#forearrings

[fagrackham]

girl does pete davidson have a fucking harry potter tattoo

[dantakeyoman]

Neteyam Has Something Important To Tell You As You Patch Him Up (SFW)

Reader is Fem! Omaticaya

CW: fluff, Neteyam is smooth asf, little bit of blood, Neteyam is a simp, Mo’at is an awesome wing-woman, Utral Aymokriyä is where Jake and Neytiri mated

“Be sure that mushroom is ground well, (y/n). We will need it when the hunting party return,” Mo’at instructed, implying the bioluminescent fungi that sat next to you.

You nodded firmly, placing the plant into something that was the earthly equivalent of a mortar and pestle, and promptly starting your work.

You loved your job as a healer, and took it very seriously. Even more so since, recently, Mo’at has been giving you lessons in perfecting your craft.

The right way to turn your wrist when grinding ingredients, how one’s blood can tell their origins, better methods to connect with Eywa.

Because of her, you have become 10x the better healer than you were before, and you were beyond thankful.

Throughout your childhood, you had dreamed of becoming a healer and helping your people. But once you met a certain Sully, who was next in line for Olo’eyktan, that dream slightly warped throughout the years.

Of course you still wanted to heal your people, there was no doubt about that. But instead of being a healer, you wanted to be the healer.

His healer.

“Not too much, (y/n). You don’t want the paste to be too thin,” Mo’at calmly reminded, keeping her eyes on her own grinding.

You snapped yourself out of it, slightly embarrassed that you let yourself become so lost in thought.

“Sorry,” you apologized, quickly putting the bowl down.

“Is there something on your mind, child?” she asked, a slight smirk on her face.

Just by your flustered face, she could tell what you were thinking about. 

Or rather, who.

She wasn’t blind to how you looked at Neteyam, or how Neteyam looked at you. She had known about your feelings for each other since you were children. 

And since her grandson was fast approaching the age where he would become Olo’eyktan, she figured refining your healing abilities would improve your candidacy for Tsahik.

Not like anyone else held a candle to you in Neteyam’s eyes anyway.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I am just-.” You suddenly remembered why you had busied yourself with medicine-making in the first place.

“Nervous for the hunting party,” you told a hafl-truth, sighing as you picked up the next mushroom, dropping it in the bowl.

Jake was letting Neteyam lead the hunting party for the first time.

And to say you were nervous was an understatement.

“He will be fine. His father taught him well. And he has a fine healer waiting for him at home,” she knowingly smiled, pouring this small satchel of powder into her bowl.

You blushed, focusing back to your bowl at the woman’s implications.

Surely you hadn’t made it that obvious.

And by the grace of Eywa, the familiar scent of the man you love ( he had completed Iknimaya a while ago ) filled the healing room.

“Grandmother! (y/n)! You must come and see what we have brought back. You will never believe it’s size!” Neteyam exclaimed as he quickly opened the tent flaps, his voice beaming with happiness

You quietly laughed to yourself at his excited manner, feeling foolish for ever being worried in the first place.

You giddily turned around, only to be met with his proud, bloody-faced smile.

“Neteyam!” you worriedly gasped, frantically getting up an rushing over to him.

He had large scratches on his cheek, and one big slash on his chest, all of which left large stains of blood on his skin.

You quickly, and carefully, held his face in your hands, ignoring his insisting that he was fine as you turned it to see if there was any more damage. 

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?”

Neteyam smiled to himself, stupidly, relishing in the feeling of your soft hands on his face.

He could feel himself heating up just by your closeness. And by this distance, he could see every beautiful feature on your face perfectly.

“Why are you smiling? This is serious! Please, sit down,” you ordered, taking your hands from his face and grabbing his forearm, walking him in the middle of the room and sitting him down.

Mo’at smiled, carefully placing her bowl on the floor and standing up. “I shall give you two a moment.”

And with that, she walked out the room, but not without shooting you a wink before closing the flaps.

You sighed, grabbing the bowl she put down and sitting in front of Neteyam.

“It does not hurt as bad as you think. Truly,” he smiled, your fussing over him making something stir inside his stomach.

“Well pain or not, I must put this on your wounds so they may heal properly,” you dismissed, scooping up a small glob of paste with your two fingers.

When you looked back up at him, you realized that you were too far away. In order for this medicine to work, it must be rubbed in well.

Neteyam looked at you, confused, as you took a deep breath, quickly sitting yourself in his lap, practically straddling him.

His breath hitched.

He had never had his crush sit on top of him before. Hell, you had never even been this close to him before.

Every part of him that was touching you was now heating up by the second, so much so that he’d thought he’d burn.

But looking at your face, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, like you had done this a million times before.

“I’m sorry, but I have to rub this in correctly,” you apologized, beginning to massage the paste into the cuts on his face.

“I have no complaints,” he smiled, resting his hands on your waist so you wouldn’t fall off.

When you got to a particularly large cut, he winced, the paste making the wound sting.

You smirked, giving him a soft flick on the forehead. “I know the future Olo’eyktan is not taken down by a little medicine.”

He smirked off the pain, looking you right in the eyes. “Never.”

You chuckled, moving on to next cut, when the mention of the position reminded you of your thoughts earlier.

But your thoughts soon turned for the worse. 

“You are going to become Olo’eyktan soon. How do you feel?” you asked emptily, placing your two paste covered fingers on his chest.

He was concerned with your sudden mood change, but also loved the way your fingers felt on his skin, sending another stir to his stomach.

“It is exciting. And scary at the same time. I have so much to live up to,” he truthfully answered, looking down at himself.

You scooped some more paste on your fingers, giving him a quick glance.

“Well, you are not alone. You will have a Tsahik,” you sadly smiled, halting your massages on his wound.

You did not want to cry in front of him, but the tears were beginning to well.

“We have many that will surely be a good fit. Eyati is a strong hunter. And beautiful, too.”

It all clicked for Neteyam.

That was why you looked so sad. You believed he was going to chose someone else as his mate ( like he would ever ).

Amused, he laughed, slightly offended that you would ever think that anyone could take your place in his heart.

“What is so funny?” you asked softly, looking at him sad eyes, quite hurt that he was laughing.

He smiled, cupping your cheek in his hand. 

“You talk of me mating with another woman as you sit in my lap, massaging my chest. My love, that is funny.”

My love?

His thumb caressed your cheek as he pulled you in closer, resting his forehead on yours.

“(y/n), I see no one better fit than you to be my Tsahik. You may not be a strong hunter, but you are a strong healer. And more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen. Eyati may be a good fit, but you are the one I wish to mate with, not her,” Neteyam spoke sincerely, his eyes not leaving you for a moment.

You were flustered to say the least.

You’d never thought you’d hear those words coming out of his mouth. And boy, did it sound amazing when they did.

“(y/n)...I see you,” he finished, smiling as you cupped his cheek, placing his hand on top of yours.

“I see you, Neteyam,” you smiled back, a few happy tears managing to slide down your cheeks.

That was all he needed before he roughly kissed you, pulling you in by the nape of your neck.

You kissed just as roughly, moving your hands down to his chest as he tilted his head, getting better angle on you.

He wrapped his tail around your thigh, you doing same, trying to keep each other as close together as possible.

But sooner or later, you had to breath.

The both of you separated, panting with smiles on your face as you rested on each other’s forehead again.

“Forget dinner. I want to take you to Utral Aymokriyä right now,” Neteyam seductively growled, wrapping you in his arms and standing up, twirling you around the room.

“Neteyam! You still have to heal!” you blushed, resting your hands on his chest as you buried your face in his shoulder in embarrassment.

[xythlia]

𓏲 ࣪₊ ʟᴏꜱɪɴ' ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴘᴛ. 2

♡⃕ ࣪ nsfw. minors do not interact. ⸝⸝ fem reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, intimacy, clit kissing, big dick beel, sorta unhinged asmo, praise, body worship, nipple pinching

♡⃕ ࣪ ft. satan, asmo, beel, belphie

a/n | this is part two of my earlier hcs! sorry for the slight delay i had some personal issues but no worries, im as horny as ever & ready to deliver more on the boys losing their minds being inside some pussy

feedback / rbs are appreciated ♡

› 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍

It's the sheer intimacy that makes him unravel first, being this close to someone was at one point purely a pipe dream to him. That alone makes his waterline burn, but it's a step further to know you love him enough to be like this together. Satan can't help but lace your fingers together after lining up the head of his cock with your soaked entrance, gasping against the side of your neck as he feels the slide of your fluttering walls.

As your hips nearly meet you stay like that for a while, simply basking in the feel of one another before his hips move. He's so gentle with you, reveling in every cry and gasp of his name off your lips as one of his hands moves down to circle a firm rhythm against your clit.

He has no concerns with longevity, he'll make you cum again, and again, and again just so long as you keep digging your nails into his shoulders and whimpering so sweetly for him.

› 𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎

While he isn't unfamiliar with human experiences, he is unfamiliar with you and it only adds to the excitement. Asmo kisses your skin with bated breath, lavishing every inch before finally placing coyly chaste kisses against your clit. He loves the way your thigh muscles jump at the contact, and the taste of you is beyond anything his imagination could've conjured.

He toys with you for a while before even considering taking you fully, and while you could call him mean for it you can't force the words out between wave after wave of orgasm washing over your mind. He wants you languid and boneless before finally teasing your cunt with the head of his cock, thumb pressing down until he slips into you with an internal pop.

Watching your head press back against the silken pillows as each inch pushes against your now lax muscles is everything he's ever wanted. You're not leaving his bed until he devours you and the only thought in your adorable head is of him.

› 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐋

He's a considerate lover, unselfish when it comes to you and when you're in his bed it's no different. Beel's always conscious of just how wide the gap is between you two in terms of strength, he handles you like you're made of glass. But he doesn't mind working within that constraint, hurting you would be akin to harming himself and that's not something he'd ever do.

The soft squelch of his fingers pumping and scissoring inside you has filled the air for hours now, leaving you a mess above him just begging and babbling for him with an equal mess of arousal and spit pooling on the surface of the sheets. He's confident that you can take him comfortably now, climbing to situate himself between your legs with a sweet smile. Soft kisses are pressed to your lips while he tells you how lovely you are, how much you mean to him. He also does it to ground you, give you his voice to focus on when the stretch from just the head of his cock makes tears gather in your waterline.

He kisses them away, whispered praise joining the sinfully wet sound of his cock sliding inside you as you babble that you love him, need him, and how he makes you feel fuller than you ever have before.

�� 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐄

His penchant for sharp words doesn't fall away when you're tangled up in his sheets though he makes an effort to use sweeter words with you. He feels guilty about it occasionally, but being sharp tongued is a necessary buffer against vulnerability for Belphie. He's just grateful you understand better than anyone else, and his efforts in bed are his thanks to you. With your fingers gripping his forearm that's clutching your sideways form against him and his other hand firmly keeping your leg raised he whispers against the shell of your ear.

He pokes fun at the way you gasp feeling his cock sliding between your soaked folds, pinching your nipples and drinking in the way you cry as he presses inside you, pushing past the tight muscles. It makes him dizzy every time, not that he'd ever admit it. Once he's inside you he loses all inhibition, harshly whispering praise against your skin and sliding two fingers inside your mouth as his hips snap against you.

He is the wire doll to your cloth doll, and every time you gurgle his name from around his fingers his heart swells. You're his and every day you wrap more of that soft cloth around his barbed wire, and he's truly in love with you for it.

[floralpascal]

Firsts & First Names

Summary: In a night full of firsts with you, you accidentally slip and say Ghost's real name for the first time. His reaction to it surprises even him.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, mdni!)

Warnings: kissing, unprotected p-in-v sex (you know the drill, wrap it y'all), edging, a hand on a throat but not really choking, secret relationship, little hints of agonizing over feelings, fluff

A/N: This was so difficult to write but, man, am I happy with how this turned out.

This series: Illicit Indulgences Series Masterlist

“You can take it, love. Just like that.”

You only moaned in response, your upper body melting farther into the mattress. Ghost had you on all fours as he pounded into you from behind, his hard grip on your hips holding you in place as he ruined you. He had kept you like this for hours now, bringing you to the brink over and over again, but never letting you fall over that precipice to find your release.

“P-please,” you begged, your words so slurred he could barely make out what you were saying. “Let me… let me come, I-”

In all your time together, he had never seen you like this. A sheen of sweat drenched your skin from the exertion, gleaming on the small of your back as you arched your ass back towards him. Your hair was wild from the sweat and hours he had fucked you in all different kinds of positions. Small, high whines escaped you with almost every thrust of his cock into you. Even so, you still reached for him and leaned into his every touch. You were fucked out of your mind, begging for him over and over, begging for him to let you come. You usually were never one to beg like this, to let him fully take the reins. Now you had completely let go.

He would be lying if he said that the sight of you like this wasn’t absolutely maddening. You were the most incredible thing he had ever seen. The trust you had in him, all the noises you couldn’t hold back anymore, and the way you begged for him to give you your release all had him feeling like he was floating in a sea of ecstasy.

“You can take a little more,” he assured, his voice low and breathless as he soothed you again. He fought to stave off his own high, but he had done well so far and still had quite a bit more time to go before he would break.

“Fuck, Simon, please!” You cried desperately, twisting the sheets tighter in your fists.

His lust-clouded mind took an extra second to catch up with what you just said. Suddenly, the air was punched from his lungs as he finally processed it. He froze immediately, his cock still buried deep in your heat.

Simon.

You had never called him Simon before. Ever.

Simon. Simon. Simon. He replayed the way you said it over and over, the sound unlike any he had heard before. You had said it like something good. Like he was someone you needed.

When you called him Ghost and he called you Styx, there was some degree of separation, a barrier between the two of you. You both could pretend this wasn’t anything real. By that logic, he hadn’t wanted to get to the point where you both used your real names because that would mean that this was real. He had wanted to keep this between Ghost and Styx — impersonal and no strings attached. Up to this point, he could pretend that it was impersonal. He could pretend that this wasn’t already something that had long surpassed that point. He had thought he wanted nothing more than to avoid hearing you say that one name.

But now that you had said it, a new heat burned in his stomach. All his previous resistance melted in its wake, his cock aching like never before. There was no logic or reasoning he could muster that could overpower the way his body practically lit on fire the second you said his name, almost like he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.

He liked it. He craved it. Even though he knew somewhere deep down that shouldn’t have, he would do anything to hear you say it again.

You pushed up on your forearms, turning your head so that you could see his almost completely covered face. Although they were still clouded by a thick haze of lust, your eyes were wide and panicked. Another first, he had never seen you this panicked, your demeanor never anything but calm and assured. It wasn’t hard to see that you clearly thought that you had crossed a huge line.

“S-sorry… I didn’t mean to-”

Before you could finish your apology, his rough, callused hands were sliding over your hips, wrapping around your middle, and pulling your top-half up so that your back met his chest, the both of you now in a kneeling position.

Simon took your chin in his fingers, guiding your face to him before he crashed his exposed lips to yours. You moaned into the kiss, clearly caught off-guard by his response. He worked his lips against yours, his fervor increasing with each passing second.

It wasn’t Ghost that kissed you now. That barrier, that persona, had crumbled away the second you said his name. No, it was the man under the mask now. While he still wore the mask over most of his face, he felt truly exposed to you for the first time.

He broke from the kiss, his lips still against yours. His hand slid down to your throat, his grip light. Aching with adrenaline and lust, he pulled his cock almost completely out of your dripping pussy before fucking up into you again with a sharp, pointed thrust that knocked the wind out of you as you cried out. He began to piston in and out again, restarting his pace.

“Say it,” he rasped, more a request than a demand. Now, he felt as if he was pleading with you. “Say it again.”

One of your warm hands wrapped around his tattooed forearm that held a soft grip on your throat, using him as an anchor. You tossed your head back so that it rested on his strong, broad shoulder, your whole body relaxing into him again as you realized that your slip had caused the opposite effect on him than you had first thought. This is how he wanted you, fully blissed out in his affections.

“S-Simon. Simon, please. Yes!”

Heat pooled in his abdomen as his speed increased. The force of his thrusts rocked the both of you, the bed groaning with the impact. He was totally gone now, all thought of edging you long forgotten. Now, he was all fervor and impulse, any rational thought long swept away in the thrum of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He needed you to come and he needed you to take you with him as fast as possible.

Then, without a care for the serious consequences that would follow, Simon moaned your real name for the first time. It rolled off his tongue like honey, like it had always belonged there.

You melted into his strong body, letting him hold the both of you up as you neared your highs. All the while, you continued to moan his name, sometimes a barely comprehensible whine. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

Suddenly, your body went rigid in his hold as you arched into him. Your cunt clenched and pulsed around him as you came, so tight that he moaned himself. He kept fucking you though it, helping you to ride out the aftershocks as he started to chase his own high.

You clawed at his forearm. While you writhed in his hold, you snaked a hand around behind you to lightly grasp at his neck, overstimulated but still holding on. It silently told him that you wanted to feel him when he came.

“Si… Si-” you sputtered.

As he fucked up into you, his hips snapping roughly against your ass, he began to feel the edge of his release. The force of it grew and grew until he couldn’t hold it back anymore, his pace faltering. His hips stuttered as he released his hot, thick cum into your spasming cunt. He buried his covered face in your shoulder as he grinded into you, releasing every last bit he had. Body shuddering, he fought to find his breath again, the orgasm longer and more intense than any he had ever experienced.

After he came back down from his high, he found you completely relaxed in his hold, spent from the hours you had spent taking him.

Simon kissed your neck, then your cheek, and then your lips, moving his hands to better support your midsection. He whispered against your warm skin, his voice gravelly and spent, “Did so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your chest still heaved for air as you leaned into his touch, making a tired, affirming sound.

Bracing his hands on your hips, he slowly and carefully pulled out of you. He held back a hiss as he did, listening instead to your whine. When you were ready, he helped guide you down to lay on the disheveled bed. Then he slid next to you and pulled you close, still left in the afterglow.

You rested your head on his shoulder as you both caught your breath in silence. For the first time, he felt your hand slide over his chest, your thumb lazily and affectionately stroking his skin. This was you. Without the added layer of Styx. The barriers of both of your personas were gone. Now, you were just as bare as he was.

Maybe this development should have scared him. Maybe he should’ve been worried about what this would mean for the two of you. But he didn’t. The worst part was that he didn’t think he would in the morning, either. Not when being with you felt like this. He now had a taste of what it was like and it was nothing short of addicting.

He couldn’t quite comprehend how you always seemed to break through the barriers he put up. No matter what front he used, you had a way of pulling him further and further into this anyways. He always fell deeper no matter what, throwing his previous hesitancy out the window. Whatever this was with you kept growing, kept becoming something more… and he didn’t know if he could stop it now.

More. He always wanted more.

He wanted this, he wanted you. Maybe if it weren’t for the dangerous life you lived and the ranks you held, it would’ve been easier for him to admit that. Maybe then the thought of a real relationship with you wouldn’t have been such a terrifying, weighted thought even now.

“I’m guessing you liked that, then,” you said, finally breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.

“I can’t quite deny it, now can I?” he quipped, a hint of amusement lacing his tone.

You laughed a genuine, carefree laugh, burying your face on his muscled and scarred chest. The sound filled his chest with a new warmth, one that was soft. He held back a small smile as he used his free hand to gently pull his mask down over his chin once again. Then, you looked up and said, “Yeah, not really. You really showed your hand on that one, Simon.”

He groaned, his cock twitching. He limply tapped your hip as he warned, “Fuck, don’t say it, I’ll get hard again. And I don’t think you can take another round, love.”

You laid your head on his chest then, completely limp over top of him. “No, I don’t think I could.”

Though he didn’t say it again, he let your name bounce around in his head. Over and over again, he considered it, looking down at you as he did.

Simon’s fingers found your back, running lightly up and down your spine. For the first time, he didn’t let himself ruin the moment. He didn’t think about the fact that he shouldn’t have let this evolve into something this personal. He didn’t think about the potential consequences. That was all for Ghost to reconcile in the morning. Right now, Simon focused on the way your damp skin rested on his, the steady rhythm of your breath, and the sweet glow that encapsulated you both. For now, that was all that mattered.

And for the first time, Simon stayed the night with you.

[pisupsala]

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Part 3 of Are You Going My Way?

Words: 10.5k Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

He didn’t make it back.

The first time you see Bucky’s name on the list of missing, it’s like time freezes. You must have misstepped between dimensions, plummeting from the high heavens into a nightmare.

You blink, and it’s three days later. Your friends look at you, worried, whispering. Another blink and another day has passed. 

Scrubbing the floor, folding sheets, assisting in the OR, night shift, day shifts, breakfast, study, the sun on your face, the raindrops in your hair, dinner with your friends, sleep, wake up, dream, scrubbing the floor again, medication rounds, changing bandages, crying in the shower, lumpy gravy for lunch, disinfecting instruments, again that dirty fucking floor, your fingers pruning from the soapy water, making beds, doing inventory, burning your tongue on hot coffee, ironing your uniform, debriding wounds, whispers of comfort, last rites, writing reports and a letter from home. 

You don’t remember what happened; you’re just there, and it's gone again in the blink of an eye. But when you look up from the crumpled envelope in your hand, nothing has changed except the date on the calendar. 

It’s shocking how quickly daily life around you settles back into the same patterns — new faces replace the old, a new tragedy every day. There are so many to mourn in the Bloody 100th. 

Once, you could shroud the harsh reality of war in a warm light, a semblance of normalcy on the dance floor, drinks with friends, card games, the way your heart beat faster when you looked into his eyes. 

The intensity of being around Bucky, the persistence of his attention, his astounding presence—they fit so perfectly in that puzzle of insanity that you are suddenly and completely lost without him. In the mere hours you had together, over the days and weeks, somewhere between the flirtatious jokes, heated kisses, and sincere confessions, he altered something in you. Drastically. Permanently. 

Nothing was normal, but it was the life you had come to accept, the mission you had chosen. It was a necessary delusion.

But it’s like a power surge popped every rose-colored bulb, and in the half-shadows cast by reality's bleak daylight, there’s nowhere to hide. This is what it always was; you lied just enough to yourself not to have to see it.

The flow of time stabilizes eventually — were days always this long? Did nights drag this much through fitful sleep? There is no news. No news is good news, they whisper, that means there’s still hope. But holding out hope hurts relentlessly. It’s like a stone in your shoe, a paper cut on your finger. You feel it over and over and over, with every breath, and each time, it hurts a little bit more. 

When you look around the dance hall, it could be an evening like any other, but there are no blue eyes to meet yours from across the room. When you walk back to your quarters, you slow your step, listening for the sound of a bicycle bell. It never comes. The hollow feeling remains.

Sip your drink. It doesn’t taste good.  Kick a stone from the path. Smile. Gossip. Read a book. Smokey whiskey doesn’t dull the pain; it just tastes acrid. Work. Work, work, work. Write home. Lie. Lie awake at night. Live your days in a daze. Wait. Keep waiting. 

Never lose hope. 

It’s sometime in the fall, with long gray days and even longer cold nights, when you start your day shift by preparing medication for the doctor’s morning round around the ward. The small, windowless room always smells of a strange mixture of chemicals and chalk emanating from the boxes and bottles stacked floor to ceiling — you always keep the door open to get at least some fresh air in. The stool at the small table is rickety; it’s a little bit too low, forcing you to painfully lean your forearms against the table's edge to keep your balance. 

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door ruses you from the daze of your task. As you stand up, wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you expect to see Doctor Stover.

“Major Kidd.” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. You have seen him around, of course, but you’ve never spoken. He looks tired, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” You add automatically, politely.

Major Kidd doesn’t reply immediately, glancing around the hallway. There’s the soft echo of footsteps, voices carrying from the ward.

“I have news about Major Egan,” He announces with little fanfare. Your mouth is dry instantly, and you involuntarily step back as if to brace yourself for whatever Major Kidd will say next. The stool scrapes over the floor noisily as your left shin connects with it. Your heart is beating so loudly now, making your chest hurt.

“Is he alive?” Your vocal cords strain to get the sound out, but you need to know, to rip the band-aid off. Major Kidd nods affirmatively. You release a breath, exhaling from your soul almost as much as your lungs.

“We received word last night that he’s been taken prisoner and held at Stalag Luft III,” he supplies. You exhale deeply. The heavy weight that suddenly fell from your shoulders is making you lightheaded. Blinking heavily, you try to focus on what Major Kidd is saying—you catch that Buck and several others from Thorpe Abbots are at the same prison.

He’s alive; he’s not alone. 

Thank god.

“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Nurse,” Major Kidd glances around the hallway again, more nervously this time. “But Bucky - ehm, Major Egan always spoke fondly of you.”

You’re dying to ask what Bucky said about you, just how fondly he spoke about you, but you press your lips together to keep the words from pouring out. Not the place, not the time and not the person to ask, you remind yourself. 

“Would you write to him?”

You find that you actually appreciate Major Kidd’s no-frills approach. He doesn’t waste words by dancing around the subject.

“It’s -” He hesitates for a few seconds, the tiredness in his face so much more apparent. “These camps are not nice places, as you can imagine, Nurse. A kind word from home can do a lot for a man.”

“Of course,” You croak out as if you haven’t used your voice in years, clearing your throat quickly and conjuring a smile onto your face. “I’d be happy to, Major.”

“The information you’ll need,” Major Kidd nods as he hands you a folded-up piece of paper. “And Nurse, choose your words carefully. Your letters will be read.” His tone is neither threatening nor warning, simply reminding you of wartime procedure. 

“Thank you,” You nod earnestly. “Thank you for thinking of me—err—for Major Egan’s sake. I—I…”

I thought he was dead, and it was crushing me. 

“Thank you for this, Major Kidd.” You conclude calmly, wrangling your emotions to prevent them from spilling out. 

“Thank you, Major Kidd, for what?” Matron’s voice sounds exceptionally shrill as her sour face peeks out from behind Major Kidd. You stumble back again, nearly tripping over the stool. Major Kidd looks like the blood drained from his face as Matron muscles her way into the door opening. You crush the paper in your fist, demurely folding your hands to hide it.

She looks back and forth between you, her eyes so wide they almost bulge out of her skull.

Out of context, the situation looks odd; you have to admit that. Major Kidd has no reason to be in the infirmary, especially in the medicine stockroom. And there’s only you here, which makes it obvious he sought you out.

You know there were plenty of whispers about another Major popping up around you in places he shouldn’t be. Matron never confronted you about it because she didn’t have evidence, but you really don’t need the additional scrutiny.

“Well?” Matron zeroes in on you — of course, she can hardly confront a higher-ranking officer. You press your lips together, feverishly trying to think of an excuse. 

“It’s a private matter, Captain,” Major Kidd speaks up in that same calm, almost dry tone.

“In the infirmary, my nurses don’t have private matters, Major,” Matron retorts — you can hear how much she holds back by how she wrenches out the words. You are really in for it now.

“My private matter.” 

You blink. Major Kidd didn’t have to do that, but you appreciate it nonetheless. The paper crinkles softly in your folded hands. You’re not listening to Matron’s hurried apology, the way Major Kidd waves it away frostily — you can hardly keep the smile off your face at the sudden realization.

Even now, without being here, after all this time —  Bucky is still getting you into trouble. 

And by god, how you’ve missed it.

***

“Egan!” 

In his lethargy, Bucky doesn’t react the first time his name is called. Only when Buck taps his shoulder he finally looks up from his place on the bed. 

“Egan?”

“Here.” 

Unceremoniously, the young man in the too-big overcoat lobs an envelope at Bucky. Bucky plucks it out of the air just by virtue of his reflexes because his brain —which seems to move at the speeds of goddam molasses on a winter day—sure hasn’t caught up on what is happening. 

Hesitantly, he turns the envelope between his cold fingers. Buck cranes his neck to peek at the return address.

“Guess you set it better than you thought.” Buck grins, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky doesn’t reply, unsure if the envelope in his hands is about to burst into flames, like it’ll go up in smoke before his eyes, and with it, another shred of sanity he’s been clawing onto. 

He carefully peels the envelope open—clearly, he’s not the first one to do so, as the glue barely sticks to the paper. Your careful print fills the pages—two whole pages front and back—and it fills Bucky with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. You still thought about him. You cared about him enough to write these pages, even when you hadn’t heard from him in months. 

In exceptionally dark moments, like demons clawing at Bucky, the thought would creep up that everyone had already forgotten him — that only that trail of chaos he left behind was some evidence of his existence. 

His eyes fly over the lines; he rereads the letter two, three times in a row. It’s like a drug, a few minutes where he can forget he’s stuck in a crowded room in a shitty, drafty building, the bleak midwinter in Germany, the hunger and the cold. 

You write openly and unabashedly that you miss him—how you look over your shoulder on the way home because you hope he’ll suddenly appear, search for him in every crowd, and your heart sinks a little when the band plays Blue Skies. You joke about how England has ruined your favorite season. Where the forests of your native Vermont are a sea of warm colors, in England, you’re drowning in monochrome gray. You apologize for copying the results from the World Series games from the newspaper, flippantly claiming you can’t make your roommates sit through another game on the radio (but then admitting you fell asleep during the broadcast). 

You write in the way you speak. When Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine exactly how you would look telling him all this: the emotions playing out on your face, the laughter in your voice as you joke, the calm steadfastness of your confession. He can see so clearly the way you would roll your eyes at the overwhelming lack of color around you as if it’s an offense aimed at you personally, the way your nose would crinkle at the prospect of sitting through another sports broadcast, or how your tongue would wet your lips as you whisper sweetly to him, your fingers lacing through his, rocking up onto your tiptoes to kiss him.

Of all the things you write about, you never mention any names. You don’t say anything about your work, the 100th, or even mention Thorpe Abbots explicitly. Any and all information you divulge is ultimately useless to anyone but Bucky.

Clever girl.

Bucky’s pencil often hovers over the paper, scratching the surface, but no word has made it to paper so far. He’s never really been at a loss for words, especially around you — if anything, you’ve become quite effective at shutting him up. But now that he desperately wants to tell you something, anything, he has nothing to say.

Bucky was never good at writing letters, considering it a tedious occupation. He never really cared that he wasn’t getting many letters; it saved him the trouble of writing back. And there was always enough distraction locally not to have to care. 

You appear an accomplished writer, effortlessly and genuinely putting everything to paper —he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bucky doesn’t want to talk about his circumstances; he doesn’t want to fill your head with worry as much as he doesn’t want to commit his reality to paper, in some way preserving his darkest times. But just “thank you and I miss you” won’t cut it. Buck, like a good friend, would try to counsel him. 

“Have you considered telling her just that?” Buck is sitting across the table from him with a faint grin on his face, hands deep into his coat pockets, and small puffs of condensation coming out of his mouth as he speaks. “That writing letters is not one of your many apparent talents, but you are grateful for her efforts?”

“I’d like her to write me more,” Bucky grumbles, starting at the empty paper. “Not torpedo the only chance I have at contact with the outside world.”

“Practice makes perfect.” 

“Shut up.”

Buck sits up straighter in his chair, looking at his friend struggling in a way he hasn’t seen before. Bucky is the kind of person who can make everything seem effortless because he is confident enough—some would say arrogant enough—in his innate abilities to pull everything off on the first try. Just that puts him miles ahead of everyone else on a good day because, by the time they catch up with Bucky, he has the experience to back up his boasting. 

So, it’s rare to see him fail at anything. Painfully, Bucky himself is usually the cause of his failures. While others would argue that Bucky hated being Air Exec and that his deliberate sabotage to get rid of the job wasn’t a failure, Buck would disagree. It’s just exactly what he does. Faced with something that he hates and unable to shape reality to his desire through bluster and cleverness, Bucky will sooner self-destruct and take down everything with him than admit defeat.  

The fact that Bucky is agonizing about something as simple as replying to a letter, to Buck, just makes it abundantly clear it’s not about the letter. It’s about you. He doesn’t want to fail you, and it’s paralyzing him into place. Because he might actually irrevocably fuck this up. 

Bucky is his own worst enemy, as well as the only one who can talk himself out of that spiral. But that doesn’t mean he can’t use a push in the right direction.

“She’s put up with you so far, hasn’t she?”

Bucky stares at him with sullen annoyance, tapping the tip of his pencil against the paper in an erratic rhythm. Everyone in the room pretends the best they can that they are not listening in on the conversation. 

“I’m sure she’ll gladly overlook your shoddy penmanship and poor prose as part of your many faults for the joy of receiving word from you in the first place.” Buck chuckles as he gets up from the table, the floorboards creaking under his shifting weight. On his way to the door, he stops next to Bucky. The page before him is littered with messy lines and dots where the pencil's tip has hit the paper in uncertainty and irritation. 

“Just write her what you want to tell her, man.” Buck imparts on him calmly before he saunters out the door. 

***

She is magnificent. 

That pearly smile, those red lips, the carefully tailored dress uniform — with pants! — the shining oak leaves: Major Baker oozes charm. She is the picture-perfect nurse and officer, like she walked right out of a recruitment poster.

She’s not even looking at you as she passes you to the podium, but you pull up the sleeves of your too-large standard-issue cardigan anyway. Nervously, you tuck some stay hairs behind your ear. Being in Major Baker’s vicinity makes you feel like you should be better at… everything. 

The moment she opens her mouth, the room full of chatty, gossiping nurses falls quiet.

“I am here today to talk to you about the 13th Field Hospital and your opportunity to join our outfit,” Major Baker says with a smile. “But let me warn you: the 13th is not for everyone.  Actually, I’ll be honest with you ladies. It’s not for most.” 

You are listening with rapt attention. You heard the Army was building field hospitals for the European theater, but you never really thought much about it. When you told your parents you joined the army as a nurse and were going to be stationed in England, they weren’t happy, to say the least. Up until the moment you were standing at the front door in your uniform, bag packed, your mother tried to convince you to forfeit your deployment. The first time you called home, your mother wouldn’t even come to the phone, leaving your younger sister to relay the latest to the home front. Your father still ends every letter with: Are you ready to come home now?

Major Baker served in the Pacific, following the front as part of an evacuation hospital. She speaks candidly about the harsh conditions, the lack of equipment, the bugs, and the rampant tropical disease. 

“This was the best experience of my life and the worst. I hated it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” She’s not smiling when she says it, but you can see the fondness in her eyes, even from your spot in the middle of the room. 

You are not ready to go home. How could you be? The war is nowhere near its end, and you know, you feel it in your bones, you are not done with your part. It’s your duty.

And you couldn’t leave Bucky behind—the thought springs up so raw and quick it almost hurts physically. 

Your hands shook as you received that envelope weeks ago. It was bent, the edges crumpled, and the seal had a muddy streak. The letter was short, barely spanning two paragraphs on the small page, and your heart soared at Bucky referring to you as his beloved Dove. You laughed at his clearly sulky apology for not being much of a writer, but within a few sentences, tears rolled down your face — by the end, you were sobbing.

 Please keep writing me.

In all its simplicity and sincerity, it’s seared into your soul.

“I am not looking for good nurses—I want great, brave nurses.” Major Baker suddenly picks up in volume, like she’s challenging you personally to pay attention to her, to challenge you. Clenching your jaw, you put the bandage back over your heart. 

“I want committed nurses who are not afraid to take a spill in the mud and who won’t lose their heads under pressure. I’m looking for girls who have gotten their hands dirty in triage, the operating room, and emergency response and still look for the next challenge. Combat nursing is that challenge.”

She looks around the room pointedly. You want to shrink away under her scrutinizing gaze, acutely aware of every part of your uniform that’s not strictly complying with regulation. Your wandering thoughts are a mess, and you feel distinctly frumpy compared to Major Baker's flawless appearance and charm.

“If you have the experience, the references, and the attitude, I invite you to apply.” She smiles sweetly again. “And who knows, I might see you on the mainland.”

But you also want to jump out of your seat and hand in your application right now. 

It’s late afternoon, and the fall sun is already dipping behind the horizon when you knock on Doctor Stover’s office door. The distinct smell of his ever-present pipe hangs around the room. 

“I was expecting you,” he jokes when you enter. You try to look innocent, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you greet him. “And I know what you’re going to ask —sit down, Nurse.”

“And will you, doctor?” The words leave your mouth before you’re even fully seated. 

“The War Department sure trained Baker well,” Doctor Stover grumbles as he leafs through the papers on his desk. “You’re the fifth to come in today.”

You sit up straight, your shoulders relaxed, and your hands neatly folded in your lap. Calm and poised, just like you’ve been trained. 

“You’re the only one who has a real shot at this,” he looks up at you. Even though he’s paying you a compliment, Doctor Stover looks mildly irritated by this.

“Thank you, doctor.” You reply serenely.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he retorts. Your eyes narrow, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the indignation from washing over you—you can’t help it. “You’re the one I’m most worried about precisely because of that.”

“You don’t want me to go.” It’s a sobering statement. You didn’t expect this. You have the experience and the attitude—you just need the reference. 

“I’d be losing one of my best, but I’d rather lose you to another outfit than ship you off home.” He leans back in his chair, puffs of smoke billowing from his pipe. “You, however, must be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“I wan-” 

“Major Baker has been trained, scripted, to make combat medicine sound like the ultimate challenge of your nursing career. The greatest call you could answer.” Doctor Stover doesn’t even acknowledge that he interrupted you. You’re biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from talking over him. “She fails to mention that once you’re in the field, there’s no way back unless you physically can’t do your job anymore, or you’re dead. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all. Flying bullets kill nurses the same as soldiers.”

He leans forward. The look of determination on your face hasn’t wavered, but he knows how stubborn you are. Your stubbornness and diligence have served you well so far, making you an excellent nurse. He hopes you are stubborn enough to make it through the hell you’re volunteering for. “The field will grind away at everything that isn’t strong enough, so be very sure about why you’re doing this. For what. For whom.”

You wrinkle your nose as you move back a fraction, offended at the implication, offended that Doctor Stover deduced who’s been on your mind all this time. You tell yourself that wanting to go to mainland Europe has nothing to do with Bucky being there, that volunteering to join the front is not in part because you might find him and bring him back.

Only when the war ends will you be ready to go home.

“I have my reasons clear, Doctor.” You reply evenly, clenching your hands stubbornly.

“Sleep on it.” 

“Doc-”

“That’s an order, nurse.” Doctor Stover waves his hand, dismissing you. He notices your look as you get up, noisily pushing your chair back—the flare in your nostrils, the narrowed eyes, and your mouth set into a stern line. It makes him smile, even though that will anger you further. 

You will need every bit of that anger, every bit of that drive to prove yourself, every sliver of pure pigheaded stubbornness to arm you once you set foot on the European mainland.

Within weeks, you find yourself at the local train station waiting for the train to London. You only have what you can carry in your pack —besides the issued essentials, there is scarily little room for anything else. Just small comforts like an extra pair of socks, mittens, and a notebook for writing letters. There is no great fanfare to your goodbye, Matron—and you wish it had been anyone else, really—hurried you out of the barracks this morning before dropping you off. 

It’s misting, and Matron is hurrying through the polite formalities. You thank her nicely, shake her hand, and nod along. 

“I hope he is worth it,” It’s not kind, erring on the side of snide, but not overt enough to call out. You don’t flinch, simply staring her down. Matron doesn’t say anything else, whether she’s waiting for you to start defending yourself or it’s simply one final jab to let you know that nothing gets past her.

“Maybe he’s not,” you shrug, finally. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’ll make no difference.” You don’t really believe those words, but you’ll never give her that satisfaction. Me doing my job will.” 

***

You set foot on the European mainland on June 7th, 1944, disembarking at Omaha Beach with your unit. There is not enough equipment or medicine, not enough people, not enough time. You’ve been stranded with the drab fatigues you’ve been issued, a too-big helmet, and whatever you have in your pack. 

What you don’t realize yet in the chaos and bloodshed of those first days is that it will only get worse. Whenever you think the inferno has finally galvanized you, a new, deeper ring of hell is beckoning you.

Despite the drills, despite all the training, you are ill-equipped. You’ve seen air raids from a distance — but you’ve never experienced how mortars make the ground shake, the wave of sand they kick up, how tanks make your very bones tremble as they bulldozer past you. You’ve seen terrible burns, frozen flesh, torn by bullets, you’ve lost patients on the operating table — but the desperation of men dragging their buddy through the helm grass and sand, screaming, blown apart by mines, sliced to pieces on razor wire, and there is nothing you can do for them. What you have against the pain, you can’t give them because they are beyond saving.

They call it meatball surgery. Quick, hack, stitch, and out. The rate of operations is murderous, the surgeon’s hands shaking from exhaustion, bleary-eyed in the bright operating light, staring at the pooling blood. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

On the first night, huddled in a foxhole with another nurse, watching Allied planes fly over, you try to remember why you signed up for this. You are so scared, you are sure you’ll sleep again. 

You keep writing to Bucky because you promised him that. And for him, you will hold on out of sheer sense of duty and profound stubbornness. Even when there is so much you cannot tell him. You can’t share that you’ve left the 100th or are not even in England anymore — when you write about having the first sip of champagne you’ve had in years, you don’t mention that it was in Paris. You describe the pure joy at having cherries straight from the tree, but you leave out that it was on the side of the road outside Amiens. When you apologize that you haven’t written in a while because you fell ill, you don’t share it’s because you got pneumonia in the harsh Ardennes winter.

The stubborn cough and burn in your lungs linger, and with pain in your heart, you wait for the mail truck to come in, clutching your latest letter to Bucky. You haven’t heard from him since August last year—it’s February. In desperation, before Christmas, you wrote to Doctor Stover to ask if anyone back at the 100th had heard from him. He replied in a short chicken scratch note that there was no change in status. 

Finally, your name is called. Wrapped up in a blanket that made it to you in exchange for some cigarettes, you accept the small stack of letters. Sitting down on a piece of concrete from a partially collapsed house, you close your eyes in silent prayer. Please let one of these be from Bucky.Nothing. It’s the kind of disappointment you cannot take anymore. Every day without word from him, you are forced to accept a little bit more that you are too late: something happened to Bucky, he is wounded, dead, and the enemy is in no particular hurry to report it. And why would they? A ranking officer like Bucky is more valuable as leverage alive than dead, so of course, they would stretch the truth.

A darker thought strikes you. What if he just simply doesn’t want to write you anymore? Bucky is smart. Either he figured out that you’ve been lying — lying by omission is still lying — or he is simply bored, and your letters are just good for kindle.

It would probably hurt less if something happened to him, and it would be easier to accept than his ignoring you.

The blood drains from your face at the realization of what you just wished for — you can feel it draw from your flesh in a hasty retreat. How much of a horrible, selfish, and undeserving person are you turning out to be? You feel lightheaded. Have you been ground down so deeply that only the ugliest parts of you remain?

Bucky would be better off without you.

Bending forward, you put your head between your knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts. The ground is spinning. Has this all been for nothing? When Matron asked if he was worth it, was it really because you were unworthy of him?

Someone is calling your name — but you can only reply with a whimpering sob. You can’t breathe, your lungs are burning — the world around you is swaying so violently now that you drop your letters on the frozen ground, desperately grasping at the jagged stone to stop yourself from pivoting off it. 

Someone touches your shoulder, suddenly grinding everything to a halt. The content of your stomach covers your boots and letters in a vile splatter, the sour smell of the bile mixed in with this morning’s watery porridge making you feel even sicker. You sob pathetically, desperately clawing for breath, and for the first time, you realize something. It hits you so profoundly you feel it in your bones: you want to go home. You want your mom. You want your bed and your own room, your sisters, and your dad. You want the beautiful forests, not a cratered alien landscape that smells like death. You want chocolate milkshakes and coke floats, go dancing on Saturday night. You want socks without holes, feet without blisters, and you don’t want to feel fucking cold all the time.

You want Bucky to kiss you on the forehead and tell you everything will be okay.

Even if you don’t deserve any of it.

Time drags you, kicking and screaming, into spring and with the advancing front into southern Germany. The Lucky 13th has seen it all. You’ve been scared for so long you don’t feel it anymore — you sleep again. Whenever and wherever you can, really. On the back of the truck, the small hard cot when the hospital is in operation, on the side of the road waiting for orders, in a foxhole feeling the ground shake from the mortar fire. 

Getting shut-eye is a luxury, like many things you’ve taken for granted. Warm showers, for one. Thorpe Abbots was far from the comforts you were used to at home, but the field has cured you of any prissiness. Scrubbing in for surgery has sometimes been the only hot water and soap you would touch in days. 

Today is a good day. At least as good as any day in a field hospital can be. Your unit has set up shop in a doctor’s office in a small town south of Nuremberg — you have running water, warm water, real bathrooms, and a kitchen with a stove. You splash water on your face before you start scrubbing in. God, it feels divine. And that stove is going to make you a hot meal, coffee you can burn your tongue on — you can’t wait. 

Casualties tend to come in waves, chaos erupting in seconds, hallways suddenly full of people, screaming, yelling, the ticking clock. Medics are wheeling the patient into your makeshift OR. As they push the curtain away, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, a familiar movement. You want to call out when you’re called to attention. Urgent. Heavy casualties. Immediate surgery. 

You forget about it, like you forget a dream after waking up — a glimpse into a crack between the realities of a life that had once been. 

The sun is high in the sky. Yawning, you roll your head, stretching your sore neck muscles. No amount of coffee will keep you awake anymore. The instant mashed potatoes are heavy on your stomach like a weighted blanket, lulling you to sleep. You have seven hours of blissful sleep ahead of you. Blinking against the bright light, your eyes prickling, you see it again.

A misplaced memory, casually walking down the street in front of you.

“Cl- Cleven!” Your voice hikes up in volume between syllables as you pick up speed. “Buck!”

He turns slowly, confusion etched on his face. Buck looks at you like he can’t quite place you here, like you are just as misplaced in his eyes as he is in yours. He looks tired. Worn.

He regards you carefully as you approach. You’re a far cry from the reserved nurse his friend once introduced him to, now dressed in the standard army green field uniform of tough woven cotton, scuffed and washed out in places, timeworn boots, and pants instead of the much more elegant wrap dress nurse uniform you used to wear. He smiles and calls out back to you. You wave at him as you start running. 

You skid to a halt in front of him, beaming. It feels like you should hug him, but you’re not that close. He is Bucky’s friend, and you know him by proxy. He is also a very senior officer to you.

“I’m so glad to see you, Major.” You try to sound respectful, catching your breath, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. If Buck is here, that means… You don’t dare finish that thought. 

“I am surprised to see you, nurse,” He replies, not unkindly. “But glad nonetheless.”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” You rattle off the questions in a frenzy because they’re not the questions you want to ask. Not really. Buck knows the question that is burning on your tongue—it is so apparent in your face—your jaw is tight, the slight frown on your forehead even as you smile—you are physically trying to stop yourself from the words just spilling out of you. You are too polite to let it.

It is strange seeing you here. It doesn’t quite fit. 

“I’m fine. I’ve gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” Buck replies calmly, his tone conversational. “I have a few days of debriefing to go, and then I’m hopefully back on a plane out of here,” he adds with a wistful laugh.

“Back to Thorpe Abbots?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “We’ll see where they want me.”

A tense silence falls. You need to ask. Buck doesn’t really want to answer.

“Bucky…” It comes out tinged by uncertainty, and you look scared saying his name. Speaking it will make it real.

Buck shakes his head. Your stomach drops. 

“He — he didn’t make it out with us,” Buck hesitates, trying to come up with a way to explain the horror of leaving his best friend behind. “We cooked up a plan, Bucky, George Neithammer, Aring, and I. We were going to make a run for it in the night. Down the street, over the wall, into the forest. Neithammer and Aring went first; I followed. A guard clocked us before we could make it over the wall.”

You think your heart just stopped beating as Buck draws in a slow breath.

“Bucky drew his attention, stopped him from firing, and gave us a chance. We made it over.” He recounts the events without flourish.

“And Bucky stayed behind,” you whisper—there’s little emotion to your voice; it’s just a statement of fact. You sound so calm, but the way your hands are clenching, and your eyebrows are knitted together in sorrow betrays just how much you are trying to keep it together. 

“He did,” Buck affirms, pain evident in his eyes. He wants to explain and lay out the argument that Bucky knew what he was doing and that it was a testament to him as a man and a leader, but he doesn’t know if he can put it into words. Why him? Why is he standing before you instead of Bucky? 

“That sounds like something he would do.” There is no accusation in your words, but it’s rather a heartfelt affirmation. An understanding between the two of you.

It was a strange infatuation, an altered state of the mind, a disbalance in your brain chemistry brought on by the force of nature that was John Egan. You never gave it a name; it was never really mutually acknowledged how deep it went; there was never time to explore it — you just followed the path, pulled by a string.

You are in love with him. 

It started when you witnessed that the man who drove you to insanity with his overt attentions truly cared for the men under his command, the man who carried the burden of his responsibility sincerely. You know you are in love with the man who can’t resist a joke, thrives on antics that put him in the center of attention, and then selflessly, unquestionably, and without hesitation saves his best friend. 

The realization is freeing; it makes your heart flutter — it fills your stomach with lead. 

“You know what’s funny?” The irony in Buck’s voice seeps in bitterly as he chuckles humorlessly. It’s horrible to admit, and guilt burns in his gut. “Bucky had been the one talking about escaping all this time. I kept pushing back, saying we should ride this out.”

Teardrops drip onto your crumpled collar. You want to say something, but the sound that makes it out of your mouth is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You clamp a hand over your mouth, screwing your eyes shut, you try to get your breathing under control. Buck reaches out, carefully consoling you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, roughly running the sleeve of your jacket over your face, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry too,” Buck admits quietly, hand falling back to his side again. “I didn’t want — it should have turned out like this.”

You vaguely gesture at the crumbling houses around you, ten-ton trucks thundering past, kicking up clouds of dust, rattling the windows. Nothing should have turned out like this. Neither of you should be here. 

“Bucky is going to be okay, isn’t he?” You hate how unsure you sound, traitorous in your lack of faith. 

“If anyone would be, it would be him,” Buck looks sad, but a small, fond smile plays over his face. “Bucky would survive just to spite his captors, just because he can. He will survive because his men still depend on him.”

“And he promised he’d come back,” Melancholy echoes in your voice. It’s sort of a joke, wrapped up in the admission that you couldn’t accept a reality where Bucky wouldn’t make true on his promise.

“He owes us both that, I suppose,” Buck chuckles. You grin. There is a particular mercy in meeting Buck here and now, the only one who understands the emptiness, the cold of the shadow cast by Bucky’s absence. You’ve kept it close to your heart all this time, your little pet pain, carefully shielded from prying eyes and inquisition.  

“I’ll remind him when I find him,” you quip dryly. Buck laughs, momentarily shedding the weariness that had been weighing him down. The sudden levity reminds you of that night at the pub, squabbling over cards, when everything seemed so very normal for a moment.

“I have to admit, I think I had you wrong, nurse,” Buck tells you soberly, although his grin remains. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, stance relaxed. 

“How so?”

“You are just as insane and stubborn as Bucky is,” he states plainly. “You just hide it better.”

You open your mouth to protest. Surely, you are nothing like him. You wish you were. You wish you had that kind of confidence; if only you were that steadfast and always have an answer for everything. Instead, you find yourself increasingly and tragically falling short. 

Buck raises his hand, stopping you as you start spluttering a reply.

“He needs someone like that.”

You purse your lips. It doesn’t feel like your place to correct Buck, who has known Bucky for much longer than you and is possibly just trying to be nice to you. Because whatever, or whomever Bucky needs — it’s not you, you think bitterly. If he did, if he truly did, he would have written. You’ve run out of excuses for him long ago, but you are still too embarrassed to ask if Buck knows why Bucky hasn’t sent you any letters. It feels too intimate, too personal, too raw. 

You are simply too scared to hear the answer.

And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The fact that you are here anyway, that you are still holding out for a glimmer of hope, that you are still discovering the depth of your feelings for Bucky— well, yes, that is a testament to your apparent insanity and stubbornness. Buck is right about that. The lack of letters broke your heart but never stopped you.

So you just smile, reeling the pain, wrapping it up close to your heart again.

***

Bucky is sitting on a beam wedged in the mud, leaning against the wall of one of the compound's overly full buildings. His eyes are closed, and the sun is on his face. He’s trying to remember how to relax as his crew around him is chatting. They are all waiting. 

It’s been less than 48 hours since the tanks rolled in and the camp was secured — it doesn’t mean anyone gets to leave. Large trucks are thundering into the camp now. Engineers, quickly followed by the supply line with food and water, a detachment of military police, and a whole field hospital — everything is being set up at breakneck speed to get the thousands of POWs processed, checked, and sent back to their units. 

Medics checked in on them, and since none of them is seriously hurt, they’ve been instructed to wait. In short, they’re going to be here for a while.

His thoughts wander, and when he allows them far enough, he can almost feel your hand in his. You are just at his fingertips.

“What about you, Major?” Hambone pipes up.

“What about me?” He replies, eyes still closed.

“What are you looking forward to most when you get out of here?” 

“Many things.” He shrugs. “Decent food, a hot shower, a mattress on my bed, seeing my girl again. In that order, preferably.”

“Are you going back to Thorpe Abbots?” Crank asks.

“That’s where my Dove is.”

“Are you sure?” The way Crank phrases the question doesn’t sound like a joke, but it’s a cruel remark, even for light ribbing. Bucky cracks open an eye, irritated.

“Shut the fuck up, Crank.”

“No, I mean—” he points into the distance. “Isn’t that her?”

Bucky's line of sight follows where Crank is pointing, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears even though it cannot possibly, rationally, be you. It must be someone with a similar stature, just that shade of hair, and an eerily similar side profile to yours.

But it surely cannot be you.

You strain under the man's weight — his leg is in such bad shape he can’t put any weight on it, the wound weeping angrily in sickening shades of green, yellow, and black, which you’ve never seen coming out of a human body. He is fully leaning on you to keep upright, groaning and whimpering in pain. Pulling your mask down over your chin as you gasp for air, you grimace. You try to flag down medics with a stretcher, but everyone is so busy they don’t see you. 

This place is a nightmare. You thought you had seen it all by now, but hell has many steps on its steep descent. Hungry, sick, and injured men stuck in the mud in half-built, half-burnt shelters. There is a stench of sickness and death that hangs around the perimeter of the sickeningly overcrowded camp. You don’t have the beds for the number of terribly wounded, days, weeks, months into suffering — and you don’t have the manpower to do effective triage. It’s monstrous.

“You’re okay,” you assure your patient calmly, fighting to keep your voice even under the physical effort. He looks pale, looking at you with panicked eyes, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

“We are going to walk, slowly,” you continue evenly—if you don’t panic, he won’t either. “Then the medics will take over and get you to the doctor.” 

He nods, his breath now coming out in short bursts. “Just focus on this now, okay?” You encourage him as you start moving, every step an awkward hobble, your boots sinking into the mud, the arm around your neck weighing you down. You don’t get very far when someone suddenly appears on the other side of your patient, taking the weight literally off your shoulders. Your face relaxes, and you take a deep breath, now that your lungs aren’t getting crushed anymore. 

Your skin is prickling, like little bursts of static electricity dance over every inch of your body in excitement. 

In foreboding. 

You turn to thank whomever kindly came to help. Your eyes meet the stormy blue for a mere second, knocking the wind out of you, his name dying on your dry lips — but he turns away, not acknowledging you beyond the fleeting look, mouth set in a hard line.

Bucky looks worn. 

He looks angry. 

You avert your gaze, your frozen smile melting into a grimace — that once playful static electricity now feels like a lightning bolt to the heart, stunning you.

“You’re doing great.” You comfort your patient in the kindest tone you can muster under the loom of Bucky’s palpable anger. The smile feels awkward on your face. Still, you are grateful for his help; the muddy path toward the field hospital doesn’t seem that long anymore. It’s what comes after that scares you.

“We’re almost there.” The words of assurance come naturally, despite it leaving you feeling anxious.

Patient finally on a stretcher, your hand is — steady, keep it steady, damnit — as you make notes on the patient's card before smiling as you put it around his neck. He thanks you shakily. He’s going to lose that leg, you think sadly, but you keep a kind smile on your face. If you don’t panic, he won’t. Panic won’t do him any good right now. It sure won’t do anything for you.

Bucky is not standing close; he is just at that awkward distance where it’s clear he’s impatiently waiting for you to be done, and you are expected to follow him. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, but when you glance over your shoulder, he turns his head away from you. It hurts. It’s annoying. 

“The doctor will come look you at you, okay?” You tell your patient kindly. 

He nods, face still etched in terror.

“Deep breaths,” You remind him gently as you get up. Deep breaths, you remind yourself.

The feeling of impending doom is not wholly unfamiliar; it makes you feel like a child about to be scolded. When you were younger, you could always immediately tell if you were going to be in trouble as you walked through the front door. It was something in the air. Heavy, oppressive almost. It was how your mother put down her coffee cup a little too forcefully, and your father peered over the top of his newspaper as you crossed the room. You remember the suffocating feeling of panic, the powerlessness, desperately wishing you could hide while trying to figure out what upset them, what kind of fib your siblings might have told, if your teacher might have called, or if you simply forgot a chore. 

You always tried hard to stay out of trouble so you’d never have to feel like that again.

This feels exactly the same, you think angrily. Nothing — no one — is worth feeling like this for. The thought flashes white-hot through your mind, making you ball your fists in anger at your sides.

You will face this head-on, confidently walking toward Bucky. He’s doing a great job of looking disinterested. It’s infuriating.

When you get close, he grabs you by the upper arm none-too-gently before you can say anything. He is so much taller than you; his grip hitches your entire shoulder up awkwardly. 

You stumble after him as he pulls you away around the building. Sure, you weren’t exactly expecting a heartfelt confession from John Egan. The man barely wrote you. He always demonstrated his affection rather than verbalizing it, except for those rare times, in the heat of the moment, when his sudden candid admissions of vulnerability and tender words touched you where his hands couldn’t. But you also didn’t expect Bucky to grab you like he’s leading you to the gallows. He’s still not looking at you, simply glancing around for a place, somewhere, anywhere, with some privacy. 

“Bucky—” you try gently. He ignores you, pulling you along. People are looking at you now, gawking at the spectacle of the Major hauling a nurse across camp. Under the curious stares, you feel horrendously embarrassed and uncomfortable in your own skin. Gallows actually sound kind of good now; otherwise, sinking into the mud and disappearing would be acceptable, too.

“John!” You dig your heels in forcefully, frowning. He stops, not because you have so much leverage against him, but if he pulls you any harder, the momentum will pivot you off your feet, most likely face-first into the mud. 

The silence is tense. I hope he’s worth it.

“Why are you here?” He bites out, finally looking at you — feet planted, hand at his hip, fingers still tightly wrapped around your arm, towering over you menacingly. You refuse to shrink into yourself under his intense gaze. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” He seethes.

“I’m doing my job,” You reply calmly, nails digging into your palms, pulling yourself up a little higher.

“Your job is at Thorpe Abbots.”

“I asked to be reassigned.” Your lip curls into a snarl, betraying how angry you are getting, but your voice stays even. “I’m with the 13th Field Hospital now.”

“Why?” Bucky hisses at you in disbelief as much as frustration. “Why on earth would you request to be reassigned to the front — to this hell?”

You stare at him. Bucky's angry look and thinly veiled disgust are making you sick to your stomach. The words bubble up so strongly that you think you might yell them at him—that’s what you want to do. But when they finally roll off your tongue, it comes out like an admission of guilt. 

“Because of you,” You swallow heavily, trying to stave off the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes. You don’t want to cry. You hate that Bucky is making you feel like this — so small, like your very presence is offensive to him. It’s so unfair after, well, everything. “Because I wanted to find you and bring you back.”

Before he can react, you jerk your arm from his grasp, taking a step back, desperate to create some space between you. Bucky doesn’t do anything to stop you. 

You dreamed about his touch, you dreamed about this moment, but all you want right now is to get away from this, from him. You can’t look at Bucky right now. You don’t want his hands on you; you want him to stop you from leaving.

Out of all the ways you thought seeing him again would go, you just never thought that… well, he wouldn’t be happy to see you. 

In the end, you could just never conceive of that possibility. 

You could never convince yourself that he might not be worth it.

Blinking rapidly, you shake your head, wrenching your face into a neutral look. “Forget it, Bucky,” It’s taking every ounce of your strength to keep your voice even. You look him right in the eye. He regards you coolly — it’s like a stab in the gut to realize that this is how you’ll remember him. 

“I’m glad to see you — glad to see you’re okay,” You take a shuddering breath, but your voice doesn’t waver, so calm it’s clinical. You blink against the tears pressing at the back of your eyes. “I assume you didn’t get my last letter. I saw Buck a few weeks back near Nuremberg. George Aring was with him. He’s okay and en route to England.” 

He deserves to know his best friend is alive and well—after all, it was Bucky’s self-sacrifice that let them escape. It has nothing to do with you. You’re going for a clean cut: You don’t want to owe him anything, and you don’t want to carry any guilt or have a grudge poison you. 

If only you could school your features as coolly as Bucky does, but the harder you try, the more your face wants to crumple up in misery. 

“I haven’t gotten a single letter from you in over a year.” Bucky scoffs in reply, purposefully not reacting to your news about Buck. He appreciates it, but right now, he doesn’t want to share that sentiment with you — your letters stopped coming when he needed them most, and now you appear with that same lovely and innocent look on your face and every syllable of his name so sweetly on your lips. 

Suddenly seeing you cracks open the lingering hurt, the profound aggrievement, seeping from cuts so deep it’s staining what should be joy.

“Well, I’ve sent plenty of them despite the lack of reply.” You bite out so bitterly that your face suddenly morphs into an intense scowl, melting every trace of sadness away. “Sure you did.” His words are like a knife, and you don’t want to hear the hurt and defensiveness edging out the vulnerability in his tone.

“I guess we’ll never know,” You conclude frostily, rage contorting your features. “My patients need me. Goodbye.” 

Taking a deep breath, you turn. Tears are rolling down your face now, but you refuse to make a single sound, clenching your jaw determinedly. Bucky has no right to your pain and tears; he doesn’t care anyway. 

Clean cut. Walk away. 

Bucky has seen you angry before, annoyed, exasperated. Usually at him even. The range of emotions always plays openly on your face. But the acute hurt, the cold insulted fury, the definiteness of your farewell — it gives him pause. What if he needs you?

You barely reach three steps before Bucky snatches you back, hand firmly on your upper arm again. Stumbling backward, you angrily start pulling away again immediately, trying to wrench yourself from his grip. 

“Please let me go, Major.” Your tone is harsh, louder than it needs to be, but your voice is so thick and cracking that it’s clear you are crying. You try to wipe your face with your sleeve in vain with your free hand, but Bucky easily pulls you back into him, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders. The knuckles of his other hand skim over your wet cheek in a loving gesture — you jerk your head away like you’ve been burned, evading his touch. Your tears splatter onto the sleeve of his worn leather jacket. 

“Jesus Christ, Dove,” He sounds pained, grappling for words, backtracking hurridly. “I don’t care about the letters, I’m sorry,”

“Let me go,” You whisper sadly, trying to push away again, although there is no real conviction behind your struggle. “Please.”

“After you came all the way here for me?” He tries, attempting playfulness, a careful smile pulling the corner of his mouth, but he just gets an elbow in the stomach in reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” He groans.

Bucky hesitates. You don’t say anything or move besides the soft tremor in your shoulders as you are obviously still crying quietly — Christ, your muted heartbreak is somehow so much more devastating than if you had screamed at him. A slap across the face would hurt less than this.

“I just — I imagined you’d be safe back in England.” He admits softy. “Out of the rain, out of the cold. It -”

He had thought about it for so many hours, and it kept him company in the deepest, darkest times. Even when the letters stopped coming, the memories were always there.

You on that path from the infirmary at Thorpe Abbots, casually walking ahead of him, the alluring sway of your hips, sweet smile on your lips. The lush trees, the young green grass, and the warm sunlight. Your perfume carrying on the breeze. Bucky kept going. Every step was one closer to you — you would be waiting for him at the end of this path. 

In England. 

He didn’t want you to see him like this, dragged through hell, sweaty, muddy, dirty, hungry. He was going back to England, and he would sweep you off your feet when he looked and felt like himself again. He would never tell you of the night marches, the hunger, the slow creep of insanity of prisonerhood — instead, he would delight in that you never had to suffer like that, revel in that you were untouched by that particular horror. You would remember him how he was, and he could become that again with you.

Bucky feels like the biggest heel in the world right now. While everyone still only dreams of home, you came to him, looking for him. He should be the luckiest man alive—this is the second time you followed him where no one else would go. Letters be damned. Even your patience and forgiveness will have limits; for a terrifying second, Bucky thinks he might have crossed them. 

“It brought me comfort when I had nothing else.” He swallows. All the things he had wanted to write to you kept putting off because he convinced himself it would be easier to tell you, but the words are not coming now. Ironically.

You can hear how he’s trying to steady his breathing. You know he’s sincere. You feel how difficult it is for him. But you know you can’t forgive him just because he’s trying; you can’t amend his anger for him and take on his burden of apologizing. It needs to come from him. You have to be worth at least that for him.

Bucky can hear the tiniest sob escape you—it shakes your body in the most heart-tearing way.

 “And seeing the girl of my dreams appear in my waking nightmare — I panicked.” He adds quietly. “Forgive this poor kriegie, Dove.” 

You can hear the urgency in his voice, and you know your heart isn’t strong enough. You don’t want it to be. You only wanted to see that it meant as much to him as it did to you—that he had been worth it all—that you were worthy just as much. Slowly, you turn, your arms sneaking around his waist, tucking inside his jacket. Bucky finally allows himself to relax, tightening his embrace and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.  

“Most drops miss,” you utter tearfully, hearing his laughter rumble in his chest. You missed feeling his laugh, the vibrations moving through you. It’s an odd thing to say, but Bucky understands that this is how you forgive him—on your terms.

“I’m glad to see you, Dove. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice sounds raw, and you feel his breath on your neck. 

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” You gently needle him, blinking, hoping your face isn’t as puffy as it feels right now.

“Can a man be worried about his girl?” He croons in your ear.

“No—yes, but…” You stumble, finally looking at him as you wipe your sleeve over your wet cheeks. “I didn’t deserve that.” Your voice is calm as ever, with no tremor, starkly contrasting with your tear-stained face. 

Bucky regards you for a moment. Your eyes are still wet, and he really shouldn’t be thinking how cute that determined frown on your face is. “You didn’t, Dove.” He agrees sincerely. 

“And I’m sorry too,” You continue softly. “I need you -” 

“Tell me how much you need me, Dove,” His urgent whisper cuts you off, mouth tantalizingly close to yours. He doesn’t want to argue — he wants that kiss he’s been dreaming about for over a year. Bucky knows that you want it just as much by the way you rock onto your tiptoes, reaching for him. Your tongue peeks out between your lips for a second, wetting them in anticipation, static suddenly, pleasantly, buzzing through every cell in your body, your hands fist his shirt at his ribs. He arms envelop you against him.

He is so warm. He is so close.

“Because I need you like I need oxygen right now.” He mouths the words against your lips but doesn’t kiss you. Bucky cut off your apology because he doesn’t really need to hear the words. He desperately needs to feel that the spark that once ignited between you, that he’d been so carefully guarding all this time, is still there—that you still feel it, too.

You don’t disappoint—you never could. Hungrily capturing his lips, you pull Bucky into you, and he follows you eagerly. You could be on that path again, bike forgotten in the grass, hiding in the shadows between buildings, sweet wine on your tongue, tangled up in his sheet in the twilight of morning — like time hasn’t passed at all from that last kiss; it was only a blink since you touched him, just fleeting moments from when he felt your skin against his, your soft sighs trilling in his ears. 

It all comes back so overwhelmingly, so wholly; it pushes out the bitterness and balms old wounds. The kiss isn’t tender, but it soothes in its intensity. 

You hear someone calling your name. Involuntarily, you giggle into the kiss, Bucky taking the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, drawing the laughter into a delicate moan.

You are going to be in so much trouble.

[thestarfishinjootsoffice]

Clinically Jealous

Your two lovers have a slight problem ♪°

Yandere-ish jotaro x reader x yandere-ish kakyoin

Warnings: mentions of very light threat and violence. Slight yandere behavior? Very Cringe old writing, out of character. Very cringe.

Relationship: romantic.

This has been rotting in my notesapp for a good while now.

"What is wrong with you!?" You shout.

Smack!

"You... You merciless beast! I will take revenge on you!" You dramatically cry out as you pick up the pillow Kakyoin had thrown at your face.

"Ho? Let's see you try." Kakyoin says with a smirk as he picks up two pillows that were behind him.

"Come at me as much as you'd like!-"

Smack!

The next few moments were filled with squealing and laughter as you both throw pillows at each other. Running around the bed you were sure you both could've broken it but you two were having too much fun to care.

The door opens with a grunt following a small 'good grief' could be heard. You and Kakyoin both stop and look at Jotaro who pulled his hat down as he closed the door behind him.

"Wanna join?" Your question was met with an immediate "no."

Kakyoin grins and throws a pillow directly at Jotaro's face, but Jotaro caught the pillow before it could land on him but he couldn't dodge the one that was sent by you immediately after Kakyoin's. In his defense, how could he? When he's so relaxed and off guard around two of one of the most important people in his life? He doesn't need the feel to be cautious of anything. At least not now...

Kakyoin couldn't be any more happier. This feeling of contentment was something he so desperately searched for, with you and Jotaro filling the hole in his heart. He would never, ever, let any of you two go. The moment the anguishing ache of loneliness settles in again is the moment he'll lose his mind.

A proud laugh escaped your mouth followed by kakyoin's chuckling. Jotaro grunted with an unamused expression but let out a small smile as he picked up the pillow you had thrown at him, his hat blocking his face as he bent over to do so. He walked towards you both, a pillow in both his hands with a slight smug look that said he was going to indulge in the pillow fight for a bit. But he wasn't going to hold back...

Out of panic both you and kakyoin started fighting against Jotaro for the sake of both your lives now.

~ ~ ~

You sighed as you sat down between the two men on the bed. Jotaro on your right side and Kakyoin on your left, being sandwiched between two men was quite... The golden experience. Especially if those two men rarely ever showed their bare physique. Kakyoin was in a whole ass pajama but it was relatively thinner than his uniform frabic so you could see more of the outline and curves of his body a bit more clearly. And jotaro was in a damn tank top (plus he finally put down his hat). Almost not being able to take your eyes off of his bare arms, especially since it wasn't everyday you'd get to see someone as buff and chiseled as him this close. Focusing on every vein that bulged out of the back of his hands and forear- you should sleep. You swore you could've almost heard them holding in their laughs.

Of course, you three wouldn't forget the small ritual you would all do when all three of you were in a bed together. You giving them good night kisses that would sometimes be a little too passionate that would sometimes turn into full blown make out sessions that would probably last half an hour- but it never escalated anything above that. Besides it does a great job making you all fall asleep a little faster.

Intertwining your fingers with Kakyoins, he always wanted to be in contact with you one way or another. And while Jotaro insists he doesn't need it, he doesn't try to stop or pull away from you once as you wrap your hand around his. Indulging in Kakyoin's physical wants and needs doesn't stop him from "accidentally" Brushing or placing his hand on certain parts of your body though. (He'll stop if you express your discomfort and will apologize like a million times.)

As you close your eyes, feeling relaxed and comforted by the darkness and the warmth of your two lovers. A small frown attended Kakyoin's face as he exchanged a quick knowing glance at Jotaro who nodded slightly.

"Reader..." Kakyoin called out.

You opened your eyes and let out a hum. Almost simultaneously both Kakyoin and Jotaro got closer to you, inching their bodies towards yours as kakyoin gripped tighter on your hand and Jotaro wrapped his arm right under your chest at your ribcage as he held on firmly onto your left arm as to keep you in place.

"Me and Jotaro have been wanting to discuss about something.. To you." Kakyoin said in a soft voice although there was a bitter undertone in it.

"It's about that friend of yours." A deeper voice you knew as your boyfriend and the person on your left said. Jotaro's voice becoming slightly harsher and cold at the emphasis 'friend'.

All the comfort and relaxation in your body had been thrown out the window, feeling extremely uncomfortable and confused as your heart now pounded against your chest heavily. As if they sensed the fear in you, Kakyoin cut you off as soon as you opened your mouth to say something.

"We won't hurt you or anything, cherry." He says in a soothing tone that would've comforted you if it weren't for the situation you were in right now as he softly caresses your cheeks with his fingers. "Swear we won't lay a bad finger on you.." His voice hushed as he tried to 'reassure' you. It didn't make you feel any better in the slightest, really.

"You know that, Right?" Jotaro asked in an almost threatening tone as his fingers gripped on the side of your face, squishing your cheeks ever so slightly. You quickly nodded.

"Good." With that he let go. Your fear definitely did not subside.

"Now we got that out of the way, I think you should stop seeing them... For a while until or unless they fix their behavior around you. Or... You can let us take care of it." Kakyoin says. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion but then the realisation of what they were talking about hit you.

Of course that one friend who always seemed to laugh a little harder around you. Kakyoin suppressing showing any expression of annoyance but sending occasional glares whenever your back was turned. Even an idiot could tell Jotaro was annoyed and irked just by glancing at his face once.

That one friend who seemed to always brush their hands or arms against yours. Or hugged you a second or two longer than they should've. A clear frown on Kakyoin's face as he clenched his fist while watching the scene. Jotaro's eyes devoid of any indication of being okay with the interaction. For a man of a few words, he was sure good at speaking (anger) through his eyes.

That one friend who always seemed to want to hang with you way too much. Almost every day. Jotaro and Kakyoin pretending it doesn't piss them the hell off when almost everytime you guys are together and you keep getting texts from your friend just for the sake of not wanting to make it apparent they're jealous and irritated. But lately it's been getting harder.

That one friend who seemed to compliment you way too much, way too happy and eager to be around you. There was no mistaking it set both of your lovers off. Upset with the whole relationship dynamic with this 'friend'. Let's be honest here, are you sure they see you as just a friend? If you knew then... You would tell your friend off, right? You would consult Kakyoin and Jotaro about it, right? You wouldn't keep or hide anything away from them... Right?

"They're too damn touchy with you." Jotaro's voice snaps you out of your train of thoughts. "It's annoying as hell." He added, his voice deepening as he did so.

"I... I'm sure they didn't mean anything by it! They're just touchy like that! I'll tell them to stop" You reply and hope they'd be a little more understanding... Although it shows that it doesn't actually help in the slighest.

"See now, it doesn't matter if they're naturally touchy or they didn't mean anything by it." Jotaro's face gets a little closer to yours.

"We fuckin' hate it. And we want it to stop." His voice getting deeper as he continues speaking.

"You wouldn't like it if we let another girl keep touching us, right?" After a few seconds you slowly nodded. I guess it was reasonable enough...

"Good, we knew you'd understand." You feel Jotaro's hand softly caress your hair. "You'd always listen to us because we're your boyfriends and we want the best for you. Don't forget that, there are people out there to harm you and it would kill us if we let them hurt you. Please understand." Kakyoin pleaded softly, something about his tone... It felt so... Odd...

Your hands gripped on the bedsheets to try to calm your nerves down. You controlled your breathing and you felt the panic in you slowly die down. You closed your eyes, hoping this was all a horrible sick dream that you don't ever wanna experience again....

.....

You open your eyes to see the bright orange sunlight flooding in the room, you turn your head slightly. Kakyoin on your left and Jotaro on your right, their faces as innocent as ever... You sigh softly, what a nightmare. You sat up carefully and went over to the edge of the bed, your feet made contact with the ground and you were about to get up.

"Reader?" Startled, you looked back, this unfamiliar gut wrenching feeling in your stomach forming itself deep in your gut when you saw your lovers awake. Almost as if they weren't really asleep the entire time.

"Where are you going?"

"The- the bathroom..."

"..." An eerie silence filled the room for a second.

"Reader?"

"Hm...?"

"This better not change anything between us, alright?" You felt the churning in your stomach manifold and you grip the edge of the bed when you felt like needles were prickling the inside of your throat and your eyes starting to burn. It wasn't a dream. Dammit...

[ohthegwensgs]

✦ ∙∙ loading case file for GWEN STACY. known aliases, if any: GHOST SPIDER. current location: NEW YORK, NEW YORK.  current occupation: UNIVERSITY STUDENT (CHEM MAJOR) she have known to be RESILIENT and IMPULSIVE, so proceed with caution. their current alliance: UNDECIDED.  ✦  

— SONGS & AESTHETICS;;

brutal by OLIVIA RODRIGO, misery business by PARAMORE, black eye by VERNON + always having to be the loudest voice in the room even if she has nothing to say, is she a girl out of this world or is she just confused, sometimes all you want to is get lost in the stars.   

NAME : gwendolyne maxine stacy

— BASICS;;

NICKNAMES / ALIAS : gwen / ghost spider, spider-woman (rare)

AGE : twenty-one

OCCUPATION : NYU student - chemistry major

GENDER IDENTITY : cis female, she / her

SEXUAL / ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : pansexual, panromantic

SPECIES : human mutate

POWERS / ABILITIES : spider physiology- wall crawling & spider senses, ballet, acrobatics, hand-to-hand combat. Has dimensional travel devices

POSITIVE TRAITS : resilent, comedic, caring

NEGATIVE TRAITS : aggressive, impulsive, sarcastic

MORAL ALIGNMENT : chaotic neutral, not aligned but mostly work with any spider/hero

BASED OFF: comics & animated movies

— APPEARANCE;;

FACECLAIM : emma mackery

BUILD : athletic slim

TATTOOS :    small bouquet of flowers tied by a ribbon on her inner left forearm, pair of crossed drumsticks on her right forear.

SCARS :   various small scars on her hands, small scar on upper right thigh from her teenage years

NOTABLE ACCESSORIES : eyebrow piercings on left-side, nose ring, rings all different styles

HEIGHT : 5′ 7″

EYE COLOR : blue

HAIR COLOR : blonde but occasionally dyes her tips different colors

— A LOOK DEEPER;;

LIKES : causing trouble, music, napping

DISLIKES : being told what to do, broccoli, repetition, silence

FEARS: losing her dad and people she cares about, getting caught and not being able to get out of a situation, not being a hero anymore

FAVORITE FOOD/DRINK: anything sour or spicy, cold soda or root beer float

FAVORITE MUSIC: pop punk, pop rock, alternative, kpop

FAVORITE COLOR: blue, pink, grey

HOBBIES: playing the drums, ballet, going on patrol

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP WISE: has dated and had flings but only handful of relationships, afraid to open up themselves to someone

FRIENDSHIPS WISE: the one friend who pushes others to take the risk, always loyal to them, would do anything for them, ride or die material

—TL;DR;; (death mention TW)

Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy, also known as Gwen, goes by the alias Ghost Spider after being bit by a genetically-engineered spider. She developed spider like abilities and with her love of science created her own web shooters to fight crime and be a hero that New York needed but that wasn't the case. 

The impulsive side of her sometimes took over and sadly one night it went too far. She ended up losing her best friend Peter Parker after a fight they had when he was the Lizard where he died and that branded her a bad guy as the police only saw the aftermath of the battle. She changed afterward but continued on being a vigilante. 

— CONNECTIONS;;  

A lot has happened since then, she learned about dimension traveling on accident and met other Spiders like her, one which gave her a device to travel between them. She ended up in this universe on accident and is stuck here for meantime while she tries to repair the device so she can go back.

Currently enrolled in university under a fake name and has only been in this dimension for couple weeks so things are still new to her here.

best friends, ride or dies, anything friend wise etc.

past exes : maybe they still get along, maybe they fight, maybe they still hook up, etc.

current romantics : crush/one-sided crush, fwbs, flings, flirtationship, etc.

people who are fan of her show

someone she trains with or goes out to patrol with.

open to anything else!

[aerialworms-art]

I posted 15 times in 2022

That's 15 more posts than 2021!

7 posts created (47%)

8 posts reblogged (53%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@fellshish

@desdemonasarahmckenzie-art

@chapeldean

@kotumari

I tagged 15 of my posts in 2022

#spn - 8 posts

#my art - 8 posts

#castiel - 6 posts

#fanart - 5 posts

#dean winchester - 4 posts

#destiel - 3 posts

#supernatural - 3 posts

#30k dean - 2 posts

#reblog - 2 posts

#i know how this website works i swear - 1 post

Longest Tag: 117 characters

#it's so weird to see my clothes drawn out. like yes i did draw and paint this but like. those are mine give them back

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

URL change

@d-ood-le-bug -> @desdemonasarahmckenzie-art

For clarity’s sake, and also because I kept forgetting the third hyphen in my url and it was getting annoying lmao

I’m just gonna post my art on here. I’ll probably go back and change the watermarks on my art if I can.

4 notes - Posted November 16, 2022

#4

Quick and messy doodle turned profile pic for my main blog @desdemonasarahmckenzie (and my AO3 account, desdemona_sarah_mckenzie, since I’ve always wanted my icons on here and over there to match) :) Yes, that’s me hugging Cas. No, I have no shame.

[Image ID: A brightly coloured and simply drawn self-portrait of me, with short spiky brown hair, glasses, and a blue plaid hoodie hugging Castiel, who is smiling slightly. I’m saying ‘Too precious for this world ❤′. The background is the gay pride flag. /End ID.]

7 notes - Posted November 16, 2022

#3

I drew a little Cas in a comfy jumper to motivate me, have some motivation too!

[Image ID: A biro drawing of Castiel from Supernatural.  He is shown from the shoulders up facing the viewer, and is smiling. He is wearing a knitted jumper. In a speech bubble, he says ‘You can do it!’ The artist’s signature ‘IE’ is written by his right shoulder. /.End ID]

10 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

#2

[Image ID: A cartoony watercolour painting of Dean and Cas with black lineart. Dean is waving a big banner that says ‘30k!!!’ in the rainbow pride flag colours while he leans in and kisses Cas forcefully on the cheek. He’s wearing jeans, a green flannel, and an AC/DC t-shirt. He has his arm around Cas’ neck. Cas is smiling and holding Dean’s hand. His other arm is around Dean’s waist. He’s wearing his usual trenchcoat and suit with his backwards tie. There’s rainbow confetti all around them. /End ID.]

[Image ID: Same as the previous image, only the banner is now a rainbow pride flag. /End ID.]

Woohoo!! @fellshish’s Dean post got 30k notes and I got to make some bonus art to celebrate!!! I guess these two are celebrating too!!!

I painted this in meatspace so I could add a pride flag just for funsies :D 

98 notes - Posted August 4, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Just cuddling with your homies, nbd...

I caught up on @fellshish’s amazing substack fic Dean Daily (now on ao3!) since it finally ended (I’m only crying a little, I swear!) The Jun 28th entry wormed its way into my brain (they got matching tattoos! and Cas was healing them!!!) and I just had to do fanart! 

I might write a little ficlet, but the headcanon for this image is that they’re watching a gay movie together (y’know, so Dean can see if Cas made his confession in a gay way or if he’s just uhhhhh a real good friend), and Dean can’t tell if the glow of grace is from the TV or from Cas <3 Obviously he’s going to be completely normal about it :)

(ID under the cut)

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Dean and Cas sitting on a comfy sofa, facing the viewer, illuminated by an off-screen TV. The room behind them is dark. Cas has a bee-patterned blanket on his lap and a comfy blue knitted sweater. Dean is wearing jeans, a green flannel, and a Queen t-shirt, which is covered by the flannel so only the Queen logo and the letters ‘QUEE’ are showing. 

Cas is leaning against Dean, who has his arm around Cas’ shoulders. His other arm is resting on his knee and that hand is clenched into a fist. Cas’ right hand is on Dean’s left knee, and his other is holding Dean’s forearm, half-turned towards the viewer. They both have matching black angel wing tattoos on their left wrists. 

Cas’ eyes are closed and he is kissing Dean’s tattoo, and grace is glowing from where he’s kissing. Dean is blushing and has a shocked expression. The artist’s blog name ‘@d-ood-lebug’ is sideways to Dean’s left.. /.End ID]

[Image ID: A partially animated gif of the image described above. The TV light flickers throughout. Dean’s eyebrows rise from a neutral position and he blushes as Cas’ grace begins to shine over his lips and Dean’s tattoo. These all increase until the match the first image. The grace dims, and Dean’s blush fades and his eyebrows drop back to normal. The gif loops. /.End ID]

196 notes - Posted July 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[forestscribe4]

Please do not roll up your shirt sleeves to the elbows either. Showing a little forear

being on tumblr has taught me that girls see men's hands the same way men see tits, therefore from now on i will be constantly covering my hands with gloves to protect them from the horny female gaze

[444namesplus]

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[lampthelampent]

I keep seeing posts about this April Foools on my dashboarrd . Lamp does mot know what this is but I loook forears to lear ing !

[Clean Text: I keep seing posts about this "April Fools" on my dashboard. Lamp does not know what this is, but I look forward to learning!]

[blufox234isadumbname]

I want to draw but I'm zooted rn