#but we will cross that bridge when i get there

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[heavyhitterheaux]

“Fix your attitude or I’ll do it for you” Joe to wifey 🤪🥵

Joe was really trying to be patient, but all in all it was wearing thin since you had been difficult with him all day and he couldn't figure out why.

It started this morning when you woke up and he asked you what you wanted for breakfast because he had enough time to fix it before he left.

He had told you the day before that he was going to be gone the majority of the day and that's when your mood had turned sour. You get it, he had things to do that he was responsible for, but you kept thinking to yourself that there was no reason why it was the off season and you felt like you had to make an official appointment to be able to spend time with your husband.

But what you didn’t know was that Joe was actually getting things for the nursery and the twins' playroom and planned to stash it at Ja'Marr's house so that he could surprise you. He had been trying to carve out time to do it, but seeing as it was the middle of the season when you told him you were pregnant made it harder.

But because of his absence, he sent you to get your hair and nails done. He also flew Erin and Alisha to Cincinnati at the same time and he asked them to take you out for the rest of the day so that he could keep you occupied.

When he finally got back, he walked in the house and saw you sitting on the floor in the living room as your back was leaning on the couch flipping through channels on the TV.

Joe sat down next to you and leaned over to kiss your cheek as he started to play with your hair.

“Hey baby doll.”

“Hi.” You quietly replied, but Joe brushed it off and thought nothing else of it.

“Why are you on the floor? Is your back hurting again? I can get your pillow for you.”

“It's fine. Leaning on the back of the couch is helping.”

“Your hair looks pretty. I like the color.”

“Thanks.” You told him as you finally settled on watching Powerpuff Girls.

It was quiet for a few minutes before Joe grabbed your hand and caught your attention once more.

“Is something wrong?” Joe asked and you literally let out a huff.

“What makes you think that, Joseph?”

“Whoa. You saying my name makes me think that. First name basis? Seriously?”

“You have been gone ALL DAY.” You whined as you crossed your arms to look at him.

“I… so have you?” Joe replied with a confused expression on his face and you instantly rolled your eyes.

“So, do I have to schedule an appointment to spend time with my husband during his off season? Because OBVIOUSLY I DO.”

“First of all, fix your attitude or I’ll do it for you.” He told you and you let out another huff.

“I was doing something so that I could surprise you, but I didn’t expect for this to be your reaction. I literally flew in Erin and Alisha because I knew that this was going to take me all day because you haven't seen them in forever and I got met with an attitude from my wife when I came home.”

“I…” You started to say, but Joe cut you off.

“I'm not done. I was getting things ready for the twins’ nursery, playroom, and getting things for you too to help make the rest of this pregnancy as comfortable as possible. All you had to do was send me a text saying that you missed me and I would have come back. Simple as that.”

“You can never just let me be dramatic for one day!? I'm pregnant!”

“You being too dramatic is actually the problem whether you're pregnant or not and you know better. No, you don't have to schedule an appointment to see me but you might need to start if this attitude doesn't go away. But I get it that you missed me and were frustrated. Now are we done?”

“Yes! Now can you fix my attitude for me? I think I still have it.” You asked as you smiled at him and batted your eyelashes and all he did was shake his head at you as he came to a realization.

“I… you did this because you wanted me to dick you down, didn't you? You weren't even mad to begin with.” He asked while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner! I got to see my best friends, get my hair and nails done, and chill all day. I LOVE when you get all mad at me. Your voice gets deeper and whew. I want you to put me through the mattress.” You told him as you kissed him multiple times and moved yourself to sit on his lap.

“What am I going to do with you?” Joe asked before he busted out laughing.

“Nothing because you love me. Now take your clothes off.”

[secondwhisper]

Lee tagged me on this one because I worked with INDOT for about five years. Most of that time was spent as a scoping engineer for roadway projects, but I did have some other roles, and I had some familiarity with coworkers who interfaced with highway and transit grants.

So, let's dissect the contest idea. Oh god this got so long I'm sorry.

Yes, generally speaking, grant funding pretty much is already a contest. You get a lot of applications, and you choose the best few big ones + the best few small ones (the small ones sort of fill in the gap left when the next big project would cause budget overrun). So why is this contest not just a grant application or RFP? The premise being each jurisdiction¹ is tasked with submitting² three proposals³.

Grants are usually opt-in. This "contest" sounds like it would be required. What is the consequence for a jurisdiction¹ not submitting to the "contest"? Normally for a grant, the consequence of not applying is that you definitely don't get the funding. But if you demand each state¹ provide three proposals², and they don't meet that, what's the consequence? Are we pulling federal funding from bridges, roads, ports, existing transit?

1. Why am I saying "jurisdiction" where the original post said "state" and "metro area". The state does not design, construct, or maintain local infrastructure. Each state has jurisdiction over state and national routes in its borders (plus some other weird stuff sometimes). The State of Illinois, for example, might provide some of the funding (via grant awards) for Chicago transit development, and will definitely want to review the proposals to make sure the funding is appropriate & that state code / design standards are met, but the state crucially does not actually develop that infrastructure! So who does? The local jurisdiction! Often, that's an individual city or town. But when we're talking about a metro area, ie serving the city core(s) & their suburbs (but still not the rural surrounds...), you've entered the world of the Regional Planning Commission.

So, if we're saying each state's three largest metro areas (whether the cities themselves or their affiliated regional planning commission) need to submit² proposals³, who faces the consequences if they don't? The core city(/ies), every municipality in the metro area, the regional planning commission, the county/parish, the state?

Speaking of metro areas by state, does this mean Kansas City and Chicago-Hammond-Kenosha and Louisville-Scottsburg and Spokane-CDA and DC get to double- or triple-dip, because they cross state lines? Does it make a difference if they share one regional planning commission, or if the metro area is large enough to support multiple regional planning commissions? What about transnational metro areas?

Speaking of metro areas by state, does this mean Maryland and Virginia get to propose rail connections to DC, but DC itself doesn't get their share of the pot, since DC is after all not a state (and only have the one metro area)? So, do we include territories? Do the American Samoan people or does the fed get to decide what their 3 metro areas are? (They only have one zip code after all, and colonial vs traditional organizational divisions are from what I can tell an ongoing tension.) Can an indigenous nation get in on the contest funding, with or without a federally recognized reservation? Do they still have to identify three metro areas? (What would it mean for their sovereignty if they have to propose a plan?)

2. Why am I saying "submit a proposal" when the original post said "design a proposal". I basically just wanna be really clear that the scoping process and the design process are distinct steps that both need funding. Scoping is the part of the process where we say "how far should this line go" and "where are the problem areas that will need more attention" and "are there any obvious environmental or archaeological concerns near the project area" and produce initial drawings and estimates. Scoping usually does this for two to five project options (what if we add a signal vs what if we add a roundabout, what if we install a subway vs what if we install a streetcar, what if we add a sixth interstate lane vs what if we buy two new train cars), and then compares the alternatives, choosing one to suggest for full design. For large projects like new³ rail transit, that'll be consulted out instead of done in-house, and consultants are expensive, so I hope that every jurisdiction required to submit to this contest gets a guaranteed consulting budget regardless of proposal success. (I believe that a scoping report is what is most commonly submitted to grant proposals, not a design.) If the scoping report identifies an alternative preferable to doing nothing, and if the estimated budget and timeline work out, the project continues being developed. Then, public interest meetings are held, preliminary environmental/archaeological/historic investigations are conducted (with intensive investigations and reports if necessary), and geotechnical investigations happen. Only then does a design get produced! The design will have things like material specifications, utility relocates, construction phasing, and a much more accurate estimate. This design will also be prepared by a consultant and will also be expensive, so if a full design is necessary to submit to this grant-contest, I'd hope that every jurisdiction is also guaranteed design consultant funding regardless of proposal acceptance. The original post only indicated that grant-contest awards will be for construction cost, which means that jurisdictions that can't spare much budget for an initial high-quality consultant report are gonna be sooooooo screwed over in deliberations. (And if the award only covers construction, will small jurisdictions try not to get selected, or be pushed toward a P3, because if awarded they wouldn't be able to dedicate an adequate operating & maintenance budget post-construction?)

(Anyway the whole concept -> scope -> investigations -> design -> construction process does take a long time usually. That's good. It might take months to get adequate public feedback, and more months to analyze those responses and iterate with a community to see what works. You might have to redo the proposed route because of a previously undocumented burial ground. You might have to tell your design consultant it's so obvious they copied and pasted this analysis from another report and they'd better redo the whole thing before trying to submit it for real. You might have to spend three years on soil and water remediation due to an old refinery or dry cleaner. You might find out that there's a bedrock shelf where you thought it was a smooth slope and now your bridge has to be redesigned. A sinkhole might open up and you should probably not just pave over it and pretend it never happened. Not all delays are bullshit. A lot of political pressure to do things quickly is bullshit.)

3. What exactly is meant here by "rail transit proposal"? That is, what are we asking each jurisdiction to actually propose? If we're looking to expand the reach of rail transit, that likely excludes proposals to buy a few new streetcars for an existing line to run service a bit more frequently, and certainly excludes simple operational funding of existing lines. Does double-tracking an existing line count as sufficiently new construction? Extending a current line? Restoring a station that went defunct forty years ago? Or do we only consider proposals that add new lines or create new rail systems? Could Los Angeles or Nashville or Aguadilla get a public funicular or two with rail transit contest funding? A funicular isn't quite a train and definitely serves a different purpose than most urban light rail. Could Indianapolis, IN, get trolleybus infrastructure to count for rail funding, since urban light rail is illegal there? A trolleybus doesn't have tracks, but it does have a set route with overhead cables.

My point with "what even counts as rail" is less that jurisdictions might push for something that's literally not rail, it's that in a grant-contest award scenario, there will be a deliberations committee. Their criteria for "best" are probably things like "lowest cost per track mile" and "serves the most people" and "most thorough operational plan / most likely to succeed" and "looks most like what we expected". I say this because I have been at funding deliberations where we argue things like "I know it has to be done eventually but more than $20M for half a mile of port connector is just so expensive" and "sure, [festival town] still doesn't have ADA compliant crossings, but the permanent population is only like 12 people" and "do we trust [infamously corrupt city] to actually see this one through or is the army corps going to get involved again" and "wait remind me how we fund buggy routes, are they trails or roads, let's table that one for now you might need to bring that to a different deliberations meeting". Alaska, Hawaii, and overseas territories are going to have absolutely exorbitant construction costs due to materials import. If Wisconsin needs heated rails due to heavy ice and snow, well, that's a cost that Missouri need not factor in. Does Arizona want to elevate the tracks for monsoon season resilience, well, that's a lot more materials both on the train lines and to make the stations accessible, and anyway the population density is so low compared to New Jersey, it just won't serve that many people. If Gilette, WY, where the only public buses are paratransit, submits an elaborate proposal for six tram lines, they're simply not going to look reasonable when compared to a city like Denver, CO, that might be looking to add one airport spur to a well established light rail system. If Aguadilla wants a funicular, or Indianapolis wants a trolleybus, or the Gullah-Geechee Nation say that trains don't make any sense on the Sea Islands but they would like transit funding for a public ferry system thank you very much, well. Is our goal public transit generally, trains specifically, or something in between?

70% and 50% awards suck ass especially if jurisdictions are required to submit proposals. Federal grant monies for infrastructure are usually 80/20 federal to local (sometimes the state has secondary grants to cover some or all of the 20% for localities that need it, and they frequently do need assistance with that 20% even for normal road resurfacing contracts). Can you imagine being fucking idk, Bangor, ME, and you submit a $500M brand-spanking-new 10-mile-long streetcar proposal to this mandatory USDOT "contest" and you "win" an award of $250M that you have to spend on only the construction (not even the design) of this project, and you don't know where that other $250M is gonna come from but now you gotta find it somehow because you "won"? And no major construction project comes in under budget anyway. A normal 80/20 grant might not have even been feasible because you're fucking Bangor, ME, and now you got stuck with a 50/50. (Bangor, the third largest city in Maine, operates the entire city on an annual budget of $130M. The whole city, not just transportation infrastructure.) The funding on this from the feds would have to be upwards of 85%, ideally closer to 95%, if you want any smaller or more remote community to have a chance of actually constructing anything, even with state assistance.

So like, say this is ultimately a $50 billion grant pool. Fifty one-billion-dollar-ish awards. That's surprisingly feasible for the feds if they're really truly committed (the BIL was like $1.2 trillion; the annual average federal infrastructure allocation if I'm reading correctly is like $920 billion). (It just, you know, doesn't usually spend much of that on transit.)

Constructing things on time and on budget with competent workers is gonna be hard if there's a national scramble for rail construction. Remote areas and areas without a temperate climate and areas with lots of brownfields are going to have additional cost complications that mean they will get less mileage (of a certain quality at least) for the money. Jurisdictions that already operate light rail are best equipped to convince others that their populace will embrace light rail and that they can operate light rail competently and that their drivers and pedestrians know how to behave around light rail. This is a problem with existing grant funding infrastructure and part of why we don't seem to see much progress in public transit.

Where existing (state) transit grants go is, from my limited knowledge of one state, as follows. A portion goes to municipal public fixed-route buses. The rest of it goes to small-town and rural paratransit. A lot of these programs have one or two accessible buses and two to four part time drivers. Grant awards pay for fuel, driver's wages, maintenance on wheelchair lifts, cleaning, and even the occasional new bus. Door-to-door paratransit is immensely important and, somehow, both more and less expensive than you'd think. Door-to-door paratransit service cannot be replaced by light rail. (Indiana's single commuter rail line mostly gets federal funding, iirc, not state. And Amtrak is a separate thing.) I don't have a good sense of where federal transit grants go, but it can be discovered if you're willing to wrangle some .gov links and tables and publications.

Hey did you know that public infrastructure grant applications often have a question like "how does this project further [jurisdiction]'s 20-year plan?" or 50-year plan or whatever. Your city or county or regional planning commission probably already has a long-term "vision" of their infrastructure and neighborhoods and developing tax sources and stuff. These plans can be changed and I'm not really experienced on the regional/urban planning end of things, but like. These visioning plans already exist. (They just might not have light rail on them.)

Oh, in case it wasn't clear, each funding source (federal government, state government, city government, private grant entity) will have designated pools for different transportation infrastructure types. Like, maybe it'll be 40% bridges, 25% minor highway, 20% major highway, 5% commercial (ports, airports, local commercial rail), 4% institutional (military, recreation, prisons), 4% misc (at-grade rail crossings, bike infrastructure, scenic railways and canals), 2% public transit. Those are suuuper rough estimates of a somewhat typical federal/state distribution; cities are gonna be pretty different. These proportions are designated at allocation (federally, some states) or encoded into state law (some other states I think). So all the grant proposals from all the transit councils might be awesome and valuable and worthwhile, but the total allocation is never gonna go over that 2% or whatever of the total available infrastructure budget. Bridges are really expensive. And most wear and tear on highways and bridges is due to water/weather + commercial traffic (semis) so unfortunately just building more public transit will not meaningfully reduce the cost of highway maintenance long term, that's a freight logistics problem and a climate (change) problem.

I'm not saying it's impossible, it's pretty possible, it's just that this contest premise adds some unusual complexities and also skims over some pretty normal complexities. I don't know how much of the public infrastructure development process is understood by the general public so I'm sorry if I over-explained any parts of this.

I think it would be really interesting to do a program where each state is tasked with designing a rail transit proposal for their largest 3 metro areas and then the federal government awards a really large grant, like 70% of construction cost to the 30 best proposals, and like a 50% to the next 20 best. I think it would seriously improve transit and give us long term plans for the vast majority of major US cities. The one issue is I don't know how viable the USDOT running a contest would be

[dreaminguponlilypads]

AFTER THE FIRE.

Captain John Price x GN!reader

The night before had been ugly.

Neither of you had meant for it to spiral the way it did—raised voices, sharp words, the kind of fight that left both of you lying awake, staring at opposite walls. Now, in the cold light of morning, Captain John Price acted as if nothing had happened.

And that pissed you off.

You moved through the safehouse, checking your gear, barely sparing him a glance. He did the same, the space between you filled with everything unsaid.

“Move out in five,” Price said, voice clipped. To anyone else, it would just sound like orders. To you, it was distance.

“Copy that,” you replied, equally detached.

This mission should’ve been routine—gather intel from a cartel hideout, sweep the area, get out. You and Price had worked together long enough that your coordination was near flawless. But today, the weight of last night’s argument threw everything off.

His commands over comms were too sharp. Your responses were too short. It felt like trying to dance while stepping on each other’s feet.

Inside the warehouse, the air was thick with dust and tension. You moved ahead, clearing corners, trusting Price at your back. The silence between you was deafening.

Then, you slipped.

Not literally, but just enough—your focus fractured for half a second too long. A hostile lunged from the shadows, shoving you hard against a crate, the muzzle of his rifle too damn close.

A gunshot rang out, and the weight disappeared. You barely had time to react before Price was in front of you, hand gripping your arm, eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, looking you over. “You alright?”

“Fine,” you said, but your pulse was racing for more reasons than just the fight.

Price didn’t let go. His grip was firm, grounding, but there was something else there—concern, frustration. Maybe even regret.

“You’re off your game,” he said lowly.

You tensed. “Yeah, well, so are you.”

Silence stretched between you. The air crackled with everything neither of you had the time to say.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, releasing your arm. “We’ll talk later.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, glancing at him. “We will.”

And just like that, the mission continued. But something between you had shifted, the ice beginning to thaw.

It wasn’t fixed yet. But it would be.

Hopefully.

The ride back to base was quiet, but not in the peaceful way.

Soap and Gaz were talking up front, but you weren’t listening. Your arms were crossed, your jaw set, and beside you, John was doing that thing he always did after a fight—acting like it never happened.

Like he could just pretend it was all water under the bridge. Like the tension sitting between you wasn’t thicker than the damn armor on your chest.

So, when the truck rolled to a stop, he climbed out first, walked off like nothing was wrong, and left you sitting there, stewing.

Fine.

You took your time unloading your gear, making sure you didn’t accidentally “forget” something and have to hear about it later. By the time you made it to your shared quarters, the door was already cracked open.

You stepped inside and found him sitting on the bed, arms resting on his thighs, watching you with that steady, unreadable expression. The kind that usually meant he was letting you work through your own mess before he stepped in.

You weren’t in the mood for it.

“You got something to say, or are we just gonna keep playing the silent game?” you asked, tilting your head.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “You’re still wound up.”

“Wow, what gave it away?”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. “We gonna talk about it?”

“You mean the part where you acted like I was just another soldier all day?” You crossed your arms, stepping closer. “Or the part where you almost got us both killed because you were too busy ignoring me?”

He tilted his head slightly, calm as ever. “Far as I recall, you’re the one who hesitated.”

Your jaw clenched. “Maybe I was too busy thinking about the fact that my husband turned into a damn robot overnight.”

John exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You sure? Because I spent the whole day wondering if I’d suddenly become invisible.”

“Noticed you just fine when I had to put a bullet in the bloke about to take your head off,” he said evenly.

That hit a nerve.

“You really gonna throw that in my face?” you snapped.

“I’m saying,” he continued, still infuriatingly calm, “that I can be pissed off and still do my job.”

“Oh, so I was just being unprofessional?” You scoffed. “Good to know, Captain.”

John sighed through his nose, standing up slowly. He didn’t get in your space, didn’t try to crowd you, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your stomach tighten.

“I’m saying you let it fester instead of just talking to me. I’m saying you’re still letting it fester now.”

“Because you act like nothing gets to you!” You threw your hands up. “You just walk off, all quiet and broody, and I’m left stewing in it while you—what? Smoke a cigar and pretend you’re fine?”

John huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “That what you think I do?”

“That or drink whiskey and stare dramatically out a window.”

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured. “And still lookin’ for a fight.”

“I’m looking for an answer,” you shot back. “Or at least a reaction, but you’re too busy playing it cool.”

John tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was considering something.

Then he moved.

One second, you were glaring at him, the next, his hands were on your face, his mouth on yours, stealing the rest of your words before you could even think to protest.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was firm, steady, enough to make you stumble back a step before you caught yourself. His grip was warm, grounding, and when he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk was damn near smug.

“That reaction enough for you?” he murmured.

Your breath was uneven, your heart pounding, but you refused to let him win that easily.

“That all you got, old man?” you muttered, just to be difficult.

John chuckled, low and deep, then kissed you again—harder this time, like he was determined to shut you up for good.

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 23 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆˚࿔ Book 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x reader

୨୧┇I’m gonna get killed for this chapter, character death…

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ─── Telemachus paced furiously through the ruined village, his hands clenched into tight fists, his breathing ragged. The fires still burned around them, the scent of blood thick in the air, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was him. Raphael had been right there. Right there. Wounded. Weak. He could have ended him. He could have killed that bastard and taken her and Adonis back where they belonged.

And yet—he had let him slip away. Again.

“Damn it!” Telemachus roared, driving his fist into the nearest wall. The wood splintered beneath his strength, but the pain did nothing to soothe the rage boiling inside him. His chest heaved, his body trembling with frustration, with regret, with an overwhelming sense of failure. Florus and Acrisios exchanged a look before stepping forward cautiously.

“Telemachus,” Acrisios started, his voice level but firm. “Enough.”

“Enough?!” Telemachus spun on them, his blue eyes wild with fury. “I could have killed him! I could have ended all of this tonight, and now—” His breath shuddered as he ran a hand through his sweat dampened hair. “Now he’s just going to run back to her, to my son—” His voice broke on the last word, rage giving way to something rawer. Florus placed a steady hand on his shoulder, but Telemachus shrugged it off, his body still thrumming with barely restrained anger.

“I should have finished it,” he growled, his jaw tightening. “I should have killed him right then and there.”

Acrisios sighed, crossing his arms. “And what then?” he asked, his tone calm, almost weary. “You think just cutting him down would have magically fixed everything? You think Skiaphos would have just let you walk out with y/n and Adonis without a fight?”

“I don’t care!” Telemachus snapped, stepping toward him. “I would’ve fought them all if I had to! I—” His breath hitched, his body shaking with barely contained frustration. “I’m tired of waiting. Tired of sitting around while that bastard plays house with my family.”

Florus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping in front of him again. “Telemachus, I get it. Gods, I get it. But going in blind is going to get you killed, and then what?” He gestured vaguely at the smoldering ruins around them. “You want y/n to trade one captor for another? You think Adonis needs to grow up knowing his father got himself killed because he couldn’t think straight?”

That hit like a punch to the gut. Telemachus exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping just slightly. He turned away from them, his hands still shaking as he tried to force himself to breathe. “I can’t keep waiting,” he murmured, voice raw. “I won’t.”

Acrisios placed a hand on his shoulder this time, firm and grounding. “Then we plan. Properly this time. No more reckless fights. No more wasted chances.”

Florus nodded. “We’ll get her back, Telemachus. Both of them.”

Telemachus swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he stared at the distant horizon—the direction Raphael had fled.

Next time, there would be no escape.

——

The Greek camp was alive with the scent of burning wood and the distant sounds of wounded Skiaphian prisoners being corralled together. But none of that mattered to Eurymachus—not when he was admiring his prize.

She was a young Skiaphian woman, terrified but silent, her dark eyes darting between him and the others as she sat stiffly near his tent. Eurymachus smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. Finally. After all the bloodshed, the long campaigns, the endless nights of fighting, he earned this.

Cassander, however, had other thoughts. “Oh, come on,” Cassander groaned, throwing up his hands. “This is bullshit.”

Eurymachus arched a brow, turning to him with an amused smirk. “Excuse me?”

Cassander jabbed a finger at him, then at the woman. “I did the most fighting today. Who was the one holding the front line? Me. Who took down three Skiaphian warriors while you were fumbling around with some half dead old man? Me.” He gestured wildly. “By all rights, I should get her.”

Eurymachus scoffed. “Oh, please. You got lucky. And besides, you already have a bad habit of losing your war prizes, Cassander.” He smirked, jabbing him in the ribs. “Maybe I should hold onto this one for safekeeping.”

Cassander looked deeply, personally offended. “Excuse me?!”

The two of them started bickering, voices rising as they shoved at each other, completely forgetting about the war prize in question.

And then—Druses arrived.

The moment his towering form loomed over them, both Eurymachus and Cassander immediately shut their mouths. Druses crossed his arms, his purple eyes narrowed with deep, exhausted irritation. He let the silence hang for a moment before finally speaking.

“What,” he said slowly, “are you idiots fighting about?”

Cassander and Eurymachus both started talking at once. “She should be mine—”

“No, I deserve her—”

“I did the most killing today, obviously—”

“Oh, shove it—”

Druses sighed through his nose, his expression darkening as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods above, I hate you both.” Then, without another word, he grabbed the war prize by the arm, yanked her to her feet, and started leading her away.

“Wait—what the fuck?” Eurymachus sputtered. “Where are you—?”

Druses shot them both a sharp, withering glare. “You’re grounded from war prizes. Maybe if you two learned how to shut up and act like warriors instead of spoiled children, you’d earn them back.”

Cassander blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish before he turned to Eurymachus. “Did—did we just get grounded?”

Eurymachus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Un-fucking-believable.”

——

Eurymachus and Cassander were sulking.

It had been hours since Druses unfairly took their war prize, and neither of them were handling it well. They lingered near Druses’ tent like stray dogs, watching as he kept the woman near him—their woman, mind you—as if she was some fragile thing that needed protecting.

“This is bullshit,” Cassander muttered under his breath, arms crossed as he scowled. “We earned her.”

Eurymachus nodded vehemently. “Exactly. Druses didn’t even do anything. He just walked over, took her, and now he’s acting like he’s her fucking guardian or something.”

Cassander scoffed. “We should just take her back.”

Eurymachus grinned. “I like the way you think.”

The two of them strutted toward Druses, who was standing with his back turned, arms crossed as he kept an eye on the war prize. The moment they got close enough, Cassander reached out to grab her wrist— And was promptly kicked straight in the chest.

Cassander let out a wheeze as he was sent flying backward, landing in the dirt with a pathetic grunt. Eurymachus had just enough time to blink before Druses swung around and kicked him too, sending him crashing down right next to Cassander. Druses glared down at them, unimpressed. “I told you two idiots to quit it.”

Eurymachus groaned, rubbing his chest. “Gods, you kick hard.”

Cassander groaned in agreement, still sprawled in the dirt. “I think he cracked a rib.”

Druses rolled his eyes before turning away, clearly thinking the conversation was over. Cassander and Eurymachus exchanged a look. Then—

“Alright,” Eurymachus whispered. “New plan.”

They scrambled up, lunging forward again— Druses elbowed Eurymachus in the face without even looking, sending him straight back down. Cassander managed to get a hand on the woman’s arm before Druses grabbed him by the back of the tunic and threw him like a sack of grain.

The two of them groaned on the ground, again, glaring up at Druses, who merely crossed his arms, looking deeply unimpressed. “You’re both pathetic,” he deadpanned.

Before they could launch another complaint—

A tense, heavy silence fell over the camp.

Eurymachus and Cassander froze. Druses tensed slightly. Even the war prize shifted uncomfortably. They didn’t need to turn around to know who had just arrived. Slowly, they looked over their shoulders—and there stood Telemachus.

And he looked furious.

His jaw was clenched, his blue eyes stormy, his posture rigid as he stalked toward them. His sword was still strapped to his hip, his hands twitching like he was dying to use it. Eurymachus and Cassander immediately straightened up, all traces of their whining gone.

Druses exhaled sharply through his nose, giving them both a look before stepping forward. “Something happen?” he asked, his voice the only one daring to break the silence. Telemachus’ gaze flicked to him briefly before settling back on Eurymachus and Cassander. The two of them stiffened under the weight of it.

“Get your shit together,” Telemachus ordered, his voice low, dangerous. “Now.”

Neither of them hesitated.

“Y-yes, sir,” Eurymachus stammered.

Cassander nodded quickly. “Of course, boss. You got it.”

Druses just sighed, rubbing his temples. “Idiot children,” he muttered.

——

The camp was quiet, save for the crackling of dying fires and the occasional murmur of restless sleep. The scent of blood and smoke from their recent raid still clung to the air, but exhaustion had forced even the most hardened warriors into slumber. Telemachus lay on his side, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his breaths deep but never fully relaxed. He didn’t trust the silence. He never did.

And then—

A sharp whistle.

A second later, a flaming arrow slammed into one of the tents, setting it ablaze.

Then another.

And another.

Shouts erupted as men jolted awake, confusion twisting into panic as the fires spread.

“AMBUSH!”

The warning cry barely had time to leave someone’s mouth before Skiaphian warriors surged into the camp, blades gleaming under the firelight. The Greeks scrambled for their weapons, still sluggish with sleep, as the enemy descended upon them like vultures. Telemachus was up in an instant, sword drawn as he narrowly dodged a spear aimed at his chest. He swung, cutting the enemy down, his mind snapping into battle mode.

A few feet away, Cassander was still wrestling his way out of his bedroll when a Skiaphian soldier lunged at him. “Wait, wait, I’m not even awake yet—!” He barely managed to roll aside, grabbing his shield and bashing it into the attacker’s face.

Eurymachus, on the other hand, had simply punched the first guy he saw, still half-asleep. “Who the fuck—” He finally registered what was happening, eyes widening. “Oh. Oh, shit.” He grabbed his sword just in time to block another strike.

Druses, already on his feet, was grinning. He twirled his twin daggers in his hands, purple eyes gleaming under the firelight as he dove into the fray. He cut through the enemy with brutal efficiency, laughing under his breath. “Oh, Enyo’s going to love this.”

Florus had woken up swinging, his movements precise and controlled, but there was a deep-seated frustration in his eyes. “I knew we should’ve set up more defenses,” he muttered, slashing an enemy down.

Acrisios had barely gotten his helmet on before he was forced into a clash, his strikes heavy and merciless. “Where the fuck did they come from?!”

“They must’ve followed us from the last raid,” Telemachus gritted out, driving his sword into another soldier’s gut before turning to scan the battlefield. The camp was in chaos. Tents were burning, men were shouting, the sound of metal clashing filled the night air.

And then—

From the trees, more Skiaphians emerged. Telemachus’ eyes narrowed. They weren’t just here to fight. They were here to finish them. And he’d be damned if he let that happen. “Everyone—hold the line!” he roared, gripping his sword tighter. “We end this now!”

And with that, they charged.The camp was hellfire. Smoke and ash filled the air, mixing with the scent of blood and sweat. The Greeks fought viciously, their initial sluggishness from sleep now fully burned away by the raw instinct to survive. But the Skiaphians weren’t relenting. They pushed harder, their numbers greater than expected, their blades seeking Greek throats, their arrows finding flesh.

And then—

A roar cut through the chaos.

Antinous.

He stormed into the fray like a wrathful beast, his sword already drenched in enemy blood. His long red cloak billowed behind him as he slammed his blade through a Skiaphian’s chest before violently ripping it out. His eyes were wild, teeth bared in a snarl. “Oh, finally!” he growled, cutting another enemy down.

Cassander, still mid-fight, snorted. “Late as always—” He had to duck as Antinous swung his sword a little too close to his head.

Antinous smirked. “Whoops.”

Telemachus was cutting through enemies with precision, his face grim, focused. “We need to push them back!” he called out. “They’re trying to surround us—”

Then a Skiaphian spear whizzed past his face. His eyes snapped to the source—Florus, standing his ground, striking down an enemy, his movements fluid. But then—

It happened too fast.

A blur of motion.

A blade—jagged, brutal—piercing through Florus’ stomach from behind.

For a moment, it was like the battle paused.

Florus stiffened, his breath catching as blood dripped from his lips. His green eyes widened—not in fear, but in stunned realization. His sword slipped from his fingers.

Then—

The Skiaphian soldier twisted the blade. Florus let out a strangled gasp, his body jerking forward. Pisistratus turned just in time to see it happen. “FLORUS!”

But before anyone could react, the enemy ripped the blade out and shoved Florus forward. He collapsed onto his knees. His breath was ragged, uneven. Blood seeped through his armor, staining the ground beneath him.

Antinous, who had just cut down an enemy near him, turned—then froze.

Florus’ body swayed.

Then—he fell.

“No—!” Acrisios dropped his weapon and lunged forward, catching Florus just before he hit the ground. His hands pressed against the wound, desperate, shaking. “Florus, stay with me—stay with us—”

Florus’ lips parted, but no words came out—only a weak, shuddering breath. Telemachus was already hacking his way toward them, eyes dark with fury. Antinous, silent for the first time—just stared. His grip on his sword tightened so hard his knuckles turned white.

Cassander and Eurymachus, who had been bickering just moments ago, stood frozen in place. Druses, blood dripping from his daggers, glanced over—and his expression darkened.

The war still raged around them, but in that moment, none of them cared.

Florus was dying.

And the Skiaphians were about to pay for it.

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress

@f3r4|frOgg3r @permanently-nothere

@eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches

@sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy

@0anodite0 @cocosparkel @tati-the-fangirl

@dazedemery @tsmaruchan @xo-cuteplosion-xo

@galaxygurIll @pjopinkk @h0ne4bee

@minteaspoon @zendoesstuff @yuvany @i-liketoast

[mintyys-blog]

PETERS SECRET— peter parker x stark! reader

WARNINGS: implied sex

Tony Stark prided himself on being an intelligent man. Genius, billionaire, philanthropist—he had a lot of titles. But clairvoyant? Yeah, not one of them.

So when he found a box of condoms in Peter Parker’s backpack while rummaging for a piece of Stark tech the kid had borrowed, he did what any reasonable father figure would do.

He sighed, put them back, and pretended he didn’t see a thing.

Peter was a good kid. He had a life outside of the Avengers, and Tony wasn’t about to metal in his dating life. The kid was responsible, respectful, and, more importantly, not some playboy running around breaking hearts.

So Tony let it go.

That was his first mistake.

His second mistake?

Not checking who, exactly, Peter was dating.

Which led to his third and worst mistake—walking into his daughter’s room one afternoon, completely unannounced, only to find her tangled under the sheets with none other than Peter freaking Parker.

For a full three seconds, there was nothing but dead silence.

Then—“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” Tony’s voice boomed, making both of you jolt.

“OH MY GOD—DAD!” You frantically scrambled for the blanket, yanking it higher over yourself while Peter nearly fell off the bed in his attempt to escape.

“Mr. Stark—SIR—this isn’t what it looks like!” Peter blurted, eyes wide in terror.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Oh? Because it looks like you were about two seconds away from defiling my daughter in my own house!”

“No, no, no, sir, I would never defile her!” Peter waved his hands frantically before realizing how bad that sounded. “I mean—I would—I mean, not in a bad way—I mean—”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Peter, stop talking.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he squeaked.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply through his nostrils like he was physically holding back an aneurysm. “Parker.”

“Sir?” Peter swallowed hard.

Tony pointed a deadly finger at him. “I let it slide when I found condoms in your backpack. I told myself, ‘You know what? The kid’s growing up, he’s responsible, I don’t need to know who he’s seeing.’ But now—” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Now I know. And I do need to know. Because I am two seconds away from throwing you out the damn window.”

Peter paled. “I—um—I can survive that, but I’d really rather not.”

You groaned again. “Dad, please—”

“Please what? Let you two get back to whatever this is? Hell no!” Tony crossed his arms. “I trusted you, Parker.”

Peter looked like he wanted the Earth to swallow him whole. “I—um—I still want to be trusted?”

Tony scoffed. “Yeah? Well, I trusted Steve too, and you know what happened? He ran off with my murderous ex-friend and hid my parents’ killer from me.”

Peter blinked. “That… that seems like a separate issue, sir.”

“Oh, so now you’re giving me therapy, Spider-Boy?”

“Okay—both of you, stop,” you cut in, grabbing the blanket more securely around yourself. “Dad, I get it. You’re mad. But we’re both adults.”

“You’re nineteen.”

“And legally an adult!”

“Not in my damn house!”

Peter slowly raised a hand. “Mr. Stark, sir, if it helps, I love her.”

Tony snapped his head toward Peter so fast that Peter actually flinched.

“Love?” Tony repeated, like the word offended him on a personal level. “Kid, if you really love her, you wouldn’t be rolling around under the sheets while I’m in the house!”

You groaned. “We weren’t even—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Peter frantically nodded. “I won’t! Sir, I swear, I respect her! More than anything!”

Tony exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before muttering, “You know what? I need a drink.” He turned, making his way toward the door before pausing.

Then, without looking back, he said, “Peter.”

Peter stiffened. “Sir?”

Tony glanced over his shoulder, his expression as serious as a heart attack. “If I ever catch you in her bed again, I will build a suit specifically designed to kill you.”

Peter audibly gulped. “Understood, sir.”

With that, Tony left, slamming the door behind him.

Silence fell over the room.

Then, Peter slowly turned to you. “So… do you think I should start writing my will?”

You sighed, collapsing back onto the pillows. “I’ll help you draft it tomorrow.”

[remeberm3]

we | k.m

⎯⎯Klaus scowled. “I will throw you into the sun.”

warnings: more fluff <3

Klaus Mikaelson did not do “we.”

There was no we in the life of the Big Bad Hybrid. There was him, the things he wanted, and the poor unfortunate souls who got in his way.

No attachments. No strings. No cozy little “we” wrapped up in a bow like some human fairytale.

And yet—

He’d said it.

༊*·˚

It had been an offhand comment, a throwaway remark, the kind of thing that should have disappeared into the ether as quickly as it had left his lips.

And yet, you had caught it.

Of course you had.

You were infuriating like that.

It had happened earlier in the day, when Klaus had been dealing with one of his many disagreements with the local supernatural population.

You had been sitting nearby, watching with your usual mix of amusement and exasperation as he glowered at a lesser vampire who had been caught doing something utterly moronic.

Klaus had been in full lecture mode, pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back, voice dripping with condescension. And then—

“If this happens again, we will not be so forgiving.”

It had taken a full three seconds for him to realize what he had just said.

And another two for him to realize that you had realized it too.

He felt it before he saw it. That shift in the air, the slow curl of amusement that radiated from you like heat.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He turned his head—slowly, cautiously—and found you sitting there, arms crossed, eyes practically glowing with barely restrained glee.

A slow, delighted smile crept across your lips. “We?”

Klaus clenched his jaw. “No.”

“We,” you repeated, like you were savoring the taste of it. “Niklaus Mikaelson just said we.”

“No, I did not.”

“Oh, you definitely did.”

The vampire he had been scolding had, by this point, wisely chosen to flee.

You, unfortunately, had no such instincts for self-preservation.

“We will not be so forgiving,” you mimicked, pressing a hand dramatically to your chest. “Oh, Nik, you do care!”

Klaus exhaled sharply through his nose. “One word, love. One word.”

“One very telling word,” you teased. “Admit it—you love the idea of us being a we.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“You do,” you cooed. “My darling Niklaus, my sweet murderous love, my hopelessly attached little hybrid—”

Klaus scowled. “I will throw you into the sun.”

You grinned. “Sounds like something you should have thought about before you said we.”

Klaus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You beamed.

༊*·˚

For the next three days, you took every opportunity to remind him.

When you passed him in the hall—

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite part of ‘we’!”

When he tried to threaten someone—

“Careful, darling. We don’t want to be too harsh, now do we?”

When he sat beside you on the couch—

“Our couch,” you corrected sweetly.

And the worst part?

You wouldn’t let it go.

He thought you would. He thought you’d get bored, move on, let him reclaim the safe, comfortable solitude of his own existence.

But no.

You were a menace.

༊*·˚

The breaking point came one evening when Klaus, seeking some damn peace, had retreated to his studio to paint.

The scent of turpentine filled the air, strokes of deep blue sweeping across the canvas, his mind mercifully lost in the work—

Until the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn around to know it was you.

He felt it in the air, in the warmth that preceded your every step, in the way his own body instinctively eased the moment you entered the room.

He heard the soft shuffle of your footsteps, the whisper of fabric as you folded yourself onto the chaise near the window, the quiet hmm as you took in his latest piece.

Silence stretched between you.

And then—

“You know, I think I quite like being a we.”

Klaus stilled.

His brush hovered above the canvas, his fingers twitching slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Do you, now?”

“Mhm.” You stretched out, arms above your head, utterly at ease. “It’s nice. Warm. Like wearing your favorite sweater.”

Klaus arched a brow. “I am not a sweater.”

“You are to me.”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to his work. “Ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” you said lightly, voice softer now, laced with something almost gentle. “But I’d rather be ridiculous with you than sensible without you.”

Klaus hesitated.

The weight of your words settled in the air, sinking into his bones, pressing against something deep inside him that he had spent centuries keeping guarded.

He had never been a “we.” He had never been allowed to be. He had never trusted it, never wanted it.

And yet—

Here you were.

Refusing to leave. Refusing to let him push you away. Refusing to be anything less than something permanent in his life.

Klaus turned his head, eyes meeting yours across the dimly lit room.

He swallowed.

Then—

“Perhaps I don’t mind it so much.”

You blinked.

Your lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by his admission.

And then, slowly, you smiled.

The kind of smile that turned the whole world soft.

The kind of smile that made even the darkest corners of Klaus Mikaelson feel light.

And for the first time in a thousand years—

We didn’t seem so bad after all.

i love him so much 🥹

[all-our-turf]

honey, you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

Fox is unsure about her place among the Warriors. Swan understands that more than anyone.

--

Read under the cut or on ao3

+++++

When Swan came home to a quiet apartment, she didn’t think much of it initially. She knew Cochise and Cowgirl had managed to convince Rembrandt to go out with them, which means Ajax likely went along too. Cleon mentioned that she’d be out for a meeting, and when Swan peered down the hallway she noticed the light to Fox’s room was off, so she figured Cleon had taken the younger girl with her. 

Fox had only been around for nearly three months now - hadn’t even been officially initiated yet - and Cleon seemed to be determined to keep her close for the time being, despite the girl’s protests about wanting to be more involved in the gang. 

Except, when Cleon came in through the front door half an hour later, she was alone. Swan was on her feet in half a second, and Cleon raised a curious eyebrow at her, casually shedding her colors and draping them over the back of a chair. 

“What? Did I -” 

“Where’s Fox?” 

Cleon went still, staring blankly at Swan. “She’s not here?”

Swan turned back down the hallway and knocked - slammed, really - on Fox’s door. “Fox! You home?” 

No response. 

When she turned back around, Cleon was already shrugging her vest back on. “I’ll go check if she managed to convince the others to let her tag along at the bar. Go look for her in any of the other usual hangouts.” 

Swan nodded, trying to ignore the anxious pit in her stomach as she donned her own colors and locked the door behind them. If it was just Cowgirl and Cochise, she wouldn’t be surprised if Fox managed to get them to take her along. Fox had a killer pout and (unfortunately for all of them) knew how to use it effectively. 

But there was no way in hell that Ajax would let Fox anywhere near that place while she was underage. Hell, even when Swan was old enough it still took a fight for Ajax to let her come along. Fox - who was small and pretty and still looked like she’d fall over at the slightest gust of wind, even after three months with the Warriors? No chance. 

Swan was just starting to feel the edges of panic creep up on her when she finally found Fox. The girl was near the edge of their turf, arguing with a guy nearly double her size. He was affiliated, judging by the jacket he was wearing, but Swan didn’t recognize the colors. She didn’t really care at the moment. 

Swan was at Fox’s side in half a second, and the guy cut off mid sentence at the sight of her. 

“Hey. We got a problem?” She placed herself in between him and Fox, tilting her chin up to glare up at him. He took a step back. 

“He was on our turf,” Fox explained from behind her, and Swan tilted her head to the side. 

“Fucking barely! I didn’t even realize I’d crossed over, but she was already coming at me!” He threw his hands up, gesturing wildly towards Fox over her shoulder. 

“Why are you still here? You didn’t realize this was Warrior turf, now you know, so fuck off.” 

He hesitated.

“Unless there is a problem?” Swan took another step towards him, raising a challenging eyebrow, and he immediately backed off. He stalked away, grumbling under his breath. Swan kept her eyes on his retreating back until he was gone, and then whirled around to stare at Fox, who looked way too nonchalant for someone who Swan had just spent the better part of an hour looking for. 

“I could’ve handled that,” Fox tried with an innocent smile. 

Swan was distinctly not in the mood. “Fox. What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Patrolling.” 

“No the fuck you aren’t.” Swan pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a breath and trying to calm down before she snapped a little too harshly. “What the hell were you thinking, sneaking off like that without telling anyone? What if something had happened to you? What if that guy decided to -” 

“That guy was a wimp,” Fox scoffed, crossing her arms defiantly. 

“God, you sound like Ajax,” Swan groaned. 

“Really?” Fox seemed a little too excited at that. 

“That is not a compliment, quit smiling. You should not be picking fights for no reason like Ajax does, that’s -”

“It wasn’t for no reason! He was on our turf!” 

“He was one guy on the very edge of our turf. And that isn’t even the point, considering you aren’t supposed to be out here at all! Kid, -”

“I’m not a kid!” 

“Sure, you’re a teenager who should not be out at this hour, especially not alone this fucking close to the edge of our territory. Cleon’s going to -” 

“You’re a hypocrite!” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Weren’t you even younger than I am when you joined the Warriors?”

“Yeah, and Cleon didn’t let me out alone either! You can’t just -” 

“You guys aren’t my parents, I can go out whenever the fuck I want!” 

Swan blinked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “Maybe we’re not, but -”

“And I shouldn’t have to ask for permission every time I step foot outside the apartment! And -” 

“Fox! Can I get a word in without you fucking interrupting me?” That definitely came out harsher than Swan meant it to, judging by the way Fox’s mouth snapped shut immediately. The younger girl was glaring at Swan, and Swan took another carefully measured breath. 

“Okay. First of all, I don’t give a shit how old you are, if you go out somewhere at night, especially alone, then you tell someone. That has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that we’re in a gang, and sometimes shit happens, and when shit happens there needs to be at least one other person who knows where you are. Got it?” 

Fox looked away, glaring at a spot on the ground instead, but grudgingly nodded anyway. 

“Second of all, you definitely shouldn’t be out doing anything like patrolling unless Cleon asks you to. None of us decide to do that shit on our own, so why the hell would you think it’s a good idea?” 

“Cleon won’t even send me out with anyone! It’s been almost three months and I’ve barely gotten to actually do anything for the Warriors! None of you treat me like I’m actually one of you!” 

“Is that what this is about?” Swan tilted her head to the side, some of her frustration fading into concern.

Fox shrugged, her crossed arms now wrapping around her middle. She sighed, sitting at a bench and staring down at her knees. Swan watched how she seemed to curl into herself, and sat down carefully at Fox’s side. 

“Fox?”

“I was just alone in the apartment and I didn’t like it, okay? I’m not allowed to join whenever you guys go out to the bars and hangout, I’m not allowed to join whenever you guys go on jobs, and even when I do get to go it’s like -” She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “I’m tired of feeling like the kid you’re all stuck babysitting.”

Swan felt an ache bloom in her chest, something painfully familiar echoing in Fox’s words. “That’s not what we think of you as.” 

“But it’s how you all treat me. I’m not - I’m not fragile, you know?” Fox rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying to scrub the wetness away before it got a chance to slip down her cheeks. 

“Of course I know that. We all do. You’re tough, Fox. And crazy smart, too. We’re not stuck with you, you are one of us, but - you just have to give yourself time.” 

Fox’s mouth twisted in displeasure, unconvinced. 

“Look,” Swan said. “I get how hard it is being the youngest in the group. Like you said, I’ve been in your position. I know it sucks.” 

“It’s not the same,” Fox scoffed and shook her head. “You’re - you’re you. You’re all intimidating and badass and I’m me. It’s been three months and I don’t think anyone sees me as anything other than the stray picked off the street.” 

Swan stared at the teenager, disbelief creeping into her expression. “You haven’t heard the story of how the Warriors found me?” 

Fox looked up curiously, furrowing her brow. “No? I know that until I came along you were the only one who joined up as a teenager, but…”

“Oh my god, and you think-?” Swan cut herself off with an amused chuckle, turning to fully face Fox, whose face was twisted in confusion. “Fox, I was in worse shape than you were. Cleon found me sleeping under the boardwalk, practically half dead already. I was smaller than Rembrandt and scared out of my mind. It took me nearly two weeks to even say a word to anyone.” 

“Wait, are you serious? But - but now you’re so..!” Fox trailed off, making an ambiguous gesture towards Swan. “I mean, you’re Cleon’s number two. You can keep up with Ajax in a fight!” 

Swan shrugged. “But it took time, Fox. Cleon didn’t make my position official until I earned it. And I spent a lot of sessions getting my ass kicked by Ajax before I could even land a punch on her. I get that it’s frustrating, I know how badly you want to prove yourself, but just…be patient, yeah? With yourself and with us, and eventually, you’ll be just as much of a badass as you seem to think I am.” 

That pulled a smile out of Fox, and Swan felt like she could breathe a little easier again. 

“You really think so?” Fox stared at her with watery eyes, big and earnest and, god, so young. “You really think I’ll be like you someday?” 

Jesus, was this how Cleon felt when she was a recruit? 

“No.” Swan shook her head. “I think you’ll be better. And I think the Warriors are very lucky to have you.” 

Fox grinned, a bright smile stretching across her face for a moment, but then it dimmed again and she looked back down at her hands. 

“I’m sorry for running off. Did I ruin everyone’s night?” She sounded painfully small, picking at the edges of her fingernails. 

“No - Fox, you didn’t ruin anything, okay?” Fox nodded, but it was clear she wasn’t very reassured. 

“Listen,” Swan nudged her arm gently. “I’ll talk to Cleon, see if I can get her to ease up on the overprotectiveness a little. But only if you promise not to pull something like this again, okay? You freaked us out - not because we think you’re weak. But because we look out for each other. That’s what we do as Warriors.”

Fox inhaled shakily, nodding her head again. “Yeah, okay. I won’t do this again, I promise. You’ll seriously talk to Cleon, though?” 

“Believe me, I know how overbearing she can be sometimes. She still drives me crazy every now and then, and I know she’s been worse with you. So yeah, I’ll talk to her, see about letting you come along for more jobs. Just - it’s important that you know she’s only like this because she cares about you. All of us do.” Swan reached out, affectionately patting the top of Fox’s head and ruffling her hair. “Your time will come, Fox, I promise. It won’t feel like this forever.” 

Fox half heartedly batted her hand away, but the beaming smile across her face and the way her shoulders seemed about twenty pounds lighter told Swan that she was feeling better. 

“Come on, kid. Let’s go home before the others lose their minds.” 

“So when are you guys gonna quit calling me kid?” Fox whined as the two of them began walking back. 

“Up until you came along, the others were still calling me kid. I’m just glad it’s not me anymore.” 

“What - but you’re old now! Is this nickname gonna be stuck forever?” 

“Hey, what the fuck? I’m not old, we only have a couple of years between us.” 

And even as Fox launched into an explanation as to why Swan was, in fact, old, Swan couldn’t help but smile, grateful that the girl was in a much better mood than earlier. Fox brought a brightness that the Warriors desperately needed. Maybe she wasn’t sure where exactly she’d fit yet, but that was okay. Fox was still young. 

They had time. 

[sinzkiller]

Mischievous Crows🐦‍⬛: Sylus, Kieran, Luke and Mephisto.

The Great Sugar Rebellion. 🍬🍫❌🚫

___

Sylus had made a grave mistake. A mistake so cruel, so unforgivable, that Luke, Kieran, and even Mephisto the crow saw no other choice but to take extreme measures.

He had banned them from eating too much sugar.

The betrayal stung deep. The twins had stared at Sylus in horror when he confiscated their chocolate bars, his cold, merciless voice ringing in their ears. “You’ve had enough for today.”

Enough? *Enough?*

Mephisto, perching dramatically on the back of a chair, had let out an offended caw, wings flaring in outrage. Even he, a majestic bird of darkness, would not stand for such injustice.

So they did the only logical thing.

They ran away.

To your house. 💀

You had just settled down with a book when your door burst open, nearly flying off its hinges. Before you could process what was happening, Luke and Kieran had thrown themselves onto your couch, dramatically sprawled out like two tragic heroes. Mephisto, meanwhile, gracefully landed on your shoulder, letting out a low, mournful caw as if the weight of the world rested on his tiny feathered soul.

You blinked. “Uh. Are you guys okay?”

“Sylus…” Luke wheezed.

“…has forsaken us,” Kieran finished, throwing an arm over his face.

Mephisto solemnly nibbled on your ear, adding to the dramatics.

You frowned. “What did he do?”

“He took our chocolate,” Luke whispered, voice filled with betrayal.

Kieran clutched his chest. “Said we couldn’t have too much sugar.”

You stared at them. “Oh.”

Mephisto cawed once more, clearly expecting you to share in their devastation.

You…tried to be sympathetic. You really did. But the sight of them looking like they had just survived a war over candy was too much.

“So let me get this straight,” you said. “You guys ran all the way here… because Sylus won’t let you binge-eat sugar?”

“YES.”

“Absolutely.”

Mephisto fluffed up, glaring at an invisible Sylus in the distance.

“…You guys are so dramatic.”

Before they could argue, another knock came at the door—this time, polite.

You sighed. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

The twins let out exaggerated gasps, clutching each other. Mephisto’s beady eyes locked onto the door as if Sylus himself was a harbinger of doom.

“YOU CAN’T MAKE US GO BACK!” Kieran cried.

Luke grabbed your hand. “YOU WON’T BETRAY US, RIGHT? WE’RE SAFE HERE.”

“I—what???”

The door opened, revealing none other than Sylus. He stood there with his usual deadpan expression, arms crossed, looking every bit the disappointed parent.

“…You ran away over candy?” he asked flatly.

The twins didn’t answer.

Mephisto let out the weakest, most *pathetic* caw you had ever heard, flopping against your head like he had just *perished* from heartbreak.

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Come on,” he sighed. “Time to go home.”

“No,” Kieran said.

“Never,” Luke added.

Mephisto made a defiant *honk* noise that wasn’t even a proper caw.

Sylus stared at them. Then, his lips curled ever so slightly into a smirk.

“Alright,” he said casually. “Then I guess I’ll just have to leave without you guys. And without your bestie.”

“…Huh?” You blinked in confusion.

Sylus tilted his head. “Well.... If they came back, you’d have a sleepover at our place.”

You whipped your head toward the twins. “Excuse me???”

Luke and Kieran sat up SO FAST, their betrayal immediately forgotten.

“WE GET A SLEEPOVER?”

Sylus nodded. “If you come back now, and this bestie of yours will join us too”

You stared at them. You have GOT to be kidding me.

The twins turned to each other. Then to Mephisto, who gave them a slow, wise blink, as if saying "It is time, brothers".

Without hesitation, they *IMMEDIATELY* ran to Sylus, completely abandoning their rebellion.

“LET’S GO HOME.”

“YEAH, SLEEPOVER NIGHT!”

Mephisto flapped after them, no doubt already scheming which shiny objects to steal from your pockets later.

You just stood there, dumbfounded.

“…Did I just get sold out for a sleepover?”

Sylus just smirked, reaching out to grab your wrist. “Let’s go. You belong to us now.”

“…Wow.”

As you were dragged off, you swore you heard Mephisto cackle.

[chaossensitive]

There were times when Sonic would try to watch his tone or words around certain people. Not as much as he used to, but that had been when he first met Cream and had been trying his best not to instill bad habits in the young rabbit. Mainly because her mother scared the crap out of him at times.

GUN was a different story. From what he had gotten from Shadow when he worked for them as an agent and his own encounters, the organization left a sour taste in the hero’s mouth. But to know they were keeping a kid there for Chaos only knew the reason.

No. He was not going to sugar coat his opinion or words.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Maybe he could even talk to Omega. Hedgehog to Mech about not taking the boy back there. It was worth a shot. “I’m guessing ya already know who I am, but since I’m sure there’s already a Sonic here. Ya can call me Aether.”

For now, they could just focus on the sunshine and the forest around them. With the amount of distance he put between them, Aether was sure it would be a few hours before they even managed to get close. “So ya like to draw, huh?”

Andie's ears perked up, a curious look on the kid's face. That was a slightly different reaction. Of course Andie was used to people being upset or angry on his behalf but... the way Sonic expressed it was different.

It oddly made the preteen feel safe, and in a way reminded him of Omega. There wasn't an attempt at restraint or hiding facts from him just because he was a kid.

The kid couldn't help but give a smile back as he grabbed Sonic's hand. "Yeah. They'll see I'm gone soon." If the camera being damage didn't alert them that something was wrong right away, the broken door and empty room sure would.

"Um... We'll probably get found." Eventually. Omega always found Andie, not that the golden hedgehog understood how that was possible. But they at least had speed on their side at the moment. The robot would take awhile to get to them if they ran far enough. "Omega always finds me."

[flowerparadise]

welp.... *smacks knees* now that I'm unemployed again I can finally get back into having free time

[etapereine]

Tadej Pogačar & Jonas Vingegaard + Hands (2024 edition)

2024 Tour de France, Stage 1 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 2 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 7

2024 Tour de France, Stage 11 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 11 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 11

2024 Tour de France, Stage 12 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 15 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 15

2024 Tour de France, Stage 16 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 17 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 18

2024 Tour de France, Stage 19 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 20 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 20

2024 Tour de France, Stage 20 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 20 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 20

2024 Tour de France, Stage 21 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 21 | 2024 Tour de France, Stage 21

2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony

2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony

2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony | 2024 Tour de France, Podium Ceremony

[alienssstufff]

*cracking knuckles*

Too busy to do anything refined yet too excited to keep the idea to just my brain fiddling around with the concept - they b animal crossing happy home >u<

I blame the cute SL logo and teeny tiny starter bases for this

[bumblydumbly]

Crazy how people buy into the ‘Vander and Vi hero, Silco and Jinx villain’ thing like the writers didnt try so hard to tell you its not even close to being that simple

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

I was not expecting to cross off another square of @batmanisagatewaydrug's book bingo early, but oops I ended up spending all morning reading Icebreaker by A.L. Graziadei.

I went into it knowing like, nothing at all besides there being hockey and romance, and I was not expecting to come out of it crying and yet I did.

It centers Mickey James III, a 17 year old college student and hockey player who will be drafted for the NHL within a year or so, and his rival Jaysen Caulfield, and how their rivalry develops into something romantic.

But it's also about depression and strained family relationships and what happens when a 10 year old kid has to move away from his family because of a sports opportunity and the weight of a legacy, and even though my life is nothing like Mickey's, it was hard not to see myself in him when the book delved into his depression.

I'd say it's maybe one of the better explorations of depression I've read in anything or even seen in anything. I didn't realise the target age range until the book did the equivalent of fading to black where a sex scene would be, but now knowing it targets a younger audience, I think it tackles depression and anxiety in a way that will be both relatable and digestible for teens.

Also, the friendship between Nova and Mickey was just so incredibly accurate to teenage friendship. I just need to put that somewhere because damn if it wasn't genuinely very immersive.

My only criticism would be the ending feeling a little rushed in a way where it felt like the book was speeding through to try and get to a happy ending.

But besides that, it was a really fun read. I'd totally recommend it if it sounds like your kind of book.

And since apparently I decided I wanted to end everyone of these with a quote from the book:

"Coming back from an existential bathroom crisis into a conversation about death and space corpses. Not how I expected my Thursday night to go."

[fadewalking]

okay one comment bc i don't want to focus on anything sad, i'd rather just be happy and have fun tbh so

im not surprised, personally, at the layoffs and the effective end to dragon age. I was never into Mass Effect, really. So this seems like a goodbye for me to Bioware. Without the promise of new content, this place (the rp community) will eventually fade overtime without renewal, and that is something we're all going to have to contend with eventually. It's sad, it's maybe infuriating. Loss is apart of life, not to be too melodramatic about it.

So, for me, I'm just going to enjoy the time we have now where everyone is super active again. And we're going to have fun and write good stories and maybe think of our own future directions for the characters. oh and we're definitely gonna make the blorbos kiss.