#clean grout off tile

[bambiesfics]

Cock in a Gloryhole - Ellie x reader

𝜗𝜚 Author’s notes ✦ public sex, reader deepthroating Ellie’s cock (strap-on), Ellie cums untouched, Ellie yearns for readers lips, very hyper-sexual descriptions. Ellie’s strap is almost exclusively referred to as a cock/dick/etc, pining, missed connection. This is a filthy fic.

Ellie’s a slutty gay and very judgmental.

!!! [please help palestine] !!!

kisses u. ⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡.

Ellie slid her converse off of the toilet handle. The brazen girl fished for her pants’ zipper. She held her cock in one hand, and fought with the zipper with the other. The cheap metal wasn’t fastening over the straps on her hips, it was catching on her harness. “Jesus fuck. Now? Seriously?”

She rolled her eyes and smoothed her bangs down. After a few beats, the bored brunette circled the stall, then slumping against the chipped navy door. Cock in hand, balls barely zipped up. She chuckled to herself, there was probably some stupid fucking metaphor for that out there somehwere. She wasn’t going to step out like that, with the veins of her dick saying “hi” over her half zipped pants? Fuck. No. It wasn’t in the cards. But the zip wasn’t budging. Ellie felt a scowl forming; The kid was pissed. She didn’t have time for this, not now. Not when there was a gorgeous service teller at the center that she’d been mentally undressing for the better part of her visit. A woman who belonged on her knees, in front of Ellie. A woman with the perfect mouth to suck dick clean. Ellie toe’d her converses on the dirty grout lines hatch marked across the tile floor. The repetition of it lulled her into a meditation as she contemplated how to escape this awkward mess she somehow tripped headfirst into. Getting into awkward shit like this was her forté, but the benefits of packing far outweighed the headaches.

The stall next to her swung open, the clacking heels were rhythmic and sharp. Feminine little steps. A woman sat down, and did her business as she hummed. Ellie scaled her eyes along the bathroom wall that separated her and the lady. The wall was grotty. Old and well worn from years of servicing and decades of business. The maintenance was abysmal on its best day, and it made for a pleasant surprise when Ellie’s eyes zero’d in on the hole carved out haphazardly. There were still pieces of drywall sticking out past the lament of duck tape all around the hole. Ellie chuckled grimily, just high enough that the woman paused her rustling once the realization that she wasn’t alone had settled. The prick-fucking developers who were responsible for this project definitely forgot to remodel this bathrooms stalls’ when they added a new male bathroom to the bottom floor of the building. The little glory hole had a glaring missing chunk of ‘wall’ from its separation of the two stalls, and it’d had that for years from the looks of it. It had a bunch of old thin splinters of amber oak and drywall sticking out. The eyesore pointed to the empty hole like a pair of flashing neon arrows pointing to a seedy Las Vegas strip club.

Ellie doubted it got used much, if at all. If any of the prissy women who sat down to release themselves understood why there was a giant fucking hole the size of a two baseballs stacked vertically in their bathroom stall. Nah, Ellie mused. They definitely just kept their gaze straight ahead if they noticed anything amiss. A prim attempt at respecting the other woman’s privacy. Except, the irony was in the fact that, the point of that hole carved in the wall, the hole yelling “FUCK ME,” was to trample all over another stranger’s privacy. To proclaim yourself a king with a heavy cock and see if they’d submit to it.

Ellie stroked her cock, squeezing the base then working her way to the tip, warming it up in her hands. She unzipped the rest of her pants, and let the balls spring free. The balls dropped a little past the zipper, it took the edge off the pressure in her leather jeans. Mmm, now this felt right.

She took a tentative step forward, debating her next step. But then she rolled her anxiety off her back. Undulating those fast twitch muscles that lined her back to stretch and warm, to relax. It wasn’t that serious. Call it “part of the plot,” call it whatever you want. But what Ellie wanted to do was going to be insanely amusing. She needed the amusement if she was gonna be stuck here until her zipper decided to cooperate. Ellie’s converses padded to the wall, it’s toe box lined up with the bottom of it. Nosing against the edge. She lined up her cock with the glory hole and slowly fed the hole inches of her cock, until she bottomed out and her balls were trapped between her hairy pelvis and the wall. She held her breath. Her palms scaled the wall. The woman on the other side gasped, Ellie could only imagine how she clutched her hand to her chest and scrambled to pull her bag up over her shoulder. Ready to run to building security and report the “creep” in the ladies bathroom stall. The creep was Elizabeth “I <3 pussy” Williams with her cock fucking a glory hole. This would make for a hilarious prank to joke about with Jessie later. Jesse would think Ellie was bustin’ his balls, making up some new lie to fuck with his head. And she’d revel in the way his face would drain of colour once he realized she wasn’t.

Ellie grasped the base of her cock and lifted it up a little bit, practically taunting “yoohoo!” With the motion. Letting her heavy shaft say “hi” to the poor woman who was facing it head-on. She grinned again, and prepared herself to tuck her dick back in her pants like a good boy and behave.

But then she heard clothes rustling, and the tug she felt on her harness made her eyes fly open. Her heart rate picked up. Blood was rushing in Ellie’s head. She didn’t actually expect a sweet lady to open up her lips and suck her off. But the eager lips on the other side, started sucking her cockhead before she could process it. The woman bubbled saliva onto Ellie’s tip to aid in the lubrication. Then the lady sucked Ellie’s fat cock in all the way to the hilt, until her nose bumped the soft skin shove Ellie’s groin. All that could be seen were puffy red lips and the tip of the girl's nose. But it made Ellie fucking sprung. Her mind was clouded with raging lust as the moans of “…fuck baby..” whimpered from Ellie’s lips. The rest of the sentence would’ve concluded with “…I didn’t expect you to actually blow me.” If Ellie could think straight.

The girl on the other side of the stall was enthusiastic to have cock in her mouth. She was sucking up and down Ellie’s full length. Using her sloppy saliva to help her lips slide up and down the length. Ellie shoved her pelvis into the wall until both of her hip bones were bruised and beat grinding against the wall. She was greedy to feel more suction. Ellie’s chubby cock had a puffy head, and a fat veiny shaft. Her cock was the color of obsidian, just like Ellie’s harness. And her wrinkly fat balls held her squishy testes. The ones she forced all girls to palm for reality’s sake. For all intents and purposes; this was Ellie’s fucking cock. And so she could feel it when the woman on the other side gagged on her dick so eagerly, it was as if she was desperate for Ellie to paint her throat in warm cum.

Ellie started moaning the more she heard the woman on the other side gag on her. She could just imagine the way her dick was creating an imprint in her throat, sliding down and bulging. Ellie was large, she’d seen her do that to a girl before. She couldn’t help but whimper at the image of a sweet girl impaling her dainty throat around Ellie’s thick piece, in a seedy business bathroom. God what a beautiful fucking piece of ass must on the other side of the stall. A girl with the lips of a killer, sloppy and greedy. Hungry to suck off a creep. Probably with a perfect vagina to match; a hole just as sloppy, just as greedy. A hole only fit for a King to thrust into. Good thing Ellie thought of herself as a King too. Ellie decided, as she watched your red lips deepthroat her length, that the very moment the girl on her knees was done digging her tongue into Ellie’s cock slit, she’d knock down the door of the stall you were in, and ram into your glossy pussy over the toilet. You would coat Ellie’s cock in the sticky saliva held inside your puffy little hole too. Two sets of lips for Ellie to abuse.

Ellie bit her fist to prevent herself from choking out a moan. God. You popped your lips off, and stroked up Ellie’s dick with your little fist. Up and down and up and down, before you put it back in your mouth to deepthroat one more time. You wanted to nose against the pale girl's skin again, feel her bush tickle the tip of your nose. Smell the soft patch of hair, the salt of her skin. The sexy art of her bush and happy trail. Ellie yelled out a hoarse “Fuck-k!” And you could tell she came. She soaked her black Klein boxers. Maybe she came from those eager motions grinding her harness against her swollen pink clit. Or maybe she came untouched, hole spasming scarily just because of how aroused Ellie was by you. You placed a gentle kiss on her cockhead with your red lips. Ellie bit down her fist, hard. She broke skin, and drew blood.

If you could’ve, you would’ve loved to have Ellie’s real cum dribbling down your tongue instead. You stood up to pull your panties flush against your plump cunt. Finished with your prior business. There was slick dripping in between all of your puffy folds, and you knew your panties would stay wet the entire rest of the day from just the way they were suctioned to your cunt alone.

You stepped out to wash your hands, heels clacking with an air of comportment. You waited for the girl whose cock you inhaled, to come out of the stall and address you. But she never came. Her back was pressed against the wall. Instead she slid down to collect herself. So you fixed your blouse, hid your cleavage, touched up your smeared lipstick after rubbing it all off on Ellie, and massaged your nipples so they wouldn’t poke so prominently through your blouse. You shimmied in your tight skirt and clacked out of the bathroom. Leaving the girl hiding in the stall, to catch her breath and will the staccato of her heartbeat away. Ellie wasn’t new to coming untouched, but coming from the visuals and motion of a stranger sucking her cock clean? That — that was a new one. She gulped and adjusted her boxers, because fucking Christ, they were heavily soaked from her own slick. With shaky hands the pale girl fished for her leather pants zipper. Pleading with the bitchy, cheap, metallic hardware over and over, until it finally pulled all the way up.

A rapid river of relief washed over Ellie, she couldn’t afford to be stuck in there anymore. Ellie stumbled out of the washroom, hoping to find you. She snapped her head back and forth, then stumbled around in circles trying to catch a flash of sloppy red lips. She thought of going to people and asking if they’d seen a lady with puffy red lips strut by. But then thought better of it. The idea sounded dumb as rocks, even to her own horned-out brain. Ellie rubbed her cock through her pants, feeling phantom sucks from memory. You were burned in her brain, forget the cute teller from earlier. You were her new Madonna, her new whore.

In your honour, she’d stroke her g-spot to a hot strap blowjob video tonight, to keep the memory of your filthy cocksucking mouth fresh.

Ellie hoped if there ever was a next time in that glory hole for her, that you’d line your little greedy hole right up in front of the glory hole in the stall, so Ellie could make you drip your cream down her cock. She’d love to pull her dick out of you, just to marvel at the beautiful rings of milk wrapped around her veiny shaft from your own sopping cunt. Ellie savored the idea of the screams she’d rip out of you, the cries and pleads you’d wail for her ears only. She’d rip you apart, and that would be the fucking cherry on top of her fucking birthday cake.

If she got the cake, she’d love to write “Ellie ‘Hung’ Williams” on the face of it just for shits.

[thefreakandthehair]

The tile floor is disgusting. 

Not Starcourt disgusting, but disgusting all the same. Grime build-up colors the grout lines, the back of his head is damp from condensation that drips down the sink he’s resting against, and there’s a damp spot beneath his left calf that he sincerely hopes is just the aftermath of someone washing their hands. A single lightbulb hangs in the center of the ceiling, dim but not flickering. 

Thank God, it’s not flickering.

It’s not the place to have a meltdown— he knows it’s not— but rationality is just the latest in the ever- growing list of things fighting the Upside Down took from him. After all, the dingy basement bathroom of a stranger’s house party is better than the densely populated living room of a stranger’s house party. 

He wishes Robin was with him, but he can’t bring himself to tear her away from the first real party she’s enjoyed. It’s not her fault that crowds set him on edge these days, or that he can’t stand the feeling of unfamiliar bodies pressing against him anymore, or that small talk about how humid it’s been lately makes him want to rip his hair out because how can anyone possibly give a fuck about the weather when the world nearly ended six months ago? No one outside of the group he’s come with gets it and he wonders if even in that group, even with the people he’s bled with, if he’s an outlier. 

No one saw him sneak down here.

He’s not expecting anyone to come looking for him. 

He should’ve known better. 

“Steve?” A voice whispers from outside the door. “Steve, it’s me. Open the door.” 

Robin. Of course. 

Steve drags a hand down his face, hovering near his nose where his fingers tremble at the bridge, and lets out a deep exhale before reaching over and unlocking the door. 

Wordlessly, he rights himself against the sink again as Robin locks the door behind her and sits cross-legged next to him. Silence sits with them, a welcome guest now with Robin’s comforting presence, her head tipping to lean on his shoulder and his falling to rest on hers. 

They sit like this for long moments, silence and the scent of Robin’s strawberry shampoo grounding him in the present. There’s no emergency, no threat, not when Robin is safe and clean and warm right next to him. 

Finally, he breaks the stillness. “You don’t have to sit here, you can go back to the party. It’s fucking gross down here.” 

“It’s way more gross upstairs without you there.”

“Oh c’mon, everyone’s up there. Eddie, Nancy, Argyle, Jonathan. Vickie.” He looks down and grins, one eyebrow quirked up. 

Robin rolls her eyes playfully and gently elbows him in the side. “Shut up, oh my God. She’ll be there when we go back up or I can call her tomorrow. Besides, she’s with Nancy and Jonathan looking for you.” 

“Looking for me? Fuck, I didn’t think anyone would notice—”

Robin pats his thigh and cuts him off. “It’s fine, they all know you’re okay but we just didn’t wanna leave you alone in the Brain Tornado.” 

“Brain Tornado?” Steve asks. 

“Argyle’s words, not mine. But it’s fitting, don’t you think?” 

Steve contemplates for a few seconds, considering the years worth of fighting and hoping and living that spin him around in untethered and unpredictable circles. 

“Yeah, yeah it is.” Steve sighs. “How’d you know where I was anyways?” 

“I know you.” Robin says, simple and matter of fact, as if it’s not the best response he could’ve gotten. She readjusts her position to stretch out both legs in front of her and Steve reminds himself that they’re both in jeans and not Scoops uniforms. 

“I just don’t know how to fucking relate to people anymore, Rob. And the crowds, if something were to happen and I couldn’t get to the bat in my trunk fast enough, or get to you or Nancy or Eddie—”

“Hey, it’s okay, we’re all okay,” Robin rubs her thumb in soothing circles into his bicep with her opposite hand. “We’re safe. We won. It’s gone.” 

She says this like an oath and Steve wants to swear to it. It’s just hard. 

“I know. But it’s still… I don’t know. This huge thing happened and no one else knows, so we’re in this sea of people who have no idea we all nearly died six months ago? And they look at me like I’m still Party King Steve Harrington when that guy did eat it three years ago.” His heart begins to slow and he sighs, less anxious and more confused. 

“I’m not gonna pretend I know what to say to that because you’re right, but there are at least five other people here right now who get it. And we’re the lucky sons of bitches, getting to know the Real Steve Harrington anyways.”

Steve can’t help the delicate thing that blooms in his chest when he’s reminded of the odd little family he’s built around himself. Or, in some cases, that forcibly built themselves around him. 

“Besides,” Robin smirks and Steve immediately knows what’s coming, telepathic communication and all. “Some people upstairs really like the Real Steve Harrington. And he might be going a little insane looking for you outside with Argyle.” 

“Shut up, oh my God.” He mimics her tone from earlier and drapes an arm around her shoulders, his voice softening. “We’ll go up in a few minutes?” 

He doesn’t need to say it. Steve knows Robin hears what he means. 

Just a few more minutes with you, and then I can face the world. 

happy (sorta belated) birthday to @stobinesque! I know I already sent this so it's not technically late but the last couple days have been a little wild so I'm just late to posting. <333

[widowbitessting]

Sugar Mommies Season 2, Pt:6

Polite Reminder That All My Work - Especially For Sugar Mommies - Is 18+! Minors Do Not Interact.

“Hey darling, are you busy?”

You look up at Carol with a glare, pink barbie toothbrush in your sweaty palm; white bristles blackened from the grout you were being made to clean. 

You bite back the urge to swear at her, instead opting to force a toothy smile to your face. 

“Not really no, why?”

Carol, ever so smug, leans against the door frame with her arms crossed. 

“Are you sure, kitten? You seemed hard at work when I came in.”

“What do you want, Carol?” You can’t help the bite in your words. 

You’re really not in the mood.

“Oh stop pouting, princess; you earned this punishment yourself.”

She may have a point there. 

Carol continues on, “I warned you not to push me. And what did you do?”

“I didn’t listen, obviously.”

“Lose the attitude or I’ll have you clean the sidewalk too.”

“…sorry.”

A raised eyebrow makes you continue your apology. 

“Sorry Captain, I’ll stop being a brat.”

“There’s my good girl.” Carol crouches in front of you, balancing perfectly on the tip of her toes. You really have to fight the temptation to push her over. 

God. Your inner brat is thriving. 

“Tell me, my good thing. When do your classes finish?”

You brush some loose strands of hair from your glistening forehead. 

“Finish? For break?” 

“No love, when do you finish for the weekend?” 

“Oh!” 

“And did I say you could stop working? You’re still in your punishment, darling.” 

You automatically go back to scrubbing, pushing the bristles of the toothbrush into the cracks between the tiles a little more harder than needed.

“Answer the question, baby. I know that dumb brain struggles to comprehend simple questions sometimes but c’mon; I know you can do it.” 

“I…” You have to wrack your brain to think, “Wednesday. I think. I’m sure my Friday classes are cancelled.” 

“Think you can find out before the end of the day for me baby girl?” 

You look up at Carol and nod. 

“Sure. Why the rush?”

“I’m thinking of whisking you away after your last class until Monday. Does that sound good?” 

“A holiday?” 

“A mini one, yes.” 

You jump up and grab Carol into a hug, toothbrush clattering to the floor behind you.

She wraps her arms firmly around you.

“Where are we going?” 

“Do you really want me to tell you or do you want it to be a surprise?”

You don’t do well with surprises. 

At all.

“Just tell me!” You pause. “Please.” 

“Such a good girl, using her manners.” Carol presses a kiss to your nose. “I’m taking you to go and see Nat and Wanda.” 

You squeal so loudly you’re sure only dogs can hear it. 

Carol seems to be prepared for it as she doesn’t wince, instead choosing to grin down at you. 

You’re all but vibrating with excitement.

“We’re going to see them?!”

“Yes, sugar. Thought the news would cheer you up. Get you to stop pouting.”

“I wasn’t…” You trail off, fighting the urge to push out your bottom lip.

“Yes you were, my darling. Such a pouty little baby, hmm?”

She’s doing this deliberately. 

You’re already in trouble - your current predicament proves this - and Carol probably has another two, if not three, punishments already thought out. 

You’re really stumped at how to reply. 

Mercifully, Carol decides she has toyed with you enough.

“How about this: the sooner you finish your punishment, the sooner you can speak to Natasha and Wanda. I’m about to go and call them to discuss our trip…it’d be a shame if you were too busy pouting and being grumpy to speak to them, wouldn’t it?” 

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Get scrubbing, little girl.” 

“But I’ve only done half!” 

“Scrub fast.” 

She leaves you and the bathroom and you can only stare after her.

A second later, you hear her shout, “They have a present for you too, bunny!”

You perk up at the mere mention of a gift. 

“A present?” You call out, peering out of the doorway as Carol saunters away.

“Mhm. although, if you’re not there on the call with them then they might just return it…” 

You know she’s lying.

Heck, a toddler would be able to tell she’s lying. 

“You’re bluffing.” 

Carol turns to look at you. 

Her face is smug. 

So.

Freaking.

Smug.

“Try me sugar; see where that gets you.”

*

It’s safe to say, you never want to clean grout ever again. 

Your knees are throbbing, back sore like an 80 year old woman who's worked every day of her life; and you’ve cracked enough nails to know that Carol can pay for your next manicure appointment. 

You might even throw a pedicure and a chiropractic appointment in there too. 

But does that stop you barrelling out of the bathroom at full speed, with the toothbrush clattering behind you?

No. 

It does not. 

When you stumble into the room, Carol is saying her goodbyes and is about to press the hang up button.

“I’m here!”

“Timing on that, baby girl; you almost lost your present.”

You go to tear her phone from her hand but Carol moves it just out of your reach.

“Say please.”

“Please, Captain.”

“Good girl,” she pecks your cheek and hands you the phone. “You talk to them and I’ll inspect your work. Make sure you didn’t cheat and take any shortcuts.”

“I’m offended you’d ever assume I’d do that.”

The smirk on your face makes Carol roll her eyes and tap your nose. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay! The bathroom is glistening.” You say. “Take your shoes off!”

The faint “No!” has you giggling as you place Carol’s phone against your ear.

“Hi!”

“Well hello, naughty girl.” Natasha’s voice fills your ear. 

Your smile is officially cemented to your face. 

“I -”

There really isn’t any point in denying it.

“Yeah.”

Natasha tuts at you. 

“My, my, what are we going to do with you, hmm? A good grout scrubbing is a fairly decent punishment…but I know for a fact if I asked you to FaceTime us right now…you’d be smiling. You haven’t learnt your lesson, have you, kitten?”

“…I have…kind of.”

“Mhm. That really is believable.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Then switch this to a FaceTime kitten. Prove me wrong.” 

Those final three words really are like the nail in your coffin. 

They grate down your bratty side, taunting and teasing you, and it makes your eye twitch. 

There’s no denying that Natasha did it purposely. 

In fact, you know she did. 

She knows how it works on you. 

Knows that you’ll be her good little submissive and do as she says.

Natasha knows you better than yourself at times.

Which is why, the second you press the FaceTime icon on the screen, you know you’ve made a huge mistake.

Natasha’s perfectly beautiful face comes into view, as does Wanda’s.

You can see them.

And they can see you.

Your eyes automatically lower in submission, smile sliding off your face. 

It doesn’t go unmissed by Natasha, eyebrow raising slightly as a smug smirk forms on her lips.

“Well, hello there, little brat.” 

“Hi…”

“Use my title.”

Your brain takes a second to buffer.

“Your…huh?” You risk a peek up and quickly look away again.

“My title. Just like I trained you to do.”

“...daddy.”

“Now use it in a sentence. Go on, kitten.” 

“..hi daddy.”

“There we go, pet. That wasn’t so hard now was it?” Natasha says, “we miss you, pumpkin.” 

All humiliation is quickly forgotten.

“I miss you two, too.” 

“But we will see you soon!” Wanda shouts, jumping up and down. “Wednesday, Carol says.”

“That’s in like 3 days!” You let out an excited squeal and flop down onto the bed, your h/c hair fanning out around your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.” 

“Well there might be something to help…ease your tension, baby girl.” Natasha says. “Check under the bed for me?” 

You had completely forgotten about the gift.

“Oh!” 

You leave them on the bed as you dive underneath, snatching the gift bag before resurfacing with it clamped tightly in your hands. 

“I love presents!” 

“We know you do, baby.” Natasha smiles.

“Open it, I can’t wait to see what you think!” Ever Wanda the impatient one. 

You tear into, gift paper soaring over your head and as you reach into the bag, you tilt your head in confusion. 

“What is it?”

You inspect the wrapped package.

“It’s a toy.” Natasha says.

“A toy?” 

Looking back at this moment, you’re ashamed of how long it takes your brain to connect the dots and figure out what kind of toy it is. 

“What? Like a My Little Pony?” 

“No but it’s something else you can ride.” Wanda says with such a straight face, her joke washes over you.

“Oookay…” 

You tear the paper open and all but drop the box as if it electrocutes you, when your eyes see the word ‘g-spot’. 

“Oh my god.”

You’re red. Blushing crimson as you hastily cover your face and let out an embarrassed laugh. 

“You owe me $5.” Wanda says smugly. “I knew she wouldn’t act cocky.”

“Is that what I think it is?” You mumble, still hiding behind your hands.

“A sex toy?” Natasha says. “Yes, yes it is. We want you to try it out for us. Now.” 

That makes you peek up through your fingers. 

“Now?” 

“Yes, baby. Now. We haven’t had the time to play with you in so long. We miss you.” 

“I - I miss you but, on camera?” 

“You can do that for us, can’t you?” Natasha is staring at you. “If you’re uncomfortable, remember your signals, my love.”

“I - I’m okay, I just…”

“Shy?” Wanda asks. 

You look at the toy again and can’t help but smile in embarrassment. 

“...yeah…” 

“It’s just us, baby girl.” Wanda says. “You’re with us, you’re safe.” 

“Why don’t you open the box, hmm?” Natasha suggests, “have a look at what we got you.”

Your hands are shaking. 

Because why wouldn’t they?

The item is pink. 

Soft to touch, incredibly soft in fact. 

You keep the toy on your lap, so the two women watching you intently can’t see it.

“It’s big.” 

“It’ll fit, don’t worry. Once you’re worked up and ready to take it, it’ll fit.” 

“Can you read the name out for me?” Natasha asks.

You quickly look up and meet their eyes. 

“Why?”

“Because I’m selfish and I love to see my baby girl blush, that’s why.”

You push your face into your hands in an attempt to hide. 

“The G -” 

“Nu-uh.” Natasha stops you. “Let us see that beautiful face.” 

You shake your head.

“No?” 

You shake your head again.

“Look at me and say no. Go on, detka.” 

“I…can’t.”

“And why not?” 

“‘Cos…” 

“Wow, such a good reply. Stumped us there, baby girl.” Wanda’s reply makes you smirk, even though you try your hardest not to. 

“Now you’re ignoring orders?” Natasha’s voice wipes the smirk clean off your face. “Look at me and repeat what you said. Last chance, Y/N.”

“Hey!” Your head snaps up and you shoot the redhead a glare before quickly looking away. “Don’t full name me!” 

“She just did, sugar. Answer her. Now.”

You - somehow - manage to drag your eyes to Natasha and for one brief second, you hold her gaze.

And then quickly look down. 

Submitting. 

“That’s what I thought.” Natasha licks her lips. “Now show your doms your beautiful face so we can see that pretty little blush.”

You do as you’re told, even if your bottom lip is sticking out a little. 

“There she is.” Natasha smiles. “Our blushing beauty.” 

“I’m not b -” You sigh. “Okay, fine, I am.”

“And we love it.” Wanda says. “Think you can read it out for us?”

“Signal in, detka.” Natasha orders. 

“Green…I’m just…”

“Shy, we know, my love, we know. But you’re okay. If you don’t want to read it out you don’t have to.” 

“I want to. Believe me, I do.”

“Go for it then, sweetie. At your own pace.” 

“The…um…the G-Spot Massager…” 

“God, you’re such a good girl.” Natasha coos. “You did so well for us, honey.” 

“Do you think you wanna try it out for us?” Wanda asks. 

You meet their eyes.

“Yes.” 

[alldevilsarehere90]

Title: It's all tears Pairing: Daryl x Reader Summary: ‘This ain’t working’ are not the ideal words to hear in regards to your fairly new relationship. Setting: Alexandria Genre: SFW, Angst, Fluff, Ever so slightly suggestive if you squint and close one eye, Drabble. Word Count: 800 A/n: This was just a cute little idea that I had to get down and wrote on the way to work.

“This ain’t working.”

You heard the words, you'd taken them in and now they just bounced around aimlessly inside your head, while your eyes stayed trained on the tiled floor of the kitchen. 

He continued talking but you couldn’t listen, you didn’t want to hear the excuses, so you focused on the only thing in front of you. 

The grouting could really do with a clean, you’ll have to get the mop out later and run it over the floor once everyone’s in bed. It’s shocking really, the amount of dirty boots that trek their way through this kitchen with no concern over who cleans it. Everyone is probably waiting for Carol to volunteer.

“Did ya hear me?” Daryl’s voice smashes through your attempt at ignoring the current conversation, causing you to forget all concern over the dirty floor.

You nod in response, hands wringing in your lap, unsure how to respond and unable to swallow the lump you feel thick and heavy in your throat.

As far as you were concerned, Daryl walked on water; he was the sun, the moon and the stars and all that lies in-between, he was your everything. To say that this shocked you was an understatement, you simply had not seen this coming. You had believed the feelings between you to be mutual but now, as you sit here repeating those words in your mind, you find a thousand memories rushing through your head, looking at them in a completely different light. 

Did you perhaps have the wrong idea this whole time? Did you read all his actions completely wrong just to give yourself false hope of something real between you.

“y/n,” he said into the thick silence. 

You fidget on the dining chair you sat in and clasp your hands together so tight your nails were leaving deep crescent moons in your skin, the pain gave you a distraction from the tears filling your eyes. “I-I thought that things between us, were-were going well, I-”

“Shit.” he mumbles, crossing the space from his place by the doorway and closing the distance between you. Slotting himself between your legs, his knuckle hooks under your chin and forces you to look up at him. An errand tear escapes and runs down your cheek, which he quickly wipes away with his thumb.

“Yer weren' listenin ta me?”

Frowning not understanding what he could mean, you repeated the words he’d said back to him. They sounded foreign coming out of you, knowing they would never leave your lips of their own accord.

“And wha 'bout after?”

You shook your head, a question in your gaze.

He squats down in front of you, his hand slides down to hold yours and big enough to contain them both, “I said, this ain’t working, I-I need ya ta come home ta me…every night,” he clears his throat, cheeks tinged pink, “I can’t sleep without ya next ta me no more.”

You felt like an idiot, how could you have assumed the negative so quickly after lecturing Daryl not to do exactly that. “What are you suggesting?” hope blossomed in your chest, knowing the words you wanted but praying to hear them from him.

Looking self consciously away from your gaze, his hold on your hands tighten. “Move in with me? In ma room, " his cheeks flush a deeper shade of red that you just want to lean over and kiss. "if yer want ta.”

Your chest erupts, heart thrumming a love song of its own as you throw your arms around his neck and bury your face into his neck. He wobbles under the sudden movement and his arm shoots round your waist at an attempt to steady you both. It fails however and knocks him off balance, sending him falling on his back and pulling you along with him. 

A burst of relieved laughter exits your body along with your breath as you slam into him, your chest flush to his. He laughs, watching your face and your giddy expression. 

“That a yes?” He asks, tucking hair behind your ear to stop it from concealing your face.

Nodding eagerly, his hand finds anchorage at the back of your neck and pulls you down to him, your mouth meeting in passionate exchange. You relish every moment of it, the softness of his lips, the way he tastes and the feel of him holding you so tight and secure. The reality hits that he is all yours, everyday and night; you can have this.

[letters-unsending]

No. 29

////

When Villain comes back with an the ice pack, he finds Hero on the floor. Crying.

////

Villain squeezed the pack in his hand and kept his eyes on the sink. He should just toss it. He should just leave.

Leave. He should’ve left the apartment as soon as he uncovered Hero’s identity, but rent isn’t cheap and he’s well-practiced at turning a blind eye to the things he needs to. His method of avoiding Hero had worked for months: don’t be in the living room when Hero returns, don’t ask about the bandages and bruises, don’t speak unless it’s about the house.

The ice pack burned his fingers as he glanced down at the floor, at anything but Hero. Blood flecked the bathmat and spilled along the tile and grout. Muddy footprints led to—perhaps he should mop.

Villain never recalled a mess like this before. Hero kept things clean. He wondered how many nights he had washed up blood. How many nights had he hunched over, clutching at his bloody stomach, and scrubbed dirt out of the living room carpet?

Villain looked at the sink again, then upwards at the mirror. The glass reflected his body, leaning like a apparition against the door frame, pale, lingering. Leave. He squeezed the ice pack harder. His heat had melted some of the frost; water dripped down his fingers. The ice pack fell. Onto the floor. Onto the dirt.

He should clean.

He should leave.

He kneeled into the blood and yanked the med kit from Hero’s trembling hands. With precision, with knowledge he should’ve never revealed, he set down what he needed in a neat row and grabbed Hero’s arm, readying a washcloth over his grimy skin.

“You don’t have to.” Hero muttered.

“I do. You’re leaving a mess,” Villain explained, rubbing ash out of Hero’s torn fingertips, “and it’s better if you’re not bleeding on the furniture.”

As he worked, he took a quick glance at Hero’s face. Hero curled his lip in attempt to stave off his grief, but his jaw quivered and his throat bobbed with an oncoming cry. Swallowing, he canted his head back into the wall. The clinical light of the bathroom clung to the sheen beneath his eyes and despite his swallowing and blinking, more tears slipped down his cheeks.

Another sob wracked through his chest, but as Hero attempted to shield his face with his arm, he carried Villain’s ministrations with it. Villain tugged back the arm and wrestled it back in place. Stunned, Hero’s crying stopped for a moment. He stared down at Villain with glassy eyes.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re getting dirt everywhere.”

Hero squinted down at his forearm, where Villain was dabbing the debris out of his wounds. His motions were meticulous, ginger in their slowness, and the pain ached but never turned sharp when he brushed over his split skin.

“You could get infected. And then you’d get sepsis, and then you’d die, and then there’d be no one to pay your half of the rent.” Villain blathered on, binding the largest cuts with gauze and medical tape. “Wound care is very important, especially when you always come home injured. What if you got tetanus or some disease?”

To which, Hero cried once more. Villain spluttered and dropped Hero’s arm.

“I knew you cared,” Hero sobbed, halfway hysterical.

“Stop.” Villain panicked. He took a clean disinfectant pad and scrubbed at Hero’s cheeks. “Stop crying. What the hell are you doing?”

“You always cook breakfast for me on the mornings after I get really beat up,” Hero cried and flailed out an arm, catching Villain’s bicep. “And you do the heavy housework when I’m hurt, even when it’s my turn to do it. It’s so nice. And you’ve—you’ve never been scared of me.” He gasped, short of breath from sobbing and speaking in the same breath. “And you never ask what I do. You never judge me even though I come home l-like this.”

“That’s normal human decency.” Villain focused on the cut on the bridge of Hero nose and wiped soot from beneath Hero’s eye. Hero blinked slowly as he cleaned, but instead of flinching away, he sunk lower into the wall, leaning bonelessly into the hold Villain had at the side of his jaw.

“It’s not. It’s not.” Hero readjusted his hand on Villain’s arm, his fingers picking at his shirtsleeve. “No one stays. No one helps.” The thought seemed to make Hero cry harder. Salt streams followed the tilt of his face as he tucked his cheek into Villain’s palm and wept. “Why doesn’t anybody stay?”

“Were you drugged?” Villain asked, quelling the urge to rip his hand away. It’s too intimate, too raw to have Hero’s tears running warm across his fingers. “Did you hit your head?” He dropped the cloth and reached around the back of Hero’s head to check for bumps. “You’re normally not this emotional.”

Hero’s upcoming sob turned into a low, pitching breath as Villain’s fingers brushed through the hair at his temple. “I got caught. They—I didn’t think I was going to make it out.” Guilt curdled in Villain’s sternum and Hero’s scalp seemed to turn scorching where he held it. “Backup never came. They left me.” He hiccuped, “they left me there. And then. Then they-.”

“You can’t tell me this.” Villain tugged Hero forward and cut off his words with a fierce hug. “Keep your secrets. I know whatever you do is important to you and that you need to keep quiet.” Don’t tell me what they did. I can’t bear to know what they did. “You’re in shock. You wouldn’t be like this otherwise.”

As Villain’s arms wrapped around him, Hero clutched at Villain, bumping his chin into the top of Villain’s head. He grasped at the curves of Villain’s shoulder blades. “They left me there,” he mumbled, “they left me.”

Villain leaned back, trying to slip out of the hug, but Hero fell as he shuffled away. His face knocked against Villain’s collar bone and Villain bumped into the cabinet behind them, slouching to catch their combined weight. Groaning, he steadied a hand over Hero’s spine.

“I need to clean the rest of your wounds.” He said, breathless. Their little tumble had exposed a collection of horizontal lacerations along Hero’s lower back and he averted his gaze, swallowing down a wave of nausea. Guilt licked up his throat and he stifled a gasp into Hero’s temple. “Come on,” Villain urged, “you need to rest.” He combed a weary hand through Hero’s hair, pleading. “we need to sleep.”

Hero sagged against Villain for a moment more. For a moment more, he was heat and sickening reality against Villain. For a moment more, Villain sunk into the cold tile, accepting Hero’s weight, accepting the gravity of his actions.

And then, Hero rose.

Hero rose and Villain tended to him. With a practiced hand, he bound the rest of his wounds. With an unpracticed hand, he left Hero’s back for last and shook as he cleaned up his raw, raised skin. When he finished, he tidied up the medical supplies and picked up the melted ice pack from the floor.

“I’ll get you a new ice pack,” he whispered and even quiet, the sound felt grating in the silence that had come to surround them, “and I’ll clean this all up. Go to bed. I’ll drop some ibuprofen off once I’m done.”

Before Hero turned to leave, he glanced at the blood stains on Villain’s shirt.

“I’m doing laundry this week.”

“Alright,” Villain sighed, “but do it on Thursday. We need to watch our water bill this month.”

[merakiui]

thinking about a concept in which you clean houses of the rich and famous. you've yet to meet the homeowner. often, a servant or housekeeper greets you in place of the owner themselves. or no one's home and your payment is simply left in an envelope on a countertop, along with a list of instructions. it's a job that pays well and has little to no social interaction. it's perfect and peaceful.

but then, while cleaning one particular house, you find a door locked tight. every space is accessible to you; it must be in order for you to clean it. so the fact that this one is sealed up, protected with a strange assortment of locks, has you raising an eyebrow. you explain it away with a shrug, assuming that it's probably protecting something valuable. besides, this is the home of someone wealthy, and if the expensive abstract art and sculptures littering the place isn't telling enough then this door certainly takes the cake for "eccentric and opulent." it's normal for someone rich to possess all manner of odd excess, or so you tell yourself as you ignore the door and continue cleaning.

you try not to let curiosity consume you, but a month later you're contacted by the same owner. you return to clean and the door is as you remember it. there are cameras poised in the corners of every room and hall, mostly for the homeowner's safety and so that they'll know if you steal anything. you can't linger near the door for too long; they could be watching. still, each time you pass the door it becomes less of a cute curiosity and more of a foreboding omen. what's hidden behind that door that would warrant such extreme protective measures? the morbid side of your brain says it's a corpse, but then if that was the case you'd smell the rot and decay.

if not a corpse, what else could it be?

you knock on the door, expecting a response. nothing happens. so you continue onwards, leaving the door and what lies behind it in peace. you want to ask about it, but then it's none of your business. you're only here to clean the house. nothing more, nothing less.

a few months pass and you're called back to clean. you pass the door again and, like before, you knock thrice. oddly enough, something sounds back. it's muffled, so you can't make out what it was. you knock again. no response. you knock again before remembering the camera and you hurry along. you miss the muffled whimper of someone crying on the other side.

within that same week, you're asked to return. you think nothing of it until you see the state of the bathroom. it's more than a mess; it's a crime scene...or something like it. organized chaos is what you might call it if you were delusional to the strange crimson stains on the tile, not expertly scrubbed out of the grout, or the medicine cabinet in complete disarray, cracks spider-webbing through the mirror. you question it while you clean, not oblivious to the faint streaks leading out of the bathroom. as if something heavy and possibly bloody was dragged from the room.

but you're not paid to scrutinize or theorize. you're paid to clean.

somehow you find yourself drawn to the door after cleaning the bathroom, the only space in the house that required cleaning. there's a bucket of water in your hands, and as you near the door you, rather clumsily, trip and drop it. water sloshes out of the pail and, for the sake of the camera, you curse and groan loudly, storming off to retrieve a towel.

your phone is wrapped in the towel when you return, and you bend down with your back turned to the camera. hurriedly, you fumble to unravel the towel, your shoulders hunched, and you unlock your phone, hastily swiping to the camera. you click record and slide your phone under the crack in door, hoping to capture something that might explain the locked door, the weird state of the bathroom, and that phantom noise you thought you heard all that time ago.

maybe it's nothing and you're making yourself paranoid. maybe you're the suspicious one for jumping to such grotesque conclusions. you let your phone record while you clean the spill, and just before you stand up you quickly pocket your phone. you pray it looked natural to the camera's red, invasive eye.

after collecting your payment and retreating to your car, you sit in silence. two and a half minutes were recorded. it felt much longer than that, but you were rushing to finish. for a moment, you consider deleting the video. if it's nothing, you won't see it. if it's something, you won't see it either. ignorance is bliss, right?

despite this, you watch the recording. the first minute is taken in shadowed silence, so eerily quiet it's nearly static. but then a light flicks on. it's so quiet you have to strain to hear it, and with your volume turned all the way up you begin to hear tiny clicks being made at specific intervals. with each click, the light flicks on and off. and in the near corner, you catch sight of what looks to be photos plastered to the wall and ceiling, illuminated only slightly by the light. you can't quite decipher the contents of these photos, but there are so many that they're almost like a second wallpaper.

and then the video ends when you yank your phone out from under the crack between door and floor to stop the recording.

puzzled, you sit there in deafening silence, wondering what in the world you just watched. mindlessly, you view the video again and again to dissect every piece of information in those two minutes and thirty-something seconds.

the light flicked on a total of nine times in sets of three. the first three were fast, the next three were slow, and the final three were fast. cold, raw horror descends upon you as you watch the video for the nth time to prove a terrifying theory.

the flickering light is a signal, specifically an SOS signal.

someone's on the other side of that door, likely helpless and trapped, and they want out. and aside from the captive and their kidnapper, you're the only other person who knows of their existence.

[loversj0y]

loves me (like im brand new)

TW: this fic deals with sensitive topics, specifically referencing sexual assault, as well as the recovery process, including mentions of flashbacks and references to dissociation. read at your own discretion

hey so this is entirely self-indulgent. ive been having a rough week (and im sure based on the content you could probably understand why) so yeah, it's not much. but take this as i try to cope (and finish the ttds au)

title is taken from call it what you want by taylor swift

wilbur soot x gn! reader

word count: 1.9k

The floor of the bathtub seemed to become your best friend during trying times. There was something about it that just became comforting when you felt like reaching out to anyone wouldn’t help. And it would help to reach out, but you couldn’t help preferring to spill your secrets to the bathroom floor.

It was too late at night for most people to be taking a shower, and you knew that. You’d been in here god knows how long, your phone left forgotten in your bedroom. The water was turned as hot as it would go, your skin left a blazing red in response. You didn’t know what triggered the episode, maybe the date was a little too close to the anniversary, or maybe you’d thought for a second that you saw the guy who assaulted you a few years back. In reality, it was a combination, you were always much more aware of your trauma this time of year, when memories of abuse and unmeaningful “i love yous” went rampant in your brain. There wasn’t much you felt you could do at times like this. The water helped, though. It hurt slightly,  but the burn of the water was stronger than the memory of his hands on you. Everytime you did this, you hoped the water would allow you to scrub the hands off of you, but each time you could never feel clean. Your body wouldn’t feel like yours fully. You tried to stave off flashbacks and memories, forcing yourself to be grounded by focusing on tiny details in your apartment’s bathroom, the grout of the tile, the stains at the bottom of the shower curtain, the way the lightbulb would occasionally flicker. That lightbulb usually annoyed you, but now, you felt thankful for it as it’s random flicker would pull you out of your thoughts when you slipped into them.

You wanted to leave the shower, part of you wanting to go curl up in bed and put on so many layers until you felt like your body didn’t exist. But any attempts at moving made your brain yell at you once more, leaving you stuck in place.

A knock on the door startled you, your heart rate spiking, you didn’t have roommates, who-.

You question was cut off before you could even finish it.

“Darling?! Are you in there?” Wilbur, your boyfriend, sounded alarmed. He wasn’t supposed to stop by tonight, he was supposed to go hang out with Tommy, so why was he here?

“Wilbur?”

He seemed to let out a relieved sigh. “Are you alright? Can I come in?”

“I- yeah, you can come in,” you spoke, just loud enough for him to hear. He opened the door, quickly moving over to where you were, kneeling down next to the shower. 

“What are you doing here, Wilbur?” I asked softly.

“You weren’t answering, I got scared.”

“I told you I was going to take a shower, didn’t I?”

“Darling, that was almost four hours ago,” He frowned, reaching a hand into the water to fix your hair, but pulling back once he felt the temperature. He looked at you, getting a better look now that some of the steam had left the bathroom. “Love, your skin is burning red, that cannot feel good. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

You groaned lightly, leaning your head against the side of the tub, “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, love?”

“I just- I can’t, I feel…” trapped, haunted, exhausted, stuck, “frozen.”

He nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand. “Are you okay with me touching you?”

You thought about it for a moment. Anyone else and it would’ve been a no, anyone else and it would’ve set your brain into overdrive, but Wilbur never made you feel anything but safe and loved. You nodded after a moment.

He stood, leaning forward and turning off the shower. He got into the tub behind you, carefully lifting you and helping you stand. 

“You’re gonna get wet,” you complained softly.

He just shrugged, “I don’t mind. I’m sure I’ve left enough clothes here that I can find something if it bothers me.” 

You sniffled a bit and nodded. He carefully got you out of the tub, grabbing your towel and wrapping it around you gently. He pressed a gentle kiss to your head. 

“Let me grab your pajamas, okay?” He went to grab them, but you reached a hand out and stopped him.

“Wait, I-” you paused, looking down a bit shyly, “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

He gave you an encouraging smile, nodding, “That’s alright. I’ll stay with you until you’re dry, and then we’ll go together. Sounds good?” 

You nodded softly at him, taking a seat on top of the closed toilet seat cover. You looked down at his jumper, “Sorry again about your jumper.”

He shrugged, pulling the jumper off and tossing it out of the bathroom, wearing a simple white shirt underneath, “Doesn’t matter. Not as much as you do.” 

You looked at the ground after he spoke. You didn’t feel like you mattered right now. It had nothing to do with your boyfriend, he was being so incredibly kind, and you couldn’t ask for anything better. But your head fought back and forth between feeling Wilbur’s love and feeling like you were back in that room from so many years ago. You pulled the towel tighter around yourself, and it was like you could feel Wilbur’s frown. He knew you too well, knowing your tells whenever you retreated into your own head. 

“Darling, look at me,” He spoke softly, kneeling down in front of you. 

You slowly looked up at him, met with nothing but kindness in his gaze. 

“There you are,” he smiled softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head violently, “No- I… not now.” 

He nodded, rubbing your back gently, “That’s alright. Are you ready to get dressed?”

You nodded, and he carefully leaned down to pick you up, walking to your closet. He set you down once you were there, keeping his hand at your back. He looked around for a moment before grabbing one of his sweaters and a pair of old sweatpants, “Here.”

You took them, and he helped you get dressed, the both of you taking your time. Once you were dressed, he took your hand, walking you to bed. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” He asked softly as you sat down on the bed. 

“Could you hand me my water bottle?” You asked softly, pointing at the bottle sitting on your desk. He did so quickly, and you drank from it quickly before setting it on your nightstand. 

You didn’t quite know how to get the words out to ask him the next part, so you just patted the bed. He understood, sitting against the headboard. You came over, laying down against him gently, and his arms were quick to fall around you, holding you close. 

He kissed the top of your head, humming a soft tune. Once you’d relaxed enough, you spoke quietly. 

“I thought you were going to Tommy’s tonight?”

He shrugged, “You weren’t responding, so I got worried. His girlfriend is there anyways, so he wouldn’t notice if I was there or not anyway.”

“Still, you didn’t have to come here,” you spoke softly, and he scoffed. 

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

You nodded, burying your face against him lightly. You wanted to tell him what happened, it just took a few minutes to actually get the words out. “Today sucked.” You spoke quietly, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I just… it’s around this time a few years ago that I was- I,” it hurt to say, and Wilbur knew, piping up softly, “I know.”

You nodded once more, continuing, “it’s just… it feels so much more real around now, and so I just feel so much more sensitive to everything. The tiniest thing sets me off into a flashback, and it’s like I can still feel those hands on me sometimes, and it’s just- it’s overwhelming.” You sniffled softly, “The hot water helps, I can feel it more than the stupid fucking hands, but I just- I’ve rubbed my skin raw so many times, and I can still feel it. I’ve never felt clean since then, but it gets so much worse around this time, and I just can’t help but feel gross,” you sobbed softly, burying your face further against his chest. 

Wilbur held you close, rubbing your back gently, “I don’t think you’re gross.” He spoke, “I know that it might not mean much coming from me, but I don’t think you’re gross, or unclean, or anything like that. I think you went through something shitty, and that you survived. And I also know that I adore you, and I adore learning more about you. Everything about you is new to me. Each piece makes you up, and I feel honored to learn about all of it, even if it feels like a curse, because I know that it all brought you to me, the same way I know the stuff I went through brought me to you.”

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes, “Thank you,” You whispered. It meant more than he’d probably ever know to hear him describe you as new. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead gently. “Of course, love. Your past is not you, it’s like a piece of clay, you know? You can’t change it fundamentally, but you can change how it looks and how you use it. It doesn’t define you, it just makes up part of you.”

You sighed softly, “I wish it didn’t, though. I’d rather it have never happened.”

He frowned, “I understand. If I could change the past, I would, just for you. But since I can’t, I’ll do anything you need me to because I want to make sure you are okay. It’s what I’m here for.” 

You nodded, and he carefully wiped at your eyes. After a moment of trying to calm your tears, you, strangely enough, started laughing.

Wilbur smiled, giving you an incredulous look. “What is it?”

You chuckled, shaking your head, “Just feel a bit stupid.”

“Why?”

“For not telling you earlier. I’ve felt like shit since like 2P.M., I just didn’t want you to worry”

He smiled, brushing a bit of your hair back, “Darling, I’m constantly worrying about you. I mean this lovingly when I say you stress me out every day, especially when you text me in the middle of the night to show me the bugs you see when you walk around town at night.”

“It’s always fun doing that, though. Plus, you know I’m always heading to see you.”

He flushed a bit, chuckling softly, “I know. But it does make me worry.” 

You smiled, gently taking his hand in yours. “Thank you for showing up.” 

He squeezed your hand gently, “Of course. I’ll always show up for you, darling.” 

You closed your eyes, curling into his side and yawning out slowly. The dark feeling in your chest was still there, but it felt smaller with Wilbur around. It was much more bearable with him there. 

“Goodnight, love,” He gently pecked your lips, holding you lightly. 

“Goodnight, Wilbur.” With him by your side, everything felt lighter. You could breathe, with him by your side, and you were able to fall into a quiet slumber.

[justwhisperingfantasies]

Memories Part 2

Characters: Dean Winchester x Female Reader, Sam Winchester, Castiel. Mick Davies. Mention of other SPN characters.

Warnings: memory wipe, language, angst, cute dean, fluff, not exactly cannon, implied smut, gun being pulled.

A/N: This is a continuation of my first-ever fic post. Please go easy on me. Hope you enjoy

Summary: You've had your memory wiped and sent off to your death. Sam, Dean, and Cas save you just before it is too late. the guys struggle with being strangers to you after all the years you have shared. You are forced into a life-altering dilemma.

Word count: 4,105 words

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Your stomach twisted. “Are you serious?” Why would I not want all my memories back? 

“Don't look at me like that. This life is hard. You could have a clean cut right now.” His face turned glum as he grabbed your hand and interlaced your fingers“ You've been through a lot of shit. No one would judge you if you did choose not to.” You heard his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and answered. “Yeah. Alright. Give me a minute.” He tapped the phone and put it in his back pocket, not taking his eyes away from yours. 

You could see the extra wetness in his eyes, making another tear roll down your cheek. He wiped it away and pulled you into his arms, your arms automatically wrapped underneath his and around him. You laid your face against his chest. He kissed your forehead and said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, just worry about getting cleaned up right now. Everything you need should still be in your bathroom. If not, your phone is on the nightstand on the right. Text me, and I'll make sure you get it. The food will probably be done right around the time you get out. Okay?” 

How can he do this with just a hug? It was so peaceful and safe in his arms. You never wanted to let go, but it had been a tough day and you needed a shower. (your fav food) didn't sound too bad, either. You nodded as you slowly pulled back your face. He took your face in his hands, wiping away more tears. “We will figure all this out later, okay?” he kissed your forehead again, and you felt a drop on your face. 

“Okay. I'm sorry” you manage to pull yourself together.

“Don't apologize. We will get it all figured out,” he said as he let his hands fall to his sides and you did the same.” Do you want me to stay here and wait?”

“No, it's ok. Thank you though. For everything.” you smiled 

“Anytime. Call or text if you need me.” he smiled back and then walked out the door closing it behind him.

You sit down on the bed as you try to collect your thoughts. How could you not get your memories back?! However, you did notice when Dean was describing everyone, it was in the past tense. It might be nice just to break away and have a normal life I guess. No monsters, no demons, no insane British people trying to wipe your mind. (y/n) have a nice hot shower get some food and think about this later. You told yourself. You got up and tried to shake it off. 

“Yes hot shower and some food,” you replied out loud to yourself. You walked into the bathroom and it was simple and nice. the same wood panel as the bedroom. White tile walls with black grout line. Decent size shower. The bathtub was probably bigger than most and a white porcelain sink with a black cabinet underneath. Big mirror above it with a black frame. You turned the shower knob all the way over to hot and waited for the water to warm.

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As Dean shut your door he leaned back on it and sighed. What the hell am I going to do if she doesn't want her memories back?! How could l live without her?! Just then his cell phone started vibrating again. “Yeah, I'm coming.” 

He walked back down To the library. 

“Well, it's about time chum?” Mick Davies was sitting at the first table across from Sam and Cas.

“Oh, I'm sorry I made you wait while I had to comfort my girlfriend that has had her memory wiped twice, almost killed, and kinda freaking out right now. I feel so bad for you.” Dean said raising his voice some. 

“Dean, I know. okay? That's why I called you.” Davies said with guilt in his eyes. “Did you find it?”

“Yes we did,” Sam said as he wheeled Over an older machine. Davies plunged it in and it turned in. 

It started beeping and lights started flickering. 

“Ah, she still works.” He said as he opened a small door below the device. “And there's more than enough of the serum to work. Where's the lovely lass?”

Dean's eyes narrowed “She's upstairs taking a shower.” 

Just then the kitchen buzzer went off. “Shit gotta get that,” Sam said as he hurried to the kitchen. 

“What are we havin'?” Davies asks

“ I don't know what you're having, but We are having (your fav food).” Dean still had an attitude. 

“Dean, let's go see if Sam needs any help.” It was obvious Castiel just wanted to talk to Dean in private. They walked over to the kitchen doorway. Dean looked back, keeping an eye on Mick. 

“ Dean, I don't like them either, but he did just risk his ass to save her. Maybe we should be more welcoming.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “ I'll feed him, but I'm not painting his toenails.” he went over to help Sam.

Cas then rolled His eyes and walked back to the library.

************************************************************************

That shower really hit the spot. You dried off and put your clothes on. You were brushing your hair when you started thinking about Dean. It's nuts how close you felt to him even though he was a stranger at the moment. Thinking over the tour you remember the our rooms thing you could have sworn he said our room. 

Your curiosity got the better of you and you opened the closet. There were women's clothes on the right and men's clothes on the left. You couldn't help yourself. You went to the nightstand on the left And opened the drawer. There was a lore book, a flashlight, a phone charger, a gun, a silver knife, and a box of condoms.  You went to the other nightstand and opened the drawer, you found a pair of glasses, a lore book, a silver knife, a gun, earbuds, hand sanitizer, with a phone sitting on top of the stand. You put on the glasses. Yep, this Was your side you thought as you put them back. You picked the phone up and swiped the screen. A picture of you and Dean showed on the screen. you two were standing By the car again in mid-laugh. It was super cute. You flinched when it started to vibrate. Dean's name came up with an adorable picture of him sleeping. You tapped the Green button. 

“Sup?” you said in a deep voice

“Really? Well, home dawg I was calling to see if you done because the food is ready.” Dean understood your banter so well. 

“Alright, I'm on my way.”

“Lov…’ the call ended.

“ God, I fuckng hate this!” Dean said as he shoved his phone back in his pocket.

“I know Dean.” Sam tried to comfort his brother as he carried the food over the table. “Just let her eat some food and then we can fix this..”

“Well if that's what she wants,” Dean said hoping you wouldn't want to forget him. He walked over to get the plates out.

“Wait what the hell are you talking about?” Sam Demanded

“ Think about it Sammy, she has been through so much pain. She could turn the other cheek and start living a normal life.” He set a plate for each of them on the table. 

“But dean?” 

“It's her choice and we will be happy for her either way!” 

“So you could just let her go?” Sam doubted as he put out everyone's silverware.

“If that's what she wants,” he argued. “Do you need anything else?

“No, that's all. Thanks.” Sam sighed “My money is on her choosing you.”

“GET BACK CASTIEL ITS ONE OF THEM!!” Sam and Dean heard you yell

They looked at each other and then ran for the library.

“(Y/N) PUT THE GUN DOWN!” you looked at Dean. “He is here to help. This is Mick, he's the one who called us and told us where you were. He can restore your memories with that thing.” he pointed at the machine. 

“Don't ya think someone should have mentioned to her I was coming?!” Mick shouted in fear.

“Where the hell did you get a gun?” Dean stormed over to you and held out his hand. You took a couple of steps back. Dean stayed where he was and bounced his hand a few times. 

You looked down at his hand. You still had the gun pointed at Mick. “Ha! not happening! Its mine. It was in my nightstand.” 

“I should have known,” Dean said as he shook his hand. “Come on. We aren't gonna let him hurt you.” he started to step closer.

You stepped back and pointed the gun at Dean. He stopped immediately “How do I know that?! How do I know this isn't a big trick?”

“Really (y/n)?” you could see the tears”s in his eyes. “You saw the pictures. You know I wouldn't let him hurt you.”

“Oh yeah? Then how did they take me the first time?” tears started streaming down your face. You felt so betrayed. You trusted these 3 men and they let one of them in here. You didn't know what to think. You were so confused and couldn't remember anything. Before you saw the British guy everything was fine. It's like he triggered something in you, something you couldn't control. You were angry, panicked, and overwhelmed.

Just then you felt Castiel behind you. He quickly put his fingers to your forehead and you passed out. Dean hurried to help Cas catch you, but he didn't need it. “I got her. I can go lay her in her bed?” Dean nodded as he took the gun out of your hand and put it in the back of his jeans. Castiel disappeared with you in his arms.

“Jesus fucking christ!” Mick said. “Seriously why didn't anyone explain the whole situation to her?!” 

Dean shook his head and hurried for the door.

He made it outside before the tears started falling. He leaned up against the Impala, then slowly slid down the side. What the fuck happened?! Was it just Mick being there? Was it a side effect of the mind-wiping? Did she really not believe he would everything in his power to make sure nobody hurt her? “Then how did they take me the first time?” her voice echoed in his head. It was his fault. If he was a little more cautious or a little less cocky maybe he wouldn't have gotten shot. Maybe she would be better off without him, living a normal life. She wouldn't have to run, wouldn't have to fight, she wouldn't have to hunt. He knew he should let you go. It felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, his heart breaking in his chest as the tears fell. 

************************************************************************

Sam blinked and thought about going after Dean. But decided against it. He’ll want to be alone. So he walked into the kitchen to put the food in the fridge for later. He turned around as he closed the fridge finding Mick standing in the doorway.

“So was she freaked before she saw me?” Mick hesitantly asked.

‘No. She was fine. Even joking.” Sam sighed and then explained everything that he witnessed today. “I don't know what happened after she and Dean went upstairs. I don't know anything about the pictures”

“I'm guessing it was me.”

“No. I mean you probably made it worse, but she said the gun was in her nightstand. So she felt threatened enough to carry it downstairs before she even knew you were here.” 

“I have heard of the mind-wiping having a side effect, but I never seen it in myself.

“Is it temporary?.”

“I don't know. All I heard was side effects. Nothing specific. I'll start checking the inventory list for anything about mind wiping.” Mick didn't know what else to do.

“Hey Mick, If she is experiencing side effects would it even be safe to give her memories back?”

“I'm not sure mate.” he hung his head and walked out.

“Son of a bitch!’ Sam said as he threw one of the pots he had used in the sink.

************************************************************************

You awaken to Cas sitting in a chair beside your bed. You didn't say anything just stared at the ceiling of your room, playing back what just happened in your mind. You remembered everything that happened, everything you said, everything you did. But you could not remember what sent you into such a frenzy. You don't even remember being able to stop. The gun wasn't even loaded, but they didn't know that.

“(y/n)?” 

You shut your eyes and stayed silent.

“Come on (y/n). How are you feeling?” You rolled on your side putting your back toward him and you could feel the tears start. “Please don't ignore me.” he pleaded 

“Cas, I just can't right now okay?” you were so ashamed of what had just happened.

“Okay, But I'm gonna sit here until you can.”

“Why? I just acted like a fool and pulled a gun on innocent people. Why would you want to stay with me?” you started crying.

“Because I care about you. No matter what,” he said as he put his hand on your shoulder for comfort

*********************************************************************

He didn't know how long he had been sitting by the impala. Dean just sat there numb. His eyes were on fire, his head pounding. He needed to move, need to get this the fuck over with. He found the will to get up. It was so quiet in the bunk, peaceful chaos. 

“Dean?” Sam yelled from the library

“Yeah.�� Dean's voice cracked. He cleared his throat as he walked into the library. “Whatcha doin'? Where is everyone?”

Sam looked up at his brother he could tell Dean had been crying, but he wouldn't dare say anything about it. “ (y/n) and Cas are still upstairs. Mick and I are reading up on mind wipe lore. He just went to the dungeon for something. He told me he had heard some things about it and you know how the men of letters were.” 

“They documented everything.”

“Exactly. So if we can find anything that can help, maybe there's a spell..’

“Sam.”

Sam continued his thought. “ Or if we can get rid of the side effects somehow.”

“Sam!”  Dean spoke a little louder. Sam stopped and looked at his brother.” I think I need to let her go.”

“Dean, but if we find something. Maybe getting her memories back will help..”

“Sam! Memories or no memories, I have to let her go. The British men of letters did this because of me. She almost got killed because of me. Look at all the shit she has been through because of me. Everything she has lost because of me. And it's just gonna keep happening. I have to do the right thing here. His eyes misted over again. God, they stung so bad, but it was nothing compared to the torment in his chest. he started to walk away.

“Dean, Come on…”

“ I don't wanna hear it Sammy!” he said with a raised voice and continued to walk away.

As he entered his old room he laid the gun on the table and then started to pace. The record player caught his eye. He walked over and put the needle on the record. He couldn't even remember what he had last listened to in here. Bad Medicine starts playing and the memories but his birthday from 2 years ago start rushing back.

(y/n) doing a sexy little strip tease, him holding her up against the wall, round 2 on the side table in the library that nobody ever used. He pushed the needle off making a screeching sound.  

He threw himself on his bed. “God I fucking hate this!”

************************************************************************

You must have cried yourself to sleep. You lay there a few minutes just taking in the quiet. You decide it's time. You roll over and see Castiel sitting in the same chair reading a book. “You're still here?” surprise in your voice.

He closed his book. “I told you I would stay until you are ready to talk.”

“What if I'm not ready yet?”

“Then I'll wait.”  

“Whatcha reading?”

“A journal of a former member of the men of letters.”

“Oh yeah? Anything good?”

“Well, he was one of the members that was experimenting with mind wiping”

“Interesting. Why are you reading it?”

“Because Mick told Sam that he had heard there are side effects of the mind wiping. So Mick, Sam, and I are reading into it.”

“So you guys think my psycho moment was from a side effect?”

“Maybe. I do have another theory.”

“Do tell.”

“You have been through a lot in the last 4 days. And yeah you were nervous after I explained everything to you, but any normal human probably would have had a meltdown way before you did. I do have one question though. You seemed ok with me, Sam, and Dean. Why bring the gun downstairs?”

“I found it on my nightstand. I took it down to clean. The damn thing was filthy. Then saw the British guy and I freaked. I can't explain it. It's like fight or fly kicked in and I chose to fight. And I couldn't stop. I have been questioning why I trust the 3 of you as much as I do. No offense. I heard the Brit and freaked out.”

“No offense taken. It would make total sense for you not to trust us. The British guy is Mick. He is the one who called us and told us where you were. And he ran away from the British Men Of Letters to come help us.”

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“Mick? Well yeah, it's more our fault for not telling you he was coming. You were scared.”

You giggled and shook your head. “No. Dean. I pointed a gun at him and pretty much told him it was his fault I got kidnapped. Which is not what I think at all.”

“You were scared and pissed off, you said things you didn't mean. If anyone knows about that, it's Dean. You guys will be fine. We need to get you some food, I can hear your stomach growling from over here.” you gave him a look of dread. “I promise it will be alright. They've been through far worse. Come on.”

You sighed heavily and got up.

You got to Sam's room before you couldn't take the silence anymore. “So did you find anything good in the journal?”

“Interesting good yes, side effect good not yet.”

“But you don't think it was a side effect?”

“Well no, but if there are side effects, we want to know what they are.”

“But when Mick fixes me we won't have to worry about it anymore.”

“Actually, there's something I want to talk to you about.” he paused at the top of the stairs. “ (y/n) You have been through a great deal of pain in your lifetime. The hunting life isn't great. If you wanted..”

You started walking down the stairs “You don't have to give the clean break, no judgment speak. Dean beat you to it.”

“Oh well, I just wanted you to know all your options.”

“Got it Cas.” he looked like a child that just got yelled at. “I'm sorry I'm just hungry.”

His face lifted. “I know I can hear it.”

As you walk into the library you find Sam and Mick. Sam looks up and smiles at you.

Mick looks a bit weary. “Well, Ello Love. Are you armed?”

You give a slight eye roll. “No. I'm sorry..”

Mick cut you off. “No need for apologies. Not the first time a pretty dame pulled a gun on me.” he smiled.  You smiled back and your stomach growled louder than before.

Sam laughed “Hungry?”

“Starving!”

“Come on,” he said getting up.

“Sam I can…” he gave you a stern look “Keep you company while you make the food.”  you gave him a happy smile.

“What a great idea” he beamed sarcastically

You rolled your eyes and followed him. 

“I saved it. So all we have to do is reheat it. “

“Easy Enough.” you looked around. Dean was nowhere to be found, but you didn't want to come off needy so you didn't ask. 

He chuckled “ He is upstairs in his room.”

“Who?” you tried to play it off. 

“(y/n) “Sam said as you put the food in the oven

“Is he still mad at me?”

He turned around a look of surprise on his face. “He was never mad at you. He's worried about you. He blames himself for all the shit you've been through.”

You raised one eyebrow “ How the hell would any of this be his fault?!”

“Mind wipe right. Dean is a protector. If anything happens to anyone on his watch it's his fault. He's been like that as long as I can remember. Plus he thinks being with him is putting you in harm's way.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Sam laughed “This is the last time I'm making this.”

“I said I'll be right back.” you heard him laugh again as you walked out. 

************************************************************************

Cas waited until you and Sam were gone “Have you guys found anything?”

“Nothing yet, but we keep trying yea?”

“Yes! Are we sure she's experiencing side effects though?” 

“Honestly. I have my doubts. The way Sam explained it seemed like she trusted the 3 of you. He said she was even joking a bit, she only freaked out when she saw me. But if that's the case why did she have the gun before she knew I was here?”

They saw you marching your way through the library.

“Carry on Boys,” you said as you continued. Both looking at you in confusion. 

“Well, she looks mad. Should we be concerned?” Cas asked as they both starred after 

“No gun. She's fine.” Mick sniggered 

“Anyway. We did have a conversation about all that. She said she did trust us. She had been asking herself why all day. Said she didn't know she just did.” cas explained.” and she found the gun in her nightstand. Apparently, it was filthy. She brought it down to clean it.”

“Fucking hell. I doubt it was a side effect. She was probably frightened. Some British institute wipes your brain and sends you to your death, you wake up with strangers, and then one of the British cunts shows up here unannounced. I would probably pull a gun too.”

“I agree.”

************************************************************************

Come on. You can do this. You knocked on Dean’s door. 

“Go away Sam!” he yelled.

You rolled your eyes and pushed the door open. “It's not Sam.”

“Hey (y/n) you feeling any better?” 

“Well, I was until your brother told me that you are blaming yourself for this?! For everything?!”

“Fuckin Sam. It is my fault. You said so yourself.”

“Don't you curse Sam! He was just being honest. I know what I said. It was the heat of the moment. I really don't blame you and I do trust you. ”

“If you trust me so much, why did you have the gun in the first place?”

“I took the damn thing down to clean. It’s not even fucking loaded. I was just scared and I didn't want to go back. I'm sorry I pointed it at you.”

He got up and rushed over to the gun. No bullets. “You pointed an unloaded gun at us?”

“Like I just said I was freaking scared, no one else knew it wasn't loaded.”

He started laughing. 

“Did you really think I would shoot you?”

“In these circumstances? Absolutely.”

Just then his phone started ringing. He put it on speaker. “The food is getting cold again.”

“We’ll be right there Sammy.” he hung up the phone

“I'm not done”

He cocked his eyebrow with a grin. “Well go on then.”

“I'm a hunter with or without you. Judging from the pictures on the dresser and my phone I would rather it be with. You can't blame yourself. Sometimes bad shit happens and there's nothing you can do about it.”  you declared

“You Done?”

“Yes!”

He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to him. His lips just inches away from yours. 

“Good! Now Let's go get some food.” he smiled.

[castieltrash1]

summary → patience is a virtue and you show bucky barnes he’s worth waiting for

word count → 17k

warnings → angst/comfort, pining, insecurity/jealousy, partial soldat!bucky, mentions of violence, ptsd/nightmare references, ambigious pre-wakanda timeline, alcohol, wanda/vision mentions, reader is non-gendered but gets called “sweetheart” “doll” “darling” and “kid,” bucky is scared of thunderstorms, physical scars and canon-level violence, basically just a big ball of emotion with a happy ending 

a/n → yes guys it is, in fact, finished. i’d like to thank the academy aka my bucky anon and @f1nalboys​ bc without them this fic would’ve never seen the light of day </3 this one is for yall MWAH !!

+ each section of the fic is kind of based on a different song so u can listen to those [here] hehe :3 but the whole fic is based on the song outer space/carry on by 5sos (the title is from lyrics hehe)

---

I. The Archer; “And I don't see an end to this, so I'll enjoy the fire.”

Bucky enters the kitchen almost silently, the slosh and drip of his drenched clothes giving away his sudden presence.

You turn your head just in time to watch a few drops hit the floor, water collecting into a murky puddle of shadow on the tile around his clunky boots.  It takes an eternity of a stretched second for you to recognize him. Everyone had turned in for the night, supposedly. When your brain registers who’s standing in front of you, your eyes widen, heart skipping a beat. Even with everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve watched him do, it still doesn’t feel right to see him in this state.

He’s already stalking off with a rubbery squeak when you grab a spare dishtowel from the counter and rush over to him. For a moment you think he’ll ignore you, but then he stops in his tracks, albeit without sparing you a glance. He’s not all there -- stance stiff, eyes glazed in a way that disregards the usual sliver of warmth in his deep blue gaze. But he’s polite -- obedient -- regardless.

“Sorry,” you quickly apologize -- for not being fast enough, not noticing him; anything he might take offense to in this sensitive state. “I didn’t realize you were still out... I thought…” He doesn’t reply, but his jaw ticks as water trickles from his hair to his cheek. It lets you know he’s not completely numb. Not yet. You lift the towel, but he grabs it from you before you can get any closer.

He drags it across his eyes, forehead, nose, before shoving it back into your hands. When he slicks his hair away from his face, you take note of the blotchiness of his skin; concentrated around his nose and under his red-rimmed eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the veins are bright against his grey expression.

He offers you no more than a sniff as he brushes past, heading towards the bathroom.

When the door slams shut behind him, you break from your stupor and trace his wet footprints back to the puddle that’s begun to seep into the lines between the tile. You sacrifice the already dirtied towel to clean it. Bucky will feel bad for the mess eventually, even if he’s apathetic now. The searing hot shower will slowly bring him back, steam opening the guilt-filled pores that hide under his scarred skin. He’ll come out and scrub the grout until his hands bleed.

The water is still running when you reach the bathroom door to wipe up the last of the mess, just a heelprint of thinned mud.

As you retreat to your room, you text Steve. He’ll be the first one up, and the only one equipped to deal with the emotional hangover. He’ll be the only one who really cares.

You let him know that Bucky just got home, hoping he’ll note the late timestamp of your message. And you tell him Bucky seems tired. Tired. It does little to encompass everything -- all the exhaustion, fear, and confusion he’ll wake up with. But Steve will understand. He always does. And you do your best, even when there’s not a single recognizable part of Bucky left.

Steve catches you by the wrist in the lounge the following early afternoon, tugging you to the corner of the room. A soft smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the sweaty remains of his morning run; all warmth, skin glowing in a way that only happens after a good workout.

His eyes scan the rest of the room, a movement almost too fast to catch. He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh when he realizes you’re alone, and brings you to the nearest couch.

“I got your text,” he says lowly, hesitant to breach the topic in person. “I wanted to thank you.”

You see the nervousness in his gaze and scoot closer to pat his shoulder. “Of course. I know he can be… Unpredictable. You deserve a heads-up if you can get one.” Steve’s been caught off guard before; you all have. It’s easy to think Bucky is just being distant, just being him. And then he’s sleeping too late, saying too little. His dinner plate will stay untouched, but the kitchen will be ransacked at midnight once everyone’s gone. Steve can barely catch up, and you doubt Bucky can either.

Steve shifts, letting out a shaky breath. “I want to help him.”

“You do more than any of us,” you reassure, truthfully. “Bucky trusts you -- he loves you. I think your presence is all he needs most of the time.”

Everyone else has to put more effort into their support. Natasha peels back the scars of her past in hopes of sharing the pain. Bruce spends weekends hunched over his desk trying to make sleeping pills that Bucky’s metabolism won’t immediately digest; tired fingers shaking as he tries a new dose, a new capsule, a new something.

But Steve’s existence alone is more of a contribution than anything.

“He knows you help, too,” he finally says, staring in a way that makes you squirm. It’s the hardened soldier’s gaze that leaves no room for argument. Whatever he’s telling you is a belief buried deep in his soul, an unwavering promise.

It makes your chest clench. Steve confirming that Bucky pays you even an ounce of attention is enough to make your heart race. “I’m just trying to be a friend.” You stress the last word, hoping it’s not visible that you’re curled around the ledge of a maybe more.

“He’ll notice eventually,” he tries, but his determined gaze is gone, and he’s holding onto hope just as much as you are.

The surface of Bucky’s healing has barely been scratched. There’s an entire life for him to uncover, remember, forget, and relive. It’d be selfish to expect any more than that from him. You know that, Steve knows that. A part of you hopes Bucky does too -- that someday he’ll realize his existence isn’t at the expense of others, even if that expense is love.

Steve stands with curled lips and a gentle double-pat on your leg that’s too comforting for something you shouldn’t even be disappointed about. It makes you feel like you’re mourning, but maybe you are, and maybe he’s just the only one who realizes it.

II. Studio 6; “I reached out to wake you but I learned that he'd taken you back.”

Group dinners are impossible, but there’s always a good handful of you in the kitchen at one time.

Tony will sip something bubbly that’s worth a mortgage, while Bruce tosses a salad fit for two; perpetually charged with thinly veiled green anger. Clint will scarf down a slice of week-old pizza and Nat will scrunch her nose at the unpleasant sounds she can never seem to avoid when he’s within range.

And, if Steve’s around, so is Bucky. The latter has only made an exception for Sam if his prior friend is on a mission for too long that he can’t sustain a hunger strike.

No one questions it or why his presence is more likely to exist when the dining room is crowded. He seems more inclined to show up when he can sink out of a conversation without anyone noticing, without any eyes on him -- except yours. He always catches onto your staring quickly though, feeling the heavy and uncomfortable weight of your focus.

But tonight, his chair by the corner of the room is noticeably empty. No one dares to disturb it, even if the extra seat is needed. No one says anything either -- at least not too loudly, though you catch some distant mumblings between Sam and Tony. They’ve chosen to forget (or purposely ignore) the fact that Steve, who’s sitting beside them, has beyond-perfect hearing.  

And he’s quick to hear the vibrating of his silenced phone, brows furrowed as he discards his fork to reach for the device. Normally, he’d scold you for ignoring table manners, but when he reads your hasty message, he understands.

“Have you seen him eat today?”

Steve gives you a tight-lipped frown and discreet shake of his head as a response.

You’re quick to stand from your chair with a sigh, the room quieting as everyone’s eyes focus on you. “I’m done, so I’ll do dishes tonight.” All of them happily agree without question, piling their plates onto yours. Wanda smiles in gratitude, whereas Clint presses a messy kiss to your cheek in thanks. Steve, who usually has clean-up duty, just nods, giving you permission for whatever you’re planning.

Thankfully, the kitchen stays empty for a while. Laughter and voices echo from the lounge, and you half listen to the retold stories as you load the dishwasher. Everyone is still going strong by the time you finish cleaning and grab a new plate from the overhead cupboard.

You hope Bucky won’t take offense at the basic sandwich; certainly not the homely dish of meat and potatoes he might think of as a family dinner. No silverware, no mess. The fridge is mostly stocked, if you ignore the Asgardian leftovers and the three-hundred-dollar block of cheese, so you pile up what you can.

The sliced tomatoes wobble while you walk down the hall, dish balanced in one hand. Light spills underneath Bucky’s bedroom door frame, but when you knock softly, there’s no response. You tap a bit harder, and call out: “Bucky… I have some food for you.” Try as you might to keep your voice steady, there’s a waver that makes you grimace. Contrary to what he may believe, it’s not him you fear -- not in the way others do. He still doesn’t answer you.

You leave the plate on the ground; a pathetic offering of inclusion and peace.

It’s just a sandwich.

When you’ve retreated to your own room, you send him a text letting him know what’s waiting for him. And even though it stings when he doesn’t reply, you feel a silent weight lifted off your shoulders. You played your role today, just as you did last night.

If there’s one emotion Bucky has never evoked in you, it’s guilt.

You don’t check your phone until you’re making coffee the next morning, barely awake as the smell of roasted beans fills the air. The sandwich and its recipient feel like a half-forgotten dream. Only when you’re a few sips into your drink do you see the notification, and the one word it bestows.

Thanks.

It catches you off guard, and you busy yourself by rinsing the pot for the next person, a ceramic glint catching your eye. The stainless steel sink is home to a single plate -- the plate. There’s still a smudge of mustard on the corner from when your hands shook, and the squeezed condiment missed the bread.

You scrub at the dried stain, a much easier mess than the mud-covered floor. It’s just a small task, just a sandwich, just a friendly gesture.

It’s clear Bucky thinks nothing more of it either. The following weekend he’s fine in his own way. After an episode, the air around him feels off; a thick aura that makes your gut instincts fire up. He’s a human timebomb, one wrong step away from mass destruction.

And then he smiles at Steve,  you overhear their conversation about Coney Island, and suddenly all that fear is gone.

His laugh is more of a throaty chuckle than anything else, but there’s a flash of his pearly whites when he jokes about taking Steve on the Cyclone (a story you’ve all heard countless times) and time seems to slow. You hang onto the sight of him like a single frame in a movie; the sway of that one curl on his forehead, the slow upturn of his lips. It’s almost like he’s not there, not really, because he’s someone entirely different -- and not in the ways you’ve seen before.

It feels like you’re standing in the museum again, looking at all the Sergeant Barnes plaques and pictures. Not a hint of Winter Soldier, not even Bucky, just… James.

You must be grinning like the lovesick idiot you are because Steve finally nudges your shoulder. “Don’t you start laughing now. You’dve thrown up too if you went on that thing.” It takes a second for you to realize they’re still talking about roller coasters, and you just shake your head.

“Whatever you say, Cap’.”

“C’mon, Buck, back me up here!” He’s reverted to the past just as much as his friend, though less noticeably. Just a shift of the shoulders and a stance that fits a skinny Brooklyn kid, not a trained Avenger.

“Nah.” Bucky laughs again, stifled now that you’re involved in the conversation. “Steve’s just a chicken.”

“Oh, eat it,” Steve retorts. “I had stomach ulcers! Of course, I threw up.” He acts truly offended, but there’s no malice in his tone. He loves a good row, even when he acts otherwise. You pretend not to catch his barely visible smirk even as he walks away to go talk to Sam, who’s just entered the room.

You lean closer to Bucky, hand covering the side of your mouth, voice lowered. “He’s just bluffing. I heard he screamed over a spider yesterday.” There’s not much space between you two, and your head spins as you realize he must’ve leaned in too. Just a little. Unconsciously, perhaps, though a hopeful part of you thinks he calculates every moment, no matter how small.

He laughs, enough for you to see his chest puff, but too quiet to cover the whirring of his metal-plated arm. Making him laugh gives you a feeling that’s unmatched by any other form of euphoria. It’s a baby step, a sign of comfort, a realization that maybe, just maybe, you’re enough. Enough for him.

Your heart skips a beat, and when his eyes dart to watch your upturned lips, you wonder if his does too.

III. Sign of the Times; “Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets?”

A part of you is beginning to believe good and bad luck are destined to come hand-in-hand.

It’s an odd feeling having Bucky next door to you, even with the heavy, soundproof wall border. There are simultaneously mere inches and a world apart between you. His steps are silent and his door is always closed, but his presence is still there, and you don’t know if you’d still feel it if you weren’t head over heels for him.

Considering the rest of the building’s layout, you’ve been blessed with this corner of the facility. Steve’s across from Bucky, Sam from you. Despite the square shape, they’re a tight-knit triangle most of the time, even if you consider yourself somewhat involved in their friendship. But it’s partially relieving to not always be included since they can be a handful otherwise.

And that much is proven true when a loud clattering wakes you up at four in the morning.

The sound would wake anyone up, but your job and training are responsible for the way you jolt, heart racing. Any remaining sleep is blinked away as your fingers drift to the side of your bed, where you know a knife is sandwiched between the mattress and frame. No one can get in or even close to the facility without Tony’s knowledge, but the smooth metal feels reassuring against your fingertips regardless.

Silence follows for a few seconds, long enough for you to wonder if the disturbance was just a vivid nightmare. And then you hear one door open, and another; both slammed into the wall behind them. Steve’s voice echoes down the hall, calling your name, and you slide off the bed to your door, forgetting your disclosed weapon.

Steve’s halfway through your name again when you enter the dark hall, finding him standing in Bucky’s doorway. He’s bleary, blue eyes clouded with an uncertain look you’ve only managed to see once or twice; most notably, on the freeway that fateful day. He’s forced to adjust to the situation quickly, you realize, when you join his side and peer into the room.

Everything about Bucky is wrong.

His chest heaves, and when Steve shifts forward, he growls. It’s not a warning, but a threat. If his mouth could foam, you’re sure it’d be dripping down his chin at this point. He’s an offensive predator at first glance. And then you notice the little clues: disheveled sheets, sweat gathered on his brow, the broken vase by his bed stand, and the water dripping from his flesh hand.

Bucky suddenly becomes a wounded, scared animal.

You inch closer, Steve grabbing your wrist when Bucky reacts with a snarl. But you don’t halt, forcing yourself past the threshold. One checkpoint at a time.

“Bucky, it’s me.” You stand, palms face out. “I don’t know what you dreamt of -- I’m sure it scared you. But Steve and I are here, ok?” His eyes flicker between you, respectively, and a glint of recognition flashes in them. “Can you sit back down on your bed?”

His expression trembles, metal fingers curling and stretching repeatedly.

You rack your brain for any idea of ways to de-escalate the situation when he doesn’t follow your suggestion. And then it hits. He doesn’t need a suggestion. He needs an order.

With a deep breath, you steady your tone and catch his gaze. “Bucky…” His eyes glaze, but you try again. “James.” He twitches, just a small shift, but you grab onto it. You want to use the least amount of soldier-related words you can and if his legal name works, you’re not going to push your luck.

“Sit down on the bed, now.” You can feel Steve burning holes into your back, but you ignore his presence, and keep your eyes trained on Bucky. His shoulders drop after a moment and he blinks a few times before shuffling backward until the underside of his knees hit the bed frame. His recline is slow, but he finally sinks into the soft mattress with a heavy breath.

When you walk closer, he doesn’t react at all -- just watches your movements. And when you sit beside him, he continues to stare at you curiously. Steve’s still watching as you grab Bucky’s warm hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of his palm in a soothing repetitive motion.

You begin to murmur affirmations while you continue, not daring to initiate any more physical contact. And he slowly, almost unnoticeably, begins to react to it. Steve sandwiches Bucky’s other side and grabs the latter’s fluffy thick blanket from the middle of the bed.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper to Steve, and he nods, but adjusts the fabric on his friend’s shoulders anyway.

“He doesn’t like the cold.”

You swallow down the quickly forming lump in your throat.

Bucky blinks away the fog a few silent moments later. His fingers grip yours and he looks down at them, tracing your arm up to your face. He says your name quietly.

“Hey, Bucky.”

He scrutinizes you for a second, making your heart flutter, and then his gaze shifts to Steve.

“Steve?”

The blond smiles and nods, patting Bucky’s back gently. “Hey, punk. You alright?”

He swallows thickly, too many words and not enough answers. His fingers are still within your grip. “Yeah. I think.” The wavy strands of hair around his ear are slick with sweat and his tongue darts across his chapped lips in a nervous tick.

“Steve, can you get some water?” you ask, and Steve seems taken aback by your control of the situation, but he finally stands and makes his way to the door. When his steps grow quiet, you return your focus to the man beside you.

“I’m sorry if we scared you,” you begin, but then Bucky jerks his hand from yours as if your touch is the red-ringed surface of a hot stovetop.

His vulnerability shrivels away and he covers the rest of it with his blanket as he shifts toward the other end of the bed. If he notices your hurt expression, he doesn’t mention it, and you do your best to hide it as you stand from his bed.

You slowly drop to your knees, beginning to pick up the remains of the shattered vase; counting each thread in the carpet to take up more time. The flowers that fell are already shriveling, stems cracked into stringy vertebrae, petals smashed into the woven flooring.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky suddenly asks, voice gruff, but with a hint of hesitance. When you look up at him, your breath catches; the table lamp behind him is a warm yellow halo, and you can’t dismiss the feeling of kneeling before him, rose gathered in your palm as you pray he loses the solemn look that covers his face.

“Do what?”

He gestures his chin toward the floor. “Pick up my… messes.”

Steve’s promise rings through your ears. He’ll notice eventually. Your hands shake, and you look back to the floor; constant and unchanging, unlike his expressions. “It’s not a big deal. We all make messes sometimes.” And while that’s true, both of you know there’s no one else you’d be picking up glass shards for at four in the morning.

“You don’t,” he says, before continuing in a hushed tone, almost so you don’t hear, “make messes, I mean.”

His words make you still: what does he perceive? What does he know about you, what does he see that you overlook? What has he pieced together on how absolutely ruined you are for him?

Steve walks in with a cup of water, and the questions silence.

He feels the change in the air quickly and grasps your shoulder with his free hand. “I got it. Go back to bed.”

You toss the glass into the trash, pocketing a few of the intact flower petals to press and save.

When their quieted murmurs and sounds of cleaning continue, you dare a glance back. Bucky pulls his blanket closer, chasing as much warmth as he can take. His hair is almost dry, but the shorter and thinner strands are still stuck to his forehead with sweat. When you blink, he looks the same as the night before last -- wet from the rain and too uncomfortable in his own cold skin.

His reaction to the rain suddenly makes all too much sense.

IV. worldstar money; “Don't hate me, am I crazy? So tenderly you watch me burn.”

It turns out that the nightmare is the peak of Bucky’s episode, and his outburst ends quickly after. He returns to nightly dinners -- with Steve in tow -- and you don’t wake up to either of them yelling again.

Coincidentally, his plateau of emotions also lines up with Thor’s periodic arrival. His presence is always a date to anticipate and the team can spend up to a week preparing if they’re given the time. The god is not a handful, per se, since he’s more than capable of entertaining himself. But, at this point, it’s a tradition that his appearance is paired with a party. The few times one hasn’t been organized before he shows, Thor’s taken it upon himself to create one spontaneously; with no regard to his surroundings. Tony’s already lost a few pieces of furniture to Asgardian liquor stains and he won’t make that mistake again.

As the preparation begins and the excited trainees at the facility are informed of the event, your mind drifts back to Bucky. His attitude change seems too instantaneous. The decline and regrowth can take weeks. A part of you hopes it’s a sign of healing - the fast recovery. The logical side of you thinks he’s simply hiding his discomfort since everyone is busy, too busy for him.

Thankfully, Wanda keeps you distracted. Whenever something normal like a party happens, she’s the most excited, and it’s hard to not feel infused with her radiance. Even Natasha becomes more playful, talkative. Despite popular belief, it seems that redheads have the most fun, especially ones who crave some regularity in their lives.

“What about this one?” Wanda pulls the nth dress from her closet, both you and Natasha lifting your heads from where you’re lying on her purple bed. It’s a simple red piece, with a small flower pattern and flowy skirt.

Natasha sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Too simple.”

“You only wear little black dresses,” you retort, sliding up to her side. “I think it’s pretty, Wanda.”

“Hey, it’s a staple to any good wardrobe.”

“Nat?” you playfully jab. “Are you hiding a secret stylist side of yourself from us?”

Wanda clears her throat and you glance back at her. “Nat’s right. I’ll order something new.”

You frown at their obvious attempt to gang up on you. “I thought I was right!”

Natasha chuckles and Wanda attempts a sputtered excuse before she ends up laughing as well. You flip both of them off, but they see the smile gracing your face regardless.

“Fine. What about you, Nat?” You rest your head on her shoulder, feeling her shrug.

“I don’t plan for this stuff.” A total lie, but you let it slide.

Wanda looks over her shoulder as she returns the dress to her overfilled closet. “Picked something to seduce Bucky in yet?” Her accent deepens as she fakes a sultry tone, sending a mascara-lashed wink your way.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“I think you should get something to highlight your ass,” Natasha muses, playfully tapping her chin. “That’s a pretty obvious hint, don’t you think?”

“Not you too!” But she pulls you into her arms regardless. Wanda jumps on the bed a few seconds later, curling up to your other side. You’re so close to them, and not just physically. You feel like you could reveal anything, admit any secret, and it’d stay in this group of minds forever. A Bermuda Triangle friendship for your confessions.

You can’t help but mumble: “Why doesn’t he notice anything I do?”

It still feels selfish to think, let alone say out loud, but there’s no judgment in response. There’s not the pitying comfort from Steve or the teasing grins of the others who don’t understand the depth of the situation. Natasha pats your arm and Wanda squeezes you a little tighter, and they don’t need to offer an explanation because just having them listen is enough. You know that’s how Bucky feels with Steve and you wonder if, in some other dimension, he trusts you just as much.

Natasha leaves first; off to the shooting range with Clint, and you follow soon after.

“Hey, Wanda,” you call, halfway through the threshold. She looks up from investigating her heeled-boot collection, red waves of hair crashing over her shoulder. Her thin brow lifts in question, and you smirk.

“I think Vision would like the flower dress, just saying.”

You don’t look back, even when you hear her sputter a retort, because you already know her face is flushed to match the outfit hanging in her closet.

V. sex money feelings die; “Trade love for one night, two pills and a red wine.”

The air in the facility only changes when Tony Stark is in charge. Routines, workouts, meetings -- they’re all forgotten and replaced with tipsy staff and good music. An inkling of professionalism remains in the lounge, but it’s discreet; fancy champagne, expensive suits, and a few public heads lingering in groups. But as a whole, it’s nowhere near the usual stiffness of your daily life. The facility may be your home, but it’s your workplace as well. Except for during moments like these.

You’re able to spot everyone quickly. Unlike the previous Stark Tower parties you attended a few years back, the guest list tonight is much smaller. Natasha is holding her own in a conversation with a few snobby businessmen and Clint lingers on the balcony behind her looking like he’d rather jump off than engage in any small talk anyone has to offer.

Wanda, in all her flowered-dress glory, is a tad tipsy, but Vision stables her with a hand on her waist, and you can see her cheeks flush from across the room.

Tony is with Bruce at the bar, and Thor is surrounded by excited trainees who’ve only heard stories about him. A second later, your gaze lands on a group of three: Steve, Bucky, and Sam. The last catches your eye and waves, heading your way before you can take a step in their direction.

He stumbles on his path, which means he’s drunk. Sam Wilson is not a lightweight, but deep inside his body lives a frat boy who only appears when he’s had too many shots to remember.

“Hey!” He grins and pulls you in for a hug, the type he’d usually give you after a two-week mission away, even though it’s been two hours since you talked last. “I didn’t see you around. Thought you decided to skip.”

You chuckle. “You know me. Just… Lingering.” And watching for Bucky.

Sam raises his brow cartoonishly high. “I think you’re partying wrong. You,” he starts, grabbing your hand before you can blink, “should be dancing.” He extends your arm above your head until you appease him with a spin.

He whistles, then sighs. “You know, I hate to admit it but I think Barnes would be a better partner. Dude’s how old again?” Sam laughs, palm warm as he squeezes your hand. “Seven decades of dance moves. Hell, you think he can moonwalk?”

It’s a nice thought: Bucky, not yet greying due to his years on ice, being free in the eighties. His hair fluffed with hairspray and a neon earring dangling from his lobe. But that’s another life. Another era he’ll never live.

“Hey, you alright?” The new wave illusion fades away and you’re left staring at Sam’s toothy smile. “You have too much to drink?”

“No, actually.” You play off the spaced-out moment and Sam is too inebriated to notice. “I haven’t had anything yet, really.”

He immediately gets a playful glint in his eyes. “Steve got his hands on some of that God beer, or whatever -- if you wanna try.” Despite internally refusing the offer, you don’t dismiss Sam. Mainly, because Bucky is still standing by Steve, and you can see the invisible walkway leading up to them. You nod, and Sam heads back in their direction with you trailing behind him.

Steve pulls you to his side the minute you’re within reach, breath hot and sweet against your cheek. “Wondered where you wandered off to.” He loosens his grip but lets his weight rest on your shoulder, enough to keep you warm. He flashes his flask at you, silver metal and dark brown leather, but you shake your head.

Before you can politely decline, Sam reaches over to take the offer from Steve’s hands. Three sets of eyes watch, with bated breath, as he tosses back a shotful, complete with a face-scrunching cough. “Is it that bad?” you ask, but Sam’s too busy clearing his throat to respond, and Bucky grabs the flask.

He makes Sam look like an amateur as he takes his own drink. It goes down smoothly, the veins in his neck tensing as he swallows without hesitation. None of his other muscles even twitch. You marvel at him in quiet awe as he licks away the last golden drops clinging to his lips.

Bucky’s eyes catch yours when he’s done. Tonight, he stares, like he’s trying to understand your gaze for once. A part of you wonders how he can struggle to profile emotions as visible as yours. Another part of you wonders if he remembers what attraction and amazement look like to the naked eye.

You don’t have time to consider it before the man of the hour is pushing his way into the conversation, sliding a toned bicep around your neck to pull you in. He grins, sends the other guys a nod. “My favorite human,” he starts, though you’re not sure if that ranking was decided pre or post-Jane. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, Thor, thank you.” He pats the small of your back in response and then directs his attention to the others -- distant chatter of mead and parties fading into the background. You’re in the midst of zoning out when a gentle, but direct, cough alerts you of someone’s presence. Thor doesn’t pay you any mind as you pull from his grip, turning to face a guy you think you recognize. A security guard, maybe -- or a media reporter?

You’ve got a superhuman soldier on one arm and a God on the other, but this, presumably mortal man stays rooted in his place. “Good evening,” he starts and throws your last name out like the idea of being beneath you socially crushes his already crippling ego. “I know this might be, well, quite forward, but…” In the back of your mind, you realize the others have halted their conversation to watch how this will unfold.

“I’ve been waiting to see you all night.” You give him a polite smile and hope your cringe isn’t obvious.

“Thank you…” He is optimistically brave and you know that letting him down without a fight is unavoidable, so you play along to save face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” His grin is bleached white, a staggering contrast against his dark suit and brown eyes.

“Well, now that you’re here,” but he can’t finish the tacky line before Sam snorts, only silencing when Steve jabs him in the side.

You feel downright sick. His intentions aren’t pure, obviously, but you wonder what his motive is. It always starts like this -- a nice, albeit forced, conversation, and next thing you know, he’s asking which Avengers are fucking behind closed doors (or whatever other gossip is trending at the moment.)

“Anyway.” You brace yourself; here it comes. “There’s a private gallery showing downtown next weekend. I was hoping you’d be interested in going with me?”

Oh. Oh.

“I’m sorry?” You’re still not convinced. “Are you asking me on a date?” The word leaves your mouth and you faintly feel Steve take a step closer, gentlemanly instincts kicking in. He’s watched the others be tempted by similar propositions, only to be ambushed by paparazzi or caught in a pre-planned scandal.

“You could call it that, if you’d like,” the guy responds, a flirty lilt in his tone. “I understand if you’re not available -- a lifestyle like yours doesn’t leave much in the schedule, I assume.” He rustles in his suit’s breast pocket before pulling out a card, off-white with a dark grey print. You catch a glance of his name -- Tom -- before he’s speaking again.

“If you end up having time, I’d love to take you.”

You nod dumbly, still not sure how to process the situation at hand. But if his disinterest towards your opinion wasn’t obvious before, it’s clear when he’s already walking away with a grin before you can attempt to respond.

When you finally turn around, all four men are staring at you with different expressions. Thor is impressed, it seems, even when he falls into a bout of surprised chuckles. Sam’s slightly more annoyed, but not enough to stop himself from laughing either. Steve is staring daggers into Tim -- Tom’s -- departing figure, and Bucky is… You’re not sure. His jaw is clenched, tightly, and his stance is far more predatory than it was before; shoulders squared, chest puffed. He’s the perfect picture of jealousy, but you know he’s probably just put off by Tom’s cocky demeanor.

Regardless, the change in the air is palpable, and you end up excusing yourself before you can choke on the tension. You rescue Natasha from her painfully dull conversation and pull her onto the balcony to relax with Clint. He’s staring off at the landscape below, and you both press against the railing with him. His gaze doesn’t shift, but a smirk becomes visible on his sharp profile. “Nice escape in there, you two. Barnes and those businessmen were really shaking their heads.” Natasha scoffs, but you tense.

“Bucky?” you ask, and Clint huffs, faking surprise.

“Yeah, Bucky. Thought the old man was about to go into cardiac arrest when that other guy asked you out.”

“What guy?” Natasha cuts in.

At the same time, you say, “How did you know he was asking me out?”

Clint isn’t easy to annoy, so he continues to answer your questions. “I know because Barnes looks jealous as hell. I can hear his heavy breathing from here, and in case you’ve forgotten,” he gestures towards the purple aid lodged in his ear. “And since you’ve gotten over here, he’s taken it upon himself to finish off Steve’s flask.”

“Gross,” Natasha groans. “I wouldn’t touch that shit if it were the last drink on Earth.” She accentuates her words with a sip of her bubbling champagne, long red nails tapping the glass flute.

“Whatever you say, Barton,” you chuckle, but there’s a hesitation in your words; a silent gap waiting to be filled with more questions. Was Bucky really jealous? Is Clint just humoring you? The thoughts drift around in your head, and your friends let the conversation flow into another topic, saving you from dwelling for too long.

As they begin to playfully argue over something -- like always -- your eyes drift back to the party. It’s reached a quiet buzzed state, the energy of the room coming to a lull. The calmness is enough to leave you feeling dazed, letting the cold breeze coat your skin with goosebumps. You silently hope that Bucky is watching from afar, indulging in your shadowed silhouette against the darkening night. But when you examine each partygoer to find him, you land on Steve instead; with that look.

Natasha finally notices, or at least announces, your distraction: “You alright?”

“Yeah…” You trail off, watching as Steve and Sam glance around the room; searching, worried. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring more drinks on your way,” Clint suggests, but his favor leaves your mind the second you head inside.

VI. SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK; “Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms.”

Your shoes clack against the floor and Steve lets out a sigh of relief when you enter his line of sight. “Thank God you’re here,” he half-jokes as if you can’t see his flustered expression. “I was just about to call you. Bucky wandered off and... I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. He’s not in his room -- Sam checked.”

“Bathroom?” You ask, but Sam, approaching, shakes his head. He looks like he’s a second from toppling, his earlier shot taking a visible toll.

“Looked there first.”

You raise a disbelieving brow. “Geez, I’ve barely been gone five minutes and he just disappeared on you both? Isn’t that what he does?” You discreetly gesture around to the crowd, gritting your teeth. “This isn’t really his scene.”

Steve’s concern doesn’t lessen. “No, I know. He just, he somehow got buzzed. I don’t think he’s slept in days and… I don’t know...”

You know his ability to burn off alcohol is unparalleled, but unlike Steve, Bucky hasn’t touched the stuff since ‘42 -- not even one of Tony’s mild wines at dinner. If he was drinking as much as Clint said, there’s a fair chance he could be slightly inebriated; just enough to throw him off his perfectly calculated balance.

You can’t leave him to his own devices, so you let out an exhausted huff. “Fine. Take Sam to his room, though. He’s about to pass out.” Said drunk sends you a glare, then promptly stumbles in place. “I’ll make the rounds in the meantime. Text me if you see Bucky on your way.”

Both men nod, Sam’s head bobbing in a way that makes you dizzy. They head off, attracting a few whispers along the way, but make it down the hall without too much of a scene. You sneak away in the opposite direction, towards the other half of the facility. It’s eerily quiet as the voices fade away until there’s just silence. The lights automatically flicker on as you walk, turning off behind you when you leave their range.

The closest rooms are the lounge and some storage closets, but they’re all empty, along with the pool. He can’t be in the shooting range or armory, since they’ve been locked up tightly for the night; FRIDAY can’t even open them without Tony’s approval.

But there’s another set of bathrooms down the hall; less used, without everyone’s necessities inside. When you walk past the door, a few sounds catch your attention: a drunken mumble, squeaky boots, and water running. There’s a possibility it’s a public hookup since it’s practically a mile-high achievement to fuck at a Tony Stark party. At least, it was, back in 2011.

You push open the door slowly.

Bucky is leaning against the sink, face flushed and dripping water. It’s been unceremoniously splashed against his skin, dripping down his neck and spilling across his maroon dress shirt. The patches of wet fabric cling to his chest, and you barely manage to pull your gaze away from the smooth outlines of his torso. His jacket is draped next to the faucet, freckled with stray droplets like a garden flower.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror, blue drifting into a hazy grey.

“Hey…” You trail off, closely monitoring his expression. “Steve wondered where you ran off to.” You refrain from mentioning your own concern; a good choice, considering Bucky gives you a tight smile in return. You’re just thankful for more than a grimace at this point.

“It’s pretty loud in there, right?” you continue, looking away as you grab some paper towels, thin white, masking your palms like sheet ghosts. Bucky’s eyes are still on you when you turn back, making you jump. You try to play it off by taking a step closer, slowly raising your hand. “Is this alright?”

He doesn’t respond, but his chin juts outward. When he’s steel-faced like this, you can’t tell who you see more: Sergeant or Soldat.

His reaction seems like a yes, albeit a stubborn one. His skin is warm even through the napkins as you gently pat his face, drying it off. He’s completely still, and it takes a second for you to realize neither of you is breathing. You’re sure your heart is beating much faster than his. You dab his cheekbones and when you move to his forehead, he tilts toward you. It’s tender and trusting and your heart melts; dripping over your rib bones and living jitters in your stomach.

Bucky’s lips pout as you press them once, twice, and you savor the indirect kiss.

And then you pull away, and he leans back.

You smile, and for a second it looks like he does too. “All dry.” He’s quick to grab his jacket, slinging it over his broad shoulder. Right as you move aside to let him leave, he takes an unbalanced step, hurriedly adjusting himself. The sight of Bucky tripping over his own feet is enough to make you giggle, and the quieted sound makes his cheeks flush a shade darker.

“Are you drunk?” you press, and he scoffs.

“Can’t get drunk. You know that.” But the corner of his lips upturn just barely, and you know only a drunk Bucky would ever smile at you.

“Whatever you say…” You pull his jacket onto your own shoulder. “But I’m taking you to your room. Steve’ll put me on dish duty for a week if I don’t.”

VII. Out Like a Light; “If I betray our lonely nights spent out like a light, with no kiss goodnight...”

Bucky is quiet the entire walk to his room, but his presence is warm and comforting behind you; thick like drizzled honey. You don’t have to look back or strain your ears just to feel him, to sense him. You don’t mind that he doesn’t utter a single word or attempt to sync his steps next to yours -- you just make your way down the hall, distantly noting Sam’s door being open a sliver. It’s a habit of his, like many others, that you’ve grown to recognize. He can be overly cautious, sometimes to a fault, but you’re relieved to know he got to his room with a few screws left intact inside that wild head of his.

“And here we are, safe and sound.” You extend your arm to Bucky’s door with a cheesy grin: “Home sweet home.” When he tenses at your words, you try not to falter -- even when you know home to him is a century away, in another life, and another world. Even if home to him means young laughter, warm cooking, and a scratchy record. You can’t apologize for wanting to be home, for hoping the occasional laughter of Peter and the motherly nagging of Pepper are enough to makeshift a family.

Bucky gracelessly stomps into his room, immediately falling back into his unmade bed. Any other night, you’d close his door and walk far, far away. But tonight he’s still got his shoes on and you know one wrong move will track God knows what across his sheets. You can’t help but wonder how many messes Bucky Barnes will make before you finally give in and kiss him.

Without another thought, you close the door behind you, causing Bucky to look up with a raised brow.

“I’m not gonna let you fall asleep fully dressed,” you tell him, voice stern, and he’s half-asleep by the time you’re untying his second shoe, tugging it off his socked foot. He managed to undo one button on his shirt, but promptly gave up, leaving his arms beside him.

You murmur his name and he groans. “Buck, c’mon. What do you normally wear to bed?” He answers by rolling over, muttering something into his pillow.

It’d be frowned upon to go through his drawers, but you’ve got no other choice. You quickly grab a t-shirt and some sweats. You don’t stare when you pull off his button-up and slacks, and you don’t ogle when you pull his impromptu pajamas on. You don’t glance at his scars or his chest or his stomach because he trusts you.

He’s as vulnerable as you could ever hope for, but he’s also stumbling drunk, and bound to forget this encounter tomorrow morning. He will never trust you like this again, so you cling to the moment as you tuck him in and brush his bangs from his face.

The thought of his upcoming headache sends you to the bathroom to fill a glass of water, thankful the tap is filtered. You set the cup on his bed stand, next to his toppled prescription bottles. He’s got a memo pad, unmarked but indented from previous writings, and a silver pen there too. You scribble a note telling him to drink water and take his meds in the morning. You add a little heart, stick it on the glass, and resign yourself to the fate of this being a blurry moment for the rest of your life.

You’re finally about to walk away when Bucky grabs your wrist, completely catching you off guard. His eyes flutter open, drowsy blue and thankful in a way that reminds you you’d do anything for him. “Please, don’t leave me.” He blinks, glossy and unfocused, and you sit next to him with a gentle nod. His hand stays locked in yours, even when he shifts to rest on his side. Your thumb rubs his knuckle while his opposite metal one clicks into place with a soft rattle.

“‘M sorry,” Bucky mumbles, but when you ask why, he just shakes his head and dozes off with a few slurred words. Something like thank you, and then a gravelly rumble of Russian -- Золотце.

A part of you wishes you didn’t understand it. Another part of you is glad Natasha has called you darling so many times before.

VIII. Even If It’s a Lie; “And I know you don't love me so, but please say it once before I go.”

If Bucky remembers anything from that night, he never acknowledges it. The others joke about the party in their sober states, reminiscing and reliving all the antics you missed while you spent the night baring your heart and soul to the man who now can’t stand to look at you.

“I wish I’d drank more and forgotten that night,” Clint jokes before the mention of alcohol jogs his memory and he glances over at you. “You never brought back our refills, so I’m blaming you.” You can tell he’s playing around, and you hope his words will fly under everyone else’s radar, but then Nat nods, growing suspicious. You’re all having dinner -- one of the good ones, where everyone is warm and full -- so you hope she won’t prod. But you can feel the shift in her energy as she leans in, raising a sharp brow.

“You’re right, Barton -- for once in your life.”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you go?” Her cherry lips curl on one side, and Wanda can’t hide her amusement as she snuggles up to Vision on the loveseat; unlike you and Bucky, they’ve barely left each other’s side since that night.

Instinctively, your gaze darts to Bucky, and you’re surprised to catch him already staring back. A hint of something lies in his gaze -- something more unrecognizable than usual. It’s neither embarrassment regarding your time together, nor a glare warning you against speaking up. If anything, it’s almost a silent plea, though not one rooted in regret. He’s asking this to be your secret and yours alone.

“Sam got hammered,” you start, rolling your eyes jokingly. Bucky physically relaxes, you note, watching him from the corner of your eye. “I had to help him get to his room -- with Steve, who did most of the heavy lifting. Literally.” Everyone seems appeased with the answer and you’re relieved to have made the right call.

Someone -- you’re not paying much attention at this point -- remarks how difficult it is to get drunk nowadays; between being on-call and not being able to enter a bar without ten different security precautions. You don’t doubt the gratitude the team shares, both for each other and the satisfaction of saving people. But it comes with a certain yearning. You see it at Steve’s apartment when he makes you dinner and talks to you about the weather like you’re just his neighbor. Or when Wanda paints her nails before missions, even when she knows they’ll be chipped bare by the time you return home.

Everyone wants what they don’t have; a normal life -- a chance at something different, mundane, peaceful.

And you… You want Bucky.

Considering his usual aversion to your presence, it takes a while for you to realize he’s purposely ignoring you. You’d hoped your white lie to the group would build you some rapport in his mind, but the awkwardness builds up until it rolls off him in waves whenever you walk by.

The silent-stand off reaches unbearable levels until Bucky ends up assigned to a day mission. It’s a sad realization, but you can tell the entire facility relaxes at the lack of his presence. No one’s gotten the hang of being around him, so it’s easier when he’s just...gone. If anything, he’s usually in a better mood when he gets back. The alone time, the structure, and the familiarity of burning knuckles and bloody lips calm him in a way nothing else can.

Steve pulls you into his room that late afternoon. He’s all furrowed brows and pouty lips; his thinking look. You sometimes forget he doesn’t have all the answers, despite appearing old and wise. He’s navigating the same life as you are. He’s lived two eras, but so few years. He doesn’t always understand.

His room is clean and stark, bare walls and pristinely tucked sheets. It’s still warm, in all the right ways. It smells soft and sweet like him -- a woodsy linen scent -- and there’s a cream, knitted blanket draped across his bed that drowns you whenever he lets you borrow it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, sitting on the edge of his bed with you. His broad frame takes up most of the space, but you don’t mind. “How did things go that night, with Buck? I asked him how he got to his room, but he said he doesn’t remember.”  

The single spark of optimism you had for keeping that night a special secret fizzles away without another word. Within a mere second, the realization hits you. Bucky’s not cherishing some romantic rendezvous because that’s not what it was. If anything, he’s probably ashamed at how easily he opened up to you after too much alcohol.

You can’t help but scoff to hide your pain. “Lucky him,” you joke, nudging Steve’s side. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he frowns, immediately scooting closer to you.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

You’re blinking back some form of emotion -- heartbreak, anger, the burning feeling of your conscience sneering I told you so. I told you this would happen. “I just got him to bed, that’s all.” It’d be easier to believe that, to gaslight yourself until the memory is nothing more than a faded delusion. If Bucky refuses to acknowledge it, why plague yourself with the isolated recollection?

With the tone of an overbearing mother, Steve sighs. “I know that’s not true, doll. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” And then you feel your wet cheeks and the faint taste of salt gathering on your lips, tears streaking without you even noticing.

“He called me… Darling -- in Russian.”

“What?” Complete disbelief. “Are you sure?”

You know he’s just as surprised as you were, but the question burns: Why would Bucky ever call you that? It’s what Steve’s secretly asking. “Nat,” you answer. “She’s used it with me before. I recognized it right away.”

“Darling...” Steve muses, the world pulling out in a Brooklyn drawl instead of a Russian purr. “Well, I can’t lie and say I was expecting that, but…” He tilts his head with a smile, blond wisps curled around his ears, glowing white in the setting sunlight. “That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

You go to wipe your eyes, but Steve beats you to it, rough knuckles brushing the tears away. “I don’t think so. He won’t even talk to me now. I think he’s ashamed -- but he shouldn’t be, right? It was just a drunk mistake. We all make those.” You know your tone isn’t convincing -- you’re still trying to prove it to yourself, and Steve’s face morphs into a look of pity. His features are drawn with guilt, and you don’t know when you both began to take the fall for Bucky’s faults.

“I’ll be honest.” Steve sighs, leaning forward. It’s hard to see him like this, so unsure. “I can’t always tell what Bucky’s thinking -- not anymore.” He shakes his head. “Maybe back then, before. Things were less complicated. It was easy to understand him.” He reaches for your hand, cupping it between both of his, and the contact steadies your wavering heart. “Sometimes, I think he’ll handle things like he used to, you know?” Sergeant Barnes -- the flirt, all confidence and smooth words. He’d treat you differently, but that’s not what you want, who you want.

“But that doesn’t mean you can doubt yourself, ok?” Steve’s words aren’t a cure-all, but they soothe the growing ache in your chest. He’s a terrible liar, so you know he’s being honest, and his reassurance means more than most people’s.

“Whatever Bucky decides to do - that’s his choice. You’re not doing anything wrong by trying to offer him love.” He doesn’t hesitate with the last word, which burns in every way possible; relief, knowing he understands the depth of your feelings; pain, that even with that knowledge, he only has hope. If Steve, with all of his unwavering optimism, is hanging by a thread, you know you’re past saving.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He says nothing else, just pulls you closer, and lets you rest in his arms for a few beats while you take in his natural scent and warm hands. In another life, he’d be easier to fall for. You’ve snagged a part of his heart, just like the others, but whoever gets it all… That’d be a type of love you’re not sure you could ever wrap your head around.

“I’m gonna go for a walk - try and clear my head. Alright?”

“Yeah, doll. Get to bed soon though, ok?”

You nod, and the sun has set by the time you make it down the hall, incoming moonlight lighting your way up to the balcony.

IX. Two Slow Dancers; “It would be a hundred times easier, if we were young again.”

The outside air is crisp, occasional winds biting into your arms and coaxing goosebumps from your skin. It’s the type of weather that leaves you alone with your thoughts, too sharp to let you zone out into an unfeeling haze. Everything lingering in your mind confronts you when you’re cold like this, and you wonder if that’s why Bucky hates the midnight chill so much; if it forces forward the memories that aren’t really his, the guilt of his subconscious actions.

You’ve all made countless mistakes, misjudgments. It’s part of the job. When you rely so heavily on instincts and adrenaline, slip-ups are bound to happen. But at the end of the day, you have yourself to own up to, not a foreign entity wearing your skin. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier, but the Winter Soldier is a part of Bucky, in a way that can’t be denied. To consider them separate entities would be ignorant, but to blame Bucky would be cruel.

Bucky mirrors your route at some point in the night, quietly joining you. The cold is making your body ache, much like your mind, but you can’t find it in yourself to turn around and go back in, especially when you see him. He’s still in his mission clothes, dark and clinging to his sweaty skin. He looks untouched, though you’re sure he’s got a few cuts and bruises you can’t see.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until the morning,” you state, with a slight chatter of your teeth. The stars above shine brighter than they did at the tower, unobstructed by city lights and various forms of pollution. They feel closer, almost as if they’re listening to every word you say and whispering amongst themselves.

Bucky busies himself by tugging his leather gloves off. “Got done early. Steve said you’d probably be here.”

Bitterly, you acknowledge he didn’t check on you because he felt inclined. Rather, he’d been put up to it. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you hum. Your mind races with what Steve must’ve said, how it led to this. You know you’re being given the conversation you spent nights begging for, but instead of joy, you feel fear. A sour bile rises to your throat. Bucky has dirt caked on his clothes, you’re half-freezing in the dark night, and the universe is cruel for deciding now is the moment.

“I know what you’re doing.” He’s straight to the point, just like always. No flowery language or attempt at sugar-coating, which you find both a blessing and a curse. He won’t say anything that could be misconstrued, but his statement is vague enough to lure you into your own admission.

“Yeah? What’s that?” The crest of fresh tears burns your already irritated eyes. You feel the end of all ends coming, but you won’t be the one to start it. Your pride was what kept this infatuation going for so long, even though it’d been predestined to fail. And your pride is what keeps you from giving in, even with the settling realization that Bucky never intended to treat you differently or give you a chance.

His hands, and their now visible bruised knuckles, curl around the balcony railing. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you, yet he’s never felt so far away. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he says gruffly, and it sounds worse coming from him than anyone else. Less comforting, more pitying.

“Look at me.” You hesitate before obliging.

The sight catches you off guard. You know what Bucky looks like when he’s uncomfortable; seen it countless times - this is worse. He’s gone through Hell and back, yet he still looks more tortured glancing at you than at any time in his past. Why he wants to see you when he does this, you don’t know. Sadistic is the best word for it. Why must he gouge a hole in your chest while giving you those baby blues?

His eyes are dark, stars catching in their reflection as the colors swirl like a galaxy. The celestial vision is only yours to enjoy for a moment before he squints, brows furrowing. He must see the tears, the pleading look on your face that you no longer bother to hide. “Doll?” Like a stab to the gut, he delivers the one word you’ve imagined falling from his lips so many times before. There’s no warm sun or shy smiles or soft kisses to accompany it, only a pitying gaze and the gloomy sky.

“Please - don’t call me that.” You attempt to be stern, but your voice wavers, words barely coating a stifled choke. The second you turn away, Bucky latches onto your wrist, calloused fingers pulling you close; finally wanting you to invade his space.

His lips form a tight line. “Won’t you at least listen to what I want to say?”

“Why should I?” you ask, voice sharpening into a bite. “I know what you’re gonna say. I can tell just by looking at your face.” Chest heaving, you continue. Now that the confidence to speak has hit you, you can’t seem to stop. “I’ve known every day since you came here, Bucky. I know you don’t like me, but I don’t know why you seem so determined to rub it in my face.”

Ripping your wrist from his clutch, you rub away a fresh set of oncoming tears. Bucky blinks, wide-eyed, but composes himself quickly. “You think…” He almost laughs in disbelief. “You think I want to hurt you?” For a second, your stomach churns with guilt, but it dissipates before he speaks again. He is hurting you, whether he intends to or not. “I’m telling you this because I want to protect you.”

Voice trailing into a barely restrained yell, your chest bubbles with frustration, spreading like wildfire. Every word slices through the icy air with a hiss. “Protect me from what?”

Bucky shakes his head, brown waves of hair swaying with the motion. “You don’t know what you want,” he says, sternly. “You think you know how you feel, but you don’t. You… You don’t realize the things I’ve done -- what I’m capable of.”

A second of silence passes before the dam inside you breaks. The tears dry up, scorched away by the anger in your veins. “We all know, Bucky,” you retort, not missing the flash of hurt on his face. All you can think of is Steve, Tony, everyone who’s lost in the name of the man in front of you. They’ve worked tirelessly to push aside the past, putting their trust in the future, in the one who has caused them so much pain. “And we are the ones who have given you a second chance, despite it all. You’re the only one who can’t forgive yourself.”

His chest heaves, letting out a low breath as your words sink in. “You’re right,” he admits, lowly. “Which is why I can’t let you shoulder that burden.”

“Stop assuming you know what I can and can’t do,” you snap, lip curling into a snarl. “This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that you refuse to think anyone can see the good in you!”

“That’s because there isn’t any good in me!” Bucky yells, finally managing to startle you. He steps closer, chest puffed and jaw twitching. For a moment, you imagine this is how his victims must’ve felt in their final moments. “It’s the ugly truth and you’ve gotta face it. I can’t ever be what you want.”

At that moment, you realize it’s never been you that he’s disliked; only himself. The thought makes you spiral, and you immediately soften, voice hoarse and hushed. “You are what I want,” you tell him, hoping he understands. “Just as you are, Bucky. Why can’t you accept that?”

“You’re…” He shakes his head, strung so tight his body shakes. “You’re being unrealistic. I - I can’t see you with hope now when I know that there’s no future where I’m the person you’re imagining.” He’s entirely resigned to the fact, despite all you’re willing to give him, every possibility ahead.

You have to remind him of the light at the end of the tunnel. “What about all the work we’re doing? The therapy, the meds? Steve’s even making negotiations with Shuri… I… Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“What if it works?” Bucky questions and the thought makes you stop. “Are you going to follow me there? To Wakanda?” he asks, and it’s almost sad how quickly you come to a decision. For him, and the chance of something more, you’d leave it all behind.

“I would,” you admit, keeping your voice steady. “If there’s a chance - why… Why wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t even consider it. “It doesn’t matter… It’s something I have to do alone.” He’s burrowing himself into a pit of isolation despite your pleas. Every time you hold your hand out to help, he’s just inches away, fingertips brushing yours. Just one reach and you can pull him to safety.

“I know I can’t heal you, Bucky - that’s not... That isn’t what I’m trying to do. I just… I want you to know I’d wait for you, every step of the way.”

He stops, thinking about his next choice of words. Somehow, you already know what he’s going to say. “What if…” His voice is hesitant, almost as if it pains him to speak. It’s going to hurt you even more. “What if I don’t want you there?”

Finally, it hits; the admission you’ve always been preparing yourself for. The excruciating buildup slams into you with a deafening crescendo. The letdown, the pure collapse, is unavoidable. Not a cell in your body can fight it. Any chance of convincing him is over -- completely and utterly so. It’s the sharpest ache you’ve felt in so long, but you can’t break in front of him - not any more than you already have. You can’t allow him the satisfaction he’s been waiting for since he demanded you look him in the eye; the fact that he is wholly, unequivocally, and painfully right.

“Okay,” you finally exhale, trembling but not looking away. “If you… That’s all you need to say. If that’s what you want.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen Bucky regretful, because the emotion held in his eyes is not something you recognize; downcast eyes, slumped shoulders. This is one instance where the guilt is entirely his own. “I care about what you want too, Bucky,” you tell him, unsure of how he could ever think differently with all you’ve given him. “Just because I feel a certain way… I-I’d never force you to feel the same.”

The balcony falls into silence, neither one of you having anything left to say. The last bit of warmth disappears as Bucky retreats to the doorway, gentle winds brushing his hair back for just a second; long enough for you to see a light gloss of tears coat his eyes. He blinks them back, features relaxing on instinct as he shifts into the perfect picture of numbness like he’s been trained to do. Any hint of emotion is washed away in one crawling, desperate wave.

He stops halfway through the threshold, one final consolation on his tongue. “It wouldn’t have been forced,” he admits, and, for a second, it’s like the dream you’ve always imagined; his soft eyes, the chance of him feeling the same. But the confession is for another life, a different version of yourself that you can’t quite imagine.

Bucky gives you a trace of a smile, and your frustration spills away as quickly as it came. All that remains is the longing for what could have been -- for what will never be. “Thank you,” you tell him, and this time you mean it. He leaves quietly, almost as if he’d never been here to begin with.

You’re left standing in the cold, nose burning, and fingers numb. The stars stare down from above, twinkling and all-knowing. You can’t help but wonder how many heartbreaks they’ve witnessed in all their years, finding yourself grateful for a finite lifetime of them. One streaks across the sky and you let a silent wish cling to the bright white tail, hoping and begging to never take its place in the universe. You’re not sure how many more broken hearts you can handle.

At the very least, not an eternity’s worth.

X. Strange (Instrumental)

The night on the roof slowly fades away, word by word, until you start to forget exactly what Bucky said, and in what tone. The emotions linger in a way akin to sickness; a tight chest, twisted stomach, clammy skin. At the very least, the physical reactions are easier to hide, covered by excuses like a sparring match gone wrong or spoiled leftovers.

To most, you seem entirely fine. No one knows about your conversation beneath the stars, though a few begin to suspect something happened after Bucky’s return. He’s calm. He’s participating. He sits at dinner with everyone else, passing you the salt when you ask and listening intently to your repetitive drones about training. Natasha and Wanda watch with wide eyes, not bothering to muffle the sounds of them smacking each other under the table every time you and Bucky so much as glance at each other.

You neither confirm nor deny their suspicions, partly so you can revel in their happiness. They deserve the relief of thinking your silly little crush is over, even if they do believe it ended in a more favorable conclusion.

Your fork has barely touched your finished plate when Steve picks it up for you, stacking it upon his own scraped dish; three servings packed away in his super soldier stomach. Dinner cleanup is usually his chore, but he’s prematurely eager about it tonight. Everyone is still sitting around the lounge and kitchen, forgotten bites dangling off their cutlery between conversations.

“I got it, doll.” He presses a gentle kiss against the top of your hair before heading to the sink and you don’t miss the curious glances sent in your direction; Tony, halfway through a bite of pasta, focuses his brown eyes on you like a laser.

You know exactly what Steve is doing. Steve knows you know. He’s been stuck to your side like glue for going on a week now, and you’re equally thankful and sick of it. His footsteps sync with yours on the way to the gym, the pool, and even your shared hallway. At night, you curl up into his blanket, which he lent you with a silent acknowledgment. It’s soft and easy to cry into, even if it doesn’t heal the painful cold that fills your body.

Faintly, you wonder if Bucky’s blanket does; if, when he dreams of the blood-stained snow, it warms his metal heart.

Your facade lasts another couple of days before it begins to crumble. Bucky is completely unaffected and, for once, you find yourself envious of him. It’s disgusting to admit, to tell yourself you’d rather feel his aching numbness than the deep pit of sorrow nestled in your stomach, but it’s true. Everyone else praises his change in attitude: That’s three nights in a row that Barnes has come to dinner. Isn’t that great? The words seem to echo in every room you enter and you want to scream, revealing to everyone that the only thing different in Bucky’s life is you. He’s finally rid himself of you, cut you from under his skin like nothing more than an obsessive parasite.

Thankfully, it’s easy to come up with an excuse. In your line of work, everyone gets burned out from time to time, retreating to different areas of the world. Clint goes home while Tony visits the beach. Bruce drops off the grid entirely.

“And you swear you’re alright?” Tony asks, again, watching as you pack an overnight bag. You know he’ll drop it eventually, begrudgingly respecting your privacy, but it’s obvious you’re not being entirely truthful about why you want to leave. If you want to admit it, now’s the time.

You stuff Steve’s blanket into your old duffle. “I’m sure, Tony. Just tired, you know?” He scoffs, nods, and gives you a slight smile -- in that order -- silently agreeing; I’m Iron Man, kid. I’ve been tired since 2008.

He finally relents, clapping his hands like he always does when filling an awkward silence. “Alright, well… I’ve got a driver downstairs for you. He’ll take you wherever you want to go -- which is where again?” You give him an unamused look and he huffs. “What?”

“None of your business,” you remind him, with a smile. “Thanks.”

He waves you off, suddenly humble, and goes to leave the room, actually making it halfway down the hall before his steps audibly reverse. Tony sticks his head back in your doorway with a hesitant look; an expression you’re not used to seeing. “If you want me to, uh, take care of Barnes while you’re gone…” He drags his index finger against his neck in a cartoonish gesture, his smile softening after your laughter quiets. “Just let me know.” His expression isn’t aggressive or vigilante, closer to what you assume is his attempt at fatherly protection. I’m here for you, he says silently.

You’re thankful he leaves before you have a chance to respond, unsure of what you’d even say. You’ve always known not to underestimate Tony, even with his questionable social skills, but another part of you knows you’ll never fully grasp him, and not just in the way you’ll never truly get anybody but yourself.

If everyone is a grain of sand, Tony is a speck of snow. No matter the weather, you will never understand a blizzard.

XI. Outer Space/Carry On; “And the rain, it came too soon, I will wait for you to love me again.”

The door to your apartment swings open with an old creak, wood bouncing off your jutted hip. It smells like dust and there’s a distinct humidity filling the rooms. Your complex is far from dingy, but you do have to smack the air conditioner a few times before it switches on; probably from a lack of use. When you do visit, the electricity and water are usually questionable for a day or so, but the landlord never questions your absence -- a perk of Tony’s bribing.

You drop your duffle on your bed, which, while unmade, is still relatively clean. Knicknacks flood the surrounding bookshelves and your socked feet rub against the old rug tucked under the slatted frame. It’s a far cry from your room at the facility, which is fitted for everyday use. It holds your most worn clothes, all of your life’s necessities. Your apartment is more complex, deeper memories lingering in the walls. It has all the things you couldn’t box up and take with you. There are pictures of old friends on the walls, their voices long forgotten, and belongings from your childhood slipped under your bed in undisturbed nostalgia. Bucky’s question from that night suddenly hits you in full force. If he had to go to Wakanda, could you leave here behind?

You don’t have an answer and soon his voice fades away too. For the first time in a while, you sleep well, only stirring awake once, at around five in the morning. The room is filled with that early blue filter and your sheets are extra cold, your body tingling in its barely awake state. The world is quiet, and you think only of the eyes that match the outside sky.; steel, with icy highlights, and the mist of unshed tears and almost rain.

The weekend morning greets you with dark clouds rolling overhead. Rain drizzles lazily as you walk to the nearest bodega, a couple of stray bills stuffed in your coat pocket. It’d be smarter and safer to order takeout, but you crave the normalcy of buying groceries and cooking dinner, especially now that you’re alone.

The shop is relaxed. Radio music and news announcements overlap in dull robotic voices, patrons harmonizing as they talk amongst themselves; arguing over deli prices and which cheap wine to pair with dinner that night. No one looks at or speaks to you, and you feel invisible, which is somehow a relief. Again, you think of Bucky. He has so often tried to fade away -- usually bringing more attention to himself -- but you finally get it. The ignorance of the customers is your much-awaited bliss.

It seems, you realize, you’re understanding Bucky more every day.

You follow the speckled tile floors to the cashier, who gives you little more than a glance. Her glazed eyes focus on the box television behind the register, hands blindly scanning your items out of instinct. She mutters your total with a heave of nicotine breath, but you barely notice. You wish she understood how much her disinterest means to you.

The plastic straps of the grocery bags dig into your wrists the entire walk home, but you’re just happy to be free.

The storm reaches its full, beautiful, raging glory by the time you get back to your apartment. Lightning strikes, illuminating the living room with flashes, followed seconds later by heavy rumbling. The windows streak with tear-like drops, each one chasing the other to the bottom of the pane, and you feel like a child again, betting on which one will win the race.

Thunder shakes your apartment lightly, and the droplet you watched connects to the one beside it, gravity pulling them both into a long splotch. On the coffee table, your phone blinks awake, unread texts rolling in one after the other. The messages are all similar declarations of missing you, but each one makes you smile, even if you’re a bit surprised no one’s noticed your absence until now. Then again, you’ve been guilty of the same, even with Bucky; not realizing he’s disappeared all day until everyone gathers for dinner. You’re used to sharing confused glances with Steve across the lounge or in the kitchen, two pairs of hands deep in the soapy warm water filling the sink. You did the same thing right after Bucky moved in, cowering and suspicious like a stray dog.

“Is he going to be ok?” you’d naively asked Steve, scrubbing away the soup-dried bowls from dinner.

He had simply smiled, the back of his hand meeting yours beneath the water. “I think so.”

At that moment, you’d dedicated yourself to the cause; to saving Bucky Barnes -- if not for himself, then for Steve. In your eyes, there were two lives lost, two souls who’d gone through Hell and back just to reconnect in an equally cruel and gracious act of destiny. They both deserved a second chance, especially considering they never got a first.

“I can help if you two ever need anything,” you offered, brimming with confidence. Steve nodded, and the conversation inevitably trailed off to some other topic. Bucky was just a casual discussion, one with too many questions and too few answers. You’d both gravely underestimated his recovery, a process that everyone else knew would be difficult. If anyone were to expect miracles in Bucky’s name, it was bound to be Steve and you.

You’d always felt like you’d known Bucky before he came home. The minute Steve found out he was still alive, you’d been the one he confided in, sharing his stories. The countless memories spilled from his lips with intricate details, coming to life before your eyes. He spoke and you could taste the cotton candy of Coney Island, see the wonders of the 1943 Stark Expo, and even smell the bloody battered war.

A part of you was aware Bucky wouldn’t be the same, and Steve had always been prepared for some version of that reality. When he was younger, though, his earlier doubts revolved around war-related PTSD or combat stress reaction, as he called it. Bucky had gone through much worse -- seventy years of torture and an unending abyss of pain.

He didn’t walk into the facility with a suave wink or smooth-as-butter Brooklyn tone. You weren’t disappointed, even as pre-war Bucky dissolved right before your eyes, leaving a hardened man in his place. You just convinced yourself this was like Steve. He was no longer a sick, scrawny boy, right? But Steve was the same, in many ways. His mannerisms and language were stuck in another century, and when he laughed, the insecure sound of a young kid squeaked out. He’d been Captain America for so long, but still hit his head on short doorframes and bought clothes a few sizes too small, always remaining shocked when they didn’t fit.

Bucky was not the same. He didn’t flirt or dance. He didn’t laugh, joke, drink, or brawl, and you failed to imagine how this was the same man that tried talking the red dress off of a young Peggy Carter. Finally, it had hit you that Bucky’s early life was long gone and no years of healing would bring it back.

Even now, curled up on your couch, you can’t fool yourself into thinking he could ever truly be fixed. There would always be more levels of healing to endure, more coping mechanisms to learn, further ways to grow. Sometimes, he didn’t seem driven to take any steps toward bettering himself, content with his internal and external scars being all he had to show for his trauma. He was determined though -- had made it all of these years somehow. Even if his stubbornness worked against him, it had to count for something.

You’re about to let yourself wallow over him once more when a thump echoes loudly through your apartment, rattling the walls with its intensity. You will yourself off the couch, leaving behind a half-eaten bowl of pasta, and glance out the back window, seeing nothing but sleet-streaked streets. It takes an admittedly long time to realize someone’s knocking at your door, but you don’t need to look at the clock to know it’s way too late for visitors. Some animalistic instinct warns you to be cautious, but you have little confidence in whatever criminal has decided to pay you a visit in the pouring rain.

You unlock the door with a sigh and swing it open, cold air chilling the tip of your nose instantly.

“Bucky?”

The immediate sight of him evokes a nauseating sense of deja vu; hair slick against his forehead, lips nearing a shade of purple. When he awkwardly shifts his weight, you hear the telltale squeak of his wet boots and it lets you know he’s nervous since you wouldn’t hear him otherwise.

He exhales in obvious relief. “You’re still here.”

You’re thankful the overhang blocks the rain from reaching him since you don’t feel too inclined to welcome him in. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask, but barely listen for his answer as you take in his exhausted expression. His chest is heaving, and you glance out to the road expecting to see his motorcycle in the distance, but the street is bare.

“I thought…” He must think better of whatever assumption he’s brewing since he quickly shakes his head. You flinch at the cold water that speckles your skin. “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you.”

He must be stupid to not realize he’s the reason you left. You need to be away from him and inviting him inside your otherwise isolated apartment is far from the best idea. “What is it?” you ask, not budging. “Is everyone okay?”

It’s clear he’s expecting a different answer, though you can’t entirely blame him. If he’d shown up any day prior to now, you’d be laying out a red carpet. Instead, his features melt into confusion, and it’s one of the few expressions you’re still not used to seeing; his brows soft, lips plump with a heavy sigh. “You had that date tonight,” he answers, and you’re too distracted by his mouth for the words to register.

When they do, you’re confused. “Wh-”

“I was gonna stop you from going.”

The rest of your question catches in your throat, words lodged in your airpipe. The night of the party fills your head and you breathe in the smell of alcohol and heartbreak. “Tom?” you ask, racking your brain for his name. The single utterance results in a sour expression from Bucky, one that you mirror quickly. “Jesus, Bucky. Did you really think I’d go out with that douche?”

He goes to speak, but you cut him off, irritated. “Even if I did, how the fuck does that have anything to do with you showing up here? Christ, did you walk here? You’re soaked.”

“Ran, actually,” Bucky corrects, and your heart skips a beat. “Can I come in?”

The sane and logical answer would be to slam the door in his face, so you open it wider and step aside. You have to know why he ran in the middle of a storm to check on you, even if a hopeful inkling deep in your heart has already come up with a reason. You probably just worried Steve by running off, but your curiosity gets the best of you. “Alright…”

The second Bucky steps inside, your carpets are soaked with dark boot marks. “Fuck,” you curse, cringing at the sight. “Let me get a towel.” You can’t stand to be next to him for another second anyway, so you race down the hall before he can argue. When you catch a glance of yourself in the bathroom mirror, your nerves are more than visible; your skin losing color by the second, eyes strained with overthinking.

It’s easy to start coddling him once you return, patting away the water on his face before sandwiching his hair between the folded towel and squeezing the strands dry. “I know you do a lot of stupid shit, but running through New York City during a storm has to be one of your worst ideas yet,” you scold, but your touch is gentle and, for once, he allows it. “And I know you hate cellphones but could you really not call? Or get a taxi, at least?”

You know you’re rambling, but you’re keenly aware that if you don’t talk, neither of you will, and that silence will make you spiral. Chest pounding, you start to talk again, before realizing Bucky is gripping your wrist, pulling you from him softly. “Doll,” he murmurs, and this time you’re too nervous to correct him. “It’s okay.” With a slight tug, you yank yourself from his grasp, shaky fingers digging into the wet towel. You use the last dry corner to pat his damp palms, ignoring how large and rough his hands are against yours.

“I told you to stop doing this,” Bucky reminds you softly but doesn’t interfere. “You’re always trying to fix people… patch them up. You gotta take care of yourself, too.” Still, he lets you finish his other hand before he steps back, and you glance at him.

“No offense, Buck, but me coming here -- alone -- was kind of my attempt at that,” you tell him, frowning.

“I… I know, I’m sorry-”

“Bucky.” You’re not sure you can take another second. “What are you really doing here?”

He inhales sharply, and when he begins, you can immediately tell he’s not going to answer your question right away. Knowing he’s a man of very few words, you latch onto the way he seems to be opening up. “Every day, it’s like…” He shakes his head, trembling. “I don’t know who I am or if any of this is even real. It feels like every day is my last and everything is catching up to me all at once. I didn’t want you to be stuck in that, too.”

Bucky glances at you and his eyes soften; white ice cracking to reveal soft blue water underneath. When he reaches for your hand again, you’re in too much shock to deny him, even when he’s squeezing so tightly it hurts. He’s not just scared you’ll be taken from him, he’s scared you’ll willingly leave.

“You deserve better than that, doll.” His voice cracks around the nickname this time and you can hardly believe what’s happening. “I… I won’t ever be able to give you what you deserve.” Your fingernails leave crescents in his palm, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to hold him closer or scare him away. “I just can’t go another day without you gone,” he finally admits, and you gasp.

“Bucky… I don’t-”

He inches closer, face flush with insecurity. “I know. I fucked up -- I fucked up so bad. I don’t blame you if you don’t want this… If you don’t want me, I understand. I just -- you deserve to know how I really feel. I can give you that much, at least.” His grip finally loosens, and you realize he’s shaking, but not from nerves.

Your lips part, and his eyes glimmer with hope. “You’re freezing,” you finally say, and he visibly deflates. “You need to -- um, just sit down for a second.”

“...I’m fine.”

“Please? For me?” The second his chin tilts in a hesitant nod, you’re stalking off toward the bathroom with him in tow. You throw the dirtied towel in the hamper and rustle through the cupboard for a few more. Your bathroom is small, and when Bucky squeezes in behind you, his damp chest presses against your back for a second too long.

When you turn to face him, your noses practically touch. “T-these should be enough,” you stutter, clearing your throat and handing him the fresh towels. “You can hang your clothes up on the towel rod,” you tell him, inching back. He raises a brow and you quickly answer his silent question. “I have some spare stuff you can wear, I think.” And, before he can ask anything else, you push past him, shutting the door behind you.

You have mere seconds to contain yourself, so you rush to your room, mind racing. As you search through your spare drawer, a million questions run through your head. Is Bucky saying he wants to be with you? Does he even know that’s what he’s saying? Is he here on his own accord, or did Steve and Tony send him to ease your heartbreak and lure you home?

You can hear him rustling through the wall and you blindly grab at the only t-shirt and sweats you think could fit; extras left behind by one of the other guys. Hopefully, they’ll work long enough for you to dry Bucky’s clothes and kick him out. He can’t just decide he’s ready, especially not after how he turned you down. You’ll do the polite thing and let him stay until the storm ends, but then he needs to leave.

The bathroom door creaks open the second you step in front of it, Bucky peering out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Just like the last time he was shirtless in front of you, you will your eyes to stay above his neck. Still, you can’t ignore the fact that now he’s allowing himself to be in this state with you, completely vulnerable.

“I found these,” you squeak, handing the carefully folded clothes to him.

He doesn’t take them. “Whose are these?” Silent envy drips from his tongue and you shiver at the thought of it; Bucky being possessive of you, yearning to fill the small drawer in your wardrobe. Swallowing heavily, you rustle the shirt to see the tag.

“Steve, probably? Maybe Clint…” You spot the letters and shake your head. “No, it’s an extra large. But the sweats are definitely Clint’s. Steve never wears them.” Bucky listens amusedly to your rambling, and you quickly clamp your mouth shut. You practically shove the clothes into his hands, stumbling backward. “I’ll just be in the living room.” The door doesn’t click shut until you’re out of view.

It’s hard not to collapse on the couch the second you reach it, overwhelmed with a sense of relief of a wall separating you two. Try as you might, you still can’t comprehend what’s currently happening. As much as you want to kick Bucky out and never see him again, pure delight has started clawing at the inside of your chest, eager to be let out. If he confesses to you once more, you don’t think you’ll be able to turn him down.

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom, your heart pangs at the sight of him. He sinks into the chair across from you with an air of domesticity, like he’s always meant to be here. It’s like you bought that chair with him in mind because it fits him perfectly, and he fills it just the right amount.

“You look better already,” you comment, with a shy smile.

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, glancing up at you from between falling strands of hair, and he’s never seemed more beautiful than in this moment. “I feel better,” he admits. “I’m not a big fan of-”

“The cold,” you finish for him. He blinks in disbelief and you sputter out an excuse. “Sorry. Steve told me.” Then, deciding against putting all of the blame on the one who’s kept you sane this whole time, you continue. “I mean, I’d already kind of guessed so because of that night in the kitchen. He told me later.”

“I don’t remember much from that night,” Bucky confesses, sheepishly; not embarrassed, ashamed.

You’re not sure if it will make him feel any better, but you agree: “I don’t either, actually.” Surprisingly, you mean it. A few days ago you could’ve recalled every small detail from that memory. Now it’s just a dream inside a dream or a  blurry image, abroad a ship, stuffed deep in the bottleneck of your glass brain.

Bucky showed up on your doorstep and it’s like he’s never left.

It’s a slightly unconscious action, but when you shift to make more space on the couch, Bucky takes the silent invitation. His gait is wide, a few silent steps until he’s lowering himself beside you. The line between cushions acts as a border. Even next to you, he’s like an opposing magnet, slowly inching further and further away. He’s toeing over the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to let him fall or tug him back into your desperate arms.

“Bucky-”

“Can I touch you?” His words overlap yours, which isn’t hard considering you’re choking on a whisper, and he’s finally letting the depths of his soul speak without reservation. There’s no context for his question, no way for you to decipher what he’s insinuating. You don’t care. You decide to step off the ledge with him.

“Yes.”

His fingers are grazing your chin, calloused tips warm and rough and gentle. Your pulse thrums against the thin skin of your throat, a lump of emotion gathered in a swallow you can’t force down because Bucky is staring, seeing you for the first time. You don’t blink, and neither does he, blue eyes dew with the first rainfall of spring. You watch winter melt away beneath his fluttering lashes.

“You are so soft,” he murmurs, and you know he doesn’t mean just physically, even when his palms are like sandpaper against your jaw. His grit flattens the rest of your apprehension, and your hands find the sharp angle of his scruff-peppered chin. When your thumb strokes the indentation below his lips, his mouth parts just barely, enough for you to feel the shaky hot exhale he sighs in silent relief.

When he begins to lean in, you don’t budge; not until he’s a hair width away and you feel the tips of his fingers shaking, one hand ice cold, the other burning hot. Then, you close the gap, hungry for the taste of his bleeding heart. The kiss is desperate in its own way, lustful for vulnerability and the satisfaction of finally.

Bucky is the one to press harder, nose harshly digging into your own as his face tilts to fit into the curves of your features like a missing puzzle piece; knocked haphazardly onto the floor when the box is first opened. You can feel his hair, still damp, against your forehead. His metal arm clicks into place, fingers adjusting their grip, and an unfamiliar sensation shoots up your spine. Fear.

He’s never been so close. His hand could easily wrap around your throat and take you out, without him even sparing a second glance. A moment of desperation and your lack of resistance would be all he needed. One kiss is all it would take.

Instead, he pulls away, though not without leaving one last sweet peck on your pursed lips. When your eyes flutter open, he’s blinking in the sight of you with a genuine smile painted on his face; tongue quickly darting between his teeth and catching the last taste of you on his mouth. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, a stifled chuckle that’s just enough to have you joining him, until your cheeks burn from grinning.

“Did --  was that okay?” Bucky asks, lines around his lips deepening. “I thought you were gonna pull away for a moment there.”

“No!” you answer quickly, feeling your skin flush at the admission. “It was… nice. Very nice.” He’s clearly enjoying the way you stumble over your words, especially when he strokes your cheek to further fluster you. “G-great, really.”

“Great,” he echoes. “I haven’t kissed anyone since 1945.”

You can’t help but laugh at his secret. He’s kissing you and only worried he wasn’t good enough. Bucky, the playboy, Barnes, is worried some seventy years of inexperience could stop him from stealing your breath with a single touch. Thankfully, he knows your reaction isn’t out of dismissal or jest, and soon his face is red with cheerful exertion.

“Can I ask you something?” He questions, quieting down but not losing any of his warmth. “Will you come back? To the facility, I mean.”

“No,” you start, watching his face fall before you can finish. “But only because I bought enough groceries to last me the whole weekend and I don’t want them to go to waste. But you can stay with me if you want.” His eyes are wide, brows raised. “My place is big enough and I think I have more of Steve’s clothes lying around…”

“You’d…” He swallows the lump growing in his throat. “You’d actually be okay with that?”

You let out a soft sigh. “Of course.” You force yourself not to backtrack or shy away. Not now. “We could rent some movies? It’ll probably storm the next couple of days so there’s really no point in heading out. Unless you want to?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. I don’t… I’d want to stay in if I stay. I want to stay. Can I?”

“Yes.” You grab his hand in yours and squeeze. “Yes, Bucky. Stay with me.”

The air settles but you see an unanswered question lingering on his mind. You’re about to press, but then he’s asking, shyly: “Will you let me kiss you again?”

It’s such an easy question, so effortless, and yet it holds the weight of months spent alone. You wonder if he has suffered the same aching coldness as you, desperate for someone else’s warmth. You want to tell him he can kiss you forever, until forever, after forever. “You can kiss me whenever,” are the words you finally settle on, and it’s clear they appease him.

“I’ll take the couch, tonight,” Bucky says a moment later. A small relief, since it’s too soon for anything like that. Personal space is something you’ll need to work on. Not tonight.

But you’re still curious: “What if you have a nightmare?”

He huffs, albeit with the ghost of a smile. “If you don’t hear me, I’ll wake you up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Later, after so many bowls of pasta you realize you’ll have to order takeout eventually, Bucky sinks into the couch; toes pressed against the arm, a thick blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. You excuse yourself for a moment to go turn on the heater, setting it a few degrees higher than usual so he doesn’t get cold. Your phone beeps softly from the pocket of your pajama pants. It’s Steve.

“I told you he’d notice.”

When you hear the tell-tale sigh of a snore, and realize Bucky has drifted off, lights still on and arm dropped off the side of the couch, you have to smile.

“Took him long enough.”

---

bucky tag list: @queens-rose-garden @eunoia-kth @zhangyixingxing1 @augustvandyne @fairydxll @justreadingficsdontmindme @interwebseriesfan24

[idontknowreallywhy]

Finally finished a WIP!! Only took a car breakdown and waiting to be rescued!

Entirely un-proofread but yolo. Thanks to @astranite and @sofasurf and @womble1 for encouragement 🥰

Accidentally broke Virg a bit… 🤭

Play it Out

It had been a textbook rescue. The Thunderbirds Triumphant! Everybody had been saved with nothing more than a collection of minor scrapes and bruises between them. And most of those obtained by Gordon as he attempted to break dance to keep the rescuees entertained while Virgil made a safe passage to the surface.

Yes, definitely a good one. The only tears today were those of joy on parental faces as twenty-eight dusty children burst from the pod module and dashed into their arms to be swung up into the air and spun around and kissed all over their faces and told over and over how much they were loved. The unique privilege of watching such moments was undoubtedly the best part of the job and Virgil was proud to have helped make it happen. He was very happy. Absolutely thrilled.

Absolutely.

The journey home had been filled with the excited chatter of his younger brothers. The pilot tuned them out, fixing a benevolent smile on his face while focusing intently on Two’s background E hum in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to ignore the hollow sensation in his gut.

He didn’t understand where the glow had gone.

Sure, he’d started feeling a little wistful recently. Maybe there were only so many emotional reunions a person could witness before they started playing on a slow motion loop in your head like some cheesy 20th century movie montage and lost their novelty.

Anyway, he’d had plenty of run, catch, throw, spin routines with Alan when he was smaller and knew full well that the inevitable tiny-but-solid knee to the stomach or flailing elbow to the jaw made the whole thing less idyllic than it looked.

God forbid he try that now. Alan’s glare as Virgil had reached out to steady his little brother’s slight stumble off Two’s passenger platform earlier that afternoon could have set his eyebrows on fire.

The throbbing pressure in the back of his throat had been subject to a gradual crescendo since they took off and it was beginning to make it difficult to breathe without concentrating. So he concentrated on breathing. He concentrated on flying. And then on landing. And he sorted post flights. And he cleaned up Gordon’s forehead graze. And he rolled his eyes when Gordon told him to “STOP BEING SUCH A MOM, VIRGARONI”.

That was only niggling at him now because it was Gordon’s most stupid nickname yet. For goodness sake, sounds like a type of pasta. He tramped into the locker room and attempted to drown his increasingly foul mood in the shower - full power-hose mode. Extra hot. He lost track of time just a little, tracing the path of grout around the tiles with his eyes, letting the water drill into his skull and wondering whether this was… everything.

Whether his role in life was to preserve and observe and… just that?

That was a pretty awesome role all told. He was preventing families being torn apart, enabling Happiness and Normality for hundreds. It was a PRIVILEGE. Only an awfully selfish person would have any kind of problem with playing his part. And anyway, look at what he had - his incredible siblings who he adored were always close by, a they had a beautiful home and they wanted for nothing. He was objectively the luckiest man alive.

And yet.

He growled in frustration and shut off the water, leaning heavily on the wall for a moment as a wave of wooziness rushed over him. Maybe the shower had been TOO hot. According to his wrinkly fingertips he’d been here wasting time for far too long. The others would start wondering where he’d got to.

Clothes. Style hair. Happy face on. Up to the lounge.

The lounge was empty. But there was the piano.

Music would make it better, it always did.

Picking something generically soothing - Beethoven’s Moonlight - Virgil focussed intently on the subtlety of the rhythm, recalling his Mom perched next to him on this very stool, explaining it wasn’t as simple as the length of the notes but the different stress on each. She’d had him reciting “pineapple pineapple pineapple” as he played.

He remembered his dad standing behind them, placing an arm around both their shoulders and giving a squeeze as he made some kind of fruit-based pun Virgil could no longer bring to mind. Mom had poked her husband in the ribs, mocked him for his dad jokes and pulled him in for a kiss. Pre-teen Virgil had squirmed with embarrassment but the sweet moment had stuck with him and he’d hoped maybe one day…

With a discordant crunch his hands came to a halt. He clearly needed to play something that required more brainpower to shut down this ridiculous self-pitying Nonsense.

He half stood and reached into the piano stool to extract the book of advanced technical exercises John had bought him a couple of years back. They were fiendish, defied any sense of predictable pattern and the modal shifts set his teeth on edge. That should do it.

Time passed. It did not pass quickly. Half an hour or possibly decades went by and all he had achieved was a twitchy tingle in his left ring finger and the start of a tension headache. The cold, empty feeling had intensified. He shook his hands violently to shift the cramp and turned the page.

There was a soft cough behind him.

“That was… different?”

“It’s called training, Scott. Agility exercises. If I don’t do these I can’t expect to play the fancy stuff.” Virgil’s eyes widened slightly as he heard his own snappish tone.

“Sure, it’s just I could do with sorting some paperwork and so would you mind playing something a little less… uh… like… that?”

The part of Virgil that lived to keep his big brother sane slapped himself upside the head for being so self-absorbed. He looked up and arranged his face into an obliging smile.

“Of course, sorry. You want jazz or some kind of chilled filmic stuff or…?”

Scott’s wink and finger guns indicated relaxing film scores were the order of the day and so Virgil delivered. It was all going very well, he was definitely calming down and everything was fine. And not a Scott Tracy fake ‘Fine’ either, he cast a sidelong glance at his brother who appeared to be typing away peacefully. He transitioned into a lilting F# minor theme and went heavy on the sustain pedal to allow the higher notes to resonate through the room. Leaning back and closing his eyes, he shut all the silliness firmly away and began to enjoy himself.

Until a particular chord progression seemed to flick a switch in his soul and every hair on the back of his arms shivered to attention as a shard of ice slid down his spine.

His fingers sprang off the keys lifting the tune out through the high chords as it took on a life of its own - an insistent, yearning melody. A gasp escaped him as he found he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs - the villa faded out and he was grounded only by his fingertips returning again and again to the familiar rise and fall of black on white.

The ball of tension that had formed behind his eyes flooded down through his veins and out through his hands like poison sucked from a wound. The ache of loneliness - the longing… the surge of grief for what could never be - he forced it all down his arms and out into the wild, transformed into melody, pulse, rhythm to whirl past his bowed head and soar into the rafters and… away.

Virgil let his fingers rest on the keys as the last notes faded, gradually becoming aware of the tremor in his hands. Exhaustion swept over him and he shivered, realising his shirt was soaked with perspiration.

Silence but for the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Then, a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing away tears he had no recollection of forming. He released the breath he was holding and leaned into the touch with a sigh, eventually dragging his eyelids ajar.

Scott’s other hand settled on his shoulder as he crouched next to the piano stool, blue eyes full of questions and concern.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Virgil cleared his throat and began reaching for some appropriately reassuring words.

A earth-shatteringly loud screech startled them both as Gordon sprinted across the room trailing shaving foam with a furious Abominable-Snowman-Alan hot on his heels.

Virgil scraped his scattered emotions back into submission and watched Scott’s expression as his big brother decided to put a pin in the Tinies-wrangling for later and turned back to him. Some kind of explanation was clearly required here but Virgil found himself unable to add any more weight to the burden his brother already carried.

And so for the first time in a decade Virgil told his best friend a deliberate lie.

“I was just thinking about Mom”

Maybe TBC? I should really fix them…

Note: Feel free to pick your own hauntingly heartbreaking film theme to knock Virgil over with (there are many that would fit!). The one that gave me the ice treatment the other day and I haven’t been able to get out of my head since is here.

(It’s all going well until about 40 seconds in then it whallops him)

Part 2, Part 3

AO3

[wastemanjohn]

annoyed by the plates in the sink? 90% of the time, it's sam. sam's worked enough short-lived bar-back and wait staff gigs that he relishes in a clean workspace, whether that's the hotplate and microwave on top of the motel mini fridge, or the long counters and deep stainless steel sinks of the bunker. he's a kid who heard the "clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere, everybody do your share!" song one too many times in lower elementary and is fully indoctrinated into tidying culture. the other 10% is dean. dean, who's rawdoggin' it through life with untreated (read: unacknowledged) adhd, who can look past/through/over the dirty dishes amd general messiness for weeeeeks until he hits his Fuck Point™, at which he snaps and goes on a manic cleaning binge. we're talking elbow-high yellow gloves and an abrasive scrubby. we're talking grout cleaner for the tile. we're talking freshly scrubbed baseboards.

who snores the loudest? depends. dean's had his nose broken more times, so if he gets flipped over onto his back then all bets are off. mostly he's a tummy sleeper, though, so it's usually not an issue. sam's snore isn't as loud, but it's constant and unignorable, like a rattling AC window unit. (between that, and his inability to go a year without at least two sinus infections, and the way he sneezes going from a dark place to a bright one, dean has WebMDiagnosed sam with a deviated septum.)

who sulks if they don't get their morning kiss? sam. a thousand percent sam. (if only by default, as dean's usually too busy focusing on being both conscious and vertical to fuss about the rest of it until he's sufficiently caffeinated.) luckily, sam rarely has cause to sulk. because unless he's actively dying (and sometimes even then), dean's more than happy to dole out morning kisses. soft, sleepy fly-by kisses to start with; more dean mapping the topography of sam's face with his eyes shut than anything else. nose rubbed over his cheekbone, sleep-sticky spikes of eyelashes against his cheek, lips pressing in lazy-hazy morning soft against sam's cheek, chin, eyelids, mouth. fingers tangled up in his hair where it's gone pillow-flat in the back, hand resting against sam's throat so that his pulse beats right into dean's palm. sam's hand on the back of dean's neck, where he can scrub his knuckles through the high-pile velvet prickle of hair at the nape and tuck the time-smoothed knot of leather cording between his first and middle fingers. content -- for now, at least -- just standing there, foreheads pressed together while in the background the coffee maker is demanding their attention with increasingly aggressive chirps and somewhere in the bunker somebody's old nokia burn phone is ringing, harmonizing with the goddamn dog. (not much to sulk about, if you're asking.)

!!! ANON THIS IS SO LOVELY AHHHHHHHHHHH THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS IN!! 🥺🥺🥺

[hwsforeignrelations]

you asked for cardverse requests, so I am contractually obligated to ask if the Spades kingdom has ever come into contact with the Jokers, and what that contact might have looked like? >:3c Thank you!! <3

hehe ty for this delightful ask

Word Count: 458

“Hey.”

Yao jumped, dropping his pen which flew out his hand and splattered the wall with ink. The shape vaguely resembled a fool’s cap n’ bells, and Yao’s shoulders drooped under the weight of his dismay. 

The jester tapped his bell-adorned foot in impatience while the Jack of Spades picked up the pen and whispered away the unintentional wall art. 

Yao was taking his precious time, thought Gilbert.

It was a quiet moment in Spades, and the jack’s staff had yet to call for breakfast. The two men stood in the jack's private quarters surrounded by visible particles of dust, illuminated by the early morning’s light. 

Yao detested people “rifling” through his personal object, and thus cleaning was kept to a minimum. 

The joker fiddled with the cane pipe beneath his cloak, feeling the gentle sun against the white, exposed skin on his cheek beginning to redden.

Moments that felt like eons passed, and the joker was feeling abnormally ignored. “The Clock is ticking,” he laughed, annoyance causing his red eyes to flash beneath the pointy hat. 

Bent over his writing desk and flipping through an illustrated book, Yao peaked over his shoulder with raised brows. “I should hope so, insufferable intruder. If you have nothing else to say, leave,” amber eyes flickered appreciatively at the landscape adorning his canvas. “I am busy.” Yao ignored the following gangling of bells as the jester disappeared, then reappeared with a poof of air just behind yao’s desk, looming over the ancient royal. 

Older than the joker, in fact. 

“You’re no fun to tease, Yao,” Gilbert cleared the books, papers, and inks off the desk in one arm’s swoop, slapping a scroll in their place and using the tip of his pipe and his other hand to hold the paper open. “Fuck you and your atrocious manners,” said Yao mildly, glancing at the spilled inks soaking into the tile grout. The joker broke into laughter, delighted to no longer be ignored, and pointed at the swirling signature at the bottom of, what appeared to Yao, a contract. “The Queen of Diamonds has hired approximately thirty thousand private Heart troops as of last night. Your informant thought you should know, made an offer I couldn’t pass up.”

Gilbert lent in close to Yao, whose curved posture scanned the documents in hopes of false information. When he couldn’t find any signs of forgery, Yao gulped. “That right there,” whispered the joker with reverence, then the fool jangled merrily across the floor and stood in the open window.

“That’ll keep me full for the next fortnight. Thanks, jackass!” 

And the jester was gone. Yao had to find the King and Queen immediately.

Notes

“Cane” is the supposed material of the German tale’s Pied Piper’s pipe

[shywhumpauthor]

Wait I want to remain anonymous do this one instead lol

Part 2 of the yandere one?

Maybe whumpee needs a punishment. Nothing that'll scar though ;)

Honestly anon you’ve got me hooked with this. I have no clue what I’m doing, all I know is that it is fun.

Previous

Cw: kidnapping, mentioned past murder, blood, noncon touching, manipulation, emotional abuse, manhandling, creepy whumper, past torture/abuse, captivity, idk it’s creepy and yandere and brutal. Lots of manipulation

Whumpee’s hands were shaking as they stared down at the white porcelain tiles laid in diamonds across the bathroom floor, the dark grey grout making the individual pieces appear luminous in a simple, minimalistic pattern. Their eyes drifted across the rows, unfocused and watery as they counted them over and over. Somewhere in the back of their mind, the answer was already stored, along with the deeply repressed memories of all the nights they had spent alone, cold and hurting laying on that floor, unable to pick themself up and drag them to the bath to clean up.

Their skin was warm, flushed with the heat of so many conflicting emotions, cooled only slightly as they braced their palms against the edge of the bath where they now sat. The faint rush of water buzzed in their ears, but it did nothing to block out the terrible noises that seemed to be playing on repeat through their skull. The cries and screams, gasps and pleas that were muffled by a mouthful of blood looping on an endless cycle, with each return of the dreaded sounds a new pinprick stabbed through their heart. Long since torn from their chest, they felt numb, disturbed only by light tremors as goosebumps rose along their skin. Even bundled up, Whumper’s jacket that smelled terribly like them wrapped tightly around their shoulders to protect them from the cold air outside, Whumpee felt as if they had been left bare in a snowstorm.

Their body reacted before their mind once the sink shut off and Whumper turned to them, flinching back before they could begin to see what was happening. For a fleeting moment, they tensed, anticipating the wicked sting of a slap to their face, but contrary to their fears Whumper just sighed. When Whumpee looked up, forcing their shoulders back from where they had hunched over, Whumper’s gaze was not angry like they had expected. They just looked sad, exhausted. For a second, it unnerved them, when Whumper crouched to one knee. They had cleaned themself in the sink moments before, scrubbing their hands and face clean from all residue of the night before, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the truth. Whumpee could see the speckles of dried scarlet on their shirt, decorating the exposed flesh where their shirt sagged against their collarbone and the cuffs of their sleeves. The tender affection in their eyes did not hide the ruthless murderer they had witnessed an hour before.

“You’ll be alright, my love,” Whumper sighed quietly, their voice gentle like the early morning waves against the shore, the sunrise beyond that paints the sky rosy and golden. A beautiful dawn to hide the storm clouds projected far beyond. Red sky in morning, sailor’s take warning after all.

They raised the washcloth which they held to Whumpee’s face, the pressure behind their touch light and forbearing and all too much. Soaked in warm water, the dreaded being in front of them began to work away at the since dried smears of blood across their cheek, a mark they had left earlier. To anyone else, it may have looked like a pitiful attempt to soothe them, an accidental smudge while trying to provide comfort in face of fresh trauma. Whumpee knew better than that. Whumper didn’t do accidents. They didn’t make mistakes. Everything they did was intentional, cold and calculated through the most manipulative of minds. For a while, Whumpee had fallen prey to this façade. They had so desperately clung to the affection, turning a blind eye to the warnings that came along. With a hand caressing their cheek, they were once blind to the blood staining the palm.

They weren’t blind anymore. They felt every flicker of contact, every prolonged graze as Whumper slowly cleaned their face. They hadn’t asked, offered their assistance or even allowed Whumpee a chance to do it themself. From the car they had led them straight inside, through the door with more locks than any bank’s most secure vault, to the bathroom where they had sat them down on the side of the bathtub and told them to stay there. Stay there and be good for me. I’ll get you cleaned up.

“I know you don’t see it this way, but I’m only trying to help you.”

The warm of the cloth turned to ice against their cheek, Whumpee could no longer hold their gaze. Emotion swelled in their throat, a lump against their windpipe obstructing each breath.

“I know you see me as the bad guy, but I promise you, Whumpee, all I’ve ever done was for you.”

Words built and died against Whumpee’s lips as Whumper’s fingers brushed their skin, the cloth dragging lightly across their jaw. They didn’t look up.

“Do you know how much it hurt when you left me?” Whumper’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Whumpee couldn’t help but buckle under the sudden tension in the air, their shoulders curling inwards. “I have given so much to you, my love, and yet still, it wasn’t enough.”

Their touch was delicate, dancing across Whumpee’s face, the cloth dropping to the floor discarded as Whumper hooked a finger under their chin, the pressure enough to be commanding without being willful. Teasing, toying with them. Like a cat with a mouse, pawing lightly at it’s pretty before unveiling the razor claws from the innocent tufts of fur.

“You’re confused, Whumpee. All I’ve ever wanted to do was make you happy, but you still run from me. I tried to give you space, and look at the mess you’ve gotten into. You need me, I know you don’t want to admit it, but it’s true.”

It’s true. It’s true. You need me. You’re nothing without me. You hear me? Nothing.

“No.” Whumpee whispered, twisting their head away with a spur of movement. “No, you.. caretaker told me everything. You- you hurt me.”

Whumper paused, taken aback by the sudden outburst. For a moment, they stood still, frozen in place. Then they stood, straightening to their full height to tower over Whumpee, expression unreadable as the sudden vantage cast angular shadows from the vanity’s lighting across their darkened face.

“Caretaker lied to you, Whumpee.” Their voice was no longer kind. They reached down and grabbed them by the wrist, pulling them to their feet in a rough movement. Still stunned from the earlier events, Whumpee’s body did not know how to disobey, leaving them to stumble up while their legs wobbled. “All they ever did was lie. They were trying to turn you against me. And it worked, I see. Not even a month, and they’ve filled your head with these.. these delusions.”

“Stop,” Whumpee’s voice broke, a tear leaking from the corner of their eye, spilling down their cheek. Not the first, certainly not the last that would fall. “Let me go, Whumper, please-”

They were already being pulled towards the door, the grip on their arm firm. They couldn’t pull away, not with their exhausted weakened struggles. They knew where they were going long before Whumper led them to the hall.

“You know I hate doing this to you, Whumpee, but you’re not giving me much of a choice,” Whumper’s voice was tight, their face turned away as they marched up to a door. A terrible, familiar door. “I’ll bring you some fresh clothes and supper in a while. We’ll see if you’re thinking straighter tomorrow morning, and go from there.”

The door was pushed open, the old hinges creaking in protest. The tears were streaming down their face now, but Whumpee couldn’t bring themself to beg this time. They stumbled when Whumper gave them a light push, feet nearly falling from under them as they were directed into the dark room.

“I love you, Whumpee. That’s why I’m doing this.” Whumper gave a final sigh, their face illuminated dimly. Expression solemn, the door shut, blocking out the last bits of light before the lock clicked into place.

—————————————

I’m having way too much fun with this.

Any interest in a pt 3?

[palfriendpatine66]

Probably all my modern au Anakins on cleaning

Anakin: “I deep cleaned the bathroom”

Obi-Wan: “Thank you, darling.” Continues whatever he’s doing

Anakin: follows him around the house inwardly fuming. I am a pillar of this household. I deserve more than a thank you. I deserve approximately 1 month with no cleaning after all of that. I deserve breakfast in bed. I deserve to be worshipped against those clean tiles.

Anakin [pouting, picking at the upholstery] “I scrubbed the grout, you know.”

Obi-Wan [stops with a sigh]. “Do I need to come admire your work?

Anakin: “NO! I am not a child! A little thanks would be nice, that’s all!” [storms off]

5 min later Obi-Wan calls from the bathroom “Wow! When you said you cleaned you, you really cleaned. Look at this bathroom! This is the best it’s looked in months. The grout, the tile! Not a single hair in the drain. I’m so thankful that I don’t have to do this backbreaking work, now that my strong, capable, very sexy-“

Anakin [interrupts with a kiss, blushing] Alright, alright, shut up.”

[r3d-f0xs-blog]

Just some scrap writing

With Bernice and Mason when they were still with the Crimson Fleet. Bernice returned to the Key from a job with another crew who needed her expertise. Mason belongs to a friend and this was from an idea she had, so worked away.

It's suggestive but that's it cos sometimes a scene doesn't need it all to be shown in fine detail. Read on under the cut.

Mason ran a finger over the face of his watch. It was exactly the time Bernice had whispered in his ear that morning. Even if he hadn’t heard everything she’d said, the hand on his shoulder, the way her mouth brushed against his ear as she leaned against him was a heavy hint.

The air was humid and warm in the shower room turning his skin and clothes damp. Mason heard the click of the lock catching in the door behind him. He pulled his boots and socks off, the textured floor cool underfoot. The hubbub of life on the Key was pushed into the background. Stale bodies, the thump of the music from the bar, malty beer and recycled air with its faint metallic tang was replaced by clean water, herbal soap and disinfectant.

Water splashed and pattered from one of the shower cubicles deeper inside. Above the sound as it echoed off the tiles, there was humming. Happy and relaxed. It was Bernice’s voice, there was no mistaking her.

Moisture ran down the walls, slick under Mason’s fingertips as he ran a hand along the tiles. Smooth ceramic with gritty grouted indentations between each one. He could feel the air become thicker, the sounds louder.

“Getting warmer, Mason.” Bernice giggled.

“I’m becoming more of something, that’s for sure!”

Mason walked slowly; there were six cubicles along the wall he ran his hand over. He counted off each one by searching for the door handles, listening to the water rushing out the shower head.

One of the doors remained shut when he pushed it. Then, with the slide of a metal bolt from inside, it opened to him.

“Found you.” Mason grinned as he peeked from behind the door. Bernice froze a moment and grinned back as he slid in from behind the door.

“You’re still dressed...” she uttered as he stepped under the falling water. Warmth wrapped around him, filling his chest. It always did whenever he was around Bernice.

The tank top Mason wore was soaked through, clinging to his wiry body. He tilted his head back running his fingers through his collapsed mohawk, pushing it away from his face.

“You're doing this on purpose, you tease!” Bernice laughed.

“I know. It’s funny hearing your reaction. Anyway, I was hoping you’d give me a little help.” Mason said, running a finger under the shoulder of his tank top.

Bernice’s fingers snaked under the bottom hem, pushing it up as she caressed his body slowly.

Mason growled playfully in her ear as he grabbed her thigh, hooking her leg around himself.

“Think we’ve got long before somebody disturbs us?” he asked, kissing his way down her neck.

“I hacked a lock for an hour when you arrived just to be on the safe side.” “Perfect. Fuck, I’ve missed you.” Mason’s voice murmured softly in her ear.

Bernice tugged Mason’s tank top up over his head, and threw the sodden garment away from them.

“Missed you too.” Quick fingers unfastened Mason’s trousers. They clung wetly to his legs as they both tugged them off bit by bit.

“Why did I think jumping under the shower fully clothed was going to be sexy?” Mason laughed as he kicked them off his feet.

“From the waist up it was. Anyway, there’s always something charming about you.” Bernice murmured. “Heh, even when I’m moody and pouty?”

“Especially when you’re moody and pouty.”

Mason felt Bernice’s touch running downwards. He gently pushed her hand away.

“Oh no, I’m making this all about you, if you want to that is?” he asked with a slight grin.

“Mmm, go on. But you need some TLC too, okay?” she whispered as Mason sank down onto his knees trailing soft kisses down her body, hands resting on her hips.

[jimblejamblewritings]

Rewriting Lightlark | part 1.

Summary: That's it. I literally just rewrote Lightlark and tried to make it better. Read if you want.

Grimshaw’s castle always had the lights on. Not a single corridor of the great stone fortress was without a lantern. It had taken Isla Crown forever to fall asleep and the sunlight streaming through the open windows woke her up after what felt like only minutes. She couldn’t even pull the comforter over her head to avoid the light — the fabric was translucent. Quietly, she sat up and stretched, trying not to disturb the sleeping body next to her. 

Her brown bare feet took light steps across the floor, making flowers spring up through the grout between the stone tiles. The cold floor made her shudder. Isla paused and looked down before turning to see the flower trail behind her. She groaned internally — she knew she had kicked her socks off in the middle of the night. Instead of going back for the socks, she continued to the ensuite bathroom. The flowers could be dealt with later. Her bladder couldn’t. 

The toilet, thankfully, made no noise as she flushed it. She figured she might as well brush her teeth while she was in the bathroom. Isla cleaned herself up quickly, wanting to get back to the warmth of the comforter. The small daisies continued springing up behind her as she left the bathroom. An undignified scream left her mouth when two hands reached for her. Isla turned to see nothing in the shadow of the bathroom door. 

“Get out of there, Grimshaw, before you kill yourself.” 

She held her hand out, waiting for something in the shadows to grab it. Grim’s white hand reached for her and he allowed himself to be pulled out of the shadows. Isla rolled her eyes as she led her boyfriend away from his own death. He was always doing that, ignoring his curse. All the realms of Lightlark were cursed. The people were forced to suffer all at the hands of the Grand Queen Aurora — a woman who relished in irony and cruel punishments. 

But Grim never seemed to take it as seriously as he should have. He was a Nightshade and didn’t care that being in the dark for too long would literally kill him. He kept pushing the boundaries and lengths of time he could stay in the shadows, worrying Isla that one day he wouldn’t come back from them. Grim looked down at her, playing with the material of her silk nightgown. 

“You know, it’s a good thing you are only half-Wildling,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I couldn’t handle my Hearteater being taller than me. It would severely bruise my ego, you know.” 

Isla scoffed and gently pushed him. “Oh, please. Your ego disappeared the moment you met me.” 

“Do you really think you have that much control over me?” 

Isla blinked. Her mouth contorted into odd shapes as she tried to stop herself from laughing. A pansy began to bloom behind Grim’s right ear, touching the bottom of his ink black hair. He could bluff all he wanted but magic never lied. Love was a magic the people of Lightlark still didn’t quite understand.

They supposed it was because Lark Crown, their founder, nurtured the Heart of Lightlark. The Heart was a flower and the source of their magic. When Lark died, the Heart’s original form did too. The people thought it was because the plant was forever indebted to Lark’s love for it. 

That was the only explanation they had for why falling in love with someone meant you were able to wield their powers. With Aurora’s curses, the wielding ability wasn’t as strong as it used to be. But it still appeared now and then, usually when the person in love was focused solely on their lover. 

Isla picked the flower from behind his ear. “Grim, I want breakfast.” 

He kissed her cheek and walked to his bedroom door. “I’m going to have to pick all these flowers out of the floor, you know.” 

“Sorry.” 

Isla clambered onto his side of the bed while Grim opened the door just enough to stick his head out of. She was only supposed to be on Night Isle when she held meetings with their king, not when she was sleeping in his bed. Grimshaw loved and trusted his people but he also knew how strong fear could be. 

If the servants ever thought he and Isla were in a relationship, they would report it to Aurora out of fear of her killing them if she ever found out they had known about it. Children of two different isles weren’t allowed to be born. It made the curses weaker when the babies inherited both of their parents’ magic, turning imminent death into a minor inconvenience. Aurora killed those babies and publicly murdered their parents to discourage anyone from attempting another defiance.  

It was a punishment Isla knew too well. Her mother was a Wildling. Her father was a Nightshade and the only person stupid enough to fall in love with a Wildling. If a Wildling loved someone, they were cursed to eat their heart. Maybe because he was a general in the army he wasn’t afraid of dying. 

Her father, Ellisar, stayed in the shadows for as long as he could whenever her mother’s hunger took over. Isla heard stories from the servants about the few times that Alenia’s hunger wasn’t subdued but Ellisar had to leave the shadows or die. She almost caught him as he ran through the entirety of Wild Isle, able to smell him from miles away. 

They lived well enough to have a proper family— Isla’s older brother was passed off as the son of a Wildling guard. But the happiness wasn’t forever. Alenia didn’t kill Ellisar. Aurora did. A Wildling doctor had told the Grand Queen what the entire isle managed to keep secret. Isla was grateful to all of the castle. They begged Aurora to take their lives instead of hers. Half the castle died for baby Isla’s life. As a child, she swore she would never put the castle through that again. So Grim was forever her secret. 

He came back to the bed with a tray of food. The two were quiet as they ate. Isla closed her eyes in delight at the taste of eggy toast. It was made with sunbread. The Sunlings were the best bakers of Lightlark. Isla had tried to make her own bread for eggy toast but nothing ever tasted as good as sunbread. She finished her last bite of breakfast and snuggled back into Grim’s open arms. Her fingers trailed up down his arms covered by his long sleeve sleepshirt. 

“I have to leave soon,” she muttered more to herself than to her boyfriend. 

“You’ll be missing my celebration. It isn’t every day a man turns twenty.” 

“Well, you’ll be missing my coronation.” 

“Hmm, I believe birthdays are more important.” Grim hugged her tighter. “I am sorry about your brother.” 

Talon Crown was more adventurer than ruler. He left Wild Isle only a couple of weeks before Aurora’s Decennial in hopes of finding a way to end the curses. Lightlark might have been abundant in magic but the newlands had a little bit of magic as well. But the storm grabbed Talon before his ship ever reached the other continents. The storm was another one of Aurora’s gifts to Lightlark. It surrounded all the islands and made trade or travel to the newlands a rather dangerous feat. Not everyone died but few made it back, including Talon. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Talon’s gone. We always knew it was a possibility. I’ve been training to be his heir ever since the day he took the throne.” 

“But you’ve never trained for the Decennial.”  

Isla kissed the corner of his mouth. “Let’s not talk about the Decennial. We still have three days and I must leave in an hour or two. I’d rather spend that time with you.” 

Grimm peppered kisses all over her face. “Is that spending time with me dressed like this or with my shirt off?” 

Instead of answering him, Isla pulled away from his grasp. Grim eagerly took off his shirt. When the white fabric no longer covered his eyes, he found Isla straddling his lap. The hands roamed up and down each other’s bodies as their lips touched. They kissed like they wouldn’t see each other tomorrow. The Decennial’s arrival made them desperate. The two of them realized how little time they might have left. At any moment in the tournament, one of them could die. Isla pulled back when Grim hissed. 

“Did I bite you?” 

He shook his head. “It was probably my fault, really. I got a bit too eager… You look beautiful.” 

“You say that all the time.” 

“I mean it.” 

He began to kiss her jaw and down her neck. Isla threw her head back, eyes closed. She and Grim never really got the chance to savor each other. They were always quick, just to calm down their excitement, before having to leave to handle duties on their respective isles. Her eyes opened as she felt saliva fill her mouth. Isla swallowed it down. 

“Grimshaw, wait.” 

“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled away eyes wide. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, Hearteater.”

Isla squeezed her eyes shut. Grim could see the teeth in her mouth that went from smooth to sharp. Part of the wildling curse. Being half-Nightshade, the curse wasn’t deadly but Isla still felt hunger whenever her excitement and passion became a bit too much. She snapped at the air before doubling over in pain as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. Grim wormed himself out from under her, knowing she needed a moment without their bodies touching. Isla took in slow and deep breaths. 

“Thank yo—” Her hand reached for Grim’s throat. 

He watched the brown of her eyes turn completely black. Grim grabbed Isla’s other hand before it landed on his chest. He grunted in pain as her nails turned claws dug into his palm, drops of blood landing on the bed. The only thing between Isla’s snapping teeth and Grim’s face was his foot on her stomach. He tried to extend his leg to push her away but she wouldn’t budge. Wildlings gained a ridiculous amount of strength when hunting for a heart. 

Isla breathed through her nose as she glared at Grimshaw, letting go of his throat. Before he could move, she bit his leg. The pain made him let go of her hand. Grim’s breathing became short and shallow as he found himself pinned. A silent scream left his mouth when Isla’s claws dug into his chest, trying to tear through the first layers of his body. Grim’s hand flailed as he tried to move just enough to reach the pillows shoved against the headboard. His fingers stretched until he felt the burning sensation of darkness. Grim grabbed the shadow and pulled himself into it. 

Isla’s head shot up in confusion. She could smell her lover but she couldn’t find him. The pillows garnered her attention. She squinted. She was half Nightshade but never bothered to learn that magic properly, too fearful of upsetting Aurora. But some things still came naturally. She knew Grim was in the shadow of the pillow, hiding somewhere from her deep in the Shadow Realm. But she couldn’t reach into the shadow herself and grab him. 

A growl of frustration erupted from her throat. Isla’s eyes went wide. She scrambled backwards until she hit the wooden footboard of the bed. Her hand covered her mouth as tears streamed down her face. She could feel the sharp teeth become normal again. Isla felt her chest tighten. She had never lost control before. Her head shot up when Grim slowly crept out of the shadows. 

“No, Grim, stay away from me.” 

“Isl—”

“I almost killed you… I almost killed you.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Grimshaw.” 

“I knew what loving you might bring,” he said, offering his hand. 

Isla gently took it. “But I never thought it would bring this. I thought the curse was supposed to be mild.” 

“When you think about it, it was. I felt the teeth and you were able to warn me. We both just didn’t take it seriously enough.” 

Isla stared at the cut on his chest, inches from his heart. “That isn’t good enough… I… I’m not ready to accept it as easily as you.” 

“What are you saying, Isla?” 

She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “I’m saying I need time… Grim, I’m asking you t—” 

“No.” Grim pulled his hand out of her grasp. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

“You want me to hide your memories of us in the shadows of your mind and make it like you’ve never met me. I won’t do it. I don’t want to end my relationship with you.” 

“I don’t either. But I need time to think about how to be with you when the curse is stronger than I thought.” 

“Then take all the time in the world but don’t end us.” 

“You don’t understand. The Decennial is in a few days. I won’t be focused if I can only think about how I almost killed you.” 

Grim clenched his teeth. He looked around his entire room before facing Isla again. There was truth to her words and they both knew it. Distraction could mean death. With a slow nod of his head, Grim let Isla lay her head down in his lap. His fingers gently rested on her forehead. 

“Go to sleep, my Hearteater. You’ll be back on Wild Isle when you wake and it’ll be like we never met past a Realm Dinner. I’ll never forget you.” 

“I’ll come back to you, Grim.” 

Isla closed her eyes and let the shadows of her mind pull her into sleep.