#as if im not the one who designed and planned that lmao

[swordmaid]

the soulmates…!!!!!!

[grave-st0ned]

the duality of man

[identityquest]

so im bad at screenprinting

[show-us-kaidenshenandoah]

Wicked Gelphie fans, i need you guys so badly to know how well Elphaba/Glinda are "good timeline"d "history doesnt repeat, it rhymes"-ified by Dorothy/Princess Ozma in Baum's original Oz book series. like. Dorothy/Ozma get everything; theyre the sweet, intimate friends-to-"??? are they a couple?"-ified political power-sapphic-duo that Gelphie would have wanted to be. like??

if you merge canons, fam... Wicked-Glinda must be struggling, seeing Dorothy/Ozma be everything she and Elphaba could have been.... omfg... the angst potential, the envy of watching a couple of sapphic childhood sweethearts get everything they were denied, fulfill Glinda and Elphie's dreams, and seemingly so easily too...

(also!! they even CAN look like a kid-Glinda and kid-Elphaba! there's canon to justify that kind of appearance paralleling!!)

faq below if you want more context

edit, psa: i did read these books from like.. the ages of 10 to like 14 or so, maybe as young as 8? idk, i dont remember. anyway. its been a decade since i picked them back up. and i didnt think this would gain as much traction as it has been after 100+ notes in less than 24 hours. uh. so. take my chronic memory loss-addled summarization with a grain of salt?? like? i just wrote this post so i didnt have to re-vent (agAIN) to my friends about how much i fucking love Dorothy/Ozma, period, much less in parallel to Gelphie. so. enjoy, carry on, and whatnot lmao

1️⃣: there's Oz books? plural???

yes, Baum wrote 14 books about Oz, actually. also, he wrote them under the appointment of "the royal historian of Oz" instead of "author", so there's other "official" Oz books by other "royal historians of Oz"

Baum wrote so much bc (he needed money, yes, but also:) kids would send him questions in fan-mail, and he would proceed to answer them via new novels. so he never planned to make more Oz books, he just (wasnt good with money and also) was routinely inspired by the kids who wrote to him and would write the stuff they wanted to learn about Oz and whatnot

2️⃣: does Dorothy go back to Oz? wasn't it all a dream for her??

yeah, Dorothy returns to Oz a lot in the books, she eventually even moves to live there permanently. bc, in the book series, it's a real place

only in the 1939 film was Oz ever a dream

3️⃣: how does Dorothy look like Glinda OR Elphaba?? what are you talking about?

okay so, "The Wizard of Oz" has an illustrator, W. W. Denslow. in the book, Dorothy is confirmed to be wearing a blue-white gingham dress (she changes outfits tho, she doesnt always wear the same dress all 14 books like she's some cartoon character); but im pretty sure her hair was all Denslow(? i could be remembering wrong. p sure im not tho??). this is what the 1939 movie based her appearance off of. so i can see why youd go "she doesnt look like Glinda or Elphaba"

BUT Denslow and Baum started feuding. so for the rest of the Oz books that Baum wrote, he had a different illustrator by the name of John R. Neil

and Neil decided to give Dorothy for every one of the books he illustrated (so, 13 of Baum's books to Denslow's 1 book of Baum's) a cute lil blonde bob, making her look like what i assume blonde-Glinda looked like as a child. i think she'd approve lol

so!! Dorothy very much looks like a trendy little Glinda, with her cute blonde bob, her fashionable drop-waist dress, and bows for most of the Baum series, actually!

(also, Neil had a preference for dressing Dorothy in this red and polka-dot number, but, again, she does wear other outfits)

(lmao also look at Tin-Man and Scarecrow with blonde-Dorothy, they look like her two gay dads encouraging her to just go be herself at school?? i love them)

(also, if you see "Eloise At The Plaza"-energy in this Dorothy design, im right there with you lol)

4️⃣: who is Ozma??

she's the Princess of Oz. she eventually appears in the second book of the series. she rules Oz after the Wizard

she's actually a really interesting transwoman allegory too. (spoilers for a book from the early 1900s?) she was born a little girl named Ozma, but has a spell put on her as a baby to be genderbent and was socially raised as a little boy under a different name, and she later realizes who she truly is: a girl. she finds the transformation scary, as she returns to her girl-form she always truly was, but she feels better and more herself now that she is Ozma again. i dont think L. Frank Baum intentionally wrote her to be a trans allegory, but you can very obviously see why our trans elders fucking LOVED Ozma back in the early 1900s

also, she has a similar "sir, you fucked up" relationship with the Wizard as Elphaba*. and, also like Elphaba, Ozma politically tries to make things in Oz better (just.. unlike Elphaba, Ozma has the power and support to do just that p much asap)

* (edit for contextual clarification on how the Wizard fucked up: the Wizard fucked up with Ozma because he is ultimately and p directly the reason why she was genderbent/hidden. he deposed of her family and sent her away. Baum decided later on to backtrack a little bit on this(?) because he wanted to bring back the Wizard and, in order for Baum to do that, has to try to not make him SO terribly horrible??? so like. Ozma does end up forgiving him and tolerates him amd he's nicer, later on, within the books. but i doubt any modern adaptation of the books would follow that, personally. even as a kid, i went "bullshit" and headcanoned that Ozma fucking hated the guy and, at best, MAYBE tolerated him for Dorothy, but overall did not like him for justifiable reasons! i think the direction society seems to have taken the Wizard is interesting, and i wouldnt be surprised if there was at least one future adaptation that made him The Bad Guy in a very Rumplestiltskin in the Once Upon A Time TV show kind of way. but like. in the books, they do END UP getting along. i just forever disagree with Baum on that lol i think the Wizard fucked up, and in book 2 of the series (the one where Ozma is, y'know, introduced), it is obvious the Wizard FUCKED UP. but yeah. also, Ozma does get her dad back. her mom was kind of never in the picture to begin with, specifically in a Ponyo's Mom kind of way, like, she made Oz and then left it for her husband and kid to rule, so. yeah. im getting off track. my point is the Wizard did a full-on coup on her family and then banished her and genderbent her so no one would recognize that she had claim to the throne he was sitting on!! he fucked up! so, like, i personally hc that Elphaba founded the "i hate the Wizard" club to which everyone slowly joined, like Fieyro and etc, and Ozma is their youngest member. the Wizard did both Elphie and Ozma so dirty, omfg)

it also should be mentioned, Ozma in NBC's "Emerald City" was casted as Black (her actress being Jordan Loughran). so, though Ozma does not have green skin (but also? neither did the Wicked Witch of the West in the books, she wasn't green there. that was a 1939 film decision to make her green. so! Ozma could be green!! why not!), but she does have Black features to theoretically remind Glinda of Cynthia Eviro's Elphaba when you consider that casting. or, if you prefer a Jewish!Elphaba casting, a'la Idina Menzel's Elphaba, i think Ozma's book design works well to interpretively parallel those features too. or both, if you like the sound of a Black-Jewish Elphaba and Ozma paralleling lol

(edit, because i thought i mentioned this but? no?? i didnt?? i must have misclicked or something to have deleted the paragraph. im so sorry, here you go:) also, when Ozma was a boy, she was basically enslaved to her jailor of a caretaker. which one could interpret as "oh, a Cinderella story!", sure. but, with a Black Ozma, it does read as an intergenerational grief-formed power-fantasy that is both empowering and poignant for Ozma to have ran away from her enslavement and gone on to become a princess afterwards. to any Black folks who may be going "is this going to trigger me?" about Ozma having been a child-slave, i remind you that Baum wrote this intentionally for children, so, no, the books do not sit in the trauma and horror of enslavement, but whether or not it would trigger you yourself is up to your discretion. i will say, Baum did NOT write the American Girls' Addy of his time (context: a children's book about a child-slave that does go into the horrors, some, though in a kid-friendly way) or Louis Sachar's Holes (i asssume i dont have explain Holes since its movie was such a hit), i remember it as even more kid-friendly than either of those also-children's books, so i would assume most people would be fine? but you are responsible for your own mental well-being, i urge you to confirm if it is fine for yourself however you need to do that. but, yes, you can use this backstory as further evidence for your Ozma being Black, of course! you can have Ozma be Black regardless, but if you want this as further evidence, go ahead! and also, it does parallel Ozma to Elphaba in the sense that Elphaba's family mistreats Elphaba! (i will, regardless of if you prefer a Jewish and/or Black Elphaba, add that doing so is also a nice "fuck you" to Baum in how, being a white man of the late 1800s and early 1900s, did end up throwing in racist and/or antisemitic caricatures here and there within his 14 books, unfortunately. i, an Indigenous American, remember as a child still immensely enjoying Oz despite Baum being racist towards Native Americans. if youre curious on the egregious level of it all and if the story could still be enjoyable, id say it's in the realm of Peter Pan, Willy Wonka, and Matilda of "wow. that is shitty. im going to pretend this thing i love is good instead via cognitive dissonance")

regardless, in John R Neil's illustrations, Ozma does have black hair, so that too coincides with modern understandings of Elphaba

(there is also her appearance in Disney's "Return to Oz", performed by Emma Ridley, where she is blonde. but, though i love that spooky movie, that's neither here nor there. as far as im aware, only in that movie has Ozma not had black hair)

anyway, she rules Oz; and by book 3, becomes really close friends with Dorothy. they're not a canon couple, not anymore than Gelphie is, but they are such close and affectionate friends that they are so easy to ship as childhood sweethearts (so, no, there is no moment of 🎶loathing🎶, but i find that sweetness makes them an angstier parallel for Glinda to watch over, personally lol)

like here's some illustrations from the books of them just being two "gal pals". no wonder our queer elders shipped them lmao and this isn't even all of their illustrations together, this is just the first spurts that google shot out at me lmao

also??? this is them with book-Glinda. not only do they look absolutely darling, also, yes, Dorothy becomes a princess, because Ozma said so. they co-rule Oz together. they are just too sweet, fam, i love these two little childhood sweethearts, i choose to see Dorothy's princess-ship as the same as two kids promising to marry one another when they grow up. this is so cute

and can you imagine Wicked-Glinda? looking down at these two, seeing what could have between herself and Elphaba had things turned out different??? im making myself sad

(also "Book of Glinda" is so wild. both in terms of "...Baum, how do you not see this as queer?" like with one example being like "Baum, you put that Glinda has 100s of single women at her beck and call in her palace, this is so easy to see as sapphic, sir"... and then, over here, we have John R Neil repeatedly reading "gave a platonic, innocent kiss" and going "okay, so, uh, making out? i dont do platonic kissing" lmao anYWAAAAYYYY, THAT'S NOT RELEVANT HERE)

🌟5️⃣ bonus:

so, you might have a few follow-up questions. like, what is "Elphaba" like in the books? what does she look like?

well, she's really only in the first book. she's one-note, evil, dies. she's not green-skinned, and she isn't given any sort of name. she is only called "the Wicked Witch of the West", that's it, she is not Elphaba

however, i will mention the Wicked Witch of the West, in the books, is a fashion disaster and i want to see her look used as evidence that "yes, goth-Elphaba and dark-academia-Elphaba are 10/10, but also?? kitschy grandma-core knitwear-Elphaba × her fashionably Barbie pink girlfriend". i'd love to see art of that. i'm just saying

also?? this isn't related to her at all but guess what

Scarecrow/Tin-Man was like THE ship for our queer elders. they are so emotionally intimate, they live together, it's great, look at these pictures of them being absolute bros (can you see why they were shipped so hard)

i bring this up, bc you could argue Fieyro/Boq if you merge canons to make your own narrative and whatnot. guess Fieryo and Boq kinda had their own mirrored 🎶loathing🎶 period under that framing lmao

or, if you hate Boq, youll probably love the Tin-Man's angsty "ship of Theseus"-like backstory as the once-Nick Chopper(: his human name, pre-tin-ification) that is in the books

so! enjoy that knowledge!! theyre super cute in the books, i love them. again, not a canon ship, but still beloved by our elder queers, just like Ozma and Dorothy

i hope it makes even more sense now why our queer elders used the phrase "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" as code to see if someone else was queer, not even taking into account the 1939 movie or Judy Garland's relationship with the queer community

anyway, albeit this is all the basics generalized, that should be everything

but yeah!! Ozma and Dorothy reminding Glinda of what could have been, of what she lost, being the sweeter "next generation" version of Gelphie?? tugs so hard at my heartstrings

but yeah, do whatever you want with Gelphie, Fieryo, and Part 2. im just saying. the angst potential of being envious and living vicariously through someone and seeing other people get the happy ending you were denied?? is right there lol

(edit: this awesome video by Kaz Rowe JUST came out if you want to hear more about the Oz book series, its queerness, its author, its GLARING PROBLEMS including but not limited to instances of racism, and so on and so forth. Kaz Rowe is a fantastic video-essayist, so i hope you watch the video and enjoy their hard-polished craftsmanship)

[the-winter-spider]

Willow | 1/2

Pairings: 1940sBucky x Agent!Reader, Bucky x agent!reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Nothing really

A/N: This fic was inspired by @vibraniumqueen message sent to me!! Hope its sort of what you requested! I got carried away and now have to post this in 2 parts lol

Im not like the biggest fan of this buuuuut after writing over 15k words total for the whole fic i gotta post it lol ALSO i definitely did not edit this lmao oopsie

The door slid open, and in walked Nick Fury, his presence commanding the room as always. He didn’t bother with formalities; he never did.

“Agent,” Fury began, his voice low and steady. “We’ve got a mission. One that never happened, and one you’ll never speak of again.”

You nodded, your face impassive, though your mind was already racing. Missions like these were your specialty. You didn’t operate in the spotlight. You weren’t one of Fury’s public heroes or a celebrated Avenger. You were a shadow, a weapon honed in the dark, moving through the world unnoticed. A ghost.

Fury crossed the room, his trench coat brushing the floor as he moved. “We’ve identified a Nazi stronghold in 1941, deep in occupied Europe. They’re in possession of critical documents — plans and technology decades ahead of their time. We can’t let those files survive the war.”

You glanced at the map, your mind already calculating. “Time travel,” you said, your voice calm, though the weight of the mission began to settle on your shoulders.

Fury nodded. “You’ll be stationed as a nurse with the 107th Infantry. They’ll be arriving at a field camp near the stronghold in a few days. Your cover is simple: blend in, gain access to the target, retrieve the files, and get out. No deviations. No attachments.”

You resisted the urge to scoff. No attachments. That had been drilled into you since the beginning. You were trained to be invisible, to serve a mission and then disappear without a trace. Your past in the Red Room had taught you that much, and SHIELD had only refined it.

“I assume I’m working alone,” you said.

Fury’s expression didn’t change. “You always do.”

It was true. You were a ghost in every sense of the word. You’d spent your entire life operating on the fringes, never part of a team, never part of their world. You knew of the Avengers, of course—who didn’t? But they didn’t know you. You weren’t a part of their grand battles or their legendary victories.

Well, except for one. Natasha Romanoff. She’d been a fleeting presence in your life, a reminder of your shared origins in the Red Room. You’d trained in the same shadows, fought the same demons. But even then, you hadn’t truly known her. She’d been a specter of a different life, one that had moved on without you. While she got recruited there, Fury thought you were best suited in the shadows.

You refocused as Fury handed you a dossier. Inside were detailed maps, forged documents, and a small vial containing a glowing blue liquid. The device that would send you back in time.

“You know the drill,” Fury said, his tone as sharp as ever. “You’re not there to change history, only to secure our future. In and out. No one remembers you, and you don’t bring anything or anyone back.”

You nodded, flipping through the dossier. “And the 107th?”

“They don’t know who you are, and they never will. You’re a nurse. That’s it. But one name on that roster might ring a bell.” Fury tapped the folder, and you found it instantly. Barnes, James Buchanan.

The name didn’t spark recognition, but it did send a strange ripple through your thoughts. “Why him?�� you asked.

Fury shrugged. “No reason. He’s just another soldier in the unit. But don’t let that distract you. This mission isn’t about making friends, and it damn sure isn’t about saving anyone who doesn’t need saving.”

You clenched your jaw. Fury’s words were a reminder of the line you couldn’t cross. You’d trained for this moment for years, honing your skills to perfection. You were designed to be unseen, unheard, and unfelt.

Fury’s voice snapped you back. “You’ve got your orders. Do your job, Agent. Leave no trace.”

You took the dossier and the vial, tucking them away with practiced efficiency. “Understood,” you said, your voice steady, devoid of hesitation. But as you turned to leave, the familiar mantra echoed in your mind: No attachments. No connections. You’re a ghost.

Later, when you finally opened the dossier, your eyes landed on a photograph. Barnes. The name was familiar, but it wasn’t until you stared at his face that something inside you stirred. A strange sense of recognition flickered in the back of your mind. You knew him—or at least, it felt like you did.

You flipped the page, your pulse quickening as more details came into view. And then, you saw it.

The Winter Soldier.

The words stared back at you, cold and unfeeling, but they sparked a storm of emotions you weren’t prepared for. You knew the name, of course. Everyone in this business did. The ghost story whispered in shadows, the assassin whose presence was felt long after he disappeared into the night. But what you didn’t know was the man behind it.

Your gaze drifted back to the photograph, and for a moment, everything else fell away. His eyes. Even through the grainy black-and-white image, they stood out—haunted, distant, yet somehow familiar. There was innocence there, a quiet humanity buried beneath the weight of the darkness he would come to bear.

You tightened your grip on the file, your knuckles whitening. Ghosts weren’t meant to feel, and yet here you were, shaken by a face from the past you couldn’t place but somehow couldn’t forget.

Flipping through the pages, you scanned his history—Brooklyn, 1941, the 107th Infantry. Your breath caught as more images filled the pages. Pictures of him before he became the Winter Soldier: laughing with other soldiers, standing beside a scrawny young man labeled Steve Rogers, of course you knew him as Captain America but no one would ever know you. Then, the darker photos followed. HYDRA. The experiments. The cold, dead stare of a man who had been stripped of everything.

The door to your quarters slid shut with a soft hiss, and for a moment, the silence was almost suffocating. You placed the dossier and the small vial of glowing blue liquid on the steel table in front of you. The mission parameters were clear, the risks higher than usual, but none of that was new. You’d done this before, moving through missions like a shadow, leaving no trace. Yet, something about this one felt… different. Heavier.

You sat down, the cold metal of the chair grounding you. Flicking open the dossier, you reviewed the details again, committing every piece of information to memory. Maps, personnel lists, cover identities. You’d be stationed as a nurse in a field hospital near the front lines. A perfect cover for blending in. Your forged papers were flawless, down to the tiniest detail.

Your name was different now. Your past erased, rewritten to fit the narrative of a 1940s nurse.

Ghosts didn’t get attached. Ghosts didn’t feel. You weren’t there to alter history or forge connections. Your mission was simple: retrieve the files, destroy them if necessary, and get out.

You pushed the dossier aside and picked up the vial, turning it over in your hands. The blue liquid shimmered faintly, a reminder of the power it held. Time travel was a delicate operation, one that required precision and absolute control. There was no room for error.

You placed the vial carefully into the injector and secured it around your wrist. The faint hum of the device powering up was the only sound in the room.

Your internal monologue began to surface, unbidden.

You weren’t supposed to be here, not in this timeline, not in their world. You’d been forged in the Red Room, molded into an instrument of precision and silence. SHIELD had found you, given you purpose beyond the shadows of your past, but you had never stepped into the light. You were designed to operate in the margins of history, invisible to the heroes who saved the world.

It hurt thinking of Natasha, her voice, her presence in the Red Room. She had been a beacon of strength. But she had walked away from that world, found a new family. You? You remained in the shadows, bound to missions that no one could know about, missions that didn’t exist on paper. You didn't exist on paper.

You stood and approached the small mirror on the wall. The face staring back at you was calm, unyielding. But behind your eyes, you could see the tension creeping in.

You’re not doing this for glory or recognition. You’re doing this because you’re the only one who can.

You reached for the pack of clothing and equipment laid out on the nearby table. The nurse’s uniform was meticulously crafted, down to the period-accurate buttons and insignia. As you slipped into the attire, you felt yourself becoming the role. The transformation was seamless, automatic, a ritual that pulled you deeper into the identity you were about to assume.

Finally, you secured the last piece: a silver locket around your neck. Inside was a tiny microchip, a piece of technology far beyond anything the 1940s could comprehend. It was your failsafe, your tether back to the present.

A soft chime from the injector reminded you it was time. You glanced around the room, taking in every detail, knowing this might be the last familiar sight you’d see for a while. Then, you pressed the button on your wrist.

The world around you began to shift, colors bleeding into one another as time folded in on itself. Your heart pounded, but your expression remained stoic. You’d trained for this, prepared for every contingency. You were ready.

As the light around you intensified, your final thought was simple, resolute: You are a ghost. Leave no trace.

And then, the world snapped into focus, and you were standing in a field hospital in 1941, the distant sound of artillery fire echoing through the air.

The mission had begun.

The salty breeze off the English Channel carried the smell of sea and steel, a sharp reminder of the battles waged across its waters. You stood at the edge of the field hospital camp, the makeshift tents and wooden crates around you blending into the mud-soaked earth. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows as the air grew cooler.

From where you were stationed, you could see the transport ship docking at the pier. Its hulking frame loomed against the gray sky, the gangplank lowering with a heavy groan. One by one, soldiers began to disembark, their boots clanging against the metal as they descended.

You were trained to observe, to analyze every detail without drawing attention to yourself. These men were exhausted, their faces grim and hardened by the horrors they had faced. Their uniforms were wrinkled and stained, helmets tilted at weary angles. They moved like a unit, but each step spoke of personal battles, of stories carried in silence.

You stayed rooted in place, your nurse’s uniform a perfect blend of authority and anonymity. A clipboard in your hand gave you an excuse to linger, but no one paid you much mind. This was war. You were just another face in the chaos.

Your eyes scanned the line of soldiers disembarking, cataloging them with practiced precision. You were supposed to be looking for weaknesses, details that might help you blend in more effectively. But then, your gaze landed on one man.

He walked with a quiet confidence, his posture upright despite the weight of fatigue. Dark hair peeked out from beneath his helmet, and his steel-blue eyes scanned the camp with a soldier’s wariness. His face was sharp, shadowed by stubble, but it was his expression that caught you—equal parts focused and distant, as if he were both here and somewhere far away.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You knew his name, knew his story—or at least, the parts that history would remember… the parts in the folder. But standing here now, seeing him in the flesh, was something else entirely. He wasn’t just a name in a dossier or a ghost from the past. He was real, and the weight of that realisation hit you like a wave.

I’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night.

His arrival had stirred something deep within you, something you couldn’t explain.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way. Your mission was clear: stay invisible, complete the task, and leave. No deviations, no entanglements. But as you watched him, your chest tightened with an inexplicable pull. There was something about him, something magnetic.

Bucky paused near the base of the gangplank, helping another soldier with a crate of supplies. His voice was low, his words lost in the din of the camp, but the kindness in his gestures was unmistakable. He was a soldier, yes, but there was a warmth to him, a spark of humanity that hadn’t been extinguished by war.

You forced yourself to look away, focusing on the clipboard in your hand. Stay sharp. Stay focused. You couldn’t afford distractions, not here, not now.

And yet, your eyes betrayed you, flickering back to him as he moved through the camp, his presence impossible to ignore. You told yourself it was just curiosity, a natural reaction to seeing someone you’d only read about.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to wonder what it would be like to speak to him, to share even a fraction of the weight you carried. But the thought was fleeting, quickly buried beneath the weight of your training.

You are a ghost. Leave no trace.

The smell of antiseptic and damp canvas filled the air as you moved between the rows of cots in the makeshift medical tent. Their arrival—was what you’d been waiting for.

You were focused on checking supplies when a familiar commotion at the tent entrance caught your attention. A group of soldiers sauntered in, their uniforms caked in dirt and their faces shadowed with fatigue. Among them was a man who immediately stood out. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, his blue eyes bright despite the grime smeared across his face. He carried himself with an easy confidence, even as he favoured one leg.

Your mission dossier hadn’t prepared you for the sheer presence of him.

As the soldiers dispersed to their assigned cots, he made a beeline for you. His limp was subtle but noticeable, and despite yourself, your training kicked in.

“Take a seat,” you said, your voice steady as you gestured to an empty cot. “I’ll take a look at that leg.”

Bucky flashed a crooked smile, his eyes sweeping over you with interest. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, his voice smooth, tinged with the faintest Brooklyn accent. “And here I thought this camp was all bad news.”

You arched an eyebrow, setting down your clipboard. “Flattery won’t get you out of a medical exam, Sergeant Barnes.”

His grin widened as he sat down, wincing slightly. “So, you know my name. That’s a good start. What do I call you, Nurse…?”

You hesitated for half a second, then gave him your cover name. “Nurse Johnson.”

“Well, Nurse Johnson,” he said, leaning back on his hands, “if I’d known there were nurses like you out here, I’d have gotten shot a long time ago.”

You gave him a pointed look, crouching in front of him to roll up the tattered leg of his uniform. “Let’s try to avoid that, shall we?”

Bucky’s laugh was soft but genuine, his gaze never leaving your face. “You’re all business, huh?”

You pressed lightly on his shin, watching for a reaction. “Someone has to be. Looks like you’ve got a nasty sprain, but nothing’s broken.”

“Guess I’ll live to fight another day,” he said, wincing slightly as you adjusted his leg.

“Barely,” you muttered, grabbing a bandage from your kit. As you wrapped his leg, you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his attention almost unnerving.

“So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, his tone playful but curious.

"Thats the line you're gonna go with?" The corners of your lips slightly turned as you tied off the bandage, sitting back on your heels. “Helping stubborn soldiers like you survive long enough to get home.”

Bucky chuckled, his head tilting slightly. “You got a smart mouth on you, Nurse Johnson. I like that.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up and crossing your arms. “And you’ve got a sprained leg. Try not to make it worse.”

He grinned again, leaning forward slightly. “You know, if you’re ever looking for a dance partner when this war’s over, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Despite yourself, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You better. A guy like me doesn’t make that offer twice.”

Shaking your head, you gathered your supplies and turned to leave. “Try to stay out of trouble, Sergeant.”

“No promises,” he called after you, his voice warm and teasing. “But I’ll do my best if it means seeing you again.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but glance back, finding him still watching you, his smile softer now. Your mission had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

The first few days at the field hospital were a blur of motion and noise. Soldiers came in with fresh wounds, some minor, others devastating. Your hands worked tirelessly, stitching cuts, setting broken bones, administering whatever pain relief was available. You moved through it all like a machine, your focus never wavering.

You’d trained for moments like this, where life and death were separated by a thread, but this mission wasn’t about saving lives—it was about staying hidden long enough to complete your objective. The files you needed were still buried somewhere in enemy hands, and every moment you spent here was one step closer to obtaining them.

Still, blending in was vital, and that meant interacting with the men around you. They were polite, for the most part, offering nods of gratitude when you patched them up. But one soldier in particular seemed to be making it his mission to capture your attention.

“Hey, Nurse,” a familiar voice called out one evening as you worked on organizing supplies. You turned to see Bucky Barnes leaning against the frame of the medical tent, a lopsided grin on his face. “Got a minute?”

You raised an eyebrow, but kept your expression neutral. “That depends. Are you here because you need actual medical attention, or are you just bored?”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Bit of both, maybe.”

You sighed, setting down the bandages you were sorting. “Let me guess—another soldier got into a scuffle and you decided to play referee?”

Bucky stepped closer, his helmet tucked under his arm. “Something like that. You know how it is. Boys will be boys.” His eyes sparkled with mischief, and despite yourself, you felt a flicker of amusement.

You crossed your arms, feigning exasperation. “Well, if you’re not bleeding, you’re wasting my time, Sergeant.”

“Ah, but see, you didn’t check.” He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ve got a battle wound you missed.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the small smile threatening to break through. “If you’re trying to flirt, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Flirt? Me?” Bucky placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “I’m just trying to keep morale up. Can’t have our best nurse getting all serious on us.”

“Best nurse?” You arched an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for all of three days, Barnes.”

“Three days is all I need,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping just enough to send a small shiver down your spine. “I’ve got a good eye for people.”

You turned back to your supplies, determined to maintain your composure. “Well, maybe you should use that good eye to look out for your men instead of distracting me.”

Bucky chuckled again, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “I do that too. Multitasking, you know?”

You shot him a pointed look, but before you could respond, another soldier poked his head into the tent, interrupting the moment. “Sarge, we’ve got a situation by the south perimeter.”

Bucky’s demeanour shifted instantly, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by sharp focus. He gave you a quick nod, then turned to follow the soldier out.

“Don’t work too hard, doll,” he called over his shoulder as he left. “Wouldn’t want you wearing yourself out.”

You shook your head, finally letting out a small laugh once he was gone. Bucky Barnes was trouble, that much was clear. He was charming, confident, and far too good at making you forget the rules you were supposed to live by.

But he was also a soldier, just like the rest of them. And you were here for a mission, not for him.

Stay focused, you reminded yourself, though it was getting harder with every interaction.

The next few days followed a similar pattern. Bucky found every opportunity to stop by the medical tent, whether it was to check on his men or to toss a teasing remark your way. He seemed determined to pull you out of your shell, to coax a smile or a laugh from you no matter how busy or serious the day became.

One afternoon, as you were tending to a soldier with a shrapnel wound, Bucky appeared again, his presence filling the tent like sunlight cutting through a storm.

“Thought you might need some help,” he said, leaning casually against a supply crate.

You didn’t even look up. “Unless you’ve suddenly become a medic, I think I’m good.”

“Hey, I’m a fast learner,” he quipped, stepping closer. “Show me what to do, and I’ll be the best assistant you’ve ever had.”

You finally glanced up at him, your expression skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He grinned, unflinching. “C’mon, Nurse. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You sighed, gesturing toward the supplies. “Fine. Hand me the gauze.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he moved to your side, and for the next few minutes, he actually did as he was told, passing you tools and supplies with surprising care. But of course, it didn’t take long for him to start talking again.

“So,” he began, his tone light, “you always this serious, or is it just an act?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe I’m trying to keep certain soldiers in line.”

“Ah, so I’m a bad influence,” he teased, leaning a little closer. “Good to know.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, trying not to let his proximity affect you. “You’re definitely something.”

The playful banter continued, but beneath it all, you felt the weight of unspoken truths. Every moment with Bucky was a reminder of what you couldn’t have, of the life you were just passing through. But for now, in the fleeting quiet of the field hospital, you allowed yourself to enjoy his presence.

Just for a little while.

The sun was setting, painting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson. The camp had grown quieter, the hum of daily activity fading as the soldiers took what little rest they could before nightfall. You were sitting on a wooden crate just outside the medical tent, enjoying a rare moment of stillness. A cup of lukewarm coffee sat in your hands, its warmth a small comfort against the cool evening air.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Mind if I join you?” Bucky’s voice was softer than usual, lacking its usual teasing edge.

You glanced at him, your heart giving a small, inexplicable flutter. “It’s a free camp,” you said, gesturing to the crate beside you.

Bucky sat down with a tired sigh, his helmet resting on his lap. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet settling comfortably between you. He looked different in the fading light—less like the cocky sergeant who flirted with you during the day and more like the weary soldier you knew he was. His eyes were distant, reflecting the weight of battles fought and losses endured.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” he said after a while, his voice thoughtful. “Most of the nurses here, they talk about home, family. You… you’re a mystery.”

You kept your gaze on the horizon, your grip tightening slightly on the cup. “Maybe I just don’t have much to tell.”

“Everyone’s got a story,” he countered, glancing at you. “Even ghosts.”

Your heart skipped at the word, but you kept your expression neutral. “Ghosts don’t have stories. They just… exist.”

Bucky frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Is that what you think you are? A ghost?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by his insight. He was perceptive, more than you’d expected. Finally, you spoke, your voice low. “I’ve spent a long time learning how to disappear. It’s easier that way.”

Bucky studied you for a moment, his gaze softening. “Easier, maybe. But doesn’t it get lonely?”

You swallowed hard. “Loneliness is part of the job.”

He shook his head, his expression gentle but firm. “Doesn’t have to be.”

You turned to look at him then, your eyes meeting his. There was no teasing now, no flirtation. Just quiet sincerity. It made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I don’t really have anyone to talk about,” you admitted after a moment. “No family, not that I remember. My parents… I don’t even know their names.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his eyes filled with empathy. “Were you… a orphan?”

You hesitated, the term feeling both accurate and not. “Something like that. I was raised by people who didn’t care about who I was, only what I could do for them.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than you’d intended, but Bucky didn’t shy away from them. His gaze softened further, and he nodded slowly. “That’s a hell of a way to grow up,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, trying to deflect the weight of the conversation. “It made me good at what I do.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice tinged with something that sounded like regret. “But it doesn’t mean you deserved it.”

You looked away, unsure how to respond. Empathy wasn’t something you were used to, especially not from someone like him—someone who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, even in the middle of a war.

After a long pause, Bucky spoke again, his voice softer this time. “You remind me of someone.”

You glanced at him, curious. “Who?”

“Steve,” he said with a small, fond smile. “He didn’t have much either. His mom passed not too long ago, and his dad when we were kids. But it's always been just him one way or another just fighting to survive in Brooklyn. Always getting picked on because he’s small, but he never gave up. He had this stubborn streak, always standing up for people, even when it got him into trouble.”

Steve Rogers. Captain America. You knew his story, but hearing Bucky talk about him like this—like he was just Steve, not a legend, because to this Bucky he wasn’t one yet—it painted a different picture.

“Must’ve been tough,” you said softly.

Bucky nodded. “It was. But he never let it break him. That’s just who he is.” He paused, his smile growing a little. “He can't throw a rock without wheezing but he never let that and will never let that stop him.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, the warmth in Bucky’s voice cutting through the weight of the conversation.

“He’s lucky to have you,” you said.

Bucky looked at you, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. “I’m lucky to have him too. He’s always been there, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The vulnerability in his words mirrored your own, and for a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the weight of your shared pasts hanging between you.

Bucky reached out then, his hand brushing against yours. “You’re not as invisible as you think,” he said softly. “Not to me…I see you Nurse, and the view is amazing”

The camp was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that preceded something terrible. The usual hum of activity had slowed, and even the soldiers seemed more on edge. You felt it too—the tension in the air, the weight of something approaching.

You were in the medical tent, organising supplies when the call came.

“Enemy movement spotted near the south perimeter!” a soldier shouted as he rushed past. “They’re coming!”

Your heart dropped. You knew this moment was inevitable. The enemy had been closing in for days, and now they were here. But it wasn’t just the impending battle that had your stomach in knots. It was the mission—the files.

You quickly grabbed your hidden satchel from beneath your cot. Inside were the tools you’d need to breach the Nazi stronghold, which was now dangerously close to enemy lines. You’d been waiting for this opportunity, but it was coming at the worst possible time. The camp was about to become a battlefield, and every second counted.

Before you could slip away, Bucky stormed into the tent, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his face set in a grim expression.

“There you are,” he said, his eyes scanning you quickly, as if ensuring you were unharmed. “They’ve called all hands. It’s gonna get rough out there.”

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He frowned, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze as you tightened the straps on your satchel. “I’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion growing. “What’s in the bag?”

You froze for a split second, but it was enough for him to notice.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “What’s going on?”

You took a deep breath, meeting his gaze. “I can’t explain right now. I just… I have to go.”

His jaw tightened. “Go? Where? The perimeter’s crawling with enemy troops, and you’re talking about running off?”

You stepped past him, but he grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not harsh. “Talk to me,” he pleaded. “You’ve been keeping secrets since the day you got here. Please, dont do this….What’s really going on?”

You hesitated, the weight of your mission crashing down on you. Bucky wasn’t supposed to know. No one was. But in this moment, with his piercing gaze locked onto yours, you realized you couldn’t just walk away without saying something.

“I’m not who you think I am,” you said quietly. “I’m not just a nurse. I’m here on a mission.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed “A mission?” confusion and concern mixing in his expression. “What kind of mission?”

You glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot. “I can’t tell you everything. But there’s something I need to retrieve from the enemy. It’s vital.”

His grip on your arm tightened slightly. “You’re planning to go out there alone?”

“I have to,” you said, your voice firm. “This is what I was sent here to do.”

Bucky shook his head, his frustration evident. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Do you even have backup?”

“No,” you admitted. “This mission is off the books.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he exhaled sharply. “That’s insane. You can’t go out there alone.”

“I’ve done it before,” you said, trying to reassure him. “I’ll be fine.”

But Bucky wasn’t convinced. “Not this time,” he said, his voice resolute. “I’m coming with you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped you. He wasn’t going to let you go alone.

“Bucky—”

“No,” he interrupted. “You don’t get to push me away now. If this is as important as you say it is, then you’re gonna need someone watching your back.”

You hesitated, torn between the mission and the growing connection you felt with him. Bringing Bucky along wasn’t part of the plan, but the truth was, you knew he was right. The enemy would be everywhere, and the odds of surviving alone were slim.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But you follow my lead. No questions.”

He gave you a small, determined nod. “Deal.”

Together, you slipped out of the tent and into the night, the distant sound of gunfire growing louder with each step. The mission was about to reach its breaking point, and so was your fragile trust in Bucky.

But there was no turning back now.

The camp was already descending into chaos by the time you and Bucky slipped through the south perimeter. Gunfire echoed in the distance, mingling with the shouts of soldiers and the thunderous roar of artillery. The enemy was closing in fast, and every second felt like borrowed time.

You led the way, keeping low as you navigated the uneven terrain. Bucky followed close behind, his rifle at the ready, his eyes scanning for threats. The weight of your satchel bounced against your side, a constant reminder of the mission’s stakes.

“Where exactly are we going?” Bucky asked in a hushed voice as you reached a narrow trail leading toward the enemy-occupied forest.

“There’s a stronghold about a mile from here,” you replied, keeping your voice low. “That’s where they’re keeping the files.”

He gave you a skeptical look but didn’t press further. “And how do you know this?”

You hesitated. “Let’s just say I have access to intel most people don’t.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Fine. I’ll trust you.”

The tension between you was palpable, but there was no time to unpack it. You pressed on, the shadows of the trees swallowing you both as you moved deeper into enemy territory.

The stronghold loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky. It was an old stone fortress, fortified with barbed wire and patrolled by armed guards. You and Bucky crouched behind a cluster of bushes, observing the layout.

“Two guards at the main entrance,” Bucky whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “And a patrol circling every few minutes.”

You nodded, scanning the area. “There’s a side entrance near the east wall. It’s less guarded, but we’ll have to time it perfectly.”

Bucky smirked slightly. “You’ve done this before.”

“More times than I care to admit,” you replied, keeping your eyes on the patrols. “Ready?”

“Always.”

Together, you moved swiftly and silently, sticking to the shadows. When the patrol passed, you darted toward the east wall, Bucky covering your six. The side entrance was a narrow metal door, rusted and worn. You pulled a small device from your satchel, a compact tool designed to pick even the most secure locks. Within seconds, the door clicked open.

“Impressive,” Bucky murmured as you slipped inside.

You gave him a quick look. “Focus.”

Inside, the stronghold was cold and dimly lit, the corridors eerily quiet. You navigated the labyrinthine hallways with precision, your memory of the layout guiding you. Bucky stayed close, his rifle raised and ready.

Finally, you reached a secured room at the end of a long hallway. A heavy steel door stood between you and your objective.

“This is it,” you whispered, pulling out another device from your satchel. It was a miniature explosive, designed to breach the door without causing a large-scale alert.

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly. “You really came prepared.”

“Like I said,” you replied, placing the explosive, “I’ve done this before.”

The device beeped softly as you set the timer. “Stand back.”

The explosion was quick and precise, the door blasting inward with minimal noise. You and Bucky rushed inside, your eyes immediately scanning the room. It was filled with filing cabinets and stacks of documents, the enemy’s plans meticulously organized.

You went to work, quickly locating the files you needed. As you stuffed them into your satchel, Bucky kept watch by the door.

“So this is what all the secrecy was about?” he asked, his voice low but tense.

“These files could change everything,” you said, your hands moving quickly. “If they fall into the wrong hands, it could shift the balance of power for decades.”

Bucky nodded, his expression serious. “Then we make sure they don’t.”

Just as you secured the last of the files, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Time to go,” Bucky said, his grip tightening on his rifle.

You nodded, and together you slipped out of the room, moving quickly and quietly through the stronghold. But as you reached the exit, the footsteps grew louder, closer. The guards were on high alert now.

“We’re not gonna make it out the way we came,” Bucky muttered, his eyes scanning for another escape route.

You pointed to a nearby staircase. “There’s a secondary exit through the upper level. It leads to the roof.”

Bucky nodded, and the two of you raced up the stairs, your boots barely making a sound on the worn stone steps. At the top, you found the door to the roof. It was locked, but Bucky didn’t hesitate. He slammed his shoulder into it, forcing it open with a grunt.

The night air hit you like a wall as you stepped onto the roof. Below, the camp was in chaos, enemy soldiers scrambling in response to the breach.

“There,” Bucky said, pointing to a nearby tree line. “We jump, head for cover.”

You hesitated, the drop from the roof to the ground far from ideal. But there was no time to argue. With a nod, you followed Bucky as he leapt, landing with a roll in the soft dirt below. You hit the ground a moment later, pain shooting through your legs as you landed hard but kept moving.

Together, you sprinted toward the trees, gunfire erupting behind you. Bullets whizzed past, but you didn’t stop, adrenaline driving you forward. Finally, you reached the cover of the forest, the sounds of pursuit growing fainter.

Once you were safely concealed among the trees, you collapsed against a trunk, your breath coming in heavy gasps. Bucky crouched beside you, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of pursuit.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, clutching the satchel tightly. “Mission accomplished.”

Bucky gave a small, breathless laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You met his gaze, the tension of the moment fading slightly as his familiar smirk returned. “So are you, Sergeant.”

Despite the danger, despite everything, you felt a flicker of warmth between you. The mission had tested both your resolve and your connection, but you’d made it out together. And somehow, that made all the difference.

The firelight flickered across the camp, casting long shadows as the remnants of the battle settled into an uneasy calm. You and Bucky sat on the edge of the forest, just beyond the perimeter, hidden from sight. The distant sound of gunfire and shouting had finally faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the night.

The stolen Nazi files were secure in your satchel, now buried beneath layers of medical supplies. You’d succeeded in your mission, but the cost weighed heavily on your shoulders.

Bucky sat beside you, silent for a long time. His rifle was propped against a tree, his hands resting on his knees. The tension between you had shifted—no longer marked by suspicion but by a shared understanding.

“You really weren’t kidding about being a ghost,” he said eventually, his voice low and thoughtful.

You glanced at him, the flickering firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. “I told you it was important.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. But you didn’t tell me everything.”

You looked away, the weight of his words settling over you. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of frustration. “Because you didn’t trust me?”

“It’s not about trust,” you said quietly, your fingers tightening around the satchel. “It’s about the mission. It’s about keeping things safe.”

Bucky frowned, his gaze searching your face. “Safe from what?”

You hesitated, carefully choosing your words. “From things that could change everything if they’re not handled right.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, the soldier in him catching on to the weight behind your statement. “Sounds like more than just some stolen files.”

“It is,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky was silent for a moment, processing your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice tinged with awe and concern. “And you’ve been doing this alone?”

“It’s what I was trained for,” you said, your tone matter-of-fact. “No attachments, no distractions. Just the mission.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s no way to live.”

You looked at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice. “It’s the only way I know.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “You’re more than just a mission, you know. You’ve got a life, a soul. You can’t keep shutting people out.”

Your chest tightened at his words. For so long, you’d lived in the shadows, carrying the burden of your missions alone. But now, sitting here with Bucky, you felt the cracks in your armor growing wider.

“I’m not supposed to get attached,” you said quietly. “It makes things complicated.”

Bucky gave a small, rueful smile. “Too late for that….”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt a surge of emotion, a mix of fear and longing. You’d spent years building walls, but Bucky Barnes was breaking through them with every shared glance, every quiet moment.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s hand stayed on yours, steady and grounding. His touch was gentle, but there was strength behind it, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t used to.

“You don’t have to do it alone. I’m here, you know?” his voice soft but resolute. “I’m in this.”

You looked down at your joined hands, the firelight reflecting off his metal fingers. It felt like he was holding more than just your hand—like he was holding the weight of everything you’d been carrying for so long.

“I’ve never had this before,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone, to let someone in.”

Bucky’s thumb traced small, soothing circles on the back of your hand. “It’s not easy,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, the vulnerability of the moment making your chest ache. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I mess this up?”

Bucky leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “You won’t. And even if you stumble, I’ll be right here. We’ll figure it out together.”

His words broke through the last of your defenses, and a tear slipped down your cheek. Bucky’s other hand came up, his thumb gently wiping it away. His touch was so tender, it made your heart ache even more.

“You’ve been through so much,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of his words settling over you. “Bucky…”

He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours. “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just let me be here for you.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the fire crackling softly in the background. The world outside the camp seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of his presence and the quiet comfort of the moment.

After a while, you finally spoke, your voice barely audible. “You’ve made me feel something I didn’t think I could feel.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “What’s that?”

“Hope,” you said, the word feeling both fragile and powerful.

His lips curved into a soft, bittersweet smile. “Then we’ve got something to hold on to.”

Without thinking, you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was soft and tentative, a promise of something deeper. When you pulled back, his eyes were shining, and you could see the depth of his feelings mirrored in them.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “One step at a time.”

You nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. “Together.”

Bucky squeezed your hand, his warmth chasing away the chill of the night. “Together,” he echoed.

And in that moment, with the firelight flickering around you and the weight of your shared pasts slowly lifting, you believed him.

In the days following the mission, the dynamic between you and Bucky began to change. There was a newfound understanding between you, a quiet bond forged in the heat of battle and the weight of shared secrets.

Bucky became more protective, often finding excuses to check in on you, whether it was during your rounds at the medical tent or when you were working alone. His teasing remarks were still there, but they were softer now, laced with genuine care.

You found yourself leaning on him more, allowing him into the parts of your life you’d always kept hidden. And despite the danger, despite the mission’s stakes, you had the files you could go back now and have exiled beating your initial time, but you stayed you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, you’d found something worth holding onto.

But in the back of your mind, you knew the clock was ticking. The mission was complete, and soon, you’d have to leave this time, this world—and Bucky—behind.

The glow of the fire illuminated the night, the crackle the only sound cutting through. Most of the camp had settled in for the evening, but you and Bucky remained near the fire, sitting side by side on a fallen log. The warm glow danced across his face, softening the sharp angles and making his eyes shimmer like the stars above.

Bucky leaned back slightly, resting his arm along the log behind you. “So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked with a playful smirk, his voice low and smooth.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Really? That’s the line you’re going with….again?”

He grinned, his teeth catching the firelight. “What can I say? I’m trying to impress the mysterious nurse who keeps patching me up .”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get on my good side.”

“Is it working?” he asked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.

You glanced at him, your heart skipping a beat. “Maybe.”

Bucky’s grin softened into something more sincere. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the weight of the war, the mission, everything else faded away. It was just the two of you, suspended in this fleeting moment of peace.

He reached up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmured.

You felt your breath catch, your pulse quickening. “Bucky…”

“I mean it,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’re strong, smart, brave… and you’ve got this way of making me forget everything else, even when the world’s falling apart.”

His words broke through the walls you’d spent years building. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in, and he met you halfway. His lips were warm and soft against yours, the kiss tender but filled with a quiet intensity. Time seemed to stop as the world melted away, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the steady beat of his heart.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were wet with tears. Bucky frowned, his thumb gently brushing your cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, struggling to find the words. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

Bucky’s expression softened, and he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on your cheeks. “Then let me show you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his own tears on his waterline threatening to spill. “Stay. Please stay, for me.”

Your heart shattered at his plea. The sincerity in his eyes, the quiet desperation in his voice—it was almost too much to bear. But you couldn’t. Not when you knew the mission, the weight of your responsibilities, and the secrets you carried. You’d always been a ghost, moving through life without leaving traces behind. How could you let yourself stay, knowing the danger you brought with you?

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, his hands dropping slightly. “Why not? What’s stopping you?”

You looked away, tears streaming down your face. “Because… I don’t get to have this,” you said quietly. “People like me… we don’t get happy endings.”

Bucky stared at you, his jaw tightening. “That’s bullshit,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You deserve this just as much as anyone else.”

You shook your head, your hands trembling. “You don’t understand—if I stay, things could fall apart. I’m not meant to… to put down roots. To belong.”

Bucky reached for your hand, holding it tightly. “If that’s what you’ve been told, they’re wrong. You don’t have to carry all of this alone. Whatever’s weighing on you… let me help.”

You squeezed his hand, your tears falling freely now. “I wish I could. But this isn’t goodbye, Bucky. Not really.”

His grip tightened, his eyes filled with pain. “How do you know?”

You gave him a shaky smile, your heart aching. “Because feeling this… it’s the kind of thing that changes everything. No matter where life takes us, I’ll find you again. I promise.”

Bucky pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away. His breath was warm against your hair, and for a moment, you let yourself believe in the impossible. In a different world, maybe you could stay. Maybe you could let yourself love him the way you wanted to.

But for now, you clung to him, memorising the feel of his embrace, the sound of his heartbeat. This wasn’t the end. You wouldn’t let it be.

The fire burned low, its warmth fading, but neither of you moved. Instead, you lay back together on a blanket you’d pulled from the medical tent. The stars stretched endlessly above, their light soft and comforting.

Bucky shifted, his arm wrapping protectively around you as you rested your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, grounding you in the moment. He let out a soft sigh, his voice breaking the silence.

“When I was a kid, Steve and I used to sneak up onto the roof of our building,” he said quietly. “We’d lie there, looking at the stars, talking about all the things we were gonna do someday.”

You smiled faintly, imagining a pre-serum Steve beside him, small but full of fight. “What did you talk about?”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and fond. “Steve always had big dreams. He wanted to do something that mattered. Join the army, help people, change the world.” He paused, his voice softening. “Didn’t care that he was too small, too sick. He just wanted to be better, to do better.”

You closed your eyes, the image of Steve Rogers—Captain America—so different now. But to Bucky, he was still that skinny kid with more heart than anyone.

“And what about you?” you asked gently.

Bucky hesitated, his hand absently tracing small circles on your shoulder. “Me? I just wanted to keep him safe. Steve’s always been the brave one. I just… I wanted to make sure he didn’t get himself killed chasing those dreams.”

His words were filled with so much quiet love, it made your heart ache. You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

Bucky smiled, his hand brushing over your hair. “Maybe. But I think you’re the brave one here.”

You rested your head against his chest again, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. “We both are.”

The silence stretched once more, comfortable and grounding. The crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of the camp blended with the soft rustle of the trees.

Bucky’s voice broke the stillness. “Did you have someone like that?” he asked, his tone thoughtful. “A sibling? A close friend?”

You paused, your mind drifting back. “I didn’t have siblings,” you said slowly. “But I had a friend. Her name’s Natasha.” You smiled softly at the memory, though a hint of sadness crept into your voice. “She was like a sister to me. Strong, stubborn, always looking out for me.”

Bucky’s eyes softened. “She sounds like someone you could count on.”

“She was,” you said, your voice tinged with regret. “We went through a lot together, but… I haven’t seen her in years.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently. “Think you’ll see her again?”

You stared up at the stars, your heart heavy with longing. “I hope so. But with the way things are… who knows?”

Bucky nodded, his thumb brushing over your arm in a soothing motion. “If she’s anything like you, she’s still out there, fighting her own battles. And when the time’s right, you’ll find your way back to each other.”

You swallowed hard, his words offering a comfort you didn’t realize you needed. “I hope you’re right.”

The two of you fell into silence again, but it wasn’t empty. The weight of your shared stories, your losses and hopes, filled the space between you.

As the night deepened, you knew this moment wouldn’t last forever. But for now, you let yourself have it, holding onto Bucky like he was your anchor in a storm you couldn’t escape. Beneath the stars, in the quiet of the night, the war and the mission felt distant, like a different world entirely.

You stood near the edge of the camp, the glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the field. The soldiers of the 107th were regrouping, preparing to move out. You spotted Bucky in the distance, his silhouette unmistakable as he spoke with his men. His voice was calm, commanding, but you could see the tension in his posture. He was ready for the next fight, even if his heart wasn’t.

And so were you.

You adjusted the strap of your satchel, your fingers brushing over the hidden compartment containing the files. This would be your last night here. By dawn, you’d be gone, pulled back to the time you belonged. Everything you’d built here—every connection, every moment—would be left behind.

But Bucky.

He made his way toward you, each step heavy with the knowledge of what was about to happen. When he stopped in front of you, the space between you felt impossibly small yet vast, like an ocean you were both struggling to cross.

“You’re leaving,” he said, his voice low, not a question but a statement, tinged with quiet resignation.

You nodded, your throat tight. “I have to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with emotions he wasn’t voicing. He looked down for a moment, then slowly reached up, pulling something from around his neck. His dog tags caught the fading light as they dangled from his fingers, the metal clinking softly.

He held them out to you, his hand steady even as his voice wavered. “Take these.”

You stared at the tags, your heart twisting. “Bucky, I can’t—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his gaze locking onto yours. “I want you to have them, please”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment settling over you. These weren’t just tags. They were a piece of him, a symbol of his identity, of the man he was here and now. Taking them felt like crossing a line you weren’t sure you could bear.

But when you looked into his eyes, the quiet plea there shattered any resistance you had. Slowly, you reached out and took the tags, the cool metal pressing into your palm. Your fingers curled around them tightly, as if holding onto them would somehow keep him closer.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Bucky gave a small, sad smile, his hand brushing against yours briefly before he let it fall. “Just… promise me you won’t forget.”

Your chest tightened, tears welling in your eyes. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn’t say. You wanted to tell him how much he meant to you, how this short time together had changed something inside you. But the words stuck in your throat, buried under the weight of your mission and the future you knew awaited him.

Bucky reached up, gently cupping your face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear that slipped down your cheek. “You’ve been trained to disappear,” he said softly, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “But not from me.”

You choked back a sob, your hands gripping the dog tags like a lifeline. “I’ve never had this before,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

His hand slipped down, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Then don’t,” he whispered, begging one last time. “Stay. Please. Stay for me.”

Your heart broke at his words, the sincerity in his voice cutting through every defense you had left. But you knew you couldn’t. Staying here would risk everything—the mission, the future, his life.

“I can’t,” you said, your voice cracking. “I wish I could, but you know I can’t.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on your hand, his eyes searching yours for something, anything to hold onto. “Why?” he asked, his voice raw. “Why does it have to be like this?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Because this isn’t my time, this isn’t our time” you said quietly.

Bucky’s eyes glistened, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue, to beg you to stay again. But instead, he nodded slowly, his hand lingering on yours for a heartbeat longer.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “No matter how long it takes.”

Tears streamed down your face as you gave him a shaky smile. “You won’t have to wait forever.”

With one last, lingering glance, Bucky leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips, the steady presence of his touch, imprinted itself in your memory, a moment you knew you’d carry with you for the rest of your life.

When he pulled back, he let his hand fall, his eyes never leaving yours. “Take care of yourself doll,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You too,” you whispered, clutching the dog tags close to your heart.

And then, with every ounce of strength you had left, you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back, knowing that if you did, you might never be able to leave. But with every step, the weight of his dog tags in your hand was a promise—a tether that would guide you back to him.

I could feel you sneaking in, As if you were a mythical thing

[elodieunderglass]

So for some more details:

- I am fairly time-poor with a huge amount of commitments: Grownup Job Senior Promotion, three small kids on summer holidays/starting school, writing a novel fanfic for sick friend, peak growing/harvest season at allotment, etc. so im only offering “what I can actually deliver” at this time

- swan comic is a new idea, people like those don’t they? Not sure of how fundraising mechanism would work here but maybe taking prompts?

- not sure how essay would work but it’s probably my best/most appealing skill?

- material items in exchange for a minimum fixed amount. So offline I’m most known for material works. I’m not a BAD printmaker / craftworker and for this I would be looking at designing a sort of limited print run of greeting card style original hand printed prints. I know you guys aren’t familiar with this work from me, so this would involve a bit of trust that An Art from me would be worth at least £5 lmao. However it’s kind of nice to get something real in the mail right??

- super worried about fandom auction so this would be mostly a register of interest that I’d take to more experienced people and use as leverage to start an auction; I’m not in a great place to provide much actual legwork here. I also have huge guilt from like 2000-something where someone paid A HUNDRED AND LIKE 20 DOLLARS to charity for earthquake survivors and I DID NOT FINISH THE FIC AND I HAD to write to them, weepingly, apologising forever about it, and they were so graceful, they forgave me and wrote off my fandom auction contribution, but I had never watched the tv show they requested and was in the process of romancing dr glass and it all went SO wrong, this MIGHT heal my scars of shame from fandom auctions generally OR might make them worse. It itvery hard to write fic actually it’s my worst skill pls don’t pick this

Anyway

I will dance like a monkey and get sick kids out of Gaza. What would you like to see most?

[loveydovey-leviathan]

belphie who walks into a tattoo parlour one day, intending to get only a simple sun and moon design to match with beel, but his plans go out the window when he sees you.

you give him a simple smile and said hello when you make eye contact, just like you probably did with all your other customers-- but it's enough to make the heat of the sun spread across his cheeks in a tinge of pink and stop him in his tracks.

so imagine his surprise when you walk up to his stunted figure and ask him about his appointment.

"you're belphegor, right? i'll be the one tattooing you, if that's ok."

he nods as best as he can considering his pathetic state because of course it was ok, more than that actually.

but he rethinks his decision when he realises how flustered he feels when you get close to him. he thinks it's ridiculous how hot he feels when you're not even that close to him, but every time he chances a look and sees your concentrated face, he swears he's never been closer to heaven.

every time you wipe off the ink that pools on top of his skin, he feels stars bloom under. every time you stop and ask if he's doing okay or if he wants a break, he wants to tell the night sky about you with such longing the moon will whisper his secrets to the sun.

when you finish, he stays rooted in his seat for a few seconds, looking down nervously before shyly asking if you'd like to go out with him sometime.

a/n: i only turn 18 in like 2 weeks + im also muslim so i have no idea how tattoo parlours work LMAO plz don't be too mean. also what happened at the end there whops

[alwritey-aphrodite]

here’s my submission for the fall coffee house put together by @goodwithcheese and @jolapeno - im not gonna lie i have no idea where this came from but its the longest thing ive written in literal months so enjoy!

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: none :) except that i didn’t proofread lmao

You’ve always been a planner, always had goals for your future, dream boards and five year plans and a list of things to accomplish before you turned thirty. None of those ever included feeling so claustrophobic in what was supposed to be your dream job that you packed everything up and moved away and got a job at a coffee shop. Your life is far from terrible, and you’re quite happy with your choices, but you know if you were somehow able to tell past you where you would end up at twenty seven, she would have spit in your face.

The coffee shop you work at is wonderful, especially now that autumn is in full swing, because it’s almost absurdly cozy and warm. You’re able to wear whatever you want, craft playlists, design menu boards, and spend all day talking with regulars and newcomers alike. Even if it wasn’t where you imagined you would end up, you couldn’t be happier. Especially when an incredibly attractive single father starts to frequent during your shifts.

Isabel and Frankie Morales are nothing short of delightful. The pair of them are absurdly polite, which is especially adorable on the kindergartner, and Frankie is a generous tipper. Before, they had come in every Friday when he picked Isabel up from school for a cookie to split, but now that the weather has turned, they come in most days around two for hot chocolates. Most of the time they retreat to a booth, but on busy days, Frankie helps his daughter onto one of the high top stools along the counter before sitting down next to her, giving you the perfect opportunity to watch and listen to their conversations, still a little scared to actually speak to him beyond the small talk when you take their order.

Today, it’s raining, pouring really, and the shop is mostly empty, the students who normally hunker down for study marathons nowhere to be seen and even most of your regulars hadn’t bothered to show up, choosing to stay dry at home rather than brave the elements for their coffee fix. Your boredom grows with each hour that passes, but then the bell above the door rings to life, and Frankie and Isabel hurry inside, an umbrella trailing behind.

“It’s raining really hard,” Isabel says, trudging up to the counter and leaving her father behind to deal with shaking out the umbrella to keep it from dripping. Normally, she’s glued to her father’s side, but maybe she feels safer with the emptiness of the shop.

“Yeah it is,” you agree with the girl, trying not to laugh as she attempts to stretch herself tall enough to see you over the counter, and you compensate by leaning forward on your elbows, “I didn’t think you guys were going to show up.”

“We were already wet, what’s the worst that could happen,” Frankie says as he approaches the counter himself, umbrella sufficiently dry.

“And I really needed a treat,” Isabel adds, sounding so much like an adult trapped in a toddler’s body you can’t help the giggle that escapes you.

“Oh, yeah? What happened?”

“Don’t get her started,” Frankie mutters, and you laugh again, calming your giggles as Isabel clears her throat.

She launches into a story about recess and reading spots and lunch tables, and it’s hard to keep it all straight, but you nod along all the same, sympathizing with the exhaustion of being a little girl.

“That sounds rough,” you say when she finally finishes her story, and she nods sagely, causing you to fight against your giggles again, “how about I make you an extra special hot chocolate, hm? Would that help?”

“Yes please!” Isabel’s eyes light up, her little frown replaced with a gap-toothed grin.

“Same for you?” You ask Frankie, even though you know he’ll refuse.

“Just a black coffee for me, please.”

You ring them up for a small black coffee and a small regular hot chocolate, even though you give them both larges and you add flavoring and toppings to Isabel’s drink. Instead of slipping into one of the many open booths, they take a spot at the counter, and your heart expands to an impossibly large size. Handing over their drinks, you place a plate of cookies in front of them too. They’re all Halloween and fall themed, and you’d spent the better part of the afternoon decorating them with more care than necessary, simply because you had the time. Frankie starts to shake his head, but you’re one step ahead of him.

“Please, just take them. They’ll all go to waste otherwise, no one else is gonna come in.”

“You should take them, then,” he counters, not giving in.

“C’mon, I’ve eaten about ten of these bad boys today already, and I’ve got a box full of pastries set aside for when I leave. Take the damn cookies,” you’d normally never use that language with a customer, but it’s dead besides the two of them and you’re grinning so you don’t think he’ll take offense.

A smile blooms on his face even as he shakes his head at you, and he takes two cookies from the plate, one for himself and one for Isabel, who looks like the happiest girl in the world now that she has cookies to add to her ginormous hot chocolate.

It’s dark by the time they get ready to leave, and you feel a little awful, like you’ve kept them trapped with you when they could have a million things they needed to do all because you were a little bored.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” you say, a little sheepish as Frankie helps Isabel back into her raincoat, which is difficult because she refuses to part with the cookies you’d boxed up for them to take home.

“We should be thanking you, for the cookies and the company,” he counters, pausing in his struggle to smile at you. You smile back, but then Isabel is tugging on his sleeve and pulling him down to her level. She whispers at him, and they’re a little too far for you to hear, so you just busy yourself with wiping down the already spotless counter until Isabel clears her throat rather dramatically and you turn your attention back to the pair with a gentle smile.

“You know, these are a lot of cookies for only two people,” Frankie starts, and you’re getting ready to argue with him, thinking he’s trying to get out of taking them again when he continues, “maybe we should split them three ways? And we can make you hot chocolate for a change?”

It takes you a second to figure out what he means, but when he does, there’s no stopping the smile that overtakes you, and you’re so beyond happy you can’t even speak for a minute.

“I’ll be done here around six,” you reply once you can form words again, and Frankie’s smile is so gorgeous it threatens to eliminate that ability all over again, “if you’re not already sick of me.”

“I could never get sick of you,” he responds, and if you weren’t already a complete goner, you definitely are now.

[bluexphoria]

⤳ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃

pairing. modern!aegon targaryen x fem!reader

summary. an unlikely friendship born out of coincidences and choices neither of you would have ever made had it been any other time. but here you are and here he is. friends. even when you two should have been anything but. even when you two should have been nothing at all.

word count. 4.8k (this is long, sorry)

warnings. modern au. toxic friendship. addiction. drug use. alcohol use. cursing/swearing. bad language overall. unreliable narrator. aegon is bad but you are no better. extremely complicated friendship, the question "so what are we?" hangs over your head like a haunting ghost. reader has MAJOR mommy issues, yes i am self projecting. Aegon has his fair share of issues with his family but really, nothing new. implied relapsing and implied threats of suicide (not by aegon or reader). Unrequited love (debatable). Possible grammar mistakes. oh and very reader centric.

notes. i'm gonna be honest guys, this is my first fanfic (probably also the last) and i'm genuine not sure about anything in this lmao (im having a panic attack) but anywayss this one is for you @fishyfables hope u like it <333

It's past midnight and you're parked somewhere, somewhere you don't even know. There is a man beside you, looking somewhere and seeing something that you don't see. There isn't a smile on his face, because you are alone, because he doesn't have to pretend.

He reaches for your seat belt, unbuckles it with experienced hands; his pretty, quick, and skilled fingers brush against your body. And he has lovely eyes, like a pair of amethyst carved into his skull and he looks at you in the way he shouldn't look at you.

Yet he always looks at you like this. Dazy, glossy, and desperate. You reach over and nod at him.

There is a man in your car, because it is past midnight and you are his friend, possibly his only real friend, the only one he can trust. Or so you like to think. Maybe it's because you are the only one who is sober enough to pick him up while his other friends are getting worse than him.

There is a man in your car, and then there is a man on top of you — leaning over your body, he caresses your cheeks and whispers how you should leave him (you can't leave him, he holds you too tight), how you can find better friends (he never allows you to get close to any other people enough to make friends) and how pretty you are, too pretty for him, too good (you are not. He doesn't know that you are not, because he doesn't want to know you. He likes the way you are in his imagination — untouchable, perfect, and flawless).

There is a man in your car, and you think he might just kiss you this time. He doesn't. He never does. Instead, he breaks down into tears, his hands slips from your cheeks to your shoulders and he buries himself to your chest, fucking up your shirt with tears and snot and whatever else he had his lips on that night. He apologizes, he always does, but you know better than those are not meant for you.

There is a man in your car, you drive him to his house, get him out of his dirty clothes and help him into a bath. You tuck him into his bed, and he begs you to stay with him.

You don't.

(Note that: he never means it.)

You met Aegon during the end of your first year at college.

It was a party that was thrown by your friend's friend's friend, or whatever. You hadn't had many plans for the night. Dress up and feel pretty, dance with your friends if you feel like it, have a drink or two (as always, you were the designated driver), and maybe hook up with someone. You deserved it, managing to pass most of your classes, damn right you deserved it.

And most of the night went according to your plans. Except: him.

He was never a part of the plan. No sane person would ever include him in their plans.

He was standing over there, talking with a few boys, laughing the loudest. He looked…messy. You would learn that it was not an occasional thing but rather a consistency. He always looked out-of-place, wrongly put together.

And Aegon, with his messy silver hair and purple eyes adorned with dark circles under them, you knew him, or at least heard about him enough — who hadn't?

The son of the infamous Viserys Targaryen — a big guy with bigger digits and even a bigger name. Coming from old money, managing to adapt to the modern world and its technology and doubling or even tripling their wealth by getting into the business world. Companies, markets, whatever one could think of. Their name was branded on the boards, to places, hotels and channels. TargCo.

Oh yeah, you knew about him.

He was the biggest stain splat on the brand, golden name "Targaryen". Even if the family had their notorious members in the past, Aegon outdid them in his short span of twenty years of life. Scandals after scandals, his face on the news and papers.

His name was almost like a legend; one that a mother would tell her child as a bedtime story, a scary story, to make sure they would stay away from this or that of they would end up like him.

He wasn't around the campus much, maybe a few times you recalled your friends talking about him, about seeing him. He didn't need to attend to pass the classes. He just needed to make sure to call the right person, or make the right person to someone. Whatever he was doing, it worked.

That piece of shit.

You had to admit that at least once a week (especially during the finals week), you cursed his name so much that if god was real, Aegon would have been miserable by now, if not dead.

But he seemed happy. That night, he seemed happy. And he was laughing, loudly, unashamedly that you didn't doubt it. (You would learn that Aegon had never been genuinely happy, not once in his life, but he always seemed like it.)

And most of all, he looked human. That's what irritated you that night.

He looked so approachable, so like any other guy, so attainable, so easy to reach.

So you did. You walked up to him — a faint smile, little laughs, touches on the shoulder, having a few shots together, whispers in the ear, legs brushing each other and that was it. The next thing you knew, he had his hand on your waist, leading you to one of the unoccupied rooms, stumbling with his steps, complimenting you or your dress or your make up — you didn't remember much, honestly. You didn't really care enough to listen, knowing that most of them were memorized and overused words that each girl who gave him just the right amount of attention heard.

It was never supposed to be a friendship. It really wasn't. You just had to have what you heard so much about from girls who got into his bed and then fuck off and regret it in the morning and forget about it completely in a month.

And you were close to getting what you wanted — everything seemed as it was supposed to be. A drunk boy and a drunk girl (no longer the designated driver), in a room during a frat party, both wanting the same thing.

His hands under your dress, his mouth on yours. You wanted to bite his lip, dig your teeth into the pink flesh and draw blood. You never knew why. You just didn't like him enough to hurt him but also mark him but mostly hurt him and maybe more so to make him remember you in the morning when he looks at the mirror.

You held back. (You usually do.)

His touch was greedy, that you remember impeccably. He was taking more than he was giving.

And then his phone rang. Once, twice, three times and until he couldn't ignore anymore. Until he had to groan and pull away from the kiss, muttering an excuse under his breath ("give me a second") and turning his back to you.

You remember the frustration you felt, wondering if there was something wrong with him or maybe something wrong with you because you did wait, you sat on the bed, looking at the chaotic room and waiting for him to finish his phone call in the hallway and return to you. You were drunk and determined and horny, and so you would finish what you started.

You didn't.

He returned, but his hands were shaking, his steps more miscalculated as his chest was heaving with loud gasps. His eyes were red,l and unfocused. And now looking back at it, you are sure that for a moment he must have completely forgotten about you and your presence in the room.

And if you hadn't gone to his assistance when he suddenly began puking out everything he drank, perhaps he wouldn't even remember you. That would be a better outcome; he would just vomit and get up and maybe go into the shower and you would sneak out like you had never been there, like you were merely a ghost.

But you helped him. You held him, wiped his mouth when he was done, carried him to the bathroom to clean his face and offered to give him a ride home.

Unfortunately, he agreed.

Though, you didn't drive. You were in no right mind to hold a wheel. You called a cab and for some reason, you went with him. You two sat at the backseat, his head laid on your lap, your fingers gently playing with his hair and he was telling you about the things you should have never heard.

About his mum — the unexpected caller. About his dad, which came out of nowhere. About his childhood, and even about his brother for some reason. And he had a half-sister. His family was huge, which was known by everyone who knew him or knew the name Targaryen.

But Aegon had no family. He never did. That was the secret.

And he told you more, more than you wanted to hear, less than he actually wanted to tell someone.

And you held him. You didn't let go, through the whole ride to his place because of course he had his own place during college years. And you didn't let go when you helped him through the steps, and then into his shower, then to his bed. And he pulled you in. He had your hands and you didn't let go.

Or, he didn't let go. It was hard to tell.

There are stories in you that you wish to take it to the grave; or even better, forget it all. Most of them are not even yours.

Like the one time when your mother confessed that she had never wanted this, neither wanted you. How she was once your age, how she wanted to be more, to have more, to live more — and how she almost made it out. But then she had you. And she cried. She was drunk, you weren't. She held you; hands like clamps, dug around your flesh, almost bruising but bruising like lovemaking. You tucked her tight but never left the room.

Like the time when you heard your friend talking to her girlfriend on the phone, begging, pleading to take her back. ("I didn't mean to, honey. I promise — I promise! I was good! I was doing good! Please come back, I'll do better. I'll get clean again — swear, I swear, I will, please! No you can't! Fuck you! Fuck you for leaving me! You are no fucking different than the rest! Fuck you! You know what, I'm gonna fucking do it! You'll regret it, you'll miss me but I won't be there, you ungrateful—") Then a big crashing sound, you recognized it immediately; something thrown at the wall. Her phone, mostly. And then herself. You changed your mind from knocking, you forgot what you were there for in the first place.

And there are times when… When Aegon.

Just Aegon. On the passenger seat, or on a couch, sometimes in his bed, sometimes in your bed. He is mostly drunk or sometimes high, occasionally both.

He holds you, and you hold him. His lips on your skin, and your hands under his shirt. He whispers.

You deserve better.

I love you.

You are my best friend.

You are my only friend.

You deserve better.

You never reply. There is no better. Because it is never about him, the problem is never him. You will never find yourself where you should be because you don't know where that is.

But he is familiar.

He stinks of alcohol, he cries a lot, he admits things he could never say to someone else while holding onto you, and he never remembers anything the next day. (You do. Oh you do.) He touches you and kisses you and it doesn't mean anything. There is no love in his affection; it's not about you, it's about him. He needs this. He needs someone; someone to listen to him, someone to carry him home, someone to understand him, someone to not judge him, someone to be there.

You can't be you but you can be someone. That is familiar too.

And he doesn't love you.

Not even when he pulls you to himself as if he wants to bury himself in you and hide there forever, not even when he begs you to fix him, not even when he takes you with him to wherever he goes because you have to be there to pick up the pieces, not even when he tells you how much he loves you, and how glad he is to have you in his life. And that is the most familiar; that is what you know the best.

He doesn't love you.

And your mother didn't love you.

And sometimes there is a fear that maybe you don't either.

(Note that: he is not what you are searching for.)

(Note that: he is everything you will ever search for.)

"Y'know, there is still time for us to make a U-turn…"

He laughs, shaking his head as he changes the song. First mistake was to let him pick the music.

No, the first mistake was to ever agreeing to this.

"Stop complaining. They are not exactly the best parents out there, but they are…hospitable people," Aegon grins.

You sigh, fingers tapping on the wheel as you try to keep your focus on the road. You are his unofficial driver, yes, ever since he managed to crush the last car he had while drunk driving and his father refused to buy him a new one to teach him a lesson.

Maybe that's why he keeps you around, who knows.

"I don't know, Aeg," you begin, your eyes darting between the road and him. He is leaning his shoulder against the window, whistling a melody that doesn't rhyme with the song. "After spending two years listening to you bitch about your family, I'm not sure if I can pretend to like them to their faces."

"'Course you can!" He amuses, flashing that full tooth grin at you as always. "You are the best liar I know."

"Oh fuck off," you roll your eyes. You don't exactly understand what he tries to say, or where he is coming from, but you are sure it is probably about any time you lied to your professors or your other friends.

You smirk faintly, turning to him for a moment. "You look good today, by the way."

Now, he is the one rolling his eyes. He slaps your shoulder, huffing like a child.

It always satisfies you to wipe that stupid grin off of his face. It is a victory.

One that maybe a friend shouldn't enjoy.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep that up, pretty, and I'm sure you'll get along with my family no time," he mutters, scoffing before changing the song again. He really can't commit to anything, always getting bored too quickly and always gives up half the way.

The rest of the ride goes quickly. Aegon sings along with the annoying songs he always picks, only the ones he knows you hate but you're too deep in your head to be as irritated as usual.

You don't know why he invited you to meet his family. Really. You don't even know why he accepted to see them and didn't make an excuse to skip a get-together like he usually does.

Maybe his father has gotten worse. But from what you know, Viserys has never, ever, been good. And Aegon pretends good enough for you to sometimes think that he wouldn't show up to his father's funeral when the day comes.

Maybe it's about his mother, and whatever complicated relationship they have going on. Because he never has the guts to loudly reject her, for some reason, despite always complaining about Alicent to you.

Or maybe he missed his family…

…

Yeah no, not that. For sure.

Whatever it was, he asked you to drive him. And when you said that he could just take a flight or a bus, he rolled his eyes.

"It would be a waste of money to buy two seats when you already have a car."

First of all, he was rich, so fuck him for complaining about money. And second of all, he didn't even ask you if you wanted to come. You had to. He decided this was the time you would finally meet the Targaryens.

And well, you don't have anything better to do that week, so…

You are driving and he is in the passenger seat, which is basically now his seat. The drive had been hours long and it really isn't that enjoyable to spend hours stuck in a limited space with your best friend where you can't take a moment to get out and clear your head to recharge because while you love him, absolutely and completely, he is too much sometimes.

When you finally see the trees that adorn the huge garden of the estate — of course they own a family estate and possibly more than one — you let out a relieved breath.

"Here it is! Chateaux de Targaryen!" Aegon exclaims beside you and you can't help but laugh. Just a little. "C'mon! You're going to hate it here! Let's go."

You've always imagined Alicent Targaryen as a cold woman — no flinch, no smile, hardened eyes and rough hands. You don't know why. (You do. It's Aegon. It's always Aegon.)

But she is…nothing like that. She is gentle, in a way that throws you off. Gentleness seems so misplaced, so unfit on her. She is a woman made to rage, but she looks so faint, like a lingering ghost that is never ready to finally let go.

It's hard to imagine her as cruel as her son depicts. But then again, you are not her son. She is not your mother. There must be a difference.

She is a hospitable though, as Aegon promised. She makes good small talk but not too friendly. She makes sure to act curious about your life and she reacts to everything you tell her.

Viserys is not that bad either. He is… he is barely there. You haven't gotten a chance to talk to him, only saw him from afar while his wife helped him to walk in the gardens. He looks dead, with a smile and sad eyes.

Unlike Alicent, he seems eager to let go.

It's Aegon's brother that lights the bub above your head. You understand the hesitation why Aegon never wants to come home.

Aemond is perfect. There is no other word to describe him. He is handsome, respectful, well-mannered, confident, talks just enough, listens just enough, laughs just enough. Even his flaws, like the eye patch and the mocking smirk or the belittling look he throws at Aegon from time to time seems to add to his charm.

The difference is, Aemond is loved. By the house workers, by Helaena's kids, by the guests and distant family members and most importantly, by Alicent. She is proud of him and it is too easy to tell.

And you can see the green envy filling your best friend's eyes whenever Alicent pats Aemond's shoulder, praises him on his studies or whatever he has done because he does everything perfectly, gentle forehead kisses Alicent gives him whenever she stands up from the table… None of that you have seen received by Aegon.

And that is when you understand— truly understand Aegon.

And your hand finds his under the table, giving him a squeeze and he returns it. Your eyes meet and you nod at him.

I'm here.

I'm here.

That's why you are there. That's why he had taken you with him. That's why he takes you everywhere.

You don't talk much, you don't smile a lot but you have hands and that's enough for Aegon. That's all he needs. Limbs to wrap around him, skin to warm his flesh, a warm breath to feel against his to remind him that you are there — and he's there too.

He exists, he is there, he is seen, he exists.

(Note that: sometimes you are just hands.)

He sneaks into your room (the guest room) when everyone has gone to bed. You are awake, you are waiting for him.

You greet him with an eye roll and he ignores it. He takes you out of the room, both of you walking on tiptoes as he takes you somewhere only he knows — and now you too. He makes sure to stop by the kitchen to 'borrow' a bottle of wine, of course.

The house estate is surrounded by woods that look like shadows tangled after midnight. You complain about the chilly weather and he doesn't give you his jacket ("And why didn't you bring yours?") but he wraps his arm around you, pulling you to his side as you walk.

There is a big rock deep in the woods, enough for four people to sit on and there is a small opening encircling it.

"I used to sneak out to here. I found it when I was like — nine, ten, or something, maybe even twelve," he says as he holds your hand and pulls you to his side to sit down.

You hum. "How did you find it?"

He pauses, one second, two, three and then shrugs. "I ran away. Tried to."

Nine or ten, maybe twelve and he had already tried to run away. It's no big surprise that he turned out this way.

You don't say anything, you know he doesn't need you to even though he might have preferred if you did.

And so, he continues.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I just, I think I had a fight with mum and ended up slamming the door which made her furious. I remember screaming my first swear word to her and I immediately regretted it. Then I just…left. I don't know. Maybe I thought that if they couldn't find me for a day or two, they would be so worried that they would forget they were even mad in the first place. It seemed smart."

"It wasn't."

"I was seven. I didn't need to be smart."

You don't comment on the slip up.

Aegon sighs and reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers. His grip is a little too tight, so you hold him tighter.

"I spent a night and a half, waiting for them to find me. I was sitting on this rock, waiting and waiting. They didn't. And I was hungry, and thirsty so I went back." Another pause, a squeeze. "They were even more furious than I had left them. That was the first time my mother had ever raised her hand to me. It wasn't the last."

You lean your head against him, giving him a nod to make sure he knows that you're listening. Your full attention is on him.

"They asked me where I had been, I didn't tell them. Just that I got lost. It was supposed to be a one time thing. But I kept coming back here whenever I felt like I wanted to escape. Each time, I returned."

There is a moment of silence, and neither of you don't know how to fill it. There's no stars in the sky, and there's no one in the woods but somehow, being here makes you lighter. Like this was a place cut out from the rest of the world, a planet on its own, where humanity was no longer any of your business, where you didn't have to worry about tomorrow.

"What are you escaping from tonight?" You finally ask.

He turns to you, and there's a curl of his lips. It's not a grin, not a smirk. Just a smile.

"Nothing," he says, and you think he might just be honest this time. "I just wanted to show you."

You have a doubt that it was that, just that.

Yes, maybe he wanted to just show you. Maybe he wanted someone to finally know where to find him the next time he escapes.

Maybe, for once, Aegon wanted to be found.

Or maybe, it was all he ever wanted.

Aegon doesn't know love very well, but he knows you.

More than you think he does, he's sure. And you know him, just less than you think you do.

He knows that you didn't have to take care of him that night, the night you met at the party. But you did. And he knew when he woke up in the morning finding you beside him, both of you fully clothed and one arm around his body, he just knew.

This might be just what he has been searching for.

And everyone thinks Aegon is a lazy bastard but he isn't, not when he wants something.

If he wants something, there's no god or fate that would stop him from getting it.

He had sought you out on the campus the next day, and the rest of them. He has never been the one to show up, but he wanted to see you and you were there. Though, it didn't stick. The moment he had convinced you to hang out after your classes, go to parties with him or just stay in his place, he stopped showing up on the campus regularly.

The night at the party, he knew you wanted to sleep with him, and believe me, god, he wanted the same. But it never happened, it just didn't.

Maybe seeing him in tears or wiping the vomit off his mouth had just ruined the mood for you or ruined the magic, but you never tried to cross that line again and for some reason, he didn't either. It just didn't feel the same again.

But he likes talking and you are a good listener. You make good coffee, even though he never liked it before he tasted yours and you both don't like sleeping that much. Countless nights spent with him and you, side by side, resting on his bed or just sitting outside or somewhere, talking and laughing and doing…human things. Bonding, chatting, getting to know each other, being honest, with no expectations, no promises — only "So this is me. Do you take it?" And the silence followed after, and silence had never been a rejection.

It is almost pathetic how unfamiliar he was with the concept until he met you.

If he is being honest, he still finds you attractive. Of course you are. He thinks you are charming; and whatever he needs, you find a way to give it to him. He doubts himself sometimes, wondering if he had ever returned the favor. But you are still there, and you probably will be there and does the rest matter?

He is sure that this is love, at least in one form or some.

You are, for him.

But he knows you. He knows that whatever you feel for him is not what he wants you to feel. And he knows that what you see when you look at him will never be what he wants to show you. And he knows that in your eyes, he will always be the teary eyed, stumbling, wreck of a boy you met.

He wants your touch, because maybe if you feel his skin, feel the warmth, it might just melt the ice around your sheltered heart. And if he gives you everything you don't get from anyone else, maybe you will let him in. He speaks in flesh, in bones and lips and fingers and nails — and you speak in a language he didn't know it existed.

You don't speak at all.

You are his best friend, he is not yours. He doubts you have anyone else either. You are not made for people, you are not made to be known.

You see, but are never seen; you hear, but are never heard.

But you love him, you might be the only one who does. And he doesn't care if it's not the way he needs to be loved. It's what he gets, it's fine. It's better than nothing.

Sure, it could have been more, had you let him in — he could have shown you how greatly, abundantly, exceedingly one can be loved that it would feel like drowning (choking). And you could have shown him what he taught you, maybe.

But you two don't know how to speak to each other; you only know how to exist, and you manage to do it together. Maybe that's enough.

He is sure you wouldn't know how even if he had asked.

Surely, it's more than he deserves. So he doesn't ask for more.

(Note that: both of you think you know the other better)

(Note that: neither of you know the other.)

[holy-reference-in-a-username]

Hi, random comment but Holy shit your half-transformed Monster Tom with the mouth in his chest is so fucking cool! Also, monsterfucker Tord is so real! Can only imagine Tord's reaction when he saw Tom like half-transformed for the first time.

THANK YOU! im like. super happy with how i draw tom, monster form ABSOLUTELY included. i put like. way too much thought into it lmao but ive always been a fan of unique creature designs so what else is new.

RRRAAH RAMBLINGS UNDER THE CUT

so ive been obsessed with the concept since i figured out what exactly happened during PowerEdd, ~2015. tom was kind of already my favorite but i only got more obsessed now that i could draw him with claws and fangs now.

(lmao old art^ lets all point and laugh)

when i finally got back into eddsworld this most recent time and started thinking about how i'd draw the guys i already knew i wanted tom to be trans, so when i started sketching i drew him with top surgery scars... which kind of looked like teeth... and the canon monster design already has a mouth on its chest/head... it just worked!!

...

ok tangent time- i dont like the canon design very much (the combined head/torso is Very limiting for poses. F!!!) but i also have never really liked the popular fanon of just making monster tom a wolf with horns and a single eye. it always feels so reductive!! do you KNOW how many monsters there are out there who are just "big dog/cat plus one fantastical feature"???? MANY!! so i was pretty determined to find a design i liked (one that was both flexible and fairly unique) before putting it in anything.

...and the partial transformation cliche of just putting accessories on a character is SUPER boring to me. so i wanted something that would be an actual halfway point to a fucked up freaky creature that is only barely humanoid.

ok back on track it took me like fuckin forever to finally get the final ~50% design together. i tried mimicking the merged torsohead of the canon monster and it just left me disappointed. :/

the single blank eye instead of the rest of the face was a god damn GENIUS move i am so proud of it im pretty sure the first time i drew the design was the actual draft sketch for the comic. because fuck making reference sheets!! the design's in your mind, right???

oh! as for the second half of your ask, the first time Tord saw Tom half transformed was right here^^!!

then a couple weeks after that i managed to find a 100% design i liked that still looked like a reasonable end point. at which point i actually made a little ref sheet! BEFORE i used the design in a comic!! it hasnt gotten much use but i still like it :)

i took a much more wyrm-like horizontal approach as opposed to the vertical design of the original, but the arms (connected to top of spine, directly behind head) and legs (close to the bottom, optional) allow it to still match the original's body plan, especially from the front view. then extra legs, big spiky scales, even larger mouth... because who wants just a dog with horns am i right!!

ahaha so basically im incredibly proud of how the design turned out so thank u for liking it :))

[seeminglydark]

tips for a broke punk trying to make diy patches like your “Useless Patch” patch!

So the current Useless patch I have at cons is hand screenprinted by me, but screenprinting does have an initial cost and i think not the best option for a broke punk who is looking to just make a couple of patches. There are so many ways to make patches, but heres what I did when i first started. Get some good 'ol wax paper you can get at the grocery store. and some cheapo acrylic paint, any kind will do, those little bottles you can get anywhere, and one of those spongy brushes. if you are too broke for spongy brush, (they are cheaper at the hardware store than the craft store often time btw) you can use a regular dish sponge or even a folded napkin, you just wanna be able to dab the paint.

get a piece of paper and draw your design on it, you wanna be careful with letters that have enclose spaces like O's and R's, i actually suggest if youre using this method the easiest 'font' to use is the basic punk stencil, which is actually literally just a grade school stencil. you dont need to buy a set, you can look at a reference and draw it or print it out if you have access to a printer and paper (library might help if you dont!) these are the letter type im talking about. Sorry for all these shitty google images lmao. ANYWAY.

grab a razor or an xacto knife and cut the letters out of your wax paper, wax side down, be careful obviously, helps to put a flat piece of cardboard underneath and you can tape it down to keep it in place if you want. once you have your design all cut out you can place it on your piece of fabric. with the wax side down on the piece you plan to paint, run the iron over it. itll stick! neat! now you can grab your paint and use some method (i really like the dab with a sponge brush, dish sponge or papertowel method myself) and paint in your stenciled letters. dont let it dry between coats, layer it up till its a nice solid white or whatever color youre using, let it get slightly tacky but not dry and peel your wax paper off. the design should now be painted on your fabric! hurray! let it dry and the next day, press your iron over it to heat set it and voila! diy cheapo patch. its not going to be perfect, there will be bleeding in your edges, if that bothers you, you can fix it with black (or whatever color your fabric is) paint. either way doesnt matter, punk can be messy. I've made lots of patches this way, heres a pic of the recent ones, the Punks Respect Pronoun patch is the one ive done most with this method, it has the stencil letters i was talking about so it stays in one piece without me having to piece it together. for the record i am totally fine with people making Useless Patch, and if someone does, I'd love to see it! And obligatory shop shill, i will have my own versions of both these patches in my store soon when I get some time! I'm sorry I dont have pics for the process, next time I do it, ill take some and post them <3

Thanks for the Q!

[cherrytinz]

Hello, I really like your character and I’m curious do you have any story on your oc if so, I would love to hear it (:

Hello darling! First of all, thank you so much! It really makes me happy that people like my ocs! It really means a lot. Not to mention that I was generally surprised to see that so many liked Lucy's design! thanks yall! I was so happy to read those comments 🖤

And well, yeah! I want to write a fanfic with her so I have a few things planned. Lucy is an old oc frommmm 2019, but I decided to bring her back to life with a redising and all 🦇

Soooooo Lucy Fernby is a British girl who was born in 1975. Her parents are quite famous musical artists (especially her father) so she always had an approach to music. Actually, Lucy has absolute pitch and ease with some instruments, however she prefers to play the bass and write songs to cope with certain emotions that she doesn't know how to share. If I had to assign her a voice, I would say that she speaks like Gwen of Total Drama but with a British accent (although certainly Serena's voice from downtown is still an option lmao) , and when she sings it would sound like Mary Elizabeth McGlynn.

Even so, her parents (Emily, a goth singer and Luke, a rock band guitarist) got divorced when she was still a child. Her father returns to the USA but still tries to be as present in her life as possible. Despite this, due to a situation that Lucy does not want to talk about, they distance themselves when she is 14. I CLARIFY because I know it is very ambiguous, no, her father did not hurt her or anything, only Lucy keeps everything to herself.

Lucy had a lot of problems that affected her way of relating to others, both with people of her age and with her own parents. Due to a series of bad decisions she misses the school year and that's when her mother decides that it is best to send her to live with her father so that she can get away from "the toxic environment she is in."

(conclusion that Emily draws after brief questions that Lucy did not develop when she answering)

This is how Lucy ends up going to live with her father at the Addison Apartments because well, a rock star who lives in a town that no one knows = peace of mind and time which he can dedicate to his daughter and himself!

oh, another fun fact of her! A year before moving to the Addison Apartments, she had a platonic friend/crush named Meri with whom she lost connection. I mention this because Lucy has a tendency to isolate herself when something happens and simply end a relationship instead of fighting for it, which she did at the time with Sally and the rest of the gang, but she has learned to be more open about how she feels.

thanks for asking! just in case, if anyone is interested feel free to ask me anything abt my ocs or even if you want to know my headcanons of Sally Face (in this case bc im in others fandoms like BG3 and Gorillaz) I'm more than happy to share them 💖💖💖

[bobus]

ok ive been busy with schoolwork but heres a few more doodles lmao

here's mac, and of COURSE he had to be a ranwing/nightwing hybrid; aka the most self absorbed motherfucker in the world. im not settled on his design because he looks lowkey bald rn, but the general idea i had was that hes basically just some asshole with an animus touched object (earrings and lantern) that give him magic similar enough to his lmk shadow powers. he definently tries his best to make his scales stay dark and edgy all the time even when the emotive tendencies of rainwing scales make him randomly explode into bright colours when someone trips over and eats shit in front of him. he was still killed by wukong and revived by lbd because that gives me an actual motive and potential plot for his character and development beyond being a piece of shit (lovingly). and yes i do enjoy drawing the scar eye that's why i only drew his head from that side :]

and because they're my favourite character of course i had to do mayor, so heres a go at a chief design lmao. i'm still churning possible mayor designs in my brain but ill prolly have it done soon so heres a shitty doodle of an possible one for now, but i do have kind of a story planned out ? they were a general of the ice kingdoms army during a war and were incredible at it for a few decades, though eventually they met their match from a rivalling parties leader who outsmarted them and ambushed their troop mid flight when returning from a scuffle elsewhere. most of the chiefs men died from falling to the ground after having their wing membranes slashed or being skewered by the dragons that dove down into them. chief themself was fatally wounded but managed to crash down somewhere on the outskirts of the ice kingdom where they were found by lbd as they died. cool forehead star scar yippee !! also somewhat happy with how the armour turned out so yay.

[cressthebest]

Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 47

chapter 72:

1. “The day of Marlene's memorial is the first time Dorcas decides she's going to kill herself.” oh shit, oh fuck wait

2. bro dorcas is unwell. like holy shit. i forget that the war started because of dorcas’ love for marlene. like. this is just as much of a dorlene fic too

3. dear god i wanna help dorcas so badly

4. call it instinct, but i knew dorcas’ hair would be a crucial part of her healing journey 💃🏼💃🏼

5. i love well rounded female characters but at what cost. dorcas is well rounded but at what cost? she’s suffering and it hurts to read

6. god damn. finding out that dorcas’ mom was in charge of a quarterly quell is fucking insane. considering that dorcas all but ran the resistance

7. “”You said it first, didn't you? There are no good people in war. I lived by those words, did you know that? All that you were wrong about, but that…" She gives a brittle laugh. "You were right about that."”

foaming at the mouth oh my god. i wanna chomp glass

8. DORCAS NO! (she started drinking fyi)

9. dear god dorcas, you aren’t the only one who knew the “real” marlene. people other than you loved her.

10. dorcas finally admitting that if she could choose someone other than dorcas it would be lily hurts. especially since lily has mary.

11. “Marlene was the love of her life, and that's it. Simple as that. She'll never love another.” OWWWWW

12. “She will make sure Lily never knows that Dorcas looks at her now and thinks before this life, it could have been us; maybe in some other life, it is. And that's more than enough.”

DNDNSMMSJSKEJNS AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

13. brb i’m sobbing

okay i’m back. dorcas just found out marlene was gonna propose and now i’m a sniveling mess

14. so much thanks to bizzarestars making the effort to learn about the way war vets healed and dealt with ptsd

chapter 73:

1. sirius having an emotional support dog >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

2. also imma make predictions now: this is the chapter where sirius goes home. it’s time

3. YES YES YES YES THEYRE GOING HOME FUCK YEAH

4. “A homely little home with a porch-swing under the stars. Sirius is homesick for that, too.”

this is my dream too. like it’s been my dream for so long. i can’t even fathom how sirius isn’t bawling like a baby over this. IM bawling like a baby over THEIR porch swing

5. regulus saw sirius and was willing to risk it all just to hug him omg

6. “Barty was the sort of person who needed no outside guidance into being a bit insane.” LMAOOOOOO

7. they’re running a business together and they’re gonna do it forever and now i want to gnaw on wood and glass and plastic and anything i can get my hands on

8. lmao not sirius sitting like a spoiled puppy dog as james and regulus argue over him for the wedding

9. “"Oh, please," James scoffs, rolling his eyes. "One, I'm not stealing your brother away from you, and you know it. Two, who the fuck else would be my best man, hm? Who? Go on."

"Oh, you want to go there?!" Regulus shouts. "What about me? Yeah, didn't think about that, did you? My best friend is dead. Oh, and so is Barty. Who do I have, James? Hm?"”

FUCKING CACKLING

10. awwwww sirius’ compromise is so sweet omg. i’d literally cry if i was james and regulus

11. ugh gay people are so confusing. like you’re allowed to be freinds with the same people and freinds with any gender. so like, it makes wedding planning so hard. who goes on who’s side? what if i said that when i found out about gay people, my biggest hold up wasn’t religion or anything like that, but instead wedding side logistics

12. canonical genderqueer tonks!!!!!!!!!

13. regulus went to aberforth to cause a scene, and damn if he didn’t succeed

14. damn they’re both stubborn. and both got their way jfc

15. full circle. dorcas is designing their wedding clothes. i’m losing my mind, actually

16. the bookshelf. the fucking bookshelf from the first arena. i’m losing my mind oh my god

17. CACKLING OMG. REGULUS WAS WORRIED THAT JAMES WOULD BE SCARED OF THE DAGGERS, BUT INSTEAD HE GOT SO FUCKING TURNED ON OMG

18. STILL FUCKING CACKLING OMG

19. i didn’t know i needed insecure james, but oh i did

20. i get to read the crimson rivers jegulus wedding and oh my fucking god i’m losing it. i am so unbelievably happy

21. “For him, it's easiest to show love when it's a tragedy.”

dksjdjjsjdjsmdjske holy shit

22. “You're hesitating, love."”

AHDHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

23. “You might wish to know a lot of things about their wedding, and their love, but frankly, it's no one's business but theirs.” so feral over this. that’s literally one of the biggest themes of the story omg i love this

24. hi, anyways, i am so unwell

25. the authors notes about the wedding are golden

[coelacurse]

Hi I don’t know who u r but ur apparently friends w a few of my friends so im gripping you shaking you and i want to know everything about your AU also sorry if im sounding unhinged im sending this ask at 4am bc im not scared to send asks at this time

WOA, I mean to be fair its 3 AM for me and I’ve been up reading the staple “silly things” ao3 fic LMAO.

But also yeah I’m assuming you mean Blood and Ichor! Which in that case I won’t say everything since I’d want to reveal more of that plot on here through art. HOWEVER! Allow me to explain!

To start:

Soul - Stratos

Mind - Kairos

Heart - Ichor

This AU as a synopsis deals with the opposition that, instead of heart and mind fighting. It’s Mind and Soul, continuously arguing over who could run the Whole better. Meanwhile Heart being more withdrawn and avoidant of arguments and fights.

I wanted this to deal with a couple of things such as characters that are these big and stunning ethereal creatures that live/ have these human -esk shells/ skins they live within. The idea that they just want to either understand, or be human, and the maddening aspect when they have to accept they can’t.

Thus it being called Blood and Ichor as I like the juxtaposition of Blood being what flows through human bodies and Ichor being depicted as what flows through the gods veins. This being part of the argument and discourse between Stratos and Kairos. Both aside from being inherently arrogant and prideful jerks, hate the idea they aren’t truly human, they can never fully relate to the Whole and so they take it out on one another.

What about Ichor though? Well Ichor they don’t particularly like. Not for things Ichor has done mind you, but for the fact that Ichor doesn’t seem to have the same issues if not tries to have them embrace their inhumanity. Ichor also being a slight nod to Icarus and his wax wings since, *symbolism we love it*. Ichor is actually quite a bit softer spoken then the other two, understanding that if he tries to argue it can spell disaster for him. (So he is at fault partially due to avoidance of action)

Oh, I will say some little notes I do find funny even if I won’t explain all of the things I’ve planned for them :00

-Stratos is short, like 5’5 and I can and will make them shorter. He HATES that Kairos is taller than them and will never tell this to Kairos (Kairos is 6’2 btw)

- Stratos cares, ALOT, for their appearance, it helps them feel secure in who they are if they like how they look. Kairos seeing this, reflected it a bit in his own appearance if you look at them side by side.

Meanwhile Ichor (whenever I finish theirs lol) I tried to show Kairos and Stratos’ designs as still being aligned and cohesive between the three. Ichor’s outfit is while a bit more regal akin to the others, but is softer to reflect that separation!

(This kind of moment actually happening between the three of them is rare so take this as a treat LMAO)

Anywho, I’m always happy to answer more questions about them, I absolutely a d o r e these three and they will not leave my mind-

[on-leatheredwings]

i've found your account only a few days ago but ever since then I've been STUCK here rereading your fanfics, especially ones with damian. i wasn't even a dc fan (heard about some stuf, watched some films and cartoons, but that's it) but now im reading comics since im Obsessed and need more batboys in my life (rip my productivity😔)

Anyway, after Sleepover i'm curious what will Bruce (and maybe even Thalia) think of batboys strange behaviour towards reader. He's smart, so he definitely notices it early on, but how he'll react....

I can see him being weirded out (like he was by Jason's anger issues, before his death), but he also can be an enabler, since Robin (literaly any of them) had a hard life, so if those relationships can help him why not pretend that everything is normal? you'll be safer in a Wayne's Manor anyway

All in all, thanks for a new hyperfixation 💞💞

P.s. About games:

1. Boyfriend to death 1&2 - since you're into yanderes you might want to check this game out. I prefer the second game, but the first is also fun. But beware the trigger warnings!!

2. Long live the Queen - more of a raising sim than dating sim but you still can romance some guys and girls.

,3. Hatoful Boyfriend - mostly a comedy, but there is a yandere.

4. The Royal Trap - it's been a long time since i played it, but it used to be one of my favorites so i'll just mention it.

5. Higurashi - once again not really a romance sim, but its an interesting horror mixed with a slice of life

;A; AWWWW THANK YOU IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE MY STUFF.... THAT MAKES ONE OF US GIJSDOFAFGHFOJDSD

and yes yes get into DC!!! (girl who hasnt even read a full run since like. injustice)

damn now you got me thinking and excited. incoming spiel

i agree entirely about bruce just knowing how Bad things can get, so to make things simpler, he's like "yes, your darling(s) can stay in the manor, boys. 🙄"

mmm yes..... when it comes to bruce noticing the batboys are yandere, i think it's always sinfully delightful to just have him be reluctantly okay with it. 😈 it's also easier narratively ngl but i also like the idea that the batfam is all just corrupted.

bruce's thoughts are that they (his sons) fight for vengeance and justice but this is where they could use some leeway.... we all need our vice... they fight so hard for gotham, they deserve a little treat (getting rid of your human rights)... it's very "Dad who wants his sons to have happiness even if its not healthy" of him. in fics where bruce is a yandere, well, he's the exact same way so he can't judge. although if that's the case, i like the idea of bruce just being like "yes what we do isn't right. let's not talk about it. just don't kill <3"

still wondering what i like more. a yan!bruce who's self aware what he's doing is wrong but he just refuses to think about it. or a yan!bruce that justifies it all because of his paranoia, Tower of Babel style (if you don't know, that's when it's revealed batman has plans to subdue/kill the justice league just in case they go rogue.)

for the batboys depends on their personality... for damian, he's so resolute in things that i prefer when he just believes 100% what he's doing is okay, if not actually righteous. ^_^

hmmm talia.... I'M STILL UNSURE HOW I PREFER THAT AS WELL... i think talia being a you-arent-good-enough-for-my-son mom is a little cliche but also. she kinda would say that. you'd have to prove your worth somehow but idk how tf darling would do that LOL. in the end, i think talia is just relieved/comforted that her son indeed feels desire and wants love and will continue the family legacy (regardless if youre afab/can biologically have children.)

no THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!! AND THANKS FOR RECS!!!! heheh yeah ive checked out btd and im not averse to the warnings its more like im not that most of into the designs ngl. fox guy seems cute? AND LMAO FUNNY BC IM ON A HIGURASHI REWATCH (never played it tho)