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thebuddiearchives · 25 days ago

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BUDDIE FIC RECS ✴ ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP ✴ VOL. 1

Fic recs with Buck and Eddie in an established relationship.

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all the roads, for your steps by @hattalove Oneshot || Teen || 1796

“I have a minute,” Bobby, still standing there, says when Eddie just blinks at him, frozen. “Are you okay? You look like you need to sit down.”

“I’m, uh,” Eddie swallows, “I’m cursing the patriarchy. Just give me a second.”

or, eddie has a question to ask.

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and longer by far by farfromthstars // @doeeyeseddie Oneshot || Teen || 14547

“Eddie’s been married once, and after Shannon asked him for a divorce and then died before they could do anything about it, he figured that was it for him. One marriage with all its ups and downs is enough for a lifetime. Granted, he didn’t think he’d fall in love with Buck and be lucky enough for that love to be returned.”

Everyone seems to expect Eddie to propose to Buck any minute now, which is annoying because Eddie doesn’t want to get married again. He's sure of that. Or is he?

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Asked, Offered, Given, (He's) Taken by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels Oneshot || Explicit || 2704

People like to flirt with Buck on calls. It kind of makes Buck uncomfortable.

And that makes Eddie frustrated.

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Been about 273 days and I’m coming home. by zimnokurw Oneshot || Not Rated || 1827

When Hen first met Evan Buckley (“call me Buck”) she thought the kid, who looked like a womanizer type, was going to be trouble.

What she did not think was that she was going to win 60$ from Chimney thanks to the fact that the kid is apparently in love with a hot-ass Army Medic.

(Or; Eddie is still in Afghanistan when Buck joins 118, so the team meets him for the first time when he drops by to surprise Evan. / But kinda also like Hen + Chim & Bobby react to Buck as a rookie.)

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beneath my mother tongue by archerincombat Oneshot || Teen || 31552

He sits bolt upright in his seat. Jee-Yun squeals at the sudden movement. “Holy shit,” he says out loud, simultaneously praying that it doesn’t become one of those words his niece repeats until it loses its sparkle. “I told Eddie I loved him.”

Jee-Yun laughs. It feels a little like she’s mocking him. “Dee,” she agrees solemnly, placing a tiny hand on Buck’s cheek.

Or: Buck goes home to Pennsylvania. It's more familiar than he wants it to be.

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bulletproof morning by not1_2write Oneshot || Explicit || 4493

It's not unusual for people to hit on Buck during calls. Beautiful, caring, competent, muscled Buck? Yeah, he gets hit on a lot. He always turns them down. He's taken after all and he only has eyes for Eddie.

Eddie isn't jealous. He is, however, a little insecure. Buck's had a lot of experience with sex and Eddie... not so much. That's not a bad thing... is it?

They have sex about it, then talk.

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call me by your name by ipretendtobesane // @userbuddie Oneshot || Not Rated || 11490

5 times someone calls buck 'diaz' not knowing he was married and the 1 time they call eddie 'diaz' too

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call you home by ashavahishta Oneshot || General || 6000

"He’s like, so pretty sometimes I can’t believe he’s real?” He’d rambled once, so tired at the end of shift he was basically drunk with it. “I’ll take your word for it,” Hen had said patiently, and patted him on the shoulder. “I like girls, remember?”

“He’s built like a Greek god with the face of an angel,” Eddie had argued, a stubborn set to his mouth like he was determined for Hen to believe just how gorgeous his husband was. “Even you couldn’t resist that.”

Or: "Eddie Diaz drinks his 'I fucking love my husband' juice for 6,000 words." OR "5 Times Eddie Told The Firefam About Buck and 1 Time They Actually Met Him".

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doing the things that animals do by @trippedandfell Oneshot || Teen || 3846

“Hey,” Buck says, reaching out to grab Eddie's hand. “How do you feel about red carpets?”

“Tacky in a bedroom, decent in a living room,” Eddie deadpans, because he likes to think he’s funny.

or: Buck's still a zoologist. Eddie's definitely in love.

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Eyes On You by sealeviathan Oneshot || Not Rated || 1060

Hen liked their new probie.

Buck was easy to get along with. He had a husband and a son, he was good at his job and helped everyone to the best of his ability. Not only that, but he was actually interesting. He was passionate, funny, caring and he fit well into the team dynamic. Hen was happy with this information - happy with her knowledge of one Evan Buckley.

That being said, she really didn't expect Buck to be the disloyal type. But here he was, at a bar, practically drooling over some bartender in front of all of his coworkers. The guy even seemed familiar with Buck.

---

Or: The fic where Buck blatantly lusts over Eddie. Hen and Chimney worry they're about to witness a marriage-ending move because Buck failed to mention that Eddie is the man he's married to.

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his name on your heart by spinningincircles // @tripleaxeldiaz Oneshot || Not Rated || 1258

Buck hops off the back of the ambulance, kneeling down so they’re eye to eye. “I’m always happy to help, sweetheart, but my name’s not—”

But he stops, because it hits him like a freight train — he is Mr. Diaz now.

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If I Fall, Can You Pull Me Up? by @princessfbi Oneshot || General || 7066

Eddie could pick Buck from a million miles away. Buck’s entire being was like one bright light in an otherwise cloudy sky. So, he was really interested to know why some stranger was wearing his boyfriend’s turnout coat and pretending to be him.

“This is Captain Nash for Firefighter Buckley. Please report.”

“Bobby,” Eddie said, already hurrying after the guy who was definitely not Buck. “Hey!”

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leading the way home by theosbuckley Oneshot || Not Rated || 4082

Now almost 2 weeks later Bobby was definitely sprouting some new grey hairs that had definitely not been there before and he was sure that he almost had a heart attack this morning - Buck thought he could do some daring rescue and did it without a second thought, and Bobby was slowly going insane, how Buck thought of these ideas was beyond him.

an au where buck joins the 118 but is married

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the measuring contest by ColorMeParanoid // @color-me-paranoid Oneshot || Teen || 2598

Hen snorted from her own cot. “Trust me, guys. This isn’t the kind of measuring contest you want to play with Buck because you will lose.”

But, comparing scars and exchanging crazy stories when meeting other people in your profession was basically a rite of passage so of course they didn’t take her warning seriously. It became a challenge instead and Eddie settled in for the show.

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no morning fears, no mountains to climb by iphigenias // @oatflatwhite Oneshot || Teen || 3692

“You’re invited,” Buck read aloud, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Together with their families, Jason and Amelia invite you to join them in the celebration of their marriage.” He says the word like that: italicised. Teasing and persistent. Eddie swallows his eggs. “Who’re Jason and Amelia?”

Eddie's invited to the wedding of an old army buddy in Texas.

Problem is, they all think he's straight.

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No thing definеs a man like love that makes him soft by justhockey // @everything-i-am Oneshot || Not Rated || 4028

“I don’t think you need a dad, that’s not how families work, right? Like, they all look different,” Chris says. “But it’s okay if you want one. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“What’s it like, having two?” Denny asks, and Buck has to cover his mouth so he doesn’t give himself away.

Christopher’s laugh is loud, and sweet, and tugs on Buck’s heartstrings in the same way that it always has done. He doesn’t even hesitate to say, “It’s fun. I love them.”

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plot twist (and turns) by autumnchills Oneshot || Teen || 4090

“I- I remember putting burgers in the truck. I took some off of Chimney so he could help Eddie finish assessing a patient. That’s the last thing.”

“Okay,” Bobby says, then hesitates before adding, “What happened is that someone stole the truck while you were in there.”

Buck’s head snaps up, and he tries to peer around the edge of the seat and console to get a better look at the guy. This was definitely not the turn he saw his evening taking, all jinxes considered.

aka What if Buck was in the truck when Brian stole it in 4x06?

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seeing you with him just don't feel right (you're giving me a heart attack) by bellabrady Oneshot || Not Rated || 1932

“Holy shit,” Chimney says, grabbing Hen’s arm like he needs to make sure she’s getting this. “So you guys killed our captain?”

“No!” Eddie and Buck say simultaneously.

“We were just…we…,” Buck tries before looking at Eddie for help. Eddie opens his mouth to explain that no, they did not kill their captain but—

“Okay, well, I guess we…,” he says with a grimace. “I guess we kind of killed our captain.”

“Eddie!” Buck snaps.

“What?” Eddie snaps back, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I mean, I don’t think the guy would’ve had a heart attack today if it wasn’t for us.” — Or: Buck and Eddie accidentally give their homophobic captain a heart attack.

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she’ll never get to eat you like your heart's a pomegranate by @colonoscopys Oneshot || General || 10217

Chris smiles at him, soft and steady. There’s a loud clang of the metal door behind both of them, a high pitched AHHHHH noise, and-

Eddie knows – he understands – that he doesn’t look like his kid. Chris has a lot of different features, and more often than not when they go out people expect Buck to be his father. Eddie has the brown hair and the brown eyes, and Chris is all sunshine features and bright blue skies.

But the grins they give each other when they realize who has entered the room – they’re identical.

- or, Five Times Buck was the Weird Parent, and One Time Eddie was

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where there's smoke, there's fire by wakeupnew Oneshot || Teen || 24027

Buck loves Christopher. Buck clearly loves both of them. He and Eddie haven't said it to each other yet, but it's in every gesture, every word. Every package of dinosaur nuggets Buck keeps in his refrigerator. Every time he sends a text because he saw a video of dogs looking ashamed after destroying stuff and he knows Eddie will think it's funny. The care he takes when he carries Chris to bed. How he looks at Eddie when he thinks Eddie's asleep.

It turns out that being in a secret relationship with your best friend in an active fire department is kind of a life-altering situation, once it's suddenly not a secret anymore.

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Whiplash by soft_satan Oneshot || General || 6001

She parked near him and got out, avoiding the puddle as she approached him. Hands on her hips, she shook her head in pity. “What on earth happened to you?”

He looked up at her with a pained smile, his shoulders instantly sagging with relief at the sight of her. “I got carjacked.” ... Thanks to a lack of communication, a horrific accident leads the team to fear the worst.

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whatever you lack, i make up (we make a really good team) by wafflesofdoom // @capseycartwright Oneshot || General || 10034

it was eddie, who found out about the bet.

that had been the 118's first mistake.

or, the one where buck and eddie find out about the 118's bet on their relationship and set out for some well deserved revenge - with athena's help, of course. and a seven-phase revenge plan.

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with every heartbeat i have left by iriswests // @fcntasmas Oneshot || Teen || 8040

Buck and Eddie were expecting to have a little girl.

When their baby girl is born a baby boy, instead, Buck is suddenly confronted with everything he’s been ignoring since he learned about Daniel every time he looks at his son. -- or; buck and eddie have a baby boy, and buck spirals a little bit

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#buddie #buck x eddie #buddie fic recs #buddie fanfiction #buddie fics #thebuddiearchives #established relationship

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starryevermore · 11 months ago

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foolish one ✧ leo campo

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

request: Hiiii, I just read your Leo fic and I absolutely loved it. Is there any way you can write another one? - anon

pairing: leo campo x fem!reader

summary: you know how to keep me waiting. i know how to act like i’m fine. don’t know what to call this situation, but i know i can’t call you mine. and it’s delicate, but i will do my best to seem bulletproof. ‘cause when my head is on your shoulder, it starts thinking you’ll come around. and maybe, someday, when we’re older, this is something we’ll laugh about over coffee every morning while you’re watching the news. but then the voices say, “you are not the exception. you will never learn your lesson.”

word count: 2,076

warnings?: implied smut, friends with benefits, angst, no happy ending, not proofread

It ran like clockwork. Every Friday night, you would go to Luigi’s an hour before closing time. Leo would bring you a vodka martini that you would drink as he flits between flirting with you, serving final drinks, and running through the closing activities. As the last of the patrons left, Leo would offer you a charming smile, ask if you’d like to take the party upstairs, and you would (trying to not seem so eager) accept. He would lead you to his apartment and…Let’s just say, make a mess in his sheets In the morning, Leo would offer you a coffee—a croissant if he was feeling particularly nice. By the time you finished drinking, you would be ready to leave. and it would all repeat again the next week.

You liked the routine. You liked the simplicity of the arrangement.

You liked that, for once, Leo would actually pay attention to you.

For as long as you could remember, you had had a crush on Leo Campo. It wasn’t an uncommon position to be in. He was funny, witty, and handsome as could be. Nearly every woman in Little Italy—single and taken alike—wanted him. But it was an equally uncommon position for Leo to not notice you. In your younger years, his attention was completely devoted to his best friend, Nikki Angiolo. Then, when their friendship eventually deteriorated because of the sudden feud between their families, you still couldn’t catch his eye. You were a dorky sort of kid. No one really spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t until you left for college, had a glow up, and returned to Little Italy to take over the family business that anyone really noticed you. (In some ways, if you were being honest with yourself, that kind of hurt—the younger version of you deserved to be noticed, too.) But the most surprising thing of all was when Leo noticed you.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Leo said, two shot glasses in hand, when you came to Luigi’s one Friday night. He slid a shot of tequila in front of you, keeping one shot glass to himself.

You were caught between being snarky (“You’d’ve seen me if you paid attention to women who don’t look like a model straight off the runway”) and finally, finally, getting to be the giggly girl who finally caught the hottest boy in town’s attention in your fantasies. You tried to find the middle ground by saying, “Been gone a few years.”

“You’re from here? Nah, I think I’d remember you if that was the case. Can never forget a beautiful woman like yourself.”

Humming, you picked up the shot glass, tilting it in Leo’s direction. “Maybe you should get your memory checked.” You leaned in a little.

“Would you mind helping me refresh my memory?” Leo asked, picking up his own shot glass.

“Do you talk like this to every woman who comes up to the bar?” Truthfully, you didn’t want to know the answer. You kind of already did. A man as handsome as him? With as well-known playboy tendencies that your friends loved to tell you about whenever you’d call? Yeah, you technically knew. But you that this line was the ultimate flirtatious exchange. It would make his feelings toward you more clear, let you know if it was okay to make a move.

“Only the gorgeous ones,” Leo said, flashing you a grin.

It felt weird to be this bold. It felt so out of character, so out of left field that if anyone was witness to this, they’d think you had gone off the deep end. But… Well, you already got this far. You couldn’t back down now—not that you really wanted to. So, you asked, “When does your shift end?”

Leo glanced at the clock on the wall behind you. “‘Bout an hour. I gotta close, but my place is right upstairs.”

“Maybe I’ll stick around then.”

Leo’s tongue darted out, licking his lips. He shamelessly looked you up and down, pausing for a bit longer than maybe necessary to stare at your cleavage. (Thank God you had decided to wear a shirt that provided a tasteful peak at your breasts and a push-up bra that accentuated them all the more, you had thought.) When he looked back up at you, his face was subtly tinted pink. “You should.”

And you did.

It was a night you would never forget, finally getting to live out your fantasies. And, oh, what an amazing night it was. For all of Leo’s womanizer tendencies, you expected him to be more focused on his own pleasures. To not care about making you feel good. But you were so, so wrong. Because that man was fucking dedicated.

You never expected it to last, though. You thought it would be just a one time thing. Something you would tell your friends about and giggle over the idea that maybe he would show interest in you one more time. But come morning, Leo was handing you a mug of coffee and saying, “We should do this again sometime.”

You were caught between being shocked and giggling like a schoolgirl. You distracted yourself by taking a drink of the coffee, trying to figure out how to response. Finally, you said, “Just name the time and place.”

And so, the routine began. And you never looked back.

At least, you didn’t for a while. This was always supposed to be a casual thing. Nothing serious. The classic friends-with-benefits, no-strings-attached scenario. You both were free to see other people as you pleased. Either one of you could call it off if you so pleased. And you were content with that. Leo Campo, after all, was not the sort of man to commit. You always knew that. You always knew you would never hold a piece of his heart. You never expected anyone to.

But then you saw her. Saw the way he looked at her. Saw how he dedicated all of his time to her ever since she came home. And you knew then that Leo Campo could love. It’s just that he could never love you.

And yet, he still came back to you. Still invited you into his bed. Pretended that neither of you could see the way he burned for Nikki Angiolo. And you knew it shouldn’t have, but it gave you just enough of an inkling of hope to think that maybe he did care about you in some capacity.

Though the question ate at you, you never intended to voice your concerns. You knew nothing good would come out of it. And even if you would eventually lose Leo to Nikki…Well, you so selfishly wanted to keep him around for as long as possible.

But nothing ever really went to plan for you. Perhaps it was because it was a Monday, not a Friday. Perhaps it was because he came to your apartment. Perhaps it was because you weren’t expecting him at all. But it brought the question to the very forefront of your mind, and it wouldn’t let you rest until you got an answer—no matter if it was the one you didn’t want to hear.

“What are we?” you asked one night as the two of you basked in the afterglow before you could stop yourself or even think about what you were saying.

Leo shut his eyes, suppressing a groan. You knew he hated when you brought this up, even if it was seldom that you did. It’s just…The boundaries of whatever this was, was never defined. You just wanted to know your place in his life. If you were more than just a good lay. If you meant something to him like he did to you.

“Not this again,” he grumbled. You weren’t quite sure you were supposed to hear that. It almost sounded he was talking to himself. You certainly had never had this conversation with him before, had always respected the boundaries he so carefully constructed. How often, though, had he had this conversation with the other women he slept with? Did he consider you to be one of them—never satisfied with the arrangement, trying to trap him in a relationship he never wanted? Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leo run his hands over his face. A little louder, he asked, “Why does it matter?”

You turned over on your side and looked at Leo. When you tried to reach out, caress his face, urge him to look back at you, he only pushed your hand away. You asked, trying to swallow your hurt, “I mean…we’re friends, right?”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Didn’t try to convince you he felt something, anything more than lust, for you. You were really to take that silence as an answer, turn away from him, pretend that you hadn’t said anything at all. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. “Never really thought about it.”

And, oh, that hurt. Reaffirmed everything you ever thought about how Leo felt about you. In just five words, Leo told you that you never meant as much to him as he did to you. And even if that was something you always knew, deep down, it still hurt for it to be confirmed. To know that it would the truth instead of some lie you just told yourself to keep you from getting your hopes too high.

“Go.”

Leo finally looked over at you, his brows pinched together. “Huh?”

“Leave,” you said, thinking that he didn’t understand you were telling him to get out. Sometimes he was like that. Sometimes you had to tell him something very directly for him to understand.

Leo pushed himself up, propping himself up on his elbows. “You’re kicking me out?”

Why wasn’t he understanding? Why didn’t he get that, if you meant nothing to him, he didn’t get to stay? What was so hard about understanding that? You rolled over on your side, turned your back to him. You couldn’t look at him while you did this, or else you might change your mind.

He reached over, touched your shoulder. You jerked away, pushing yourself closer to the edge of the bed to get away from him. “Don’t be like this.”

“I have work in the morning. Gotta get up early.”

“Earlier you said you have tomorrow off.”

Damn him. Damn him for remembering what you said but still not caring about you. “Errands then. I just got an early morning, and I’d like to sleep.”

Leo reached for you again. This time, you didn’t move away, let him touch you one last time. “Don’t push me away. Please.”

“Why should it matter? You don’t even think of me as a friend.” You pulled the covers around you tighter, burrowing yourself in a little cocoon. Didn’t even care that, in doing so, you were taking the covers from Leo. He didn’t deserve your covers. “And that’s pretty fucking clear. I never ask anything of you, but when I ask you to leave, you can’t even give me that.”

“Why are you doing this? What’s wrong?” Leo moved closer to you, sure that you wouldn’t try to pull away again. He pressed his body against yours, buried his face in the crook of your neck. His lips ghosted over the spot where your neck met your shoulder. “C’mon. This isn’t like you.”

“How would you know? We’re not friends.”

Leo kissed your shoulder softly. In any other circumstance, you might have melted. But, now, it felt like he was burning you. “I care about you—”

You fought the urge to scoff. How was this caring? “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Me neither. I never want to fight with you. Just, please, tell me what’s upsetting you so I can make it better—”

God, how was he so obtuse? How couldn’t he understand what you were saying?

“No. I don’t want to do…whatever this is anymore. I want to end this…arrangement between us.”

Leo pulled away. Finally. “Are you serious?”

You could only nod.

“…did I do something?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the tears pricking at your eyes to not fall. Not now. Not while he was still hear. “You did nothing at all.”

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

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cositapreciosa · 1 year ago

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Redemption

Alejandro Gillick x gn!reader, (gun wound, blood, the usual for the movies) 1047 words

a/n : super duper self-indulgent Alejandro fic cause I'll write whatever gives me wings at this point. This gif might not be from Sicario but yhlqmdlg Benicio is hot anyway

Tagging the besties-that-might-like-this as usual @narcolini @drabbles-mc @anunhealthydoseofangst

‘’ Stay still, I don't want to hurt you. ‘’

Any more than he already has. Still, it hurts when Alejandro puts his hand on your stomach, hard and warm against your abdomen. The bullet grazed you, thankfully, but deep and bloody, straight in between the Kevlar, slicing through your shirt. You can’t help but jerk when he presses his fingers into your skin, teeth baring in a hiss. It is dusk now, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the scene orange and red. How long has it been since he left you in this ditch? Why did he even bother to come back?

‘’ You fucking shot me. ‘’

It comes out of you in a cough, as if you can’t believe it yourself. You are probably in shock, you realize, cold and losing blood for what seems like hours at this point. Where is my gun? You taste the blood in your mouth as you speak again. Where am I?

‘’ You fucking shot me. ‘’

You struggle against his hold, opposite hand grabbing his wrist in an attempt to get free. Let me go, you want to tell him, let me be, but it feels like paste in your mouth, dried tongue, you can’t get the words out.

‘’ Stay still. ‘’ He pushes back, and you can do nothing but let him, ‘’ They would have shot you anyway, your cover is blown. ‘’

‘’ Yeah, no shit. ‘’

Every word feels like sandpaper in your throat, scratching on its way out, keeping you from saying more mean and distasteful things. You let yourself fall back against the sand, letting the dust settle again in your lungs. Matt had told you they had caught rumours of your CIA affiliation through the low ranks, but you still went anyway, believing you could work your way through it. Pinches narcos de mierda. Alejandro fetches gauze out of his backpack, pulling you closer to cut the strap of your bulletproof vest with his knife. You feel blood moving down your chin.

‘’ If you heard what they were telling me they would do to you before you got there maybe you wouldn’t be so feisty about this. ‘’

‘’ You threw me in a ditch. ‘’

‘’ And they think you’re dead, you’re welcome. ‘’

He gently wipes the blood off your chin with his glove before turning his attention back to your shirt. It tugs on your skin as it separates from the dried blood, raw, stiff, a new colour from what it was this morning. You let Alejandro turn you to your side, inspecting the wound he inflicted, tucking your face in his elbow as he presses the tissue on your wound.

‘’ You’ve lost a lot of blood, but it’s not that deep, you’ll be fine. ‘’

‘’ I’m surprised they don’t think you’re CIA now- ‘’

You hiss when he starts moving the tape around your torso, pulling it tighter every time he starts another round.

‘’ I guess shooting you was a good move, they don’t suspect a thing. ‘’

Idiots, you want to say, all of them. You remember them dragging your body in the back of a car, carelessly tossed across the seat next to Alejandro, you remember how easy it was to play dead, how cold you were, how the pain made your whole body numb, Alejandro’s hand on your vest to keep you from rolling over as they drove in circles for hours.

‘’ It’s a fucking miracle. ‘’

That he isn’t dead, that you aren’t, that no one caught your whimpers after every bump or Alejandro softly shushing you afterwards. A fucking miracle.

‘’ You tell me. ‘’

He issues no warning as he pulls you up, knees bending, one hand on your shoulder, the other creasing your shirt in a tight grip. His movements are tactical, precise, moving your body in a way that works for him when your whole being can’t seem to follow. Alejandro wraps his hand around your neck as it swings back. You can feel the blood rushes back to your head, feel it in your throat. Hey, he says, stay with me, but the words barely make it to you, everything is thick and foggy and-

Hey, don’t die on me now. The world comes back in a buzz, loud and crackling in between your ears. ‘’ Matt will have my head if you die like this, you hear me? ‘’

His fingers are warm around your scalp, pressing a little, to make sure you really are here, back with him. You notice his eyes for the first time, how brown they are, deep, honeyed, the slight wrinkles that shape between his eyebrows when he frowns.

‘’ Loud and clear. ‘’ You mumble as he steadies you once again.

‘’ Good. ‘’ Good. You can see the relief cross his face, the weight that leaves his shoulder. ‘’ Think you can walk? ‘’

‘’ I don’t know, you tell me. I didn’t shoot myself, did I? ‘’

He scoffs, dismissing your sarcasm, you could mistake it for a laugh, ‘’ I missed for a reason. Let’s get you home, yeah? ‘’

Alejandro doesn’t pick up on your answer, something along the lines of it being a waste of time, that you are cold already, weak. Cállate, he wants to tell you, Cállate, you can do this, let me. He wants to try, for you, for him. And he does, he drags you through the desert, hiding in the streets, makes sure you press ‘right there, hard’ whenever he changes your bandages. His hands slip and hurt, but he does, he has to.

Told you so, he wants to say when he finally sees the bright lights, but he doesn’t. The second he makes it to camp, he brings you to the infirmary first, before Matt, before the men at the gates can ask any questions or take into account the blood that stains both of you. Told you so, but he keeps his mouth shut and tries to forget the way his finger hesitated on the trigger this morning, even when he knew it had to be done, that he hates how relieved he felt when he realized you were still alive.

He hates it, but it is true, it seems pretty clear to him now why he even bothered to come back.

Told you so.

#alejandro gillick x reader #alejandro x reader #sicario imagine #sicario imagines #benicio del toro x reader

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stevetonyweekly · 9 months ago

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SteveTony Weekly - February 11th - Week

I’m traveling this weekend for my niece’s quinceanera so I’m sharing a list of my favorite fics that I posted on twitter last year. It’s still some of my favorite fics of all time, so this week go show them some love or send me some of YOUR favs, and I’ll be back next Sunday with our regularly scheduled weekly reading.

~*~

Open Field in Front of Him by orphan_account

Steve Rogers's football season is functionally over after a loss to Rutgers, but he finds a distraction in Tony Stark (yes, THAT Tony Stark). A college AU Stony fic.

In Trouble Deep by FestiveFerret, SirSapling

"Whoever did this has a reason, and Stark needs to be with someone who can protect him. He won’t exactly be able to protect himself like this.” Fury looked at the baby consideringly. “No, it’s you, Steve. Besides, he likes you. Suck it up, soldier, you’re stuck with him.”

The Twice-Told Tale by arysteia

For someone he'd hero-worshipped for so long, Steve Rogers in the flesh is a pretty big disappointment. For one thing, he keeps looking at Tony as though he reminds him of someone else, and even if he never says anything, Tony's pretty sure it's his father. A lifetime of not measuring up to Howard's expectations is more than enough, thank you very much, and he's certainly not going to make an effort to live up to any of Steve's. Steve's pretty clearly failed to live up to his expectations, in any case, and that's not hypocritical at all.

Bulletproof by foxxcub

At age fifteen, Steve Rogers had been in love with Tony Stark.

By age twenty, he’d (mostly) gotten over it. And then he promptly became Tony Stark's fuck buddy.

dick drunk by mistymountainking

“I’m going to fuck you stupid,” Steve says, pulling away only a fraction of an inch to say it, a promise as deep and certain as the look in his eyes, “and you’re going to take it. Aren’t you, Tony.”

Tony wants a drink. Steve gives him something else.

Sixpence In His Shoe by scifigrl47

Steve and Tony should really read the fine print on what they're signing. Then again, some mistakes are not really mistakes.

Straight on till Morning by Sineala

Tony Stark resigned his commission in Starfleet five years ago, after a disastrous away mission, and he swore he'd never go back. He just wants to be left alone to build warp engines in peace. But the universe has more in store for him than that, as he discovers when Admiral Fury comes to him with an offer he could never have expected and cannot possibly refuse: first officer and chief engineer aboard the all-new USS Avenger, a starship of Tony's own design. What's more, the Avenger's captain is Steve Rogers, hero of the Earth-Romulan War. Believed dead for over a century, Steve is miraculously alive... and very, very attractive.

But nothing is ever easy for Tony. As he wrestles with his secret desire for his new captain and his not-so-dormant fears, another mission starts to go wrong, and Tony becomes aware that Steve has secrets of his own -- and the truth could change everything.

For the Love of a Dragon by Captain_Panda

If it was between you and your dragon, who would you save?

Deep in the Heart of Me by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)

Veteran single dad Steve runs a tattoo shop. Pepper arranges for Tony to get that tattoo he always wanted, and he winds up with the mother of all crushes instead. Jumping out of airplanes is one thing, but love requires real courage. Steve struggles with letting someone into his life. Tony tries to keep his heart intact while Steve works on his issues.

Craving a realistic depiction of a romantic relationship featuring PTSD, mental health issues, and characters who discuss their problems? This might be for you. No magic fixes here but a happy ending is guaranteed!

Never Too Late for Love by Sineala

Steve has always believed that a soulbond is a blessing -- a rare and beautiful miracle, joining the thoughts and feelings of two people forever, from the first time they touch. Steve knows he's not going to be one of the lucky ones. He knows Gail isn't his soulmate. But he loves her, even if they're not soulmates, and he's going to do right by her. After the war's over, he's going to marry her, and they're going to settle down. They'll buy a house. They'll have children. He'll see his family again. Maybe Bucky will live next door. It's going to be a good life. He doesn't need a soulbond. He'll be fine without one.

Then Steve wakes up sixty years in the future to find that his wonderful life has moved on without him. His family is long dead. His fiancée married his best friend. And the only purpose he has left is leading the Ultimates, a misbegotten team of superheroes with flaws too numerous to count. Steve hates everything about the future -- but most of all he detests Tony, flashy and flirtatious, who embodies everything Steve hates about a world he never wanted to live in.

And, oh, yeah, Steve has a soulmate after all: Tony fucking Stark.

Toy Soldiers by copperbadge

When Steve Rogers, five foot four and a hundred and ten pounds, met Tony Stark in a bar, he didn't expect it to lead to a relationship. Or that Tony would find out he's not an art student during a SHIELD rescue mission in Afghanistan.

there are still beautiful things by meidui

The day Tony takes Steve home from the New York Army National Guard is the best day of his life.

I've got you under my skin by sirona

Five times Beijing 2008 Olympics Gold Medalist Tony Stark thinks it's going to be no more difficult a job to get ready for London 2012, than what he has just achieved. That is, of course, before Coach Fury comes to visit, and offers him a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a part of something much bigger than himself. Swimming AU.

The Foodieverse by copperbadge, scifigrl47

It's an AU where everyone works in the food industry. That makes total sense and is definitely not wildly irrational on any axis.

do you fondue? by calciseptine

Tony has done crazy things in the name of food, but falling in love with Steve Rogers really takes the cake.

Homefront by copperbadge

Steve Rogers is a capable leader, a kind and cheerful man, a good friend, a strong role model, and a loyal soldier. He's also teetering on the edge of suicide.

stress relief by romanoff

They don't love each other. They barely even like each other.

The Jar by Sineala

The Avengers are ridiculously competitive people, and what starts out as a silly late-night team discussion quickly becomes a contest: their names. Not the code names -- the nicknames. Who can go the longest without using them? They pledge to spend a week not nicknaming each other, and they'll pay up every time they mess up. This hits Tony the hardest, and not just financially. Tony's got a lot of nicknames for everyone, but most of all for Steve -- and when Tony can't use the names he's already got, the names he uses reveal feelings he had no idea he had.

Celestial Navigation by sabrecmc

Celestial Navigation: 18 year old Omega!Tony finds himself Bonded to Captain Steve Rogers. He isn't happy about it until he is.

By request, here is CN in one place without other stories and artwork.

ad astra by Areiton

The first time he kissed Tony Stark, the stars danced overhead.

#stevetony weekly #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #stony #iron man #captain america #stevetony fic #stony fic #fic rec

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years ago

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The Both of Us (Part 3) Now Finished

You can read parts 1&2 with this link.

As I stated earlier this week, I wanted to write a short continuation of this fic, because it has recently reached over 500 kudos on AO3. I also thought it would be cute to do for Valentine’s week and I wanted to write something about Everlark being a power couple during Mockingjay and being low-key married. (FYI I might have written a marriage kink into this, but in all honesty I think it’s pretty evident that Peeta has a super hard wife kink when it comes to Katniss in Catching Fire...so I will not be apologizing for that.)

Friendly reminder, this is a work of fiction and I own nothing. The characters I’m borrowing belong to Suzanne Collins and I get no reward for writing this beyond the comments and kudos and of course the thrill of writing Katniss and Peeta in 13 without the hijacking. Also, I’m updating the tags on AO3 but I am not posting this chapter on AO3 yet until my beta has a chance to look it over. But I did want to post here on tumblr, because I know you guys don’t care about typos.

Happy Valentine’s Week, my lovlies.

I’m in surprisingly good spirits in the morning while my prep team works to get Peeta and me ready for the new propo we’re meant to be filming later. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the way Peeta and I spent the evening tentatively exploring each other’s bodies until pleasure and exhaustion overcame us both, or with the increased amount of uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. I might have gotten five or six hours last night after everything.

I sneak a peek at him in the chair a few feet away from where Flavius is brushing some translucent powder over his face. He looks better rested and his skin has taken on a more healthy glow that suits him. The thought suffuses me with a small warm burst of satisfaction, at seeing him healthy and recovering.

I fight a blush when I think about the way I kissed every inch of his face, neck, and chest last night.

This new thing between us is a distraction, to be sure, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. The days in Thirteen are long and we’ve been working hard to try and fulfill the demands of those around us. It's nice to have a respite from all the pressure. When he and I are alone in his room all of that seems to fall away. That space becomes a retreat of sorts, where Peeta and I can forget about the world for a few hours and just be ourselves. Bare and honest with each other.

Peeta catches me looking and the corner of his mouth peeks up in a small private smirk.

I bite back the urge to tell him to cut it out, knowing that would only lead to questions from my preps that I don’t want to answer.

When Flavius turns away Peeta chances a quick wink at me in a way that brings to mind his teasing yet sweet attentions from our first arena.

I roll my eyes at him affectionately, ready to volley a trademark scowl if he keeps this up, but then Venia strides in with our propo outfits.

The Mockingjay costume Cinna created for me still takes my breath away when I see it sometimes. So does Peeta’s. They are all sleek lines and beautifully crafted functionality. Dark pieces of geometrically shaped bulletproof armor cover our most vulnerable points, and durable but flexible material bends and moves along our joints and legs to lend mobility to the ensembles as well as protection.

The final effect looks stylish but also deadly if I’m being honest. Especially when paired with the weapons Beetee custom designed for us. The way my bow comes to life underneath my hands still thrills me. I’m eager to dress and sling the quiver over my back, even though the only arrows inside will be normal ones. They still won’t let me walk around with the specially loaded ones Beetee made.

Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart to complete the look and Peeta nods at me to signal his readiness when he finishes clasping his blade and firearm to his belt. I stare for a moment at the image of the two of us standing side by side in the mirror.

We don’t look like a pair of tragic star-crossed lovers any longer.

We look ready for a fight, for vengeance or retribution. Maybe both.

“They’re either going to want to kiss you, kill you, or be you,” Peeta quips, parroting Finnick’s humorous words when we did our first test run in the costumes yesterday.

“I’ll settle for them joining us, or simply laying down their arms,” I reply dryly.

Peeta’s face takes on a more serious expression almost instantly.

“That’s why we’re doing it this way,” he says reassuringly, cupping my shoulder with one of his large hands.

“I know,” I tell him. And I do. Plutarch’s explained a hundred times, how just the sight of Peeta and I, alive and united, is supposed to inspire people to join the rebel cause and inspire the loyalists and capitalists to abandon their misguided fight.

But I still feel guilty asking people to fight for me sometimes.

“Katniss, Snow is just going to keep bombing districts and sending in reinforcements until he breaks everyone’s will to fight.” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him all the same.

After all this time it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s getting much better at reading me. Sometimes it's uncanny how quickly he can figure out the way my mind veers off in a certain direction.

“You’re right,” I say because he is. His hand travels up the back of my neck, to fall against my hair soothingly as he caresses my braid. I lean back against him.

He locks eyes with me in the mirror.

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, we’ll find a way to get out of it. I promise. You’ve given enough. We both have.” he says, sternly, so determinedly that I believe him, even though it's unlikely either of us could back out now.

I shake my head. Even if we could somehow walk away from this, from being symbols of the rebellion, I could never live with myself afterward.

“No, we promised Finnick we’d get Annie back. And Johanna. Snow…needs to be stopped. He needs to pay for what he did to 12, to all of us.” I say, voice resolute. Peeta’s hand comes down to twine with mine.

He interlocks our fingers.

“I’m with you.” He tells me, and it's enough to get me moving again.

Soon we’re on the soundstage, where we seem to stand for hours while they adjust our makeup, lighting, and smoke levels.

Eventually, the commands coming via the intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying us and less time adjusting. Finally, there’s quiet on the set. For a full five minutes, Peeta and I are simply considered. We go through our lines again. Just the two for Peeta and the one slogan for me. Tomorrow they’ll focus on speeches and interviews and have us pretend to be in rebel battles. But today they just want those three lines corked into a propo that they can show Coin.

“Has the Capitol hurt you, or someone you love? Are you tired of slaving away by day and going to bed hungry at night?” Those are Peeta’s lines. He delivers them with the same sort of conviction I’ve come to expect from him but it strangely still feels like he’s reading one of Effie’s cards from the Victory Tour.

Then it’s my turn.

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That’s the line. My line. I can tell by the way they presented it to me at first that they spent months, maybe years working it out and are proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me though, and stiff. I can’t imagine saying it in real life— unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it.

But Fulvia’s in my face, describing the battle I’ve just been in and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me and how to rally the living I must turn to the camera and shout out the line!

I catch sight of Peeta grimacing slightly from the corner of my eye but before I shoot him a questioning look I’m hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling and I hear “Action!” So I hold the bow over my head and yell the line with all the anger I can muster.

There’s dead silence on the set. It goes on and on. I turn to look at Peeta. He looks like he’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but I can see it there, beneath the cracks. Something like sympathy.

Then, Haymitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio, crackling through the old intercom. He contains himself long enough to say, “And that my friends, is how a revolution dies.”

Peeta is obviously and immediately happier to see our old mentor than I am. He’s rushing over to the booth to speak to him at the drop of a hat while I hang back and work up the motivation. It was a surprise to hear Haymitch’s voice, especially after his disparaging comments about my propo performance, but ultimately I put my annoyance aside to join Peeta to welcome our mentor back.

“Well, well, well, look at you, sweetheart. Your acting skills haven’t improved but you certainly look better than I’ve seen you in a long time,” Haymitch says, surreptitiously studying my face and in particular, the lack of deep circles underneath the stage makeup I’m wearing.

“Surviving a second arena has done wonders for my sleep regimen,” I deadpan.

Haymitch raises a brow at me, suspiciously, and his gaze swings between Peeta and me, assessingly.

“I seriously doubt that. But I can guess what have you playing nice with these birdbrains,” he says with a knowing smirk aimed in Peeta’s direction.

Cue flaming cheeks for both Peeta and me.

“Are you sure they drained all the booze out of you? You seem just a little too carefree to be 100% sober right now,” I accuse, defensively.

Haymitch laughs heartily, then winces.

“Nice try, sweetheart, but you can’t throw me off the scent that easily. Lucky for you, we’ve got bigger things to catch up on than the state of your love life. Kids,” he says, addressing Peeta and me together, “these propos suck,” he states bluntly.

Peeta, the traitor, nods quickly. I shoot him a deadly glare and he shrugs sheepishly.

“I’ve been trying to reason with them for weeks. They won’t listen to me about the lines,” Peeta tells Haymitch.

I huff. He has been trying to get the writers to take his suggestions more seriously. But I had no idea why he was so dead set on it. Maybe the lines they are feeding us sound as unbelievable to him as they do to me.

“Yeah, I figured kid. Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em on together first thing tomorrow,” Haymitch promises and Peeta’s face relaxes with relief.

“Now, why don’t you two show me where a man can get something to eat in this crazy maze?” Haymitch prods and Peeta and I signal to the others that we’re done for the day and lead our mentor away in the direction of the mess hall.

During dinner, Peeta and I fill Haymitch in on what’s happened since he’s been away. Or, more accurately, Peeta fills Haymitch in with his patent enthusiasm and I merely add a bit of color commentary to round things out.

“Coin promised she’d try to rescue the other victors, including Annie if we cooperated,” Peeta informs him between bites of dry, tasteless bread that leaves his mouth pulling down a smidge in disapproval.

I know if we weren’t so busy he’d be clamoring for a chance to get into the kitchens. He’d be running the entire show within a day or two, having won everyone over with his smiles and his superior baking abilities.

I’d be tempted to let him have at it, simply for the promise of good bread again.

Maybe I could even perch on a counter and watch him knead the dough with those big strong hands—

“You’ve backed yourselves into a corner, kids,” Haymitch says with a sigh, interrupting my bread fantasies.

Peeta gives him a look.

“She would have found a way to make us comply. This way, we get something in return for our services. Or do you think 13 is so benevolent that they would have waited until we were emotionally and mentally fit to take up the mantles?” Peeta asks, not accusingly, but in a tone that flatly states the obvious.

After he says it, it does seem plain to see. President Coin doesn’t strike me as a patient woman. She is used to getting her way and calling all the shots. Peeta had realized that even more quickly than I had. Maybe he’d seen it from the first.

“She made a public announcement in front of the entire district. She can’t go back on her word now.” I tell Haymitch, almost reassuringly. Peeta and I have done alright without him. We’ve made sure that they know we’re a team and we won’t be exploited blindly. We have our voices.

Haymitch gives Peeta a disbelieving look. Peeta merely taps a finger against the tabletop impatiently.

“I don’t even have to ask who thought that it would be a good idea to play one-ups with a woman in possession of actual nuclear weapons, Haymitch growls.

Peeta bristles, visibly.

“Look, our options were limited-” he starts.

“Boy, it's wartime. Everyone’s options are fucking limited,” Haymitch interrupts, brusquely.

“Hey, lay off!” I hissed, leaning forward and giving Haymitch a fierce glare.

Haymitch pauses, open-mouthed and holding up a finger as if he’s about to say something but then, he just doesn’t. He closes his mouth. He sits back. A slow grin spreads across his face.

“So the rumors are true. You have tamed the beast,” Haymitch tells Peeta before a chortle overtakes him.

My temper flares and I am on the verge of delivering an angry comeback, but Peeta beats me.

“I know you mean that affectionately, but let’s not lose focus here. I know what happened on the rescue mission to save us from the Quell arena. Katniss was the priority. Over Finnick, over Johanna, and Beetee. Over me. She’s our best chance to make sure Coin keeps her word, but we need your help too, ” Peeta says in a quiet voice. His tone is non-threatening, but his words…oh his words and his expression are so somber.

All teasing is gone from Haymitch’s expression and what is left in place is something like guilt and dogged resolution all at once.

“It’s what you wanted,” Haymitch croaks out. Then, he clears his throat, “You knew she was the key. You lobbied for me to save her, again,” he reminds Peeta in a careful tone.

I cut my eyes at Peeta, and he doesn’t even look sorry. He just nods once and reaches over to grasp my hand.

I almost pull away from him, so angry am I at the unspoken confirmation of this. Not that I hadn’t expected it. Not that I hadn’t known deep down, and we had all but spelled it out for each other that night on the beach. Haymitch and his double deals. Haymitch chose me, over Peeta, again. Indignation surges up swiftly.

“I never asked-” I begin, tone hot, eyes blinking furiously at the angry pressure that is building behind them. Because these two and their deals make me so mad, even if being angry makes me a hypocrite. Because hadn’t I done the same thing for Peeta? Made Haymitch promise to save him over me when the time came.

“You know how I feel about you,” is all Peeta says, in explanation, in apology, perhaps, but is it an apology if he isn’t one bit sorry?

I tear my hand away from his and cross my arms over my chest.

“We’re all here now and I think that if the two of you don’t start being honest with me I will show you how beastly I can be,” I say, practically growling the words at both of them.

“That, that right there. Is what we need to channel into the damn propos,” Haymitch says with a hint of a smile. Peeta nods approvingly, pulls my chair closer to his with a loud scrape of the metal on the floor, and wraps me in a one-armed embrace even as I pull back and scowl at him.

“I love it when you threaten me,” Peeta whispers, so quiet I’m sure only I can hear.

It’s a testament, really, to how far we come that I don’t automatically bite his head off, and instead grumpily settle into his side, ignoring Haymitch’s supremely amused expression in favor of finishing my bland meal.

The meeting the next morning goes by with very few hitches. I don’t enjoy the way Haymitch shreds our propo to pieces, but as soon as he says the words I immediately know he’s right about our performances.

“Peeta sounds like an advertiser, and not the trustworthy kind, despite how hard he tried to pull it off. And your Mockinjay there, she’s just flat. Completely unrelatable. Now, would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” Haymitch asks.

No one does.

“That saves time,” he says with a nod.

Then, he has everyone going around thinking of moments when Peeta and I truly inspired them. There is a lot to choose from apparently, considering that we have two reapings, two hunger games, and a victory tour captured on camera for posterity.

The conclusion everyone seems to come to is that Peeta is good in just about any situation but I shine when I go off script.

Fulvia is the one who makes an off-hand remark about putting Peeta and me in combat situations. I’m pretty sure she meant it as a joke but Haymitch latches onto the idea.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” says Haymitch. “Put them out in the field and keep the cameras rolling.”

That’s how Peeta and I end up going to Districts 8, 11, and 7.

The damage done by the Capitol bombs and their peacekeepers is horrifying. The dead bodies, and the broken and burned homes, pale in comparison to the anger and desperation in the eyes of the survivors.

Peeta is so good at looking each of them in the eyes. He holds their hands, he listens to their stories. He eases their pain in some vital way that has nothing to do with morphling or medical procedures. I follow his lead and it’s almost effortless.

He’s a wonder and I find myself sinking further into that deep entrenchment of admiration and love than ever before.

As for me, their suffering sparks a blaze inside my heart.

"I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." My hands go out automatically as if to indicate the whole horror around me. "This is what they do! And we must fight back!"

It's the first successful propo they manage to film of me, but it’s not the last.

The nights get successively harder to sleep through again, after the new things we see.

Peeta murmurs soothing things in my ear when I wake up screaming from nightmares where the Capitol drops bombs so devastating that they reach down in the earth to District 13. In my dreams I watch my little sister and my mother and the remnants of District 12 go up in flames, or get buried under tons of rock and unmovable earth.

“I don’t want her in this, I don’t want Prim anywhere near this war,” I tell him as I shake in his arms.

“We’ll sit her down, and speak to her. Ask her not to sign up,” Peeta promises.

All I can do is clutch him and cry in relief. If anyone can convince Prim to stay out of the majority of the fighting it's him, it's my Peeta.

Prim reluctantly agrees and continues to devote the majority of her time to the hospital ward. She and Finnick, who hasn’t been cleared yet, quickly become friends.

“Your sister is smart as a whip,” Finnick tells me one afternoon when we make it back early enough to swing by the hospital and pick Prim up before dinner.

“She is,” I agree. He looks at her with a sad sort of fondness and I wonder if the Capitol took a sister or a niece or a friend from him that reminds him of Prim.

“Do you wanna eat with us in the mess tonight?” I offer tentatively.

Finnick’s eyes light up. Peeta’s invited him many times, and Finnick had accepted occasionally on his better days. But it seems like the invitation means something different coming from me.

“Thank you. I’d like that,” he replies in an equally hesitant, but hopeful manner.

It’s just my luck that the Capitol chooses that night to air their first propo of President Snow giving some long judicious sounding speech while Annie Cresta and Johanna Mason stand behind him with blank faces like hollowed-out shells.

The next morning Peeta sounds the most unbending I’ve ever heard him sound.

He argues with President Coin, doggedly, unflinchingly. The dark circles under his eyes only make the righteous fury in his blue irises stand out starkly as he speaks.

“They are prisoners of war. They can’t be held responsible for what they say or do at this point. The Capitol could, and very likely is torturing them as we speak. How can we gain the trust of the remaining districts when we are so willing to abandon our allies to the brutality of the Capitol?” he asks, looking each person at the conference table in the eye, daring them to come up with an excuse.

Coin doesn’t really have an answer for him, but she doesn’t cede control of the meeting either. She wrenches it back inch by inch reminding us that we have yet to fulfill our part of the bargain, namely, inspiring widespread rebellion to the point where storming the Capitol to rescue the other victors is an option.

The opportunity we’ve been waiting for comes while Peeta and I are on different assignments. I’m filming a propo on District 12 with Gale, of all people, while he’s on assignment in District 4 with Finnick who has just recently been cleared for propo work. Finnick’s improved a lot lately, and hasn’t been caught forgetting to put on pants in while.

Boggs gathers us up and directs us back to the hovercraft swiftly, saying something about the hydroelectric dam that sends power to the Capitol having been hit.

“Their defenses are down. We’re going to hit them before all their backup systems can kick in,” he announces.

“But we’re all the way in 12,” I say with a frown.

“Not us specifically, but the closest team,” Boggs replies as he checks to make sure everyone is strapped in correctly before we take off.

“Who’s the closest team?” I ask, something like dread churning in the pit of my stomach.

“Peeta and Finnick’s team is en route as we speak,” Boggs tells me quietly, almost remorsefully.

I fail to choke back a shaky exhale that threatens to turn into a sob or a scream. I want to yell at whoever thought gave the order. This was not part of the plan. My chest feels tight. Panic has quickly overtaken all other thoughts.

Beside me Gale looks over, picking up on my distress. He looks conflicted for a moment, lips pursing as if he can’t make up his mind whether to rejoice in my discomfort or not.

Finally, nearly six years of friendship must win out because he says, carefully, “They’ll make it back. You’ve all faced worse and come back.”

It sounds plausible considering Peeta and I made it out of a Quater Quell specifically designed to kill us, but there’s always that fear that lives in the back of my mind. The one that claws to get out, teeth bared and snapping at the thought of losing someone I need beyond reckoning. I am about a minute away from coming up with a way to commandeer this vehicle at bow point and demand the pilot fly us straight to the Capitol, even if logically, I know we’ll never make it in time to be of any help.

Gale gives me a look that says he knows what I’m thinking and he thinks it’s a really bad idea. I am too panicked to feel even an ounce of guilt or self-consciousness. But then Boggs leans in and says in a low voice, “Commander Jackson and her team will make sure they make it back. She knows her orders. Bringing the Mockingjay’s husband and Finnick Odair back alive is the top priority.” His dark brown eyes are steady and truthful. I don’t even move to correct him when he calls Peeta my husband, I’m that distraught.

I gulp down my fears, and nod at him. I choose to believe what he says. Partially because I know that losing Peeta at this point would be disastrous for the rebel propaganda campaign. The bigger part of me believes what Boggs and Gale are saying for the simple fact that I desperately need to.

They do make it back, but just barely. The hours I spend in suspended torment, seem to fade from my mind when I get word.

Their hovercraft comes back with part of its left wing damaged and smoke billowing out of one of its engines. I catch sight of their return and watch with muted horror as the craft executes a shaky but ultimately successful landing from the small window that looks into the hangar from the hall.

I race toward the hangar entrance but am not allowed inside. The soldiers redirect me to the hospital where they say everyone from the rescue team is going to end up anyway.

Haymitch shows up two minutes after me and we wait for what seems like hours but is probably more like a handful of minutes until we’re admitted.

Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Jackson, Peeta, and Finnick's squad leader, perspiration streaming down her face as a doctor removes something from under her shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call her name and start toward her until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.

“Katniss!” It's not the voice I’ve been searching for, but it’s a welcomed one. Finnick hurries toward us, looking somewhat exhausted but also exorbitantly happy. I decided that if he looks like that, nothing serious could have gone wrong during the mission.

“They separated us when we got back,” he says in a breathless rush, eyes darting, “The doctors just cleared me but I don’t know where they took the others. They were unconscious from the gas when we found them and —”

"Finnick!" Something between a shriek and a cry of joy catches our attention. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled young woman-- dark tangled hair, sea green eyes--exits one of the patient rooms and runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. "Finnick!" And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible. A pang of happiness and relief hits me. Finnick has his beloved back. He kisses her with such heartfelt certainty, and she, him. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

My thoughts run toward Peeta, my eyes searching frantically for any sign of him.

Mitchell, one of the other officers on Peeta’s team, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. "We got them all out. Except for Enobaria. But since she's from Two, we doubt she's being held anyway. Johanna Mason's at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. Peeta’s in the room next to hers. He’s fine but he got clipped in the shoulder-” That’s as far as he gets before I’m running.

Peeta. Alive but injured.

Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me.

In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh. Haymitch is grinning at me, actually keeping pace. "Come on, then," he says, hurrying me along. I almost giggle.

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I do first? Hug him? Inspect his wounds? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me the moment I’m in reach anyway.

Celebratory kisses sound good. Fantastic even, I wonder if maybe those kisses will lead to more in his quarters later tonight. If he’s not gravely injured I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea at all.

Peeta's up and sitting on the side of the bed, looking tired as a trio of doctors examine him, flash lights in his eyes, and check his pulse. His right arm has a bandage wrapped around it but the dressing isn’t the heavy-duty kind reserved for serious wounds so I know he didn’t lose too much blood. He’s nodding along to their instructions or whatever it is they are telling him.

I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he got back, but he sees it now when he turns and catches sight of me entering the room. His features register relief, then delight, and something more intense that I’ve come to know in our more intimate moments. Something like belonging or tenderness. Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me.

I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me too, to caress my face, I think. My lips are just forming his name when his mouth slants down over mine, tasting perfectly like sweat, smoke, and home.

We kiss for an inordinate amount of time and it's oddly reminiscent of our reunion after our first games. Peeta even does the bit where he tries to push Haymitch aside when he starts cracking jokes about us needing to come up for oxygen.

“Glad to see you’re okay, kid. We’ll talk later.” Haymitch departs with a final clap of his hand against Peeta’s shoulder, and Peeta turns toward him to murmur his agreement. I listen to the sound of Haymitch’s retreating footsteps and I can’t hide the relieved sound that escapes me. I just want Peeta all to myself for a minute.

“I take it someone’s happy to see me,” Peeta quips when we finally break apart, amusement and adoration shining in his eyes as he looks down at me.

“You are hereby banned from going on any more life-threatening missions without me,” I growl at him, clutching at the front of his uniform and pressing my face into his chest.

“Trust me, I am not eager to do it again,” he says, arms clutching me tighter, hands trailing soothingly up and down my back. “It was a tricky escape. A trap most likely. All their guns turned back online before we could get clear of their air space. Snow was probably counting on being able to shoot all of us down. Luckily, Jackson is an ace pilot as well as a crack shot.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to hear about the death-defying odds just yet. I just need—” I tell him, my voice straining almost to the point of breaking.

“Shhh, I know what you need,” Peeta whispers back, planting a kiss on the top of my head, and running a hand down my hair.

He just holds me, as everyone bustles around us, talking and asking questions that we promptly ignore, proving that he does in fact know exactly what I need.

That night after we escape all the commotion we walk slowly back to his compartment in companionable but contemplative silence. I break it reluctantly when we reach his door.

“What do you think they did to them?” I ask quietly, thinking of the two souls they brought back with them from the Capitol. I bite my lip, remembering the way Johanna Mason had to be sedated when she caught sight of Finnick. She had actually tried to run towards him, attack him, it looked like, but she was so weak and malnourished that she didn’t get far or do any permanent damage.

Peeta sucks in a breath.

“They were being held in the Tribute Center. In a facility underneath it, actually. The op was so quick, we didn’t get the chance to investigate much. Just locate them and get them out, but…I think Snow messed with their minds, or at least Johanna’s. She seemed so sick and frail when we opened her cell. Small in a way she never seemed before. But the way she looked at Finnick when she woke up. It was like she thought he was a monster. Annie wasn’t in as bad a shape when we found her,” he replies heavily before unlocking his compartment. I nod, thinking of how Annie recognized Finnick instantly but Johanna’s eyes just seemed off.

I suppress a shiver at the implication of his words and my own thoughts. I don’t want to think about the numerous ways the Capitol could twist a person’s mind to the point where they can’t recognize friends from foes.

Peeta guides me through the door with a gentle hand on my lower back.

I make it a few steps inside before I’m turning back and watching him with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of him as he works one-handed to unbutton the top half of his uniform.

He is so beautiful, so alive, and so mine, and in the next second I can’t stand to have any distance between us any longer.

“Let me,” I murmur, taking over for him as I slowly undo his shirt, remembering to be careful of his injured arm.

He lets his hands fall away and I press my lips, gently to every bit of skin I can reach, as if needing to verify every inch of his skin myself.

“I need a shower. I’m all dirty, sweetheart,” Peeta says in a husky voice when my lips fall in the slight valley between the defined halves of his upper chest.

“I don’t care,” I murmur, kissing his sweaty skin, undeterred. Peeta groans, obviously debating the merits of letting me continue my attentions. The remnants of blood, sweat, and traces of the acrid smoke they used to knock out the inhabitants of the Tribute Center while on their mission cling to his skin, but his blood beats warm and alive inside his veins and his heart pounds in a beautifully fast rhythm. It makes me forget almost everything else. But then he pulls back just slightly, most likely to tell me he needs a shower before we continue, and I can’t bear the idea of being parted from him. Even for just a few minutes.

It's like those nights in the training center where I fear any door between us will be locked and I’ll lose him somehow.

“We’ll take one together,” I demand more than suggest. Peeta raises his eyebrows slightly but doesn’t protest.

He lets me lead him to the small attached bathroom and lets me strip him bare.

We haven’t done this yet. Showering together. We’ve made love several times since that first night, but we haven’t been naked together outside of the close vicinity of his bed.

My hands travel across his frame, touching every part of him I can reach. There’s this feeling I can’t shake like we’ve had another near miss. It takes considerable effort to turn away from him and turn on the water. I motion for him to step ahead of me, taking a few precious seconds to try and calm my riotous nerves while I slowly undress.

The shower stall is small and a bit cramped but we make it work. I am not going to complain about being in close proximity to Peeta right now. I relish the way his large frame crowds me against the shower wall, my back pressed against the cold tiles while my front brushes against the warm expanse of his chest with every movement.

I wash him gently, careful of his injury and he lets me examine him in detail, cataloging every bruise and scrape I can find.

There are quite a few.

I wrap my arms around him, clinging to him as the water sluices down on us, warm and cleansing, and I kiss the spot right next to the patch of skin where the bullet grazed him. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but it still must be tender. I make sure my lips are gentle, imparting softness and an unspoken wish to take away his pain. His eyes remain closed and his face relaxes into a slightly slack but receptive expression. He doesn’t say a word about how I’m acting. He just lets me care for him. Logically I know he’s capable of doing this himself. His injury isn’t serious, but somehow I feel like I need to do this.

Peeta seems to know I need this as well because he bends his head without me having to ask so I can shampoo his hair with the mostly scentless standard soap District 13 stocks in all their showers. Wincing only slightly when the soap runs down over the scrapes that run over his hand. My mind cycles through the list of injuries, both old and new. I take his hand in mine, kissing the expanse between a scraped knuckle. I hate when he gets hurt and I’m not there. It makes me feel powerless.

“Peeta.” His name tumbles out of my mouth. He automatically hugs me to himself tightly and, for the moment, our naked bodies pressed together don’t cause the usual reactions. The moment isn’t sexual, even though I think his naked form is beautiful despite the bruises and scars.

“I’m here Katniss. I’m here. It's ok,” he tells me over and over, until finally the tears are flowing down my face, hidden surely by the stream of water but I know Peeta can sense I’m crying by the way my body shakes.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t,” I blurt out, spluttering the words desperately and most likely unattractively against the spray of water as I tilt my face up toward his. Then I’m sobbing and he has to hold me up because my knees go weak at the thought of him not coming back, or worse, being taken prisoner by the Capitol.

He holds me tighter, and kisses me so fiercely I almost lose myself in the warm, familiar, reassuring rhythm of his lips against mine.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. Always, remember?” he whispers against my lips before he kisses me soundly again. I almost melt into him, almost.

“We don’t always have a choice. Sometimes, it's out of our control,” I say, breaking away from him panting, on edge, maybe almost angry. But this is the kind of anger born from bone-deep fear, nothing else.

He stills, blue eyes opening to settle on my face. His hands come up to cup my jaw before he lets his forehead rest against mine.

“You’re right. We can’t control everything. But Katniss, I hope you know how hard I’d fight to stay with you. To get back to you, if it came to that.” He tells me quietly, firmly, and in his eyes is a wealth of determination, of love, of boundless resolve that sets to life a small quivering spark deep in my belly.

It roils and rumbles the truth back at me, that I know this. That I know him. That Peeta is as true and steady as they come. We have faced nightmares and death together several times and lived. He has come back to me from the brink of death before. There is some assurance I can take in that. There is some relief.

Still, I need the reassurance of his skin underneath my fingertips, of his lips and his tongue, of his body joining mine to prove to myself that I have him, that he isn’t going to slip through my fingers.

I drag him down for a needy kiss, hands roving over his body, pressing my breasts against his chest deliberately. Peeta groans into my mouth, his hands slip down to cup the curve of my backside, even as he pins me against the shower wall.

I moan my approval, the heavy sound passing from my mouth to his as he swallows it up with kisses and swirls of his tongue. One of my hands reaches up to grasp at his hair, while my hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction for that space between my thighs that clutches in anticipation of the memory of him, and the exquisite way he fills me up.

“You think anything could ever keep me from you? That I wouldn’t fight with everything in me, tooth, nail, every molecule in my body staging its own rebellion to reach you?” Peeta asks as he changes direction and slants his lips down over the edge of my mouth, slipping and traversing the path toward my neck with single-minded intensity.

He leaves me breathless and unable to speak. He starts sucking a bruise above my pulse point, although I’m almost certain his questions were rhetorical.

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I don’t care if I had to survive two arenas and we’re still fighting this war. You are it, Katniss. You’re it for me. It will all be worth it every day I get to wake up with you by my side. Every night I get to hold you in my arms. That’s all I need. Tomorrow with you. Just that would be enough to balance out the nightmares and the ghosts that I have to live with. That we both have to live with. But I’m not ashamed to admit that I want more. A whole life with you, if the odds are in my favor. An entire future with you, blooming out from under the shadow of the games. Happiness. Peace. Family if you want one. Just you and me, if you don’t. But there’s one thing you can count on Katniss. And it's that I will stay. Always,” he states with a finely tuned certainty that resounds through my bones, sinking in and slating some soul-deep question that I hadn’t even thought to ask, or could put a voice to, but needed to be answered nonetheless. His words of love and a life spent with me should scare me but they inspire the opposite of fear to bloom inside my heart. I want that life. I want it more than I want Snow dead. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted before.

Because I’ve known since the first hour after we were rescued in the hovercraft that there was no turning back for me. I wasn’t built to love and lose and move on.

I only know how to go all in once I make I choice. I hold on tightly, far past the point of pain, past the point of regret, and even sanity. Something of my mother’s clinging love persists inside me, despite how I hate how weak it makes me feel. The love I know, and carry is not the fast-blooming kind. It is slow growing, deep-rooted, and unyielding. I am not sure I will ever want a family, but I do know I want Peeta. I want him and all the years he has promised me. A wealth of happiness and peace and a life built together without the past casting shadows on our joy.

“I need you,” I whisper, whimpering almost.

Peeta closes his eyes slowly, his head resting against mine, as the water, now tepid and no longer hot washes over us.

“I know, sweetheart. I know you do,” he assures me, and then he kisses my temple. “I need you, too,” he whispers as he holds me, one hand around my back, the other cupping one dainty breast in a slightly possessive manner, while he mouths little kisses against my hairline.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says after a moment, and with a considerable effort pulls himself back.

We towel off quietly, in no hurry. We both know where this is going and barring an actual emergency there’ll be no interruptions for us tonight. My mother has long since given up trying to persuade me to sleep in my assigned quarters at night. After a mortifying conversation where she made me promise that Peeta and I are being responsible, the subject was dropped. No one will bother us here.

Peeta lays me down with such respect and admiration that it lays my heart as bare as my freshly showered body. Something I think will never get old.

He kisses me until I’m out of breath, out of my mind almost with longing and anticipation for him. He slips a hand down my body, cupping and caressing my breasts as he goes, measuring the span of my hip bones as he lays the flat of his palm against my lower belly, thumb swirling in little circles even as his tongue circles one of my nipples.

“Peeta,” I plead. I’m not above pleading I’ve discovered in recent weeks. And Peeta is not one to make me beg, he just likes to take his time. Citing all the nights he spent dreaming of what it would be like to do this together. ‘I want to go slow,’ he’d told me once, when I’d whined greedily, and wheedled him, trying to urge him to take me faster. ‘I want to enjoy every second,’ he’d explained. ‘I waited for so long for this. For you to be ready. For us,’ he had said, and I had stopped my grumbling. Because he had waited for me. He had waited so hopefully. Been so patient. The least I could do was do the same.

But sometimes I can’t help the way his name slips out of me, breathlessly. I can’t help the way my hips incline forward of their own accord, seeking his practiced touch at my center. He’d spent so much time learning me, and me him, that we’re experts now in bringing each other pleasure. Peeta though likes to savor whereas I prefer to rush, greedily devouring every touch and kiss, that all-consuming hunger that sings in my veins for him raising its constant song of yes, and more, and please more, chanting above the rush of sensations he draws out in me.

Whenever we’re together like this, it’s a wonderful battle between his patience and my need, but tonight it's something different. Peeta slips his tongue into my mouth at the same instant two of his fingers work their way into my slick depths and there’s something so raw about the way he kisses me and pumps his fingers into me. It makes me keen into his mouth and rock my hips back and forth, relishing the way he touches me, wanting more of this feeling where the entire world narrows down to his lips on my neck, his hand on my hip, and his fingers filling me.

“So wet for me,” He murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes trained on the spot where his fingers disappear inside of me with each stroke. “I can feel you gripping my fingers sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and sensual in a way he only sounds here in the privacy of this space.

He’s right. I clench his fingers with each pass, my body steadily being driven toward its peak under his care.

“How do you want to come? Just like this? Or on my mouth?” Peeta whispers as he nips my ear. A moan slips out of me, loud and unbidden, and I clamp my mouth shut.

“You can be as loud as you want.” He reminds me, fingers never losing their rhythm. His closest neighbors work the late shift. A fact that he’s happily pointed out in the past. I really shouldn’t be so self-conscious anymore but it’s just instinct to guard myself when we’re so vulnerable. Peeta however revels in the freedom of these moments. He often loses himself in the glory of it all, moaning my name without shame, loud strings of praises and encouragement falling from his lips without hesitation.

“Everyone thinks we’re married anyway.” He has said it so many times I’m beginning to wonder if he just likes the way it sounds. I have several memories of him saying it while his blond hair and blue eyes peeked out at me from between my legs, and his hot tongue stoked the flames of my pleasure into an inferno.

“One day, I’m going to ask you to marry me for real.” He even told me one night, while he was buried deep inside of me, hips pistoning in and out after I begged quietly and drove him into a frenzy. We both came immediately after I told him that one day I would allow it.

I’m struck by that particular memory and the immediacy of my need to feel connected with him like that again, to come apart while he talks of our future and he loves me with his body in that determined and relentless way of his.

“I want you inside me. Not your fingers. Not your tongue. You. and I want you to tell me again how you’ll never leave. How we’re going to make it through this and come out the other side. How we’ll be together, always.” I say, voice strained and breaking on some words but eyes resolutely locked on his face.

He stares back at me with awe and reverence and a love so sweet it’s intoxicating and sobering at the same time.

“I can do that.” He replies, sounding almost as affected as I do. His eyes are shining, and I feel the weight of the moment settle over us.

He leans down to kiss me, softly, anchoring us together, his eyes closed and his pulse fluttering at his neck even as my own heart beats thunderously loud in my chest.

“I’d be happy to.” He says, eyes opening slowly as he gives me a look, so transparently pleased and unguarded it tugs at things deep within me.

We shift until he’s lined up with me, and then he slips in smoothly, helped along because of all the time he’d put into making sure I was properly aroused and ready.

Twin groans of pleasure spill out of us, combining gently into a sweet note of relief and anticipation for more. I shift my hips, to allow him deeper, as I always do when I want to signal to him that I’m ready.

Peeta doesn’t miss a beat. He builds up a beautiful chorus of moans and sighs between us with every measured thrust and passion-filled kiss. Its revolutionary in the way the entire feeling sweeps through me, extending out from the place where he buries himself, to the tips of my fingers, until I can pleasure and sweetness building with every inhale.

“Do you feel this?” He asks, eyes locked on mine.

I nod at him frantically.

“This is us.” He tells me at the end of one poignant thrust, demonstrating the physical before he brings one hand up between us. He takes my hand in his and places it over his heart, then he mirrors the action by placing his own large, warm palm over my stuttering heartbeat. “This is us.” My eyes fill with tears.

He leans his head down to kiss my lips in the gentlest caress, an echo of the kiss we shared in the hovercraft as we flew away from the Quell arena. I just know that is what the kiss is supposed to remind me of. “This is us.” He reiterates, eyes locked on mine again.

“This is real. We are real, Katniss.” He states. A tear slips freely down the curve of my cheek. I let out a tiny sob. “Yes,” I tell him, reaching up to cup his face. “Real,” I whisper as I kiss his lips. “Mine,” I murmur. “My love,” I state with as much courage as I can before I’m overwhelmed by the feelings breaking loose in my heart and soul at the same time my body starts its inevitable climb.

“My love,” Peeta agrees in between kisses. “My sweetheart. My woman. My wife. I’m going to marry you someday. Prim and your mother will weave flowers into your hair and we’ll share bread over a fire and toast to all the things that brought us together and only made us stronger. I’ll bake cheese buns for you every day and I’ll love you thoroughly each night and when the nightmares come I’ll hold you. And you’ll hold me and we will have each other for the rest of our days.” He says, promises.

It's so simple, the picture he paints for me, of a life together filled with good things, the best things, that I’m overcome with the beauty of it. A sharp cry breaks out of me and I fall apart, unraveled by his words and his artistry, and the way he knows me, soul to soul, and everything that would make me happy.

I drift, boneless and languid in a sea of ebbing pleasure, watching contentedly as he begins to lose himself. His hips falter in their rhythm, his breath stuttering, and his arms straining as he gives in and lets go. I watch as his climax hits him. My eyes lazily and lovingly fix on the way he throws his head back, arches his spine, and stills, except for the haphazard jerk of his pelvis against mine. My name is a wheeze or a whine on his lips that bleeds into a low groan. His adam’s apple bobs and I watch in fascination as the flushed skin of his jaw and neck ripple with the motion of swallowing, making an elegant play of his sparse freckles.

Yes, I think. Enjoy it, my love. I say without words and he collapses against me, my fingers pushing back the sweaty locks of his hair from his face.

We will have this moment and many more. I vow as I kiss his warm and slightly stubbled cheek. I’ll make sure of it.

#The Both of Us #fanfiction #thg #thg fanfiction #everlark #everlark fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #CANON DIVERGENCE #mockingjay reimagined #no hijacking

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infinite-orangepeel · 2 years ago

Note

For the fic writer questions, 👻✨🎁

helloooo ! thank you for sending these in, friend. i’m excited to answer 💌

and here’s the link to the fanfiction writer asks for anyone else who may be interested !

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

sure !! this is for the next chapter of its rotten work :)

Steve shouldn’t be surprised—really. He’s the one who raised them to be this way. To find strength in numbers. To suit up as the iron-clad martyr whenever a member of your pack is threatened. One for the many. All or nothing. Sacrificial lambs who bare the growling teeth of wolves. Mythic legend. His kin.

And, there’s no way–in this universe or the next–that he’s jeopardizing their six little golden hearts. No fucking way. Not even if they hate him for it; cuss him out, spit in his coffee, refuse his hugs. That last one would hurt, but he’d get through it. He’d survive the pain–just so they could grow proper roots, stretch twelve arms toward the highest ceilings, bump knobby knees on tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow–shattering bulletproof glass in their wake.

“What? No fair! How is that even close to being fair?” Mike mimics Steve’s stance—hands triangulating on his narrow hips; all snaggletoothed angles and superstition, “We’ve been fighting monsters for way longer than you, Steve! And we’ve survived every single time. If anyone’s equipped to take on some dipshit town mob, it’s us! We’d tear those fuckers to pieces!”

“Language!” Steve and Eddie chastise at the same time, which weirdly—and like, he probably shouldn’t react this way, but oh well—turns Steve on.

Again, it’s all he can do not to drag Eddie by the loose collar of his shirt and shove him into the adjacent coat closet.

Instead, he kisses his cheek and gets a teasing squeeze on the thigh in return. Hand grazing daringly high enough to prompt Steve to cover his lap with a nearby throw pillow.

They’ve settled back into Hopper’s recliner like two stupid love-birds in an upended nest. Kissing and touching every chance they get. Like two fifteen-year-olds on their first date at the movies. Buttered popcorn slipping across their tongues as they try to figure out how to admit their feelings. Chasing it down with the poppy burn of Coca-Cola and sour worms.

“Ew! Okay, ew, ew, ew!” Lucas groans his own disgust, “Of course, Eddie parenting us would make Steve pop a boner,” apparently, Steve hadn’t been quite fast enough in his cover-up attempt, “Gross, this is even worse than that one time I walked in on my parents and my mom was doing that nasty thing with her stockings—” he bemoans, covering his and Max’s eyes for dual protection.

👻 What is your wildest headcanon?

probably that eddie picks panties out for steve each morning !!

✨️ Out of the comments you’ve received on your fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

okay, so, truly every single comment makes my day, gives me such great motivation to keep writing, and occasionally makes me cry happy/touched tears. i’m endlessly grateful and so very lucky to have found such kind people who want to support my work, but i’ve picked a few favorites bc these people consistently go above and beyond and deserve the absolute world 💌 (hopefully they don’t mind being publicly recognized for their sweetness hahah). @asbealthgn @madigoround thank you, thank you, thank you !!

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 1 year ago

Text

Just saw this reblogged so I figured I’d update it! (Four more fics after the cut)

Make Me Fret or Make Me Frown by ABubblingCandle (Gen, 2.8K)

Summary: It’s a given in any sport that star players will be targeted within the bend of the rules and Roy had enough sense to know that their formation fell apart without Jamie Tartt. However, he never thought he would see the gentleman’s agreement of decency between players broken in this way. He never thought he would see Jamie Tartt crumple like a puppet with it’s strings cut in the middle of the field.

Foreshadow by izzyspussy (calicoy) (Roy/Jamie, 1K)

Summary: Cartrick is too intimidated to tell Rupert no.

in the morning i’m bulletproof by walnutmistmate (Gen, 39.6K)

Summary: Jamie is attacked before the final match of the season.

i don’t want to look at anything else now that i saw you by walnutmistmate (Roy/Jamie, 6.3K)

Summary: Jamie is injured during the decoy play.

did anyone ever write the fic where Rupert's scheme to get Cartrick/West Ham to decapacitate Jamie/injury him out of the game is successful? If so please drop me the fic links/recs my hands are wide open 👐🙏

#fanfics #ted lasso #jamie tartt #what if rupert mannion had a point #said fic writers #yes three of these are mine #I have a type #whump #George cartrick

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 1 year ago

Note

For the ficwip word:

Missing, foot, day, later

Thank you my talented friend!

Here’s a snippet from chapter 8 or in the morning i’m bulletproof which I have not given up on. Just have a few tweaks to the last chapter.

And when Jamie climbs into his twin bed later that night, he dreams of Wembley, but not the changing room interaction with his Dad. He dreams of his England debut, and it’s more intuition than memory when he wakes. He slips his brace back on after he showers, and this time, its presence is more a challenge than a hindrance. He glances at the England memorabilia around his small room and looks in the mirror after he’s dressed. You’re Jamie Fucking Tartt, he tells himself. And you’re going to the World Cup.

A new mantra repeating in his head, he goes downstairs to see his Mum and Simon. Jamie knows he has lots of work ahead of him, but he’s never shied away from hard work. He’s reminded of his original drive every time his Mum smiles at him. She’s why I work so hard. Jamie’s finally realised working hard and being a good lad don’t have to be contradictory. And he can be both of those for himself, too.

And as a bonus, below the cut is a snippet from an untitled whumptober entry that’s Roy supporting Phoebe and his sister when she leaves her husband.

“Happy Uncle’s Day!” they greet, holding hands.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks.

“Uncle’s Day,” Phoebe says excitedly, jumping up and down.

“What the fuck is Uncle’s Day?” Roy asks, looking at Ruth.

“It’s our new favourite holiday,” Ruth explains. “Phoe wanted to celebrate Uncle’s Roy so…”

Ruth trails off and widens her arm, palm up to show Roy a homemade banner and spread of food on the table.

“This is a made up holiday.”

“No, it’s not,” Phoebe says confidently.

Roy looks at Ruth with raised eyebrows.

“Any day that annoys Roy is a holiday for me,” Ruth gloats.

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #roy Kent #phoebe o’sullivan #dr o’sullivan #uncle’s day #wip ask game #ask box is always open #whumptober #fic: in the morning I’m bulletproof #readwing #fic: …and I’ll be there

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ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm · 3 years ago

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Letters in Transition, 8 May 2022

A collaborative correspondence between @academicdisasterfic and I, inspired by our encounters with fic as queer, trans boys. Letters, words and art exchanged at the start of an unrestrained life.Previous entries can be found here. The fics mentioned in this letter are Edward Nashton Gets the Netflix Original High-school Romance He Deserves by scribbleshrimp, and Away Childish Things by lettered.

Dear Rooney,

I think a lot has changed in the world and with ourselves between our last two letters.

You’ve now moved! This blooming temperate ground that’s all I’ve ever known welcomes you and rejoices in your every new step.

I just came out to my parents. It happened a few hours ago. Out of the very limited number of people in my life, they were the last to know. I think this detail in particular caused my mother a lot of pain - why leave them out of this big thing in my life? Why exclude from this journey that which she sees as my true home: herself.

I knew it was going to happen today, and so I’ve been a swarm of bees about it all morning, or possibly my whole life. You know how it goes - in the face of a discerning mother, all arguments fall apart. And so I think I’ve made this effort to bulletproof the…explanation of my identity, in the fear that some well-meaning but nevertheless painful hand will begin to poke holes in it. In this home you talk about. In my home, in my body that extends beyond me because of my minds image, because of an excess of hope, because of the pocket dimension that our identity stretches into.

You call acts of horror on our community and on our extended being attacks on your home. This is exactly what it feels like. It’s also, I’ve realized, what the accompanying fear is like. When I was a child, my home got broken into, and a few months later, a small 9 year old joy stopped a second burglary from happening. It left me with a strange, lingering tension that follows me around, and I never noticed that it’s that same tension I associate with the urge to keep my transness, and by extension all transness, safe.

As I was saying, I knew it was going to happen, so I tried to promise myself that no matter what happens, I would somehow be okay. And you know what the only thing I could come up with was? I got a notification that a WIP I’m reading just updated, and I said to myself: whatever happens, you are still going to go home, and sit on the couch, and read that new chapter. God I know that our own strength and confidence should be enough, but I am always overjoyed by how many trans people reinforce their homes with other things. I am so glad I reinforce mine with stories.

The fic I was so eager to come home to is not in the HP fandom, it’s a Batman fic. It’s very lighthearted, but the author has a very special and illuminating way of describing various forms of discomfort, discontent with the self. One of the lines that’s stuck with me since I first read it a few days ago was “I’m not a good ghost: I don't inhabit myself entirely.” What a line! What an idea! And isn’t that just what this all is? The evaluations, the repackaging of yourself to fit into digestible and understandable definitions. As though you are a spirit being instructed to haunt only some corners of the house. Like you, I have always, even before I had the language to understand myself, hoped for this nebulous feeling of completely inhabiting something - a home, a discipline, a self. To be kept away from that is an act of forceful displacement.

Everything went well. It went better than expected. It went better than I could have hoped, because I didn’t dare to hope when I was smaller, and my hope was timid when I grew.

My mother’s only concern is for my safety, as our actual home is unsafe for people like us. It’s not fair, to have an asterisk on your joy and freedom that requires you to be quiet, to be - in the words of lettered’s draco - discreet. That part of her response was the only one that broke my heart.

But with each new act of coming out, with each new effort to be true to myself and to my dreams, the spell that keeps my spirit bound to only half my home unwinds.

Rooney, I want us to be good ghosts. I want to inhabit myself entirely.

You walk through an unfamiliar landscape, I return home to my couch.

Inside, our homes feel more real than before.

love

joy

#joy and rooney contra mundum

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somestorythoughts · 2 years ago

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Evil Perry again

Saw a “none shot” post earlier and felt called out so decided I would post this. I’ve seen 3 or 4 fics that involve or are entirely about Perry ending up at Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated after getting injured and Heinz helping him out, and how that’d work with this role swap has been floating around my head so. Voila:

Perry is literally five steps away from his bed before he hears the crash and glares at his clock. It is nearly 2 in the goddamn morning who is crashing outside his house? Then again, that hadn’t sounded like in front of the house. He looks out the window into the backyard and wonders why Agent O’s hovercar is crashed maybe a foot from his magnolia tree. Wait. Fuck. He runs outside. The hovercar isn’t in good shape but it isn’t on fire so things can’t be too bad. The door opens with only a little trouble. Agent O is slumped against the steering wheel and Perry pulls him back to see how careful he needs to be moving him. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest that seems to have done it’s job, but his thigh is covered in blood. There are pieces of shrapnel sticking out of his leg and a bullet hole not far from it. So it’s not good, and he’s lost a lot of blood, but it doesn’t look like something Perry needs help to handle. He drags the agent out of the car and into the spare bedroom. He almost never uses it, if the place hadn’t come with three bedrooms he would have just converted it into a workspace, but there have been times when it helps to have an extra bed. ‘I thought you were a mechanic’ Perry signs at the unconscious Heinz. He grabs the first aid kit and hopes the idiot hasn’t bled out too much, because he has precisely no blood lying around and he’d prefer not to rob a blood bank if he doesn’t have to. Besides, he doesn’t know the agent’s type. Once the stitching is finished he locks the bedroom door, cleans up the blood on his floors, sets an alarm so he remembers to text his family that he thinks he caught a bug and doesn’t want them to come over (the kids usually let him know if they’re visiting but surprises do happen), and goes to see if the wreck can tell him why his nemesis crashed in his backyard.

Heinz wakes up slowly. The ceiling above his head is light green, which is not the color of his bedroom or O.W.C.A’s medical center. He turns his head and sees Perry sitting in a chair across from him, book in hand, glaring. That wakes him up pretty fast. “Perry the Platypus!” He’s never been certain how the guy feels about that nickname but he has platypuses all over his house so can’t be too annoyed. There’s a cartoonishly drawn one on his shirt right now actually. “What the hell am I doing here?” Perry’s frown deepens and he flicks his hand towards the bedside table. Heinz sits up carefully, his leg feels like someone has been stabbing it repeatedly, and grabs the painkillers and water from the table. “Well?” ‘Your autopilot judges the route to safety by the destination it arrives at most.’ Perry signs, still glaring. ‘Very sloppy, very stupid. What the hell were you thinking?’ “I didn’t design that, though apparently I’m going to have to fix it.” He grumbles. He doesn’t usually take the hovercar to get to headquarters, it’s conspicuous. If he doesn’t need to bring something in he usually takes the bus, which means that his nemesis’ house is the only place he uses it to get to regularly. He side-eyes Perry, who looks no less annoyed. “Thank you, but also why?” Perry’s expression shift, less annoyed and more displeased. ‘I don’t like sloppy work. You’re my nemesis, you don’t get to die because some idiot didn’t think a bit of code through.’ He paused, then added ‘Besides I’m not about to let you bleed out in my yard.’ He stands then, ignoring the wide grin on Heinz’s face. “Good to know you care.” Perry flips him off. ‘I’m getting you food, and then we’re getting you and that wreck out of my yard. I have plans to work on and I can’t do that if I need to worry about you wandering my lair because you got bored and picked the lock.’

#evil perry the platypus #agent heinz doofenshmirtz #heinz is agent ocelot #human perry the platypus #perryshmirtz #the nemeses of our childhoods #injury fic i guess #i have no clue if magnolias grow in Danville but I like them so fuck it #the bit about the autopilot is from Blurred Lines #a fic on AO3 my WineryWeiss #its good check it out

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 1 year ago

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from chapter 4 of in the morning i’m bulletproof aka rupert has jamie taken out before the last match (chapter 3 probably out tonight):

Jamie gasps awake, taking time to realise where exactly he is. After a few anxious breaths, he remembers he’s in Roy’s guest room. Every time he falls asleep, he dreams of the attack. It’s driving him mad. All his body wants to do is sleep, but he never feels rested with the dreams.

Jamie can’t help the tears escaping. He presses a fist into his mouth, trying to be as quiet as possible. Jamie knows his Mum, Simon, and Roy are stressing over his physical and mental health, and Jamie’s doing his best to keep them from worrying. The last thing he wants is for one of them to find him crying in bed.

This week’s word is…

✨ POSSIBLE ✨

Find it in any WIP and share the sentence containing it! Reply, reblog, stick it in the tags, tag us in a new post, or keep it private.

All fandoms, all ships, all writers welcome.

#word game wednesday #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt #ao3 #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso #fanfic #what if rupert mannion had a point #fic: in the morning i’m bulletproof

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years ago

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the way we were / the way we are - chapter 11 - how many times can I break till I shatter

summary: as if one surprise wasn’t enough...

warnings: mentions of bucky’s torture, canon-typical violence, I miss tony stark

a/n: writing bucky’s POV in this fic got me the hardest and going back to it makes me ACHE

| series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 |

Shortly after Steve hangs up the phone, a text from him comes through with an address, as promised. You study the map for a few minutes, then head out, moving as quickly as you can through the city without drawing attention.

“Don’t go back to the apartment,” Steve had said just before you hung up. “It isn’t safe.”

You’re cursing under your breath as you hustle through the streets. Your tablet is still at the apartment, password protected, encrypted, and locked without facial recognition thanks to Tony, but you’d been working on the designs stored on it for weeks.

Tony picks up on the first ring, says he’ll be in Washington first thing in the morning to collect you. “You have somewhere to lay low in the meantime?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “A friend of Steve’s. I’ll be okay. Keep you posted if anything changes.”

“You better,” he says, and you both hang up.

The address Steve had sent finds you in a small suburb of D.C., rows of small houses that vaguely remind you of a time long passed. His name is Sam, Steve had said in the message with the address. He’s a good guy.

You knock on the front door once, and after a beat, the lock clicks.

A handsome man opens the door, giving you a toothy grin. He waves you in without a word, closing the door behind you and securing a series of locks.

“You must be Y/N,” he says, and you nod, a little wary. “Steve called, said you’d be dropping by.” He sticks his hand out and you shake it. “Sam Wilson.”

“Steve tell you anything else?” you ask.

Sam shakes his head. “Said there wasn’t anything else I needed to know for the moment. He said you needed help. And that’s me.”

You nod. “Stark will be here in the morning, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“As in Tony?” When you nod, his eyes go wide. “So you’re one of them? The Avengers.”

“Not exactly,” you say, scoffing. “I’m…more of a secret, than anything else.”

Sam quirks a brow, but then takes your jacket, shows you around his house. The place is small, but homey, comfortable. It’s decorated in a way similar to Steve’s, which you find somewhat amusing. He explains how his fancy coffee machine works in detail, and you don’t have the heart to tell him you’d figured it out with a glance.

He sets you up on the couch, gives you a pillow and a blanket and some old sweats to sleep in. You’re grateful, and you say your goodnights, but Sam lingers in the doorway. “You’re like Steve, aren’t you?” he asks, and you blink back at him. “Not exactly like him, but similar.”

“How’d you know?”

Sam smiles. “Something in the eyes, I think. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

As promised, Tony arrives the next morning, pulling in front of Sam’s house in the most ostentatious car you’ve ever seen. You bid Sam goodbye with another thank you, and slip into the passenger’s seat.

“I told you I needed to lay low,” you tell Tony as you buckle your seatbelt. “This thing is a beacon for attention.”

“The windows are tinted as dark as legally allowed,” he retorts, shifting into drive and peeling down the street. “The only network with access to the GPS is mine. And the glass is bulletproof. I told you, Y/N. I don’t take chances.”

You just shake your head. You’re expecting him to head towards the airport, but instead he gets on highway, heading in the direction of New York.

“We’re driving back to the Tower?” you ask.

Tony just nods. “Yep,” His lips pop on the p.

“You gonna tell me what you’re so bent about?”

He sighs. “Pepper is understandably upset with me. I stepped on her toes, said a few things I shouldn’t have. She’s still in Malibu, but I told her I’d be in New York for a few weeks at least. Give her some space.” His nose crinkles. “It’ll work out. Always does.”

“So my crisis came at an opportune moment,” you say, and he nods. “You gonna let me drive?”

“In your dreams, kid.”

It’s a seven hour drive from D.C. to New York, and surprisingly, it goes quick. You and Tony talk designs for the most part, plans he has for different parts of the Tower that he wants your input on. “Be nice to have you back in the lab,” he tells you. “Feels a little empty without you.”

You nap for an hour or so, purposely avoid the topic of Steve, and lament to Tony about your misplaced tablet, but he waves it off.

“I’ll get you a new one at the Tower. Jarvis will be able to upload all your settings through the network. No sweat.”

You smirk. “I should have known.”

“You really should have,” Tony agrees. “Speaking of, how goes the whole electronic genius gig?”

“Well, pretty useless at the moment,” you reply. “Used it on a coffee machine this morning.”

“Fancy.”

“The fanciest.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then says, “You know, I meant what I said before, when you were still at the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. If Steve gives the green light, I’d happily add you to the team. Figure out some weapons and a uniform for you.”

You’re grinning, but the caveat snags. If Steve gives the green light. “Getting the old man to agree might be the hardest part. He worries too much. Besides, don’t you need the rest of the team to say yes before you bring someone new in?”

Tony presses a little harder on the gas. “Banner’s a guaranteed yes, we know that for sure. Thor is easy enough to convince, and Nat shouldn’t have any qualms. If she says yes, Barton says yes. It’s my idea so we already know my answer, so Steve is the only one left. He says yes, you’re good to go.”

“We’ll see,” is all you say in response, and sink a little deeper into your seat.

Your mind wanders for the rest of the drive. Tony does let you drive, but only a few miles before he’s telling Jarvis to pull the car over so you can switch back. He allows you to pick the music for the rest of the trip, and is more than shocked at your chosen combination of Fleetwood Mac, One Direction, and Frank Sinatra. He asks you to play Landslide three times in a row and you catch him singing along to the chorus ofWhat Makes You Beautiful. It’s a good laugh.

By the time you reach New York, after more than a few pit stops along the way for cheeseburgers and pee breaks, night has fallen. New York is cleaner than it was the last time you visited, and the ride in to where the Avengers Tower sits is bright and full of life.

The Tower, however, is nearly empty. Nat is back in D.C. still – she’d gone on a mission with Steve a few days before, and you can only hope she’s with him now and they’re watching each other’s backs – and Clint has been MIA for a few weeks now, according to Tony. Thor is, of course, on another planet, and Bruce is around, but sleeping when you head up to the residential floors. Tony heads for the lab, and you make your way to the kitchen, desperate for a snack that isn’t something from a fast food joint. You decide on apple slices and peanut butter, and take the plate back your room. You put on a movie, the first thing that pops up on the Tower’s Netflix account, and settle in with your snack.

You fall asleep clutching your phone to your chest, praying that Steve will call before the morning.

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Sam swoops in from behind and his feet slam into the assassin’s – Bucky’s – shoulder, sending him flying. He recovers easily, rolling to his feet and taking aim again. But before he can pull the trigger, a grenade launches past his head, and Steve looks over his shoulder to see a very injured Natasha holding Bucky’s grenade launcher. Her face is pale, and there’s blood nearly spurting from her chest. When Steve looks back, through the smoke and flame the grenade had caused, Bucky is gone.

He hears sirens.

“Drop the shield, Cap!” Rumlow yells. “On your knees! Get on your knees! Now! Get down!”

His knees drop hard into the pavement, but he’s barely aware of it.

Bucky.

The face, the voice. It had to be him. There was no other way.

Late the following evening, your phone rings.

“Steve?”

He gives you a quick explanation, still maintaining that it’s much better if you don’t know what’s going on. “We’re safe, for the time being. Nat was injured, but she’ll be okay.” He’s silent for a second. “Y/N, I have to tell you something.”

You stifle a groan. “That’s the second time. More friends from the forties to mingle with?”

You’re expecting him to laugh. You’d been mad about him keeping Peggy from you for a minute, but the anger had faded by the time you’d gone to bed that night. It’s a joke. He’s supposed to laugh.

But nothing, not even a chuckle.

“Steve, tell me.”

“It was him,” he says, and his voice is so quiet you can barely hear it. “He looked right at me. It was him.”

“Who?”

You have a hunch. There’s this awful, churning, begging feeling in your gut. Please be right. Please be right. Please be right.

“Steve, tell me.”

“Swear to me,” he says, his voice louder, cutting you off. “Swear to me that you won’t come back to Washington. Right now, Y/N, swear it.”

Your hand are shaking. “I can’t do that, Steve. I won’t.”

“God, you are so stubborn.”

“I learned from the best, Rogers,” you throw back. “Tell me.”

Steve sighs, and you can almost see him scrub a hand down his face. “He’s alive, Y/N,” he says finally, and it’s a miracle your heart doesn’t burst from your chest. “Bucky is alive.”

Someone is fixing his arm. They’re very careful not to touch his skin, only the arm. It’s a weird sensation, but one he is more than used to. His mind wanders while they try to fix it. It does that.

Even after all this time, he still remember everything. The fall from the train, the pain, the loss of his arm. The continued experiments, the torture, the screaming. It’s all the same, over and over, on a loop.

But there’s more.

It’s been coming back in pieces. It’s like a puzzle, in his head. When they put him in cryo, he dreams, but when he’s awake, when he’s not…him, he can sift through the dreams, pick out what is a real memory and what is just his mind playing tricks on him. Or HYDRA playing tricks on him. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

You were real, of that much he was certain.

The first memory of you had returned years ago, and he hadn’t known what to do with it. A gag in your mouth, wrists and ankles bound with rope, fear in your eyes. On the train, right before he’d…

As time passed, as he concentrated on you more and more, the pieces fell into place. You were special to him, you had meant something. He had loved you.

He still loves you, when he’s not…him. He doesn’t love anybody. He is just a monster. But he is also Bucky. They’re one and the same.

Each time they wiped him, all the memories vanished behind a steel wall in his mind, but when the treatment started to fade, your face was the first thing that returned. He always pictures you smiling.

He’s frozen in place as the person continues fixing his arm. Something in him twitches, a sleeping animal being rudely awoken, and another memory surfaces.

Zola.

They’d captured Bucky in ’45. The torture and experimentation only grew, but he resisted. He fought back. He spat in Zola’s face every chance he could.

My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. I live in New York. I’m married to Y/N Barnes. We have been married since March 9th, 1945.

Then they showed him the files.

The wreckage of the Valkyrie. Steve’s sacrifice to save millions of lives. It broke his heart in half, to know that his friend had died, scared and alone.

And the other.

Without Steve to protect you, Zola had managed to get his hands on you again, somehow. He’d experimented on you much the same way he had on Bucky. But the experiments had failed, but Zola wanted to find some use for you, so he’d tortured you for information about the SSR. “She begged for death, in the end,” they told him. “She was a shell, and yet she still cried out for you.”

Knowing Steve was gone had broken his heart in two. But you? You were the only reason he was fighting back. He had to get back to you.

Now he had nothing to go home to. Nothing left in this world.

His heart shattered.

When he’d woken up again, the memories were gone. He was just…him.

He lets out a roar and the technician working on his arm goes flying across the room. There are guns pointed at him, but he doesn’t care, clenching his fists and baring his teeth. The animal is angry.

A man in a suit enters the room. Pierce. “Sir, he’s unstable. Erratic,” someone says.

“Mission report,” Pierce grits at him. Nothing. “Mission report, now.”

He still doesn’t respond. He’s distracted. He’s studying your face in his mind. Were you that beautiful in real life?

A hand strikes him across the face, snapping his head to the side. He barely feels it. “That man on the bridge,” he says. He’s testing them. He remembers. “Who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” Pierce offers, but he’s not convinced. It’s a lie. They’re lying to him.

“I knew him.” Another test. The animal is raging.

“Your work has been a gift to mankind,” Pierce is saying. “You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time.” I want you to kill one more. There’s almost a promise in it. One more, and then this will all be over. One more, and then you’re done. “Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But, if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine, and HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

HYDRA and freedom don’t go hand in hand. He knows that better than anyone.

“But I knew him.”

Pierce’s eyes go dark. “Prep him.”

Good, Bucky thinks. Let me sleep some time longer. It doesn’t matter. It’ll all come back in the end.

“He’s been out of cryo-freeze too long,” someone protests.

Pierce is still staring at him. “Then wipe him, and start over.”

He knows what’s coming. He knows the pain better than he should, better than anyone should. He knows he’ll wake up, and he’ll have the reins. Bucky will be in the backseat of his mind, watching a trained assassin control his body like it belongs to him. It doesn’t. He won’t let it.

Hands push him back into the chair, the mouth guard is slid between his teeth. The clamps tighten around his arms, and he hears the machine buzz to life.

He holds onto the image of your face as long as he can.

They can’t take you from him. No one can.

I don’t think even death could take you from me.

He was right about that.

You’d hung up on Steve, barely packed a bag, and headed straight for the garage. Jarvis had tried to stop you when you’d slid into the driver’s seat of one of Tony’s cars, but it was half-hearted. Knowing you could reroute his systems into an infinite loop in the blink of an eye stopped the AI from getting in your way.

“I should really notify Mr. Stark about this, Ms. Barnes. He will worry for your safety.”

“You really shouldn’t, Jarvis, not if you like your processing unit where it is. And it’s Mrs, just for the record.”

Silence, and then. “Of course, Mrs. Barnes. Terribly sorry.”

You’d contemplated commandeering Tony’s plane, but that meant getting a pilot on your side. You couldn’t fly a plane. But you could drive a car.

You make it back to Washington just as the sun is rising again, and the most surprising part of it all is that you don’t get pulled over for speeding. Not that you would have stopped.

Bucky is alive.

The moment you’re inside the city, your phone starts to ring. You don’t recognize the number, and you’re hesitant to answer, but then a message slides across the screen. Answer the phone, Barnes.

You don’t expect the gruff voice of Nick Fury to be on the other end of the phone.

“Welcome back to the capital,” he says. “We heard you might be making an appearance.”

“Yeah, well,” you reply, “Steve calls, I answer.”

“Things have already gotten pretty heavy, Y/N. You might want to sit this one out.”

“Did Steve tell you who he is? The assassin?”

“He did.”

“Then respectfully, sir, you know that sitting this one out is not an option for me.”

Fury is quiet for a moment, and then he start talking. He fills you in on everything Steve and Nat had uncovered, Alexander Pierce’s secret takeover of S.H.I.E.L.D. and what Project Insight truly meant.

“Where?”

“The Triskelion. I know there’s no stopping you now, but Y/N, you need to prepare yourself. He’s not what you remember.”

You have to stop yourself from laughing. “The world is not what I remember. But I’ve spent the last year thinking he was dead. Seventy years, if you wanna add my time on ice. Something’s better than nothing.”

“If you say so.”

Despite Fury’s assistance, you’re too late. You’re speeding along the side of the Potomac as the last of the three helicarriers plunges into the river below. You’re relieved, knowing what their true purpose actually was. But then you pick out Steve’s body falling through the air, crashing into the water. Your enhanced vision shows the blood on his face, the wound on his stomach. You skid to a stop, killing the engine, leaping out of the car and sliding down the bank.

Your eyes go wide when you see the shield at the edge of the water, the surface scratched and dirty, water lapping across it. You grab it, slip your hand through the grip.

With a splash, Steve’s body hits the water and you’re about to wade out after him, but then your gaze catches on another figure still on the crashing helicarrier, holding on to the wreckage with a silver, metal arm.

Those eyes…

There’s another splash as the figure lets go of the wreck and plunges into the water. You watch from your spot on the bank, hidden behind a tree, shield in hand, as the figure appears again a moment later, dark hair plastered to his face. He pulls Steve to the surface, and you can’t move as he swims towards the shoreline, towing Steve’s limp figure behind him. The water grows shallow towards the shore, and he wades to the very edge, dropping Steve unceremoniously in the mud.

Steve sputters, water spraying from his lips, and the figure seems to sag with relief, turning on his heel and stalking away. He doesn’t get two feet before you burst from your hiding spot among the trees, shoes slipping in the mud and nearly sending you tumbling into the water.

“Bucky!”

The figure spins back, his eyes going wide, and for a fraction of a second, you see him.

Bucky.

James.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, of the Howling Commandos. Born 1917. Your husband.

For a fraction of a second, you see the recognition. He knows you. But as quickly as it comes, it’s gone, and you’re thrown back to memories from another time, of Bucky braced against the wall of the bunker in London, words tumbling from his lips. Trying to keep himself from slipping away.

Eyes like a thunderstorm stare back at you. Whoever that is, it isn’t Bucky.

He lifts his gun and pulls the trigger.

You’re quick to lift the shield, and the bullet ricochets. When you lower the shield, he’s still standing there, gun raised.

“You know me,” you say, finding your voice. “My name is Y/N Barnes. I lived in New York City. I married James Buchanan Barnes on March 9th, 1943. You know me.”

There’s the flicker of recognition once more. Your heart is breaking in your chest. What did they do to you?

The gun is still pointed at you. His finger wavers on the trigger.

After a moment, you let the shield drop from your grip. It slips to the ground in front of you with a muffled clang. The gun doesn’t move. If he pulled the trigger, the bullet would go straight to your heart. You know that for certain. Bucky doesn’t miss. Your husband, the sharpshooter.

“You know me. I know you do.”

Another flicker, this one stronger than the last. He stumbles back a step, water splashing around his feet, and the gun slips from his grip, landing in the mud.

His eye meet yours again, and this time they’re wet with tears…and blue. Blue fire edged in raw steel. Eyes that had held yours so many times, so many years ago. Eyes you felt like you could never look away from. Those eyes know you. Those eyes have seen you at your best, at your worst, at everything in between.

“You know me.”

You know me. You know me. You know me.

“No, I don’t,” he says finally, and before you can get another word out, he sprints through the trees and disappears.

—————

bucky barnes tags: @moonlarking @whosfrankie @ancientbeing10 @woomen23 @itwasthereaminuteago @williamjzanders @enchantingqueenkitten @minxsblog @a-zterisk @randomwords3000 @i-simp-much @loonymagizoologist @pariahsparadise @greeneyedblondie44 @dead-pool-simp @ruhro7 @alyona-romanova @mrssarahpaulsooonn @katiebby04 @thomasthetankson @matchat3a

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#the way we were / the way we are #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes smut #the winter soldier fic #the winter soldier smut #bucky barnes x y/n #my fics

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sirensarecallingmehome · 2 years ago

Text

Unspoken

This is a song fic for Welshly Arms - Unspoken. Please listen to it while you read this.

EddieXFem!Reader

Warnings: Lots of angst. Probably some swearing because this is Eddie. Mentions of alcohol and violence, but nothing extreme.

AN: I imagined this to be sort of modernAU even though it’s not largely hinted, I just wanted to point this out in case someone reads something and is like “Wait a second...”.

Bolded text are song lyrics

Drunk up all the wine on the back porch Listen to the rain through the willow trees Must have been something in the melody

Eddie was just dozing off sprawled across the sofa when Y/N arrived home from another late shift at the diner. She sighed when the smell of booze hit her nose, her tired eyes finding the empty bottles cluttered on the coffee table. The front door closed a little louder than intended causing her to wince and curse under her breath. Eddie’s head shot up at the sound and he turns to her with an accusatory glare, “Did you have another nice night with David?” His words are slurred, voice thick with sleep making it almost impossible to understand him.

You try to play it off but your eyes roll I know I said things that I didn’t mean We’ve never been good at apologies

“Eddie let’s not do this tonight, please,” she pleads with him weakly, too exhausted to do this same old song and dance right now. She knew it was just the alcohol talking, it always brought out the worst of his insecurities. Y\N kicked off her shoes at the door and set her purse down on the armchair beside the sofa, bringing her hand up to rub at her sore eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

“We’re not done here, Y/N,” Eddie struggles to his feet and sways dangerously as he stumbles toward her. “Every damn night I lay awake wondering where the hell you are. I can’t stand thinking about you alone in that diner with him when I am right here!” He reaches out and grips her by the shoulders, his impairment causing him to stumble and force her painfully back against the kitchen counter.

“Would you stop it! You are suffocating me!” Y/N brings her hands up and shoves against his chest, effectively breaking his hold. Eddie staggers back and she makes a break for the bedroom before he can react, slamming the door closed and turning the lock.

So just lay close to me We don’t have to say sorry Your touch still speaks When words are too heavy

That night Y/N lays awake unable to fall asleep, Eddie’s pillow tucked close to her chest as she lets the torrent of tears roll down her cheeks. The scent of him engulfs her, but it is hardly comforting right now.

Slow down, just breathe Even though we feel broken Sometimes love is unspoken

She creeps out into the living room the next morning and finds Eddie laying on his stomach on the couch fast asleep. He looks so peaceful and vulnerable; it pains her for what she is about to do. She reaches for the throw blanket on the chair and drapes it over him, then kneels down beside the couch to brush his messy curls away from his face. “I’m sorry baby,” she whimpers softly and places a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Y/N has to tear herself away before she loses her nerve and rises to her feet. She goes to retrieve the duffle bag from the bedroom and places a folded note onto Eddie’s pillow, then she walks to the front door and to her car without another look back. Once she is pulling down the road, she finally lets the tears fall again.

Bullets from the tongue always hurt more We both know the heart’s not bulletproof I know where to aim when I want too

Eddie wakes up several hours later feeling disoriented and sore from the night on the sofa. He sits up slowly and feels the blanket pool around his waist. He smiles softly when he thinks about Y/N covering him up before she left for work this morning. Eddie gets up slowly and wanders into the bedroom to get some clean clothes and take a shower. He vaguely remembers the argument from last night and wants to kick himself for it. It was stupid, he does trust her, but every now and then he gets stuck in his own head and convinces himself that Y/N is going to leave him for someone better. He’ll make it up to her like he always does, and everything will be fine, he’s sure.

And maybe we’re not perfect right now But I know we will figure this out

Fresh from the shower and feeling energized, Eddie wanders back into the shared bedroom to retrieve his pack of cigarettes from his side table. His eyes land on the folded paper sitting innocently on his pillow and he freezes. Fear sends his pulse racing and all he can do is stare at it. With shaking hands Eddie reaches for the paper and carefully unfolds it:

Eddie,

I’m so sorry, I don’t want to do this. I think that we should spend some time apart to figure out what we want to do with this relationship. I love you with all my heart, you know I do, but I can’t do this anymore if you don’t trust me. You’re the only man I want, and I wish that you could see it in yourself how amazing and deserving you are. I’m going to stay with my parents for a few days, please remember to take care of yourself.

Love,

Y/N

“No,” The word leaves his lips as a choked sob. Eddie feels like he can’t breathe, his vision is going dark and the room starts to spin. He falls to his knees still gripping the letter and lets out an anguished scream. Large, hot tears are streaming down his burning face to land on the carpet below him. Eddie screams another time, reaching out to slam the desk chair against the floor in frustration. This can’t be happening.

So just lay close to me We don’t have to say sorry Your touch still speaks When words are too heavy

“Are you sure you guys can’t make things work, Sweetheart?”

Y/N is curled up on her mother’s couch, tucked snugly beneath a warm blanket while her mom sits beside her. She sighs and wipes at the stray tears as she stares down at the photograph in her hands. It’s her favorite one of her and Eddie together, back when they first started dating. They were sitting on her mom’s back porch facing each other. Eddie had his acoustic in hand and was smiling so sweetly at her, her own expression so warm and content as she smiled back at him. That felt like a lifetime ago, one free from struggle and heartache.

She ran her thumb tenderly over his image and felt a fresh wave of tears hit her as she shook her head, “I don’t want to lose him.”

Slow down, just breathe Even though we feel broken Sometimes love is unspoken

“I’m sorry, your call has been-”

“Fuck!” Eddie throws his phone into the passenger seat and grips the steering wheel tighter. His van is speeding down the back roads as he races to get to Y/N. It’s dangerous, he knows, the torrential downpour is making it difficult to see lines in the road, but his heart is still hammering in his chest and he presses further on the gas pedal. I can’t lose her.

A bright flash of lightning illuminates a fallen tree across the road about 200 yards in front of him. Eddie puts his foot on the brakes, but he’s going too fast and hydroplanes across the road. He begins to swerve and guides the van into a shallow ditch, narrowly missing the tree. “SHIT!SHIT!SHIT! JESUSHCHRIST!” Eddie beats his fists against the steering wheel and throws his head back against the seat. He takes a deep breath and screams frustratedly, then rips of his seatbelt off and throws the door open. Eddie’s shoes become waterlogged as soon as he jumps out of the van, the heavy rain drenching him instantly. He pulls his jacket tighter, squares his shoulders, and starts to walk the rest of the way.

Lay close to me We don’t have to say sorry Your touch still speaks When words are too heavy

Y/N sits in the upstairs sunroom, a warm mug of tea in hand as she watches the storm rage on. It’s nearing dark and the streets are beginning to flood from the excess rain. Every now and then the loud crack of thunder rumbles through the house and vibrates the walls. She notices something moving just up the road and she hurries to the window for a better look. After a minute she could make out the shape of a person, tall and lanky with dark hair. Her mind races wondering just who would be insane enough to be out walking in this storm. As the person hobbles closer Y/N catches sight of the person’s jacket and immediately her heart is in her throat. Before she can even think about it, she is already flying through the house and out the front door, her bare feet splashing through the flood water.

“EDDIE!” Y/N has her arms around his neck as soon as she reaches him. She squeezes him tightly as she feels him shivering harshly. He feels so cold. Eddie stiffly brings his arms around to hold her close, buries his nose in her hair and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He can’t believe she’s here.

“What the hell are you doing out here? Are you crazy?” Y/N has pulled back now and reaches out to push back the locks plastered to his face to get a good look at him. His face is pale from the cold and his trembling lips are a faint shade of blue. His eyelids are red and heavy like he had been crying. She places a warm hand against his cool cheek and speaks to him again, but it’s like he can’t hear her.

Slow down, just breathe

Eddie’s mind is fuzzy. He feels so cold. His body is protesting every step of the way, but he is determined to keep going. Eddie hears her voice over the pounding rain like hearing an angel speak to him. He feels her whole body press against him like a warm blanket and relaxes in her hold, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tighter to him. Eddie feels his heart flutter pitifully when she pulls away, afraid she was going to leave again. His eyes roam her pretty face, taking in her red, puffy eyes and falling to her lips where he becomes entranced. He can see that she’s speaking, but he can’t hear her. She’s here. She’s right here. Without warning Eddie cups the back of her head and brings his face down to capture her lips in a searing kiss that Y/N returns with as much passion. I love you.

Even though we feel broken Sometimes love is unspoken

Eddie is sitting on the guest bed with Y/N standing between his legs. He’s got his arms wrapped around her middle; his face pressed against her chest as she gently towel dries his tangled locks. “I’m so sorry baby,” he whispers and leans up to press a tender kiss over her heart. Y/N drops the towel to the bed and leans back to meet his eyes with a teary smile.

”I’m sorry too.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders and places a lingering kiss to his temple.

Sometimes love is unspoken

Eddie grips her sides and leans back onto the bed, pulling her on top of him. She follows him with a soft laugh making him smile warmly. One of his hands strokes up her back, the other going to the back of her head. “Please don’t leave me,” Eddie pleads, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. Y/N shakes her head slowly. She places her hand against his cheek, her thumb stroking soothingly as she leans down to his lips.

”Never.”

Sometimes love is unspoken

He meets her the rest of the way, capturing her lips in a slow and tender kiss.

#eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson fic #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #I'm so sorry!!

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years ago

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The Both of Us (Part 3) Happy Early Valentine’s Day Sneak Peek

This fic, which you can read here, has recently reached over 500 kudos on AO3, and in honor of that, I decided to write a continuation. It is also nice it’s Valentine’s week and I wanted to write something about Everlark being a power couple during Mockingjay and being low-key married. Enjoy this totally indulgent fix-it fic continuation, my babes. Xoxo. ;)

I’m in surprisingly good spirits this morning while my prep team works to get Peeta and me ready for the new propo we’re meant to be filming later. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the way Peeta and I spent the evening tentatively exploring each other’s bodies until pleasure and exhaustion overcame us both, or with the increased amount of uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. I might have gotten five or six hours last night after all was said and done.

I sneak a peek at him in the chair a few feet away from where Flavius is brushing some translucent power over his face. He looks better rested and his skin has taken on a more healthy glow that suits him. The thought suffuses me with a small warm burst of satisfaction, at seeing him healthy and recovering.

I fight a blush when I think about the way I kissed every inch of his face, neck, and chest last night.

Peeta catches me looking and the corner of his mouth peeks up in a small private smirk.

I bite back the urge to tell him to cut it out, knowing that would only lead to questions from my preps that I don’t want to answer.

When Flavius turns away Peeta chances a quick wink at me in a way that brings to mind his teasing yet sweet attentions from our first arena.

I roll my eyes at him affectionately, ready to volley a trademark scowl if he keeps this up, but then Venia strides in with our propo outfits.

The final effect looks stylish but also deadly if I’m being honest. Especially when paired with the weapons Beetee’s custom designed for us. The way my bow comes to life underneath my hands still thrills me. I’m eager to dress and sling the quiver over my back, even though the only arrows inside will be normal ones. They still won’t let me walk around with the specially loaded ones Beetee made.

We don’t look like a pair of tragic star-crossed lovers any longer.

We look ready for a fight, for vengeance or retribution. Maybe both.

“They’ll either going to want to kiss you, kill you, or be you.” Peeta quips, parroting Finnick’s humorous words when we did our first test run in the costumes yesterday.

“I’ll settle for them joining us, or simply laying down their arms,” I reply dryly.

Peeta’s face takes on a more serious expression almost instantly.

“That’s why we’re doing it this way.” He says reassuringly, cupping my shoulder with one of his large hands.

But I still feel guilty asking people to fight for me sometimes.

“Katniss, Snow is just going to keep bombing districts and sending in reinforcements until he breaks the people’s spirit.” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him all the same.

After all this time it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s getting much better at reading me. Sometimes it's uncanny how quickly he can figure out the way my mind veers off in a certain direction.

“You’re right,” I say because he is. His hand travels up the back of my hair, to fall against my hair soothingly as he caresses my braid. I lean back against him.

He locks eyes with me in the mirror.

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, we’ll find a way to get out of it. I promise.” He vows, sternly that I believe him, even though it's unlikely either of us could back out now.

I shake my head. Even if we could somehow walk away from this, from being symbols of the rebellion, I could never live with myself afterward.

He interlocks our fingers.

“I’m with you.” He tells me, and it's enough to get me moving again.

Soon we’re on the soundstage, where we seem to stand for hours while they seem to adjust our makeup, lighting, and smoke levels.

“Has the Capitol hurt you, or someone you love? Are you tired of slaving away by day and going to bed hungry at night?” Those are Peeta’s lines. He delivers them with conviction and genuineness that I am in awe of, and to be honest, envy.

Then it’s my turn.

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That’s the line. I can tell by the way they presented it to me at first that they spent months, maybe years working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me though, and stiff. I can’t imagine saying it in real life— unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it.

Then, Hyamitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio, crackling through the old intercom. He contains himself long enough to say, “And that my friends, is how a revolution dies.”

“Well, well, well, look at you, sweetheart. Your acting skills haven’t improved but you certainly look better than I’ve seen you in a long time.” Haymitch says, surreptitiously studying my face and in particular, the lack of deep circles underneath the stage makeup I’m wearing.

“Surviving a second arena has done wonders for my sleep regimen.” I deadpan.

Haymitch raises a brow at me, suspiciously, and his gaze swings between Peeta and me, assessingly.

“I seriously doubt that. But I can guess what really has you playing nice with these birdbrains.” He says with a knowing smirk aimed in Peeta’s direction.

Que flaming cheeks for both Peeta and me.

“Are you sure they drained all the booze out of you? You seem just a little too carefree to be 100% sober right now.” I accuse, defensively.

Haymitch laughs heartily, then winces.

“Nice try, sweetheart, but you can’t throw me off the scent that easily. Lucky for you, we’ve got bigger things to catch up on than the state of your love life. Kids,” He says, addressing Peeta and me together, “These propos suck.” He states bluntly.

Peeta, the traitor, nods quickly. I shoot him a deadly glare and he shrugs sheepishly.

“I’ve been trying to reason with them for weeks. They won’t listen to me about Katniss’ lines.” Peeta tells Haymitch.

I huff. He has been trying to get the writers to take his suggestions more seriously. But I had no idea why he was so deadset on it. Now it makes sense.

“Yeah, I figured kid. Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em on together first thing tomorrow.” Haymitch promises and Peeta’s face relaxes with relief.

#The Both of Us #everlark #fix-it #fanfiction #thg fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #katniss and peeta #no hijacking #mockingjay rewrite

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