless, and I never depended on them ever to back me up in any fight. I go into it, knowing I'll start it alone and finish it alone. The most useful thing they've ever done is being a shield meat while I reload.

So I pick them like keychains, whichever suits my mood the best. Whose voice do I wanna hear screaming in the background on the battlefield?

Drack, the krogan, however, is actually half-decent on the battlefield. I guess it comes from virtue of being a krogan and all. A team with two krogans is literally the dream team. Their sheer usefulness on the battlefield paints you a better picture of why the genophage ordeal happened, because a single krogan is really worth an army. It's genuinely the best piece of environmental storytelling in ME.

There are a lot of new and unique snipers in Andromeda... but I didn't like any of them. Yes, listen, I know hating laser weapons and playing futuristic sci-fi games is an oxymoron, but I can't help it! lasers suck. Where is the pizzazz? Where is the recoil? The piercing sound of the bullet breaking the sound barrier? All I get is a "pssshhht" continuous sound akin to the ambient piss stream of a guy in a public restroom. I don't wanna grill chicken. I wanna go big pew.

[just-emis-blog]

OC Interview Tag~

Thank you to @agirlandherquill @leahnardo-da-veggieand @drchenquill for the triple threat tag! ✨🌻

I'll be using Cai Park (the youngest [but biggest] brother of Bernard) from Artificial Bonds

Were you named after anyone?

During the process of adopting us, mother encouraged us to choose names for ourselves, since we were going by serial numbers at the time. My siblings were enthused, but I thought the entire endeavor tedious and unnecessary, so in an effort to be done with it faster I spat out the first couple of letters from one of the objects in my line of vision. Mother was pleased, but Lysander and Bernard knew exactly what I had done and were disappointed and moronically amused respectively. Lysander, being the most sensible of the two as usual, convinced me to change the spelling and pronunciation as an exercise in expressing my opinion and creativity. To this day, however, Bernard still calls me "Cayenne Pepper" whenever he wants to get a rise out of me. It works.

When was the last time you cried?

I do not engage in such frivolous activities.

[It was when a mother duck was ushering one of her lagging babies across a busy highway]

Do you have any kids?

I do have one child. There are those who might mistakenly call her a pet, simply because of the unimportant fact that she is a Komodo Dragon named Jessica. But let me ask you this; would a mere pet have access to three floors of the apartment building that you own? Of course not. Now, I know some might have opinions about parents who provide housing or other monetary aid for their adult children. But to them I say the job market is not nearly as lucrative nor secure as it was for previous generations. Basic needs like gas and rusa deer are already set at astronomical prices! Are we expect our youth to be able to afford their own housing as well? There is no shame in supporting your kids until they can stand on their own feet.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

I see no point in playing verbal games. So what you mean, or rot.

What is the first thing you notice about people?

Their readiness for battle. Mind, your average person does not display the typical tells of being an experienced fighter or if their armed, but it is the first thing I check for during any interaction.

What is your eye color?

Dark brown. Nothing to write home about.

Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings. They seem to be a prevalent theme in all of the Barbie and Magical Girl OVAs that I watch, and I enjoy those.

Any special talents?

I do...many of which I am not very proud of. The one talent I have cultivated outside of my...time...before I was adopted, is building miniature dollhouses and furniture. It is a both lucrative and enjoyable practice, and necessitates little to no violence.

Where were you born?

Born is the incorrect term. Regardless, I do not know the location. That time in my life is...blurry.

Do you have any pets?

No. But I do have a child. Please see the above question pertaining to children.

What sort of sports do you play?

Contact sports were too risky to indulge in, but I was on our school's competitive Hula Hooping team. We won two years in a row and during my last year of school we competed in the National Hula League. I am certain that it was due to all of our team's efforts, but my colleague's are convinced that we made it so far due to me being the first human being to ever look intimidating while hula hooping.

How tall are you?

6'4". A perfectly respectful, not comparable to any of the AoT Titans, height. Bernard.

What was your favorite subject in school?

Art class, specifically ceramics.

What is your dream job?

My dream job was anything as separated from fighting as physically possible. Not because I fear I will be overcome with a thirst for violence, or that I have no control over myself. If I or my loved ones are threatened I will act accordingly.

In the past I was told that fighting was all I would be capable of doing. So, I suppose I have always wanted my career to be the exact opposite of that out of spite.

And I cannot think of anything more opposite than selling a multitude of tiny wares specifically for hamsters on Etsy. Nor more satisfying.

Tagging for funsies: @dyrewrites @the-golden-comet @the-ellia-west @mr-orion

[ohsoulymoons]

Jourtney and Dick Parents Au NOW! SOMEONE PLEASE

Jo x Courtney = Jourtney, Jortney, Jotney, and Coujo,

Brick x Duncan = Duncarick, Brican, Dick, Duck, and Dunk

Scene 1: Jo and Courtney

The couple is in the living room, organizing toys scattered around. Their child is playing in a playpen.

Courtney meticulously sorting toys, “These blocks should be color-coded. It’s never too early to start teaching organizational skills.”

Jo rolling her eyes, “Oh, come on, Courtney. Let the kid be a kid. They’ll learn to be tough and strategic without your color-coded blocks.”

Their child throws a toy out of the playpen, which Jo catches with swift reflexes.

Jo smirking, “See? Already got the arm of a champion.”

Courtney sighing but with a small smile, “I suppose a balance between discipline and fun is key. But we’re not raising a quitter.”

Jo nodding, “Agreed. No quitters in this house. We’ll make sure of that.”

They share a look of understanding, their competitive nature uniting them in their parenting approach.

Scene 2: Brick and Duncan

The backyard, where Brick is setting up an obstacle course for their child, while Duncan is lounging on a chair, strumming his guitar.

Brick calling out, “Alright, little soldier! Time to show us what you’ve got!”

Duncan without looking up from his guitar, “Don’t push too hard, Brick. The kid needs to learn to enjoy life, not just follow orders.”

Brick with a gentle smile, “It’s not about orders, Duncan. It’s about building character and resilience.”

Their child giggles, enjoying the challenge and the attention.

Duncan putting down his guitar and walking over, “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s see if the little rebel has any of my moves.”

Brick laughs as Duncan playfully goes through the obstacle course with exaggerated difficulty, making their child laugh.

Brick, “You know, Duncan, you’re not half bad at this parenting thing.”

Duncan grinning, “I have my moments. But let’s not make it a habit, okay?”

They both chuckle, their contrasting styles blending into a unique parenting partnership.

Jo and Courtney focusing on strength and discipline, and Brick and Duncan offering a mix of structure and fun. Each couple brings their own flair to parenting, just as they do to everything else.

Jo and Courtney as Parents:

Discipline and Order: They would enforce a structured routine, emphasizing the importance of discipline in their child’s life.

Competitive Activities: Engaging their child in sports and competitions, instilling a sense of fair play and determination.

Educational Excellence: Focusing on academic achievements and providing a learning environment that encourages intellectual development.

Leadership Skills: Teaching their child to be a leader, not a follower, through various team-based activities and games.

Health and Fitness: Prioritizing physical fitness with family exercise routines and healthy eating habits.

Brick and Duncan as Parents:

Balance of Fun and Responsibility: While Brick would instill a sense of duty and respect, Duncan would ensure there’s always room for fun and rebellion.

Creative Expression: Encouraging their child to explore artistic talents, whether it’s through music, like Duncan, or other creative outlets.

Outdoor Adventures: Taking their child on camping trips and teaching survival skills, combining Brick’s military discipline with Duncan’s love for adventure.

Individuality and Confidence: Supporting their child in developing a strong sense of self and the confidence to stand out from the crowd.

Problem-Solving: Teaching their child to think on their feet and handle challenges with a mix of Brick’s strategic thinking and Duncan’s resourcefulness.

Jo and Courtney’s approach would be more structured, while Brick and Duncan would offer a more relaxed and creative upbringing. Both sets of parents would ensure their child is well-rounded, resilient, and ready to face the world.

[reedfulton]

if we went back in time 20 yrs... what would your ideal season 1 of a tmd tv show look like. it'd start after d3

obviously going back in time 20 years would change how cool disney would have been with some of my headcanons LMAO but honestly i think a good season one would really just be about the ducks kind of adjusting to their new normal!

i think i would really like to see fulton's identity and character get more fleshed out and actually talk about what he talked a bit about in d3, where he didn't really know who he was without portman and wasn't confident in himself and his abilities on the ice. i would have LOVED for them to have given him the goal at the end of D3 (like they were supposed to), so i really think i would have liked to see an episode about him kind of coming into himself and realizing that he doesn't need portman or charlie to support, he can stand on his own two feet and is a great hockey player in of himself. in that same vein i think i would have liked to see orion kind of 'break up' the bash brothers as a defense force, since, from a hockey standpoint, fulton's skills fit more of a forward or other offense position. that would have definitely gone along with the episode about fulton really realizing his own identity, and would have been really good for fulton and portman's relationship as friends (or boyfriends), because they didn't need to be The Bash Brothers in order for them to be close and have a meaningful relationship.

i also really would like to see everyone sort of make amends and talk about the events of d3. d3 was extremely fast, and i feel like a lot of the meaningful conflict didn't get addressed the way it should have been? so i really would have liked to see fulton and charlie actually talk after their fight, adam and charlie have an actual conversation about what happened when adam was on varsity and adam actually apologize for some of the shitty stuff he did/went along with at the time, and really for adam and the rest of the ducks to talk so that him getting back on the ducks isn't just "wow we've felt so betrayed by you this whole time but now all of a sudden you're back and one game of roller hockey makes everything you did and everything we did suddenly okay! :D".

i really want connie and guy's relationship to be better structured. in d3, they're broken up all of a sudden, with really no explanation or anything, and i just think that off again/on again doesn't make any sense for them and i would have really liked at least an explanation as to why they broke up in the first place, and in an ideal world, actually have their relationship mean something and be more than a plot point.

in smaller and less meaningful things, i would have really liked to see charlie name alternate captains for the team (connie and fulton, imo) and have other ducks actually step up into some sort of leadership role, so the hierarchy isn't just charlie -> everyone else. especially after charlie essentially walked out on the whole team just because he was upset about some of the things going on, i have a hard time believing that ALL of the ducks would have immediately started answering to him and listening to him again. i think it would have been fun to get into some sideplots of other relationships, and have charlie and linda actually get fleshed out a little more and give linda more of a character in of herself! i really just would want a tv show to give me more of all the characters, so i could base headcanons off of more than just random snippets of them i get when they're supporting charlie. who's good at what school subjects, and who's tutoring them in the ones they're not good at? do the ducks have spots they hang out in where people could find them? what other (if any) activities do they all do?

i feel like in a lot of 90s/early 2000s teen sitcoms, the writers were really good about fleshing characters out and actually giving them all their own stories, and i would have really liked to see that from a tmd show. i'm thinking like dawson's creek/boy meets world/blossom vibes, and i really think that the structure of those shows would have suited the ducks really well.