#fuckin. look I love paper but there are the trees to consider. this is not an argument against books

[eyrieofsynapses]

Okay, this is super fascinating to me, especially because I rarely buy books due to a) library, b) money, and c) space issues (I only have a couple shelves I can properly dedicate to books). So I try to get good ones when I do. I also have a wide variety of young versus old second-handers!

One thing not mentioned here that I was curious about were comic collections. I have three older second-hand comic volumes:

Honestly, I've never picked up a paperback collected comic volume that didn't feel like it might fall apart with even mild abuse, but these are doing pretty good. The Sandman volume has some pretty badly ripped front pages from a careless prior owner and those are at risk of falling out, but otherwise it's doing just fine. (I wouldn't have bought it otherwise.) It's from 1994. The Flash volume is from 1995, the slimmest one, and has definitely seen use but held up well. The Birds of Prey collection, from 2006, is in quite good condition but also seems like it hasn't really seen use (and I can't find literally any of the ones from after it for a reasonable price so I've been reluctant to actually read it).

Now, here's the similarly-sized 1995 Flash volume versus a Titans volume from 2017 (of which I have two), bought brand-new:

...which is legitimately starting to show the spine's backing through the pages after light use, and feels like it's going to start falling apart if I so much as flip through it. Versus the Flash volume, which couldn't care less:

This is fascinating to me, because these older volumes from the mid-1990s, perfect bound with slightly flimsier paper than the 2017 volume, have preserved very well given their construction. This is consistent with the volumes I picked up from the library, about five years ago; almost anything published in or after the 2010s was just... shitty. The older ones were much better off, assuming they hadn't seen too much abuse as library books sometimes do.

Back to hardbacks, though. Lots of my books are second-hand oldies. My favorite are the pair that collect all of the original Sherlock Holmes stories. I bought them secondhand clearance. They had the worst dust covers imaginable, torn and ripped and ugly as sin, but underneath the cloth binding was perfectly fine and they had barely a mark. I have no idea when they were first sold--they don't actually say. But they're bound with signatures, albeit glued together, with a bit of lining along the inside of the spine. Here's the bigger one:

I've carried these around on multiple trips, including to camp. They lay relatively flat and have held up well. I am very, very fond of them.

Another Sherlock hardback, this one a copy of Hound of the Baskervilles that I picked up quite a while ago when my middle-school library was giving away old books:

This one is perfect-bound, and you can tell, because some of the inner pages aren't doing so well. I keep it with a rubber-band around it so it doesn't fall open and strain the binding. But the thing is: I CAN DO THAT. I'd never consider it with most books, out of fear of bending under pressure. The thickness of the cover allows for it, though it's almost a detriment, because it means the book is less flexible against the perfect binding and pulls at it. I suspect that's partly why the binding wore out over time. That cover is so protective, though, that it's survived...

Oh yeah. 37 years. This lil guy is from 1986. I've carried it around a lot and it's older than I am by a good bit. Doing reasonably good!

Now, those versus my newer hardbacks. This is an annotated copy of the Screwtape Letters from 2013, though I bought it only a couple years ago, so it might be a newer printing? It is a bit less than $30 in the US. I got it for much less, thanks to someone selling it brand-new secondhand online--it arrived in its original packaging--but it's... perfect-bound. Probably. I honestly cannot tell if it has very teensy-weeny signatures, but I don't think so?

In any case, it's nicely made--the paper is good, the endpapers are thick--but... take a look at that back endpaper.

...yeaaaah. It's falling out. I've carried this one in my backpack a little, but not THAT much, and that shouldn't have strained that part of the book. I haven't even read it all the way through.

Finally, two books I bought a couple months ago, and one of them actually gives me some hope.

Stars, Hide Your Fires, by Jessica Best (fantastic queer sci-fi murder mystery book, by the way, go check it out). Hardcover's a bit under $20 (paperback's cheaper if you want it). Also perfect-bound. Not too shabbily, but no signatures, and the glue binding is... ehh? It's pretty good for what it is, but the theme of perfect binding continues.

Now, here's another I bought on the same day, also published 2023: Leaning Toward Light, a genuinely gorgeous poetry collection about gardening. And lo and behold: SEWN SIGNATURES.

It's a little hard to tell there, but you can see it from the other end and one or two inside pages. (Drat the image limit.) It is probably glue-bound beyond that--I can't quite say--but hey, it's from 2023. It is a decade younger than the Screwtape Letters collection, has a ton of front and back full-color pages, and it's about seven bucks cheaper at $22. No dust cover, but the cover itself is gorgeous, I don't use those beyond the shelf and they tend to be so easily damaged they're not worth it anyway.

My sole gripe is that the cover is very easily battered--the coating is wearing off already in a few spots, and it has mostly been secured in a pocket of my backpack lately, so not great. Otherwise, it gives me hope that there are actually some companies making decent hardcovers at half-decent prices.

That said: there are many reasons why I like used books, though I regret that it doesn't directly support the author. One of those is exactly this: these days, a used book from two or three decades ago seems more likely to survive actual use than one published within the last decade. Manufacturers don't seem to realize that the fast fashion mindset doesn't exist to readers. If you want a book published a while ago, maybe go find a secondhand copy instead of buying new.

publishing companies will be like ~ooh this is a hardcover oooh it's so durable that will be $35~ and then you see the actual book and it's like. "perfect"-bound with endbands glued on crooked and a completely plain paper cover under the dust jacket. my dudes this shit is a mass market paperback with delusions of grandeur

[direwombat]

like clockwork, another wip wednesday rolls around

tagged by @euryalex @gaeadene, @inafieldofdaisies, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @adelaidedrubman, @ivymarquis, and @g0dspeeed (tysm lovelies~ i will rb your wips momentarily <3)

Tagging: @strangefable , @jillvalentinesday , @voidika , @aceghosts , @purplehairsecretlair , @henbased, @poetikat, @vampireninjabunnies-blog , @cassietrn , @confidentandgood , @wrathfulrook , @josephslittledeputy , @madparadoxum , @clonesupport, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @strafethesesinners, @deputyash, @schoute, @harmonyowl, and anyone else with a wip they want to share (also to be officially added to/removed from the taglist please like/reply to this post!)

i'm feeling generous so here are two wips: one for the werewolf au and one for katc because i've been doing my best to work on both at the same time :) everything is subject to change since these are still early drafts but they're mostly coherent

here's something from the horror and the wild, where syb is skedaddling from the veterans center :)c

Her scowl returns and she flips him off before tossing the map on top of her dashboard and rolling up her window. She throws her truck back into gear, and clumsily swings a three point turn to set her back down the road she drove in on. Jacob, at the very least, has the courtesy to step out of her way before she has the opportunity to spitefully run his foot over. 

She grits her teeth, her hands alternating between clenching and releasing the steering wheel while she creeps back down the road. Her left knee bounces while she keeps her foot lightly pressed against the accelerator, resisting the urge to speed away. 

Maybe kick up some dirt in his face for good measure. 

But when she glances up into her rear-view mirror, her heart stutters in her chest and her limbs lock in place. Framed by the sinister gates and standing directly beneath the arching letters, Jacob Seed watches her retreat with his arms crossed over his broad chest. She’s too far away to make out any facial expression, but she’s almost positive he’s smirking. 

She takes her eyes off him in favor of following the slight curve of the dirt road, but as she does — as the angle of her rear lights changes, she swears she catches something flashing in her rear-view mirror. It’s so fast, so sudden, but if she didn’t know any better, she would have said Jacob’s eyes were reflecting like an animal’s.

But when her eyes dart back up to catch his shrinking reflection, there’s nothing strange to be seen. 

Just a man, watching her take her leave from his property. 

The road continues to curve, and it isn’t long  before he eventually disappears behind the trees. 

She breathes out a sigh of relief, and continues along until she reaches an intersection with one of the main, paved roads. Pulling over, she takes a moment to press her forehead to the top of the steering wheel, allowing the tension to melt away. 

Christ, that was fuckin’ creepy.

Lifting her head and raking her fingers through her hair, she puffs out her cheeks and heaves another sigh. “Alright, c’mon, get yourself together,” she mutters to herself. She punches her overhead light back on and drags the map — right side up — back onto her lap. The thick, plastic-y paper crinkles loudly as she searches for the old Veterans center. Once she finds it, she taps her finger against it to hold its place and looks for Forest Road 135. 

Jesus, she really missed the mark, and she grimaces when she notices the clock on her dash reads just past 9:30 pm. 

Fuck, Eli must be worried. 

Part of her considers driving back to his place; they can check in on Chad in the morning. But she told him she would, and she’s a woman of her word. 

Gingerly, she traces her finger along the roads leading from the Veterans Center. It crawls down the map — take a left onto the main road, hook right, then left, and then Chad’s place should be on a small dirt road somewhere on her right. She goes over the path a few times, committing it to memory before turning off her interior light and folding up the map. 

Just as she makes that first turn onto the main road, the clear, distinct sound of a wolf’s howl rings out into the night, followed by an echoing chorus. It isn’t an uncommon sound up here in the mountains — there have been many nights with Eli where she’s woken up in the middle of the night and stayed up listening to them sing. 

Normally, she finds the sound to be beautiful. But tonight, she just finds it haunting. 

Her eyes dart to the treeline, keeping an eye out for any animals that may come bounding across her path just as much as she pays attention to the road itself. Dark shapes move in the shadows, entirely hidden from her despite the brightness of her high-beams. The hair prickles at the back of her neck and her breathing suddenly goes ragged. 

Her gut, animal instinct is screaming at her to move faster. She’s being followed. Stalked.

Hunted.

and here's some some of syb getting rescued by jerome from katc :)

Somewhere in the Holland Valley. 10:34 pm.

While not entirely accurate, to say that Sybille feels like she’s been hit by a bus is by no means an understatement. 

She lies on the ground -- the ceiling? -- of the van. Blood oozes from the same gash near her hairline that she had stitched up in Dutch’s bunker earlier that morning. The lights illuminating the van flicker unsteadily. Dark shadows strobe violently, causing her eyes to throb in their sockets while the ringing in her ears drowns out all sound. 

A wheeze of a groan forces itself from her lungs, and she lifts her head only to have her surroundings swim around her. Every muscle throbs with the dispersed aches of full body blunt force trauma. The taste of blood sits on her tongue and as she coughs to clear her throat of the thick substance blocking it, a splash of red spatters messily onto the ground beneath her. 

“Oh, God,” she moans to herself. She forces herself up onto her elbows, her arms trembling as they struggle to carry her weight, and crawls towards the back doors, over the broken glass left behind by shattered windows . There’s no thought to the pain exploding around her left shoulder or how off-kilter she feels every time she heaves herself forward. Her shoulder is definitely dislocated but she can’t worry about that right now. Whatever injuries she’s sustained, she can take stock of them later. 

She needs to get out of here. 

She needs to find Joey. 

She needs to find Augustine. 

With a clumsy heave, she throws herself against the van’s back doors, trying to force them open. They move, pushing outwards, but she meets some kind of resistance. There must be something blocking the way, or the metal frame must have buckled when the truck rolled over. She tries again, grunting in pain as it flashes white-hot through her injured shoulder, but to no avail. 

The door is stuck. 

Another curse slips through her teeth, but her attention is quickly focused on the pained groans and rustling sounding behind her. Her mouth opens to call to one of the other passengers to help her, but when she looks over her shoulder, her eyes go wide. The two civilians she was with lay in broken, bloody heaps, their limbs hanging at limp, awkward angles. 

Dead. Killed during the crash. 

The Peggie, however, much like her, somehow managed to miraculously survive. He groans as he weakly lifts his head. Blood pours down his face, further matting his already unkempt hair and beard. A wet cough rattles from his lungs, and when he sucks in a breath, it comes out heavy and rasping. He’s obviously struggling to breathe. 

Punctured lung, she thinks with a grimace. She’d know the sound anywhere. After spending what felt like hours baking in the Afghanistan sun waiting for someone to find her and pinned down by the weight of the villager she’d failed to save, the sound of her own labored breathing has been burned into her memory. 

She’s suddenly thankful that her wounds mostly seem to be superficial. 

As far as she can tell, anyways. 

His eyes go wide when he sees her trying to break free, and he reaches towards her. A hand, slick with blood, grips her by the ankle. There’s more force to his tug than she’d anticipated. Her shirt rides up her stomach, and she lets out a scream as the soft flesh of her belly is mercilessly raked across the bits of broken glass. 

Frantically, she twists around, desperately attempting to kick at his face. He manages to evade her strikes and, much to her dismay, reaches for his gun, which had been flung about the van during the crash. 

And then his brains are suddenly blown out of the back of his skull. Skull fragments and bits of gray matter go splattering against the other two dead bodies and the cultist falls limp. 

Her head whips around, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she finds the van doors wide open and Pastor Jerome standing over her, smoke still rising from the barrel of his pistol. If she believed in such things, she might have considered him her guardian angel. He smiles warmly at her as he stows his gun into the hollow of his Bible. Crouching down, he pulls out a small knife and reaches toward her bound hands. 

“Stay with me,” he says. It’s muffled, overpowered by the ringing in her ears, but she can hear him. The plastic snaps, freeing her hands, and he helps her up. She grunts as she rises. Her sore muscles scream at her, telling her to lay back down, to rest, but she pushes past it. He places his hands on her good shoulder, steadying her on her feet. “Didn’t go through all this trouble just to lose you now.” 

“I’m gettin' goddamn sick of bein’ tossed around like Raggedy Ann doll," she tells him.

[riddikulus-writings]

Distracted

Chapter 16

Did he live? Who Knows.

“No. no, no, nononono–” a wordless scream, ripped straight from someone’s throat, “I need to– he–” broke out in between grunts. A crack. A scream – pain. Shouting from more voices, more people, and– “Let me go, DuBois, he needs m– I need him!”

“I’ve always hated hospitals.”

“Me too,” Rick agreed, leaning back in his pale green chair, “Just somethin’ unnerving about ‘em.” he’d broken his arm once, playing basketball in high school. The doctors were kind, understanding, but the too-sterile atmosphere just jerked something in his brain.

He was hardwired for grime. Blood, dirt, getting down and dirty to do the things other people didn’t want to.

“I only started getting scared of them in my twenties,” she admitted quietly, “So, I guess I didn’t always hate them. Too many doctor visits, early twenties. Shoulder problems, hip problems. Sinus problems. Foot problems, fuckin’ knee problems, too. MRIs and arthrograms, x-rays, cat-scans. Parker would try to come with, but sometimes, most of the time – he was a busy boy, y’know. Too good at everything, and everyone wanted his help because of it  – so I’d be all alone, and I just started getting jumpy. Then he… the accident, back at the hospital– but he was DOA…”

Rick placed a comforting hand on her knee, squeezing to let her know she didn’t have to continue, “I know, Nyx.” He stood up, “Water?”

“I’m not incapable,” her eyebrow raised, hand swiping at the tears gathering in her eyes, “I could get it myself, but yes, please, if you’re offering.”

“You’re all bandaged up, hooked up to…” Rick waved a hand at her and all the tubes and wires– they were mainly for watching heart rate and blood pressure, but she was hooked up, nonetheless, “Those. Y’ain’t movin’.”

“I could be like my dad was and start yoinkin’ this shit outta me. He was not happy about being hospitalized that one time– I’m getting released this afternoon,” she gently took the paper cup from his too-large hands, “So, I will be moving. Thank you for visiting, though. It means a lot.”

Dad, hospitalized with stage-four inoperable brain cancer the week after her wedding. Dazed and confused, ripping his IVs out. Had a 24-hour watch put on him after that. Nyx thought it was funny.

Rick had never had the unfortunate scenario of being hospitalized with no one to come visit. His parents, a couple friends he doesn’t talk to anymore. Rick knows he himself doesn’t like to feel alone, “I also came to visit because I’m your ride home, hun.”

She shook her head, “No, I won’t make you do that–”

“Y’ain’t makin’ me do nothin,” he sat back down in the Visitor Chair and leaned on the beside, “Besides, consider us even for you drivin’ me back home when my truck had a flat after work.”

Nyx snorted, remembering the memory, “Knew you for, what? Two days? Surprised my driving didn’t scare you off.”

“It almost did.”

The windows of her truck were down, the cold spring breeze floating through, ruffling the discarded fast food wrappers and baler twine that littered the floor by Rick’s feet. An empty grain bag in the back seat crinkled. Nyx shrugged and swerved violently to the other side of the rough dirt road, hitting several potholes that made the entire Colorado shake, “I’m trying to miss the fuckin’ potholes. Goddamn, we picked a bad time of year to take time off.”

“We quit, Nyx, quit callin’ it time off.”

Her grin got bigger, and she turned her head to face him instead of watching the road, “I love quitting.” some of her hair fell into her eyes, despite most of it being held down by her grimy ball cap.

Rick admits, he’s never been to Wisconsin. It’s gloomy looking, up in the upper-central part of the state – “About right…. Here,” Nyx would say, offering her right hand as a makeshift map of the state as she pointed to the middle-knuckle of her middle finger, “Real hilly. Lots of trees. Not as hilly as Bayfield, or really further up north anywhere, but we’ll go exploring later.”. –. But, he told himself, grabbing the appropriately-named oh shit handle above his head as Nyx nearly put her truck in the ditch. One of the cats in back hissed – it is springtime. Springtime has gloomy colors. A greyscale almost sort of time.

The ditches are lined with melting snowbanks – brown with shuffled-up gravel from when the plow trucks went through – and almost overflowing with running water. The trees all lacked leaves, looking dead as the spindly branches hung over the road, “Gotta trim those,” Nyx mused, mostly to herself, “Now, be warned, there may or may not be some type of party at my house. Got it?”

Pothole. Rick’s teeth rattled. He almost smacked his head into the doorframe. How long is this fuckin’ road, “Party?”

“They missed me,” she shrugged, coming up to a stop sign, “And, remember, everyone wants to meet the Legendary Rick Flag.”

“Quit callin’ me that.”

“Hey, you survived getting stabbed in the chest with dirty porcelain,” she floored it, drifting the truck around the corner with a laugh, rain-heavy gravel spitting in a spray behind them, “I’d call that pretty legendary.”

“And you have… whatever you have. That ain’t legendary?” Nyx had no idea what it was. No idea about it until just a few weeks ago– turns out Waller just wanted her because she was a pretty face and a good soldier.

“Yeah… let’s not mention that to anyone,” she gave him a pointed look, “I don’ want Waller coming sniffing again. Just say I’ve got good de-escalation tactics so my family can scoff and tell you I usually escalate the situations, instead.”

“Y’sure they’re gonna like me?” he wasn’t sure why he was feeling so nervous all of a sudden. Everything he’s ever faced, and having a family meeting was the thing that was unnerving him?

“Here's my driveway,” it was a narrow dirt path cutting through what was probably normally a thick forest, “Brace yourself; my house is awesome. And I already told you, they’ll love you. I bet even my asshole goats will like you. If you offer them food.” she added on, “The dogs will bark, but that’s what dogs do. Our two are the German Shepherd lookin’ ones – but they’re mixes, the one is inbred a bit, I told you that, she’s stupid but she’s cute, I guess. Cousins might have their dogs by, too – and oh lord there’s a lot. I’ve got a ton, and… Yeah, Parker has a big family. I can almost guarantee, there’s a whole schmear of people roaming about my yard. I bet even our old landlord – previous farm owner – came by.”

“You got yourself a whole welcomin’ committee,” Rick mentioned, his voice uneasy.

Nyx turned onto a highway, “I lied about this road being my driveway, I was just pointing out what I would’ve liked my driveway to be. Our farm sits right on this highway, not ideal but beggars can’t be choosers.” 

There were cars lining the highway on either side, parked closer together the further they drove, “Eris…”

“Oh, don’t let the cars bug you,” she slowed down more, reaching a white-sided farmhouse with green tin, a trailer house to match on the opposite side of the drive, a big barn in back and farmland stretching further for what looked like miles. There were people crowding everywhere, dogs barking – the two aforementioned German Shepherd mixes sprinting straight for the pickup – kids of all ages running all over the place, “Ready?”

“No,” Rick admitted, not able to hide his toothy grin anymore. He grabbed the door handle and shrugged back at her, “But I have to be.”

[justfandomwritings]

The Only Thing (Hangman - Part Two)

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Female!Reader; some Rooster x Seresin!OC

Word Count: 11.2k

Summary: Jake Seresin is madly in love with (Y/n). This is not an opinion or a feeling; it is a fact. A law of the universe that will never change. As long as the world is in motion, as long as the sun is in the sky, and possibly even after, Jake Seresin will be in love with her. So why, for the love of all that is good in this world, are they not together? Rooster intends to find out.

Warnings: Angst, Objectively excessive amounts of pining, also Jake Seresin can be an asshole sometimes but so can his sisters, cursing. An emotional amount of found family. Also Christmas is featured, but in a very non-religious celebratory way. Also no Beta-reader, sorry.

Notes: Thank you to everyone who partook in Part One. I hope you all find Part Two, and I hope you all love it. There will be a spinoff oneshot of little tidbits from Jake and Addie's life growing up together and falling in love, etc. etc. If you have any thoughts on particular moments you'd like to see either in that or just in general as blurbs lemme know.

The Only Thing Masterlist

“Not that star! It’s falling apart. Use the new one we bought last year!”

“Seriously Ma, you couldn’t have said that before?” Hangman huffed and readjusted Ronnie higher up on his shoulders. “Bradshaw, get Ronnie whatever fuckin’ star Ma’s talking about.”

Rooster snorted but began rummaging through the ornaments and assorted other tree decorations without much protest. There was a newer looking star topper still in the box at the bottom of the storage bin labeled ‘Tree Stuff’, and Rooster pulled it out.

Holding it up in Debbie’s general direction at the far end of the hall, he asked, “This one?”

“Yes, honey, that’s the one.” Debbie gave him a thumbs up then, satisfied, darted back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

Rooster handed the star up to Ronnie on top of Jake’s shoulders and took the older, beat-up star off her hands.

The Seresins were a very last-minute family when it came to decorating. Mostly, it was that the sisters, Ronnie in particular, considered decorating for Christmas to be a family affair, and they collectively refused to decorate anything at all until their brother was home.

Hangman had, of course, written this off to Rooster as the three of them wanting him to do all the heavy lifting, and while Ronnie and Andy adamantly refused the accusation, Kate nodded along when Hangman’s back was turned. It’d made Rooster chuckle which earned Kate a glare from her brother.

Debbie was milling around the kitchen with Andy, baking and mixing an assortment of things that could be made in advanced of Christmas Day, while Kate draped bannisters in garlands. and Ronnie, Hangman, and Rooster decorated the tree.

They were finally finishing up the tree with the star on top when the front door burst open without any knock or warning.

“I brought candy!”

Rooster would recognize (Y/n)’s voice anywhere by now. As much as he’d heard it over the last couple days with Hangman, he was sure he could pick it out of any crowd.

“I’ll help her.” Rooster quickly volunteered as Hangman was still acting as a step stool for Ronnie to reach the top.

“Thanks,” Hangman bristled as he was forced to walk into the needles of the tree so Ronnie could reach.

With a chuckle, Rooster wandered into the foyer to find (Y/n), arms laden with far too many paper bags.

“Jesus! Did you buy out the whole store?” Rooster rushed forward to take some of the bags out of her hands before a catastrophe occurred.

(Y/n) laughed and pawned off most of the bags on the pilot. “I work at the bakery part-time during the Christmas rush, and Mr. Donaldson always gives me all the imperfect batches that he can’t sell.”

Rooster followed (Y/n) to the kitchen to see what Debbie wanted done with all of it.

“Aren’t you going to keep some of this for yourself?” Rooster lifted the bags of candy in his arms as indication.

(Y/n) shrugged, “No, I'm always here for Christmas anyway. My family don’t really celebrate Christmas.”

“Not Religious?”

“Eh, we all just hate each other. Dad hates my brother. My brother hates me. I hate Mom. Mom hates my brother and me… You get the picture.” (Y/n) waved off Rooster’s question as they entered the kitchen, and Rooster wasn’t sure whether she thought it was unimportant or if she wanted to stop talking about it.

“Besides, why would I want to be anywhere else but here?” (Y/n) loudly announced as she entered the kitchen.

Debbie smiled warmly at (Y/n) as she entered. Her fingers were covered with cookie dough, but she leaned in to kiss (Y/n) on the cheek in lieu of her usual hug. “We wouldn’t want you anywhere else. It wouldn’t be Christmas without you.”

“No cause who else would bring the peanut butter fudge.” (Y/n) turned and eyed the bags in Roosters arms before carefully selecting one in particular and holding it out in her fist as far from her body as possible.

Andy didn’t seem to care about the dough all over her fingers. She greedily snatched the bag from (Y/n) and gave her a one-armed hug in reward, only just avoiding her fingers getting in any hair. “You’re my favorite sister.”

“I won’t tell Kate and Ronnie.” (Y/n) teased.

“Bradley, dear, if you could just set the rest of those on the side table over there.” Debbie pointed to a table that was littered with assorted baking and desert making supplies.

“Of course Debbie,” He’d finally gotten past calling her ma’am, and the smile his familiarity brought to Debbie’s face cemented him using her name.

(Y/n) wandered over to start sorting the bags into different piles. One for fruit candies, one for mint, one for chocolate, etc. She glanced over her shoulder with a faux-sneaky look and passed one of the bags to Rooster. “Try this one. It’s the best candy in the store, and Jake’ll steal it if he finds out I brought some.”

Rooster thanked her, popping one in his mouth. It was some kind of mix of raspberry and chocolate and something else. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was utterly delicious. The grin on (Y/n)’s face, like school kids who were stealing sweets before dinner, was enough to make him break out in a massive smile in return.

“I’m right, right?” She whispered, stuffing her hand down in the bag and palming several for herself.

“Absolutely,” Rooster quietly agreed, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing in what was meant to be a show of affection.

“Hey!”

They both turned, sheepish and wide eyed like they’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Hangman was standing in the doorway with his eyes narrowed in on them.

For a brief, shining moment Rooster was genuinely worried. There was an angry look to Hangman’s brow. Rooster couldn’t tell what it was directed towards, but he had just had an arm wrapped around Hangman’s girl, leaned in inches from her face, as they whispered and smiled at each other. The thought of how it might’ve looked to the other pilot was enough to make him pale.

“Are those the raspberry ones you two are hiding?” Hangman pointed an accusatory finger at the bag half hidden behind Rooster.

“Nope,” (Y/n) stole the bag from Rooster’s hand and took off, shouting unconvincingly as she went, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  

Hangman rolled his eyes and waved a hand after her. “Little does she know I bought a box on her lunch break that’s hidden in my room, and I’m not sharing.” Kissing his mom on the top of her head as he passed, Hangman wandered over beside Rooster to observe the assortment (Y/n) had delivered to them.

Hangman’s brow was still a bit furrowed.

“Hey, man,” Rooster didn’t whisper, but he did speak under his breath so the other Seresins wouldn’t hear, “I’m sorry if I crossed a line with (Y/n).”

Hangman turned his head and raised an eyebrow, his expression thoroughly disinterested. “You cop a feel or somethin’ I didn’t see?”

“No, never, I-”

“No harm in makin’ friends, Rooster. I know that’s all it was to her. You tellin’ me it’s somethin’ more to you?”

“God, no.”

Hangman turned back to the candy nonchalantly, “Then what are you apologizin’ for? I’m an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hangman’s sisters were very invested in his love life. Mostly, they were very invested in finally getting him and (Y/n) together. It was pretty much the first thing Rooster learned about each of them upon spending time alone with them. Kate had pushed him to knock some sense into Hangman. Ronnie had interrogated him to make sure her brother wasn’t seeing anyone else. Andy had taken to calling (Y/n) her favorite sister or sister-in-law when Hangman wasn’t around.

Clearly born out of a deep love for their brother and a want to finally see him happy, they had all seemingly made it their life’s mission to make him see reason, and with Rooster in town, he had inevitably been drafted in to help.

“I think you may have actually got through to him.” Kate dragged Rooster through the house to the dining table where Ronnie and Andy were already sitting. “But Jake needs a lot of hand holding with things like this. He can’t possibly admit he might have been wrong and making himself miserable for years for no reason.”

Debbie was out running errands, and (Y/n) was helping set up the town’s Christmas Eve parade, which of course meant Hangman was helping set up the town’s Christmas Eve parade. So it seemed prime-time for the Seresin sisters to congregate.

“This is the year. I can feel it in my bones, Kate.” Ronnie was practically bouncing in her seat with excitement at the prospect. “This is the year we finally get him.”

“Get him how?” Rooster took the seat across from Kate and next to Ronnie.

Andy leaned across the table with the closest thing to a serious expression Rooster had seen from her since he arrived. “Every year without fail we plot some storybook, romance novel worthy moment for Jake to finally see reason and declare his love for (Y/n), and every year it fails.”

“It’s a Seresin family tradition at this point,” Kate informed him with a matter-of-fact nod.

“We’ve staged them on a blind date with each other.” Ronnie counted off one on her fingers.

“Jake figured it out when he got there, and they just ended up hanging out.” Andy explained.

“We’ve trapped them in elevators. Twice” Two and three.

“The first time she fell asleep with her head in his lap because she was so tired, and the second time he pried the doors open like fucking He-Man or something.”

“We tried to make Jake jealous and set (Y/n) up with the hottest, richest guy we knew.” Four.

“He got so sad that year and said he hoped the other guy could give her everything she deserved.”

“Yeah, that one was depressing. We’re never trying that again.” Andy and Ronnie nodded along in agreement to Kate’s interjection to their list.

“We trapped them at the top of the ferris wheel the year the town rented one around Christmas.” Five.

“It freaked (Y/n) out too much to be romantic.” Andy added, unhelpfully, “She would not be a good fighter pilot.”

“So what are you three doing this year?” Rooster cut them off when it became clear the list was going to continue.

In a simultaneous motion that would’ve been absolutely horrifying in any horror movie, all three sisters looked up and smiled at his question. “See,” Kate addressed him, “we don’t know. We’re hoping that’s where you come in.”

When exactly Rooster became part of some romcom movie, he wasn’t sure. He was unabashed about the number of romcoms he’d watched over the year, with and without girlfriends present. So he felt pretty educated saying that sitting around a table coming up with a plan to set up two people who were already in love with each other was pretty romcom-esque. It’s just usually in the romcom they didn’t realize they were in love yet.

Rooster didn’t see how any ‘plan’ would work. None of them would resolve the real problem.

Hangman and (Y/n) were both very much in love and very much aware of the fact that they were in love. Neither of them needed to be told or reminded that they had feelings for the other. They were even both aware of the fact that the other was in love with them. There was no moment of realization to be had here. They both knew, and it didn’t seem to change anything..  

Hangman – shockingly – wasn’t selfish enough to ask her to make the sacrifices it would require to follow him, and at the end of the day, Hangman was still going to be a TopGun pilot, and he was still going to be constantly moving, constantly in danger, and constantly away. No romcom movie moment was going to change that.

And (Y/n)… Well Rooster wasn’t sure about (Y/n). He liked her, a lot actually. He could certainly see why Hangman was in love with her, but he just didn’t know her well enough to know what made her tick, to know why a woman so clearly in love with a man who was so clearly in love with her wouldn’t just say ‘screw it’ and show up at his door in San Diego, why she wouldn’t have confronted Hangman at any point in all their years of being ‘not-together’. He couldn’t see what was stopping her, but something clearly was.

Hangman’s sisters were absolutely convinced that they just needed to get through to Hangman, but Rooster wasn’t so sure. There was something nagging at him about (Y/n), telling him that, if they really wanted to make this happen, he needed to talk to her. Easier said than done since she never left Hangman’s side.

He asked the sisters if they could make that happen, if they could separate the two of them for longer than a couple minutes so he could talk to her, and the trio had exchanged long glances before they all burst out laughing like he’d just told the greatest joke they’d ever heard. Kate, promptly, informed him that while their mother made them go to church every Sunday as kids, none of them believed in miracles.

It was oddly endearing watching the sisters plot and scheme, not for their brother’s demise or embarrassment, but for his happiness. Their words did not match their angry, sinister tones. They said things like ‘Why won’t he just tell her he loves her?’ and ‘She already knows he loves her!’ and ‘Well, why won’t he just let her love him back, that asshole!’ and ‘I just want them to be happy and make babies!’ were snarled like insults. They all spat on Jake’s name like it was a vulgar word, while simultaneously trying to come up with ways to make him smile.

Rooster’s heart ceased up in his chest, and he knew he needed to get out of there. “I’ll be back.”

Andy and Ronnie waved him off, barely noticing as he left. They were still batting around ideas about what to do for Hangman. Kate was a different animal. Rooster could feel her eyes on him as his shoulders hunched in time with his constricting chest.

He made a swift exit onto the patio, inhaling fresh air deep into his lungs in an attempt to open up his chest. He was out there alone for less than a minute before a hand touched his shoulder. He should’ve known it was coming, but it still made him jump and turn around defensively.

“Sorry,” Rooster’s voice cracked slightly on the word, and he quickly diverted his eyes away from Kate.

“Are you okay?” Kate asked, leaving her hand where it fell on his arm. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s just that…” Rooster wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he couldn’t stop the words coming out. It was something in the water, or in the town, or just in the house. Something that made him want to open up. “I don’t know. Seeing the way you guys are with Jake, it makes me think about what my siblings would’ve been like if my dad hadn’t…”

Kate placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, pulling Rooster’s eyes up to hers “Well, you don’t have to wonder if you don’t want to. I know, we all know, we aren’t replacements, and we won’t try to be. No one can replace what you’ve lost. But just because what you’ve lost is irreplaceable doesn’t mean there aren’t… alternatives.”

It was a sensitive subject, and Rooster could see the way Kate’s eyes darted around, searching for the right words. “We don’t need you to think of us as your real family or as replacements for them. If it helps you open up or cope, we won’t be offended by you thinking of us as a backup, Bradley. I know you’ve only been here for a little while, but we care about you. We will be what you need us to be. So don’t think you have to betray your family to stay here, and don’t think you’re hurting us by thinking of your family first.”

She gave his shoulder one last squeeze then stepped away. “We’re all here for you, even Jake. He wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t want you to be part of this, and we wouldn’t be spending so much time with you if we didn’t want it too.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the Eve of Christmas Eve, and Rooster woke up to (Y/n) already at the Seresins’ frying up some eggs for breakfast. Even on leave, Rooster woke with the sun, yet somehow (Y/n) was already there.

She loudly announced that she was kidnapping Jake so they could go into the city to shop for Christmas presents. Rooster was welcome to join or stay at his own risk.

“Do you want to come? Everyone else will be out, so there won’t be much to do here. But if you really wanna stay, you can use my car. It can’t make the trek to the city, but it gets around town in a pinch.”

When she asked, an image of Kate the night before, ‘He wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t want you to be part of this, and we wouldn’t be spending so much time with you if we didn’t want it too,’ flashed through Rooster’s mind.

Jake brought Rooster here, not just to his family home, but to (Y/n), and as he stood – finally alone with her – in the kitchen, Rooster saw it for what it was: the most open and honest way Jake could place his trust in Rooster. It was as good as if Jake had ripped his heart from his chest and put it in Rooster’s palm.

“Of course I’ll come along. Can’t leave you alone with Jake that long. That would be torture.”

(Y/n) beamed. She had a witty retort, but Rooster didn’t hear it. He was too distracted by the way she turned back to the stove, still smiling away, as comfortable in his presence as she was in any of the Seresins.

She looked as ready and willing to accept him into the family as Kate the night before, and Rooster wondered if the two women, or more likely (Y/n) and Jake, had talked about it. If Jake got her permission to bring him here, or if Jake let her deliver her final verdict when he drove her home after the barbecue. Either way, Rooster knew he wouldn’t still be here if she didn’t want him around. But (Y/n) seemed to go so far beyond tolerance, so far beyond acceptance.

When Rooster thought of his family, of his parents and of the siblings he was sure he would’ve had. He found himself picturing (Y/n). Her open smile and accepting nature. He imagined a hellraiser of a baby sister with a nickname like Adrenaline that he was constantly trying to keep out of trouble. He could picture the little girl’s unbridled chaos mellowing into a mischievous glint in the grown woman’s eye. He could see himself bringing home his Navy buddies and giving them all an earful for checking her out.

Void of a biological family that had any real meaning to her, Rooster could pick (Y/n) up and put her seamlessly in his memories with his mom around the dinner table.

Rooster opened his mouth to speak. If he wanted his moment alone to talk with her, this was as good as it would get.

But before he could say anything, Jake came traipsing into the room. “Something smells good.”

“This is your payment for driving me to the city.” (Y/n) informed him.

“Oh?” Jake clearly didn’t know he was going to be doing that today, but he took the surprise easily in hand. “Sounds fun. When are we going?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not? She would look so nice in this one.”

They’d been in the city shopping for the better part of three hours, and all that was left was to help Jake find one last present for Andy.

Jake and (Y/n) had already gotten presents for each other, or at least Rooster assumed they had because, even after several hours wandering around the mall from store to store, neither of them had picked anything out for each other.

Jake wasn’t really known for being a thoughtful person, and Rooster never would’ve thought he was a romantic or generous person at heart. Before this trip, if he’d have had to imagine Jake buying presents for any occasion, it probably would have been a last-minute whirlwind of boxed chocolates and flowers to get laid on Valentine’s Day. And yet, since coming to Texas, Rooster would bet every dollar to his name that whatever Jake gave (Y/n) was so thoughtful it would make her cry. 

(Y/n) was obviously the kind of person who put a lot of thought into Christmas presents. She’d already gotten gifts for each of the Seresin sisters and Debbie before they went out shopping that morning, but her basket was still laden with little knick-knacks that reminded her of each of them. ‘Stocking stuffers’, she waved off the raised eyebrow Rooster shot her as she picked up a set of shot glasses that looked like beakers for Ronnie. He couldn’t imagine her forgetting to get Jake something. She seemed too good at this.

Jake had defaulted to (Y/n)’s opinion on gift giving up to the last moment, but now he’d fallen at the final hurdle.

“There is no way I am putting Andy in that. Addie, they’re all already picturing her naked. We don’t need to encourage them.”

The issue, a debate that was about as close to a fight as (Y/n) and Jake were capable of, centered around a beautiful, though very skimpy sundress hanging off of (Y/n)’s finger. “They will not be picturing her naked. I have this same one in a different color.”

“Yes, and I’ve been to the beach with you in it. All the guys are picturing you naked too.” Jake said with a roll of his eyes, as if it were the most logical conclusion, and he couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it.

(Y/n)’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she suddenly sounded less sure of herself on that fact. “No they aren’t.”

Jake tilted his head to the side and gave her purse-lipped expression that said she ought to know better, “I have to beat the other guys back like flies, Addie. You just don’t notice any of them.”

There was a rule between the two of them, one that Rooster had quickly caught onto, that in each other’s presence neither addressed the elephant in the room. In keeping with that rule, neither Jake or (Y/n) confronted why it was that (Y/n) wouldn’t notice all of the guys staring at her while Jake was around.

“Look, I won’t tell Andy what to wear any more than I’ll tell you what to wear, but I’m not gonna gift every guy on that trip a wet dream.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, “It’s really not that bad. You’re exaggerating.”

“No, they will definitely be picturing her naked in that.”

“See!” Jake shouted triumphantly, pointing at Rooster, “Rooster agrees with me! He never does that!”

(Y/n) bit back a laugh at Jake’s excitement. Defiantly, though certainly amused, she shoved the sundress in her own basket. “I’ll have you know I met the one that invited her along as his plus one, and he’s a perfectly nice guy. Practically a gentleman.”

“What branch did you say he was?” Rooster piped in.

“Army… I think he’s Special Forces.”

Rooster chuckled, and Jake fumed. “No. Absolutely not.” He stole the dress out (Y/n)’s basket it and hung it back on the rack. “Next you’re going to tell me Kate needs these art supplies so she can paint some Marine in the nude.”

“Well,” (Y/n) hedged, “he’s not a Marine…” Her tone was teasing, and there was just the right amount of mischief in her eyes.

“Ugh!” Jake walked back passed her towards the luggage section, ringing his hands in the air.

(Y/n) burst into a round of giggles as Jake wandered off, and Rooster couldn’t help joining her with a chuckle of his own. “Really though,” (Y/n) said, still trying to sober up, “What’s wrong with Army guys?”

“Well, for one, if he’s Special Forces, he has definitely already seen her naked.” Rooster spoke under his breath, not wanting to tempt fate with Jake’s foul mood, even if he would never actually unleash it around (Y/n), “And for two, Jake can’t scare an SF guy into line.”

“Well I, for one, think he’s great. And I think that will be totally unnecessary.” (Y/n) led their way through the racks, following Jake towards the matching set of bags he was no doubt going to buy Andy instead.

Rooster shrugged, not that (Y/n) could see from in front of him. “He might be a great guy, but still. Jake wants to protect her. He’s just trying to help.”

“Oh of course.” (Y/n) made a point to turn back so Rooster could see her playfully roll her eyes, “Because we women need a big macho man to help us with everything.” The pair broke out into the wider aisle and began walking side-by-side.

“Aren’t you the same girl I just watched pout her way into getting Jake to carry all of her bags out of the last store?” Rooster grinned down at her.

At the reminder, (Y/n) couldn’t hold back the devilish, gleeful smile, “Yeah, because I needed a big macho man to help me with it.”

Rooster chuckled, “You know when I got here I didn’t get it, but now I do. You and Jake make total sense.”

“I choose to take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as a compliment.”

“For who?”

“Both of you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Every shop in the quaint downtown area of the small Texas town was strung with twinkling white Christmas lights along its roof. They shown down on the street like stars blinking invitingly to all the parade-goers, drawing them further into the crowd, further into the festivities. The lamps lining the street were all turned off, and the world had taken on a glow of red and green at the street level from countless, lit window displays of reindeer and Christmas trees and Santa Claus.

It was one of those magical scenes from the romantic comedies Rooster always unapologetically watched. Something in the air just screamed excitement and joy. It permeated his skin and filled him with an overwhelming sense of amusement and happiness. He was edging towards belonging, but he drew himself back, fearfully, from the feeling.

Christmas was never a holiday Rooster was particularly attached to. His family had never been particularly religious, and while his mother always made a point to make sure he had the best Christmas she could afford to give him – presents, dinner, family, lights, music – there was always something noticeably absent from Christmas with the Bradshaws. It always rang a little hollow. There was always one too many chairs around the table, one too many servings of pudding, one too many of everything.

But here, in podunk, middle of nowhere Texas, where half the people on the street remembered his name from the cookout and waved and said ‘Hi Rooster’. Where his friend – he felt far less hesitant calling Jake a friend now – walked a few feet ahead of him with the love of his life, and where Debbie clutched his arm and excitedly pointed out every family-owned store in town and raved about the town’s parade and its history.

Where Kate playfully berated her mother for boring him to sleep. And Andy whispered to Ronnie behind him about how she really did like the guy who’d asked her to go on the trip with him and his friends. And Ronnie told her to tell Jake, or Bradley, about the guy just to be safe.

Where he blinked a few times more than was strictly necessary as Andy mumbled that she’d probably talk to Bradley about it later.

“It’s beautiful Debbie,” Rooster barely knew which storefront Debbie was talking to him about this time, but her tone told him she was excited about it.

“Isn’t it just,” She beamed up at him, “The Newman’s always do such a great job. They didn’t make the cookout this time, but when you come back ‘round I’ll be sure to introduce you to ‘em. Their son and Jake were best friends when they were kids.”

Jake seemed to hear what Debbie was saying, and he craned his neck around in their direction, clearly unwilling to remove his arm from (Y/n) long enough to actually talk to them, “His dad used to own the plane, Rooster.”

“Why did you two stop being friends again?” Kate’s question sounded innocent enough, but there was an undercurrent to it that Rooster had come to recognize as common to all Seresin’s.

Debbie leaned around Rooster to give her eldest daughter a playful whack on the back of her hand, “Enough of that.”

The group all laughed.

They soon had to move to a single file line as they hit the town’s main square where the parade actually began, and the street was filling up with people camping out on the sidewalk for the best seats, leaving only a narrow walkway to get around. Kate side stepped in front of Rooster, between him and Debbie.

Rooster took the chance and leaned over Kate’s shoulder, “So why aren’t they friends?”

“Why else,” Kate turned her chin up to say it but didn’t face him, keeping her eyes forward as they duck and weaved their way through the people to keep up with the group, “Newman threw a basketball too hard at (Y/n) in P.E. She fell over, hit her head. Stitches. It was all an accident, but Jake wasn’t so forgiving back then. He’s always been a stubborn ass. They didn’t make up till college.”

“Funny, I thought around here Hangman didn’t have any flaws,” Rooster dared using the callsign. It seemed fitting in the moment.

Kate approved, grinning up at him, “You tellin’ me my brother isn’t an ass?”

“Oh no, he definitely is.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m gonna go get drinks. Wait here?” Jake asked (Y/n).

“Course, we’ll hold down the fort.” (Y/n) reached across the bench and patted Rooster on the knee, the last remaining members of the group.

The Seresins’ had secured a bench and the lip of sidewalk in front of it near the back of the circular route the parade would be taking through the big open square. There were people crowded in around them in lawn chairs or sitting on picnic blankets. Groups of children ran around and played in the empty path that was cleared out for the parade, one of them accompanied by Kate.

While they were waiting on the parade to start, Kate had run off to play with her godchildren, a pair of little girls belonging to her high school best friend. Mrs. Seresin had promptly taken that as her cue to abduct Ronnie and make her talk to someone named Taylor that she swore was just perfect for her. Andy had followed along behind snickering the whole way.

Objectively, it wasn’t that many people. A parade back in San Diego would’ve gotten ten or twenty times as many people as this one, but the shouts back and forth between different little families and the way everyone made room for the next group that came along later spoke volumes about the fact that this wasn’t just a collection of people. It was a community.  

Rooster was pretty sure that, even if they stood up and completely abandoned their stuff, no one would steal their spots or any of their belongings. ‘Holding down the fort’ was almost entirely unnecessary, and yet it provided him the opportunity he had been looking for.

He watched Jake’s back retreat towards a small makeshift shack that appeared to be some kind of concession stand. If he wanted to talk to (Y/n) alone, this was the only chance he’d get.

“Well (Y/n),” He broached in a gentle tone.  He had to be careful about this. (Y/n) didn’t strike him as the tattling or whining sort. If he said the wrong thing, she would probably grin and bear it. But of course, Jake could read her so well. It didn’t matter if she told him or not; Jake would know. So he had to be careful. “Jake’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

(Y/n) gave him a sad smile. “So will you,” She added, “we’ll all miss you.” (Y/n) didn’t mean to redirect him. Rooster knew she wasn’t as sneaky as that. His first night in town she’d done quite a bit of redirecting, but all of it was incredibly obvious and usually accompanied by a look to Jake. This was just (Y/n) being (Y/n), welcoming him into the family.

“Of course,” He’d almost – almost – grown used to the Seresin brand of open affection, “but I’m not Jake.”

The smile stayed on her face even while the light in her eyes seemed to dim. “Well, no, you’re not, and I might miss him a teeny bit more if I’m being totally honest with you.” Her chipper, teasing tone didn’t match the sadness that was coming into her gaze, rolling in like dark clouds signaling a coming storm.

“Can I ask you a personal question, (Y/n)?”

“Of course,” (Y/n) shuffled on the bench. She turned to face him and brought her feet up onto the bench, pulling her knees into her chest.

He wondered absently if it was so she could look him in the eyes or if having her legs in front of her was more of a safeguard, a defense mechanism. Rooster had had several open, honest conversations with (Y/n) during his time in Texas, and some of them had actually been quite personal. But the few times he’d gotten her alone had only ever been long enough for a joke here or there, an offhand teasing comment.

He wondered if she could sense the change in atmosphere, in tone, as much as he could. If she could, she didn’t let on any more than the arm wrapped around her knees.

“Why aren’t you in San Diego? You don’t… really seem like you care about Texas that much, and I kinda get the feeling you’d rather be there.”

(Y/n) sighed like a weight had compressed the air out of her chest, a gust that looked and felt more like it was forced from her lungs than actually given freely. She knew this was coming. Rooster could tell from the way her eyes tilted down as she sucked air back in. “It’s complicated. It’s not as easy as just moving.”

“Well no,” Rooster conceded. “You would need… Well, you’d have to be with Jake, I suppose.”

“Right.”

“Why aren’t you?”

Her teeth caught her bottom lip, and (Y/n)’s eyes darted away as fast as the words left his mouth. They flitted along the crowd. She wasn’t really searching for anything. There was no urgency to her gaze, but she still seemed to be looking into every face that she passed. If for no other reason than to not look back at him.

“Is…” It was a wild thought, an impossible thought. But it was truly the only explanation Rooster could think of, “Is there someone else?”

(Y/n) came to a stop. Her shoulders, going up and down with the weight of her breaths froze in a sort of half shrug. Her eyes came to a stop on some unknown face in the crowd and glazed over as she stared through whoever it was into something that wasn’t there. Her fingers, twitching against the denim of her jeans, stilled and flattened against the fabric. It was like someone had a remote to a tv and hit pause.

“(Y/n)?”

Then, all at once, they were in fast forward.

(Y/n) threw her head back and let out an absolutely raucous laugh. If not for the packed bodies filling in the space around them with a buzz of noise, it would’ve echoed into the night. If not for the Christmas music playing in the background of the entire scene from speakers situated at the base of the sporadic trees decorating the square, her laughter would’ve been so disruptive it would’ve drawn the eyes of everyone in town to them. Not that any of them would’ve said anything beyond a cool, disapproving stare.

As it was, her laughter seemed to only add to the merriment of the moment, a merriment that Rooster’s chosen topic of conversation had pulled the pair of them out of.

Rooster let her have several rounds at his expense, going through another bout of quieter laughter then a few rounds of giggles before she finally managed to settle down enough to address him again. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to laugh at you. Just the idea.”

“There isn’t someone else then I take it.”

“No.” She said emphatically, one last chuckle leaving her lips. “And there never will be.”

Rooster shifted himself to face her this time. A knee pulling up on the bench between them, his elbow resting on the back of the bench, propping up his head to stare her down. “Why not?”

The jovial, amused expression coloring her face softened. They were talking about Jake. Rooster made a note of it; her expression softened when she got to talk about Jake. “I believe it was Betty White who said, ‘When you have the best, who needs the rest?’”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. This was shaky ground. “You don’t have Jake though.”

“Bradley,” (Y/n) sighed and brought her knees down, crossing her legs between them. She leaned in, the amusement and merriment of moments ago, the soft loving expression she got when talking about Jake, gone. “You’ve been here for a little over a week now. Do you think there is anyone in this square, anyone in this town, who could ever love me as much as Jake?”

“No,” It was the easiest question Rooster had ever answered.

“Do you think anyone else in this square, anyone in this town… Fuck it, do you think anyone in all of San Diego could ever love Jake as much as I do?”

“No,” The second easiest question.

“I have Jake.” (Y/n) said, matter-of-factly. Her eyes implored Rooster to see her truth. “He’s mine. In every way that matters, he will always be mine.”

“But he’s not… here.” Rooster hesitated to point out, not because he thought (Y/n) would balk at the reminder. She seemed more sure of herself now, talking about how much she loved Jake and vice versa, than ever. Rooster just didn’t want to cause her pain in his path to answers. “He’s gone, and …. Much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably the best pilot at TopGun besides Maverick. The Navy isn’t gonna let him go any time soon.”

“And I wouldn’t want them to.” (Y/n) agreed.

Rooster raised an eyebrow, “Where does that leave you?”

“Waiting.” Rooster had his answer. He thought about stopping there, turning around and laughing at Kate dancing through the parade route with a little kid holding each hand, wandering over to join Andy teasing Ronnie about Debbie’s latest setup attempt… but he couldn’t.

Rooster saw him approaching behind (Y/n) from his peripheral vision. He tried not to focus on him, to not draw (Y/n)’s attention away. His eyes stayed on her even as the blonde head of hair drew close and closer through the crowd.

This was, he thought, his chance. If he was ever going to get one. His chance to finally do what Kate asked and knock some sense into Jake, and his chance to do what he knew needed to happen and knock some sense into (Y/n).

“(Y/n), you’ll have to forgive me.” Rooster’s next words were for Jake, for Hangman. “I like Jake. And I like you, and I like you both together. But he left, (Y/n).”

(Y/n) was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “He left because I told him to go. He loves flying planes; he loves the Navy. I can wait a little longer.”

Jake was passed the last group now, coming up behind her. Even in his peripheral, Rooster could make out his face now.

“Does he love you more?”

“Of course,” (Y/n) didn’t hesitate.

“Then why aren’t you there with him?”

“I don’t know!”

She shouted then buried her head in her hands. Rooster had never heard her raise her voice before. His entire body drew back. Being shouted at in general wasn’t a pleasant experience, but there was something so much more disquieting about it being (Y/n), about it being someone who was otherwise so unshakably good natured and caring towards everyone. It was his intention to pull the anger and frustration, the sadness, out of her, but he hadn’t realized just how close she was to boiling over.

A few groups near them turned to stare, not just from the volume. Rooster glanced over and saw their faces colored in shock. He saw their eyes flit to Jake, just over her shoulder, and then to him in concern.

They were all right to be concerned.

Rooster made eye contact with Jake and instantly realized it was a mistake. He wasn’t looking at Jake. There was nothing of the mildly mischievous, but secretly kind-hearted family man in the eyes boring into his.

Rooster was staring down Hangman. Hangman with vicious, vengeful eyes. Hangman that could, and had, killed. Hangman that would readily take up a cause as honorable as avenging (Y/n)’s tears with Rooster's blood.

It sent a chill down Rooster’s spine, and for a moment he thought about running, jumping up and sprinting into the crowd for the safety of Debbie or Ronnie or Andy, someone Hangman would never commit a murder in front of. He might be able to duck Hangman’s first blow and make it to Kate and the kids somewhere behind him, but he was also pretty sure Hangman would be willing to commit a murder in front of that particular sibling.

But none of those were really options, and Rooster wasn’t one to run from a fight. There was only one solution here.

“Why haven’t you gone to San Diego, (Y/n)?” Rooster asked, his eyes staring down Hangman’s even as he spoke to her.

Hangman’s hands clenched into fists at his sides; his lips pulling back in a sneer.

“I don’t know,” (Y/n)’s voice, quiet and muffled by her hands over her face, cut Hangman off, “Maybe because… because there has to be a good reason.”

(Y/n) looked up, and Rooster quickly diverted his gaze down to hers.

There were tears welling up in her eyes. She was practically swimming in them, but none had spilled yet. It would probably be Rooster’s only saving grace if (Y/n) didn’t stop Hangman. “Jake has to have a good reason. Right?”

Rooster opened his mouth to respond, to assure her that, whatever else Hangman is, he is in love with her. To tell her she’s right, that Hangman wouldn’t do this without a good reason; it was just a question of whether she accepted his reason. But he didn’t get to say any of that.

(Y/n)’s voice picked up, strength and speed. She was spiraling. “I’m in pain every day, and I hate it. I hate going to friend’s weddings knowing that will never be me. I hate coming home every night to an empty house and an empty bed. I hate that every morning I wake up from blissfully happy dreams about a life with him, and that every morning I have to remember that’s a life I’m not living.”

Rooster chanced a glance over her shoulder.

Hangman was gone.

Rooster didn’t let his gaze linger any longer on Jake than was necessary to ascertain that he was listening. Rooster had tried to get Jake to see sense before, and it had only had marginal if any success. But this was the wakeup call he needed, and Jake was finally hearing it.

“I hate knowing that this is my life until Jake retires from the Navy in like thirty years, but it is. Because there isn’t anyone else, Bradley. There will never be anyone else. I don’t care if that means I have to wait till he retires or if I have to wait for the fucking ocean to dry up. There is nothing and no one that will ever replace Jake for me.”

(Y/n)’s eyes implored Rooster to believe her in a way that was wholly unnecessary. Rooster believed every word she was saying, not just because he thought her incapable of lying about this but because he knew the truth of every word even as she spoke it.

He’d seen it for himself in the way she looked at Jake, the way she smiled at him, touched him, the way her entire body relaxed just at the sight of him. Rooster didn’t need her to tell him how long she would wait for Jake. Rooster had already watched his mother wait.

“I want nothing more than to drop everything tomorrow and buy a ticket to San Diego. Whether there’s a house with a white picket fence or a tiny room with a bunk in an aircraft carrier, I want to be wherever he is. Being without him hurts me every day, but the only thing I know to be absolutely true in this world is that Jake Seresin loves me as much as I love him… and he would never hurt me like this without a good reason.”

“Yes he would.” The words came out broken, as broken as the man who said them.

(Y/n) lurched to her feet and whipped around. “Jake…”

(Y/n) didn’t seem to know what to say.

Rooster felt a pang in his chest at the desperation in her tone. He’d caused that. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but he had staged the moment unfolding before him. He put (Y/n) in position, in the position to stand in front of Jake and falter. Distress didn’t suit her; it wasn’t an emotion Rooster had ever heard (Y/n) express, ever. Certainly, she had never expressed distress towards anything regarding Jake; Rooster doubted she’d ever had cause to even know what distress felt like in the presence of Jake Seresin.

From the corner of his eye Rooster saw Kate take a stumbling step back in their direction. Jake had his back to her, and her eyes were trained on (Y/n)’s face. Kate looked shocked, concerned, possibly even terrified though he couldn’t tell from that distance.

“Jake, I-I can explain. I didn’t… I don’t….” She couldn’t explain.

Jake’s face was in a state of pain Rooster had rarely seen before. Early in his flying career, Rooster had briefly been given a backseater who ejected at too low an altitude and ended up breaking nine ribs. The look on Jake’s face was something akin to that, to his chest caving in.

“It’s not… I mean… Jake,” She sobbed his name.

Whatever else Jake was feeling, he couldn’t stand to hear that. Jake took a slow, deliberate step forward. “There is no reason, (Y/n).”

(Y/n) was struck dumb, and Rooster felt it in the way her knees began to shake that at any moment she was going to crumble. If Jake didn’t explain himself immediately, Rooster was sure she would disintegrate.

Jake clearly felt it too. His hand reached out for hers, but for once, she didn’t offer it freely. He had to take it for himself. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks. Even as people watched, he was completely unashamed to be crying in this moment. He made no move to stop them, no move to wipe them away.

Jake took another step forward, standing chest to chest with (Y/n) and spoke so low that only she and Rooster could hear over the noise of the throng. His voice had a reverence to it that was reserved for religious ceremony – or in Jake’s case, saying (Y/n)’s name. “There is no reason good enough to hurt you, (Y/n). You are the only thing in this world that matters to me.”

(Y/n) flung her arms around Jake’s neck. She buried her face in his chest, and her entire body shook against his from the force of the sobs that overcame her. If not for the arm Jake put around her waist, she would have collapsed against him.

“Please,” (Y/n) mumbled into his chest. One broken, unspecified plea.

Jake’s eyes turned skyward, tears still pouring down his cheeks. “Anything, (Y/n).”

(Y/n) pulled her head back from his chest, and Rooster watched their eyes meet through a web of each other’s tears. They stared at each other for barely a moment. Decades they had waited, but in that moment, they couldn’t wait a second more.

Jake’s hands came up from her waist to cradle her face between his palms as (Y/n)’s hands threaded through his hair and pulled him in.

Their lips met in the middle in a passionate, unhurried kiss, and Rooster smiled. He felt as if he’d put something wrong in the universe right again.

Somewhere in the distance, someone cheered. Rooster thought he recognized it as Ronnie, but before he could turn and find the source, the first voice was joined by a chorus of others and then a resounding, deafening applause.

Jake and (Y/n) hardly seemed to notice at all, their entire beings – as they always were – consumed with each other.

Kate showed up at Rooster’s elbow a tear rolling down her cheek. “Thank you,” She wrenched Rooster into a bone-crushing hug.

The parade started, but in a town where everyone knew everyone and everyone knew everyone else’s business and everyone knew how in love Jake and (Y/n) were, the parade seemed so anti-climactic, not just to the Seresin’s who were practically screaming with joy but to all the onlookers who had also been wondering not if but when.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Rooster, I’m sorry.” (Y/n) held out a Christmas bag to him, “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

“You…” Rooster stared at the bag in her outstretched hand. “You really didn’t have to, (Y/n).”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but her smile remained unshakeable on her face. Rooster was pretty sure (Y/n) would never be able to stop smiling for the rest of her days.

The thought did momentarily cross Rooster’s mind that she might stop smiling one day because Jake might not be at her side anymore, but that thought was quickly quashed as impossible. Rooster couldn’t see the future, but he was pretty positive that Jake would live exactly one day longer than (Y/n) so he never put her through the pain of living without him, then he would promptly keel over and die from the pain of being without her.

“Of course we did. You put up with this one,” she elbowed Jake in the side, “all the time, so we don’t have to. It’s the least we could do.”

“We?” Rooster tentatively took the bag from her hand and glanced between her and Jake.

Jake, with the arm draped around (Y/n)’s shoulders, pointed at the tree in the corner and a small pile of presents underneath it. “Seresin family tradition to sneak downstairs and steal your presents before morning without getting caught by Ma. Those’ll be yours. You’re the only one left.”  

“I mean, won’t those be…” He nodded his head towards (Y/n).

“No,” (Y/n) shook her head, “I usually break in, but I stayed in Jake’s room last night so I didn’t have to.”

Unsurprisingly, little had changed around the Seresin now that Jake and (Y/n) were finally together. They were so inseparable, so effectively a couple before, that there was virtually no adjustment needed. The arm around her shoulder, the adoring look in their eyes, the way they couldn’t be separated from each other, it was all almost exactly the same. The only difference was this time no one had to pretend it was normal and that nothing was going on. There was something going on, and now it was perfectly normal.

“You usually what?” Rooster doubled back.

(Y/n) shrugged like it was nothing to say she’d broken into someone’s home. “You have to open them before Ma finds you. It’s tradition, and I’ve never been caught.” She grinned at the second half of her comment.

Rooster turned around to look at the tree. There were about half a dozen small packages wrapped in garish red and green paper sitting under it, and now that he was looking at them, he could see the tag on the top one with ‘ROOSTER’ written in massive letters across it.

His words caught on a lump rapidly forming in his throat. “I-I,” He didn’t know what to say. There really wasn’t anything to say.

He’d never gone a year without a Christmas present. Even when he didn’t feel like celebrating all that much, even when they weren’t on speaking terms and he hated his guts, Mav had always sent Rooster something. A few of those years, Rooster wasn’t even sure how Mav had found him and was positive he’d made Iceman pull strings to find out.

“The top one’s from Mav and Penny.” Jake confirmed what Rooster already knew.

It was the others that he wasn’t expecting. A red and green package that was so clearly a book, folded in the neatest wrap job he’d ever seen with a delicate matching bow on top. One misaligned mess that, judging by the poor attempt at wrapping he’d witnessed from her a couple days ago, was almost certainly from Kate. A weird oval shaped thing that had paper twisted and tied at the ends so it looked more like a piece of candy. Two matching square boxes behind those. And a bag, still dangling off of (Y/n)’s outstretched finger.

Rooster blinked rapidly. It felt like there was something in his eye.

Jake cut the tension. He dragged (Y/n) back into his side and whispered conspiratorily into her ear, “He’s just trying to figure out which one’s mine cause he knows about the stink bomb I put in it.”

(Y/n) giggled and laid her head against Jake’s shoulder.

Rooster turned back with a smile, one that he hoped conveyed everything he was feeling towards the couple in that moment, the depth of love he’d developed for them, for all of them really, in just a week.

(Y/n) was still holding out the bag to Rooster.

Rooster cautiously took it from her hand and gently removed the obstructing paper from the top.

“It’s not much, but it seemed your style.”

Rooster let out a full belly laugh as he pulled out one of the most atrocious tropical shirts he’d ever scene. It was dark blue with waves patterned across it, interspersed with tiny spits of islands covered in palm trees and tiny propeller planes of various makes and models.

“Thank you.” His smile was both grateful and relieved. He didn’t have anything to give her in return. If it had been any more than a gag gift…

“There’s actually more in the bottom.”

Rooster pulled the shirt the rest of the way out of the bag and set it to the side. Down in the bottom was what looked like a picture frame.

“We always give Jake a new one every year because the sun bleaches out the photos.” (Y/n) explained as Rooster pulled it out of the bag. “You don’t have to keep it if it’s weird, but he always seems to like them. So I thought you might too.”

Rooster glanced up at her with a furrowed brow before he looked back down and flipped it over.

“It’ll stick to the dash of the cockpit,” Jake explained.

Most of the small frame was taken up by a large picture of his parents, a familiar picture to him of his mom and dad at the piano bench that Mav had taken not long before his dad died. Smushed into the bottom corners were two tiny group photos, one of the TopGun squad posing on the deck of the aircraft carrier after the successful uranium mission and a candid of the Seresin family, plus (Y/n) sans Jake, having a blast on their patio.

“We won’t be mad if there’s someone else you wanna put in there instead. We just…”

“No,” Rooster cut her off, looking up with a teary smile. “I love it.”

He didn’t have anything to give her in return, and the war going on in his head must’ve been written on his face because Jake gave him a small almost imperceptible shake of the head.

A resounding ‘no’. Rooster didn’t need to give them anything else.

“Open mine next!” Andy came screeching down the stairs into the living room, shouting as she went. “You’re gonna love it!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fanboy spotted her first. He and Payback had a rule for as long as they’d been flying together, a rule that the rest of the squadron all subconsciously adopted for themselves. Whoever saw her first got to take a crack at her. It wasn’t like dibs, because if the woman said no and was particularly into someone else they were allowed to go for it, but only the first pilot to spot her got to approach. Everyone else had to hope she approached them.

Gorgeous women in a skimpy, flowery sundress walking into a bar like this tended to stand out from the crowd, so it wasn’t surprising that Fanboy clocked her the moment she entered the bar, still standing in the doorway looking around like a lost puppy trying to find its owner in the crowd.

Fanboy whistled, low and long, under his breath and elbowed the nearby Phoenix, nodding in the woman’s direction.

Phoenix appraised the woman appreciatively. Whoever she was, she definitely came here dressed like that for a reason. That dress was the dress of sexual awakenings and wet dreams, and gods Phoenix hoped Fanboy wasn’t her type.

“Good luck, man,” Phoenix leaned over the table, eyeing the woman, “She looks like she’s already got somethin’ on her mind.”

“I bet I can take her mind off it,” Fanboy grinned and turned to walk away.

He brushed passed Rooster on his stool, and Rooster glanced around to see who Fanboy’s latest target would be. For Fanboy’s sake, thank God he had.

“Absolutely not.” Rooster’s hand lurched out and caught the back of Fanboy’s shirt, yanking Fanboy back to the table he and Phoenix were currently occupying.

Fanboy stumbled back to the open barstool next to Rooster. “What the fuck man?” Fanboy shrugged Rooster off with an expression that was more confused than angry. “What’d you think you’re doin’?”

Rooster had already turned away, offering Fanboy a half-heartedly, “Saving your fuckin’ life.” He let out a loud whistle, not of the wolfish-catcalling variety, but a loud clear note meant to get attention as it echoed across the bar.

(Y/n)’s eyes darted towards the pool tables, and Rooster tipped his sunglasses up onto his forehead, not that she really needed the help recognizing him. Even as he was reaching for them, (Y/n)’s nervous, overwhelmed expression was giving way to a wide, relieved smile.

(Y/n) darted down the steps and began weaving her way through the thick crowd. Most of the men turned to appreciate her as she passed them by, but none of them made a move to impede her progress – not in this bar, not with the group she was making a b-line towards.

“Wait, is that… that can’t be your girl?” Fanboy pointed between Rooster and the woman rapidly approaching.

“It’s not,” Rooster agreed, hopping to his feet and moving to stand beside the pole at the corner of the pool area. As he went, he thumped Hangman hard on the back where he was bent over the pool table.

“What the fuck, man,” Hangman exclaimed as he missed his shot, standing up and glaring at Rooster’s retreating back.

“8 o’clock,” was all the information Rooster offered up as he walked past.

Hangman’s eyes followed where Rooster was headed, and he suddenly couldn’t give a damn about the shot he’d just missed.

“I saw her first, Bradshaw,” Fanboy declared. His steps followed Rooster’s retreating back up even with Hangman.

Instinctively more than anything else, Hangman’s hand, still holding the pool stick, whipped out, smacking the long rod hard across Fanboy’s stomach, making him double over around the piece of wood.

“No you didn’t.”

As Hangman completely abandoned the table, (Y/n) finally spotted him, and the second she saw a gap in the crowd, she ran the last dozen or so steps to him.

Rooster wasn’t offended or at all surprised when (Y/n) breezed passed him and flung herself into Hangman’s arms.

Hangman caught her with ease, one arm tightly gripping her around the small of her back as she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. Her face burrowed into his neck, and he buried his free hand into her hair, holding her there as his fingers wove into her hair.

Fanboy wandered, stunned, to stand at Rooster’s side. “Hangman has a girl?”

“Told you I was saving your life.”

Fanboy numbly nodded his head in agreement.

Rooster knew from experience that the two of them could stay like this for at least an hour without moving, and he highly doubted Penny would appreciate such a prolonged display of PDA. Or Hangman for that matter, because the pilot clearly didn’t realize the way his hand was fisted in the back of her dress was pulling it slowly further and further up, mere inches from flashing (Y/n)’s ass to the whole bar.

“Oi, lover boy,” Rooster leaned forward and flicked Hangman in the ear, “do that on your own time.”

“Fuck off Rooster,” Hangman grumbled, but he gently lowered (Y/n) down anyway.

(Y/n) stayed pressed against Hangman for another second or two before she took a deep breath, seemingly composing herself, and turned.

“Bradley,” she smiled, genuinely ecstatic to see him despite moments before ignoring his presence. “It’s so good to see you,” (Y/n) pulled him down into a hug.

“Good to see you too. Glad you’re here. Jake was getting intolerable without you.” Rooster said the last part under his breath in her ear as he bent down returning the hug.

(Y/n) laughed and pulled away. “Oh I can imagine,” she agreed. Her hand blindly reached behind her, and Hangman stuck his own out, lacing his fingers through hers and dragging her back into his side.

“What are you doing here?” Hangman punctuated with a kiss to her temple.

“Thought it’d be a nice surprise. After all my friend, Bradley here, promised to get me on base since you were less than forthcoming.” (Y/n) teased him.

Hangman smiled, one of his rare, real smiles that Rooster had never seen outside of Texas. “My apologies, ma’am, but I’m a bit of an asshole sometimes if you haven’t already noticed.”

“Oh we’ve all noticed,” Phoenix butted in.

The four other members of the squad at the Hard Deck that night were all crowded in the space between the couple and the pool table. Completely abandoning any semblance of a game in favor of this utterly stunning development surrounding the squad’s resident asshole and the hot, but entirely random, girl. She had marched into the Hard Deck and, without so much as a flirty wave, laid claim to the Jake Seresin, and the Jake Seresin had accepted it without question. The squad looked varying degrees of stunned, confused, and suspicious.

Phoenix most of all. She stuck out her hand, “Hi, I’m…”

“Phoenix!” (Y/n) happily declared, taking Phoenix’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “I know. Jake’s told me all about you. Which means you must be her backseater Bob, and Payback, and Fanboy.”

“Guys,” Hangman seemed to realize at this point that introductions were unavoidable, “This is (Y/n).”

Rooster leaned back against the pole and stuck his head out around the pair with a shit-eating grin, “Otherwise known as Addie.”

There were several long moments as realization slowly dawned on all of their faces.

“Is there anything you care about beside yourself?”

“Addie maybe, but she’s probably it.”

“Addie’s off the table.”

“You’re Addie…” Phoenix said it like it was an epiphany she’d just had, not something Rooster had told her five seconds before.

“Yes, I am.” (Y/n)’s head jerked up to look at Hangman, “And why does everyone around here seem to think I’m a plane? At the airport, Omaha said he thought I was a Cessna, and Fritz said he didn’t know I was a person.”

Hangman’s mouth mimed words but none came out as he searched for an explanation.

Rooster, ever the helpful friend, leaned forward and told her point blank, “He talks about you all the time, but since he named the plane after you, and he’s such an asshole, we all assumed he was in love with a plane this whole time. It seemed more plausible than him being in love with a person.”

“Really?” (Y/n) met Rooster’s mischievous grin with one of her own, “But he’s so clearly in love with himself?”

“Ugh,” Hangman buried his face in her neck to hide the heat (Y/n) could feel rushing to his skin as it pressed into hers, “I really hate that you two are friends.”

“We’re not friends; we’re family. Right, Bradley?”

“Right.” Rooster chuckled.

(Y/n)’s fingers instinctually went about carding through his hair, completely unbothered with messing up whatever product he’d lathered in it that day. The prospect of his messy hair didn’t seem to bother Hangman much either when it was (Y/n) doing it. “Really Jake, I think it’s sweet.”

Hangman pulled his face out of her neck and pulled her against his chest, pressing kisses in quick succession to her lips.

“You knew about this?” Payback asked Rooster, gesturing vaguely to Hangman and (Y/n).

“Oh,” (Y/n) turned her head away from Hangman, but he just continued kissing down her cheek to her jaw then her neck, “We only met when he came to Christmas, but I’ve known Coyote for years.”

“For years?” Bob.

“For Christmas!” Phoenix.

“Yeah.” (Y/n) answered Bob, “Since Jake was in training at least. Coyote picked us up from the airport.”

Hangman’s ministrations froze. “Us?” He said into her neck. This time Hangman stepped back. His hands stayed in place on her hips, but his expression was wary.

“Well you know I hate being in planes unless you’re flying them. I wasn’t going to fly out here alone, and really, Andy and your mom were already both going to be out of town. It seemed rude to leave them behind.”

“Don’t look so scared Jake,” Kate’s voice cut through the moment as she appeared at Rooster’s right hand. “We won’t embarrass you too much.”

No one needed to ask who Kate was. The family resemblance struck each of them as hard as it did Rooster the first time he saw her.

“Kate,” Rooster smiled down at her.

“Bradley,” She returned, wrapping an arm around his waist to hug his side.

Rooster threw an arm around her shoulder returning the hug, though he left his arm in place.

“Where’s Ronnie?” Hangman demanded of Kate. His eyes searched anxiously around the room for his middle sister. Not anxious for her safety, not in Penny’s bar at least. Anxious for a very different, far more pressing reason.

“Oh leave her be,” (Y/n) playfully swatted his shoulder. “You know,” She turned to Phoenix, who still appeared to be processing an overwhelming amount of information, “this reminds of one time in sixth grade. Mr O’Connor’s class had a pop quiz in earth science-”

“Absolutely not!” Hangman threw a hand over her mouth and lifted (Y/n) up around the waist. He set her down behind him, putting his body between her and the rest of the TopGun graduates. “You are not making friends with her.”

(Y/n) said something that was muffled by his hand, and Hangman cautiously moved his hand.

“If you stop me from talking to her, who’s gonna stop Ronnie from flirting with Coyote at the bar?” She nodded in that direction.

Hangman’s eyes whipped around. In mere moments, the trio of women had taken him from cocky, asshole pilot to a frazzled hall monitor trying to keep track of too many children. “I hate you,” Hangman murmured down to (Y/n).

“You love me more than life itself.” (Y/n) dismissed offhand.

“I do,” Hangman agreed and kissed the top of her head before he let her go and disappeared to find Ronnie.

(Y/n) turned around with a smug grin on her face, staring down four dumbstruck TopGun aviators. “That was exactly as much fun as I thought it’d be.” She glanced up to look at Rooster, “Wait till he finds out Andy’s trip got canceled for a storm, and she’s outside talking to Yale.”

“I think that’s Special Forces guy’s problem now.” Rooster reminded her.

Kate shook her head. She leaned in closer to Rooster’s side seemingly to reassure him. “Nah, you were right to talk her out of it. He was a nice guy, but they weren’t a good fit.”

Phoenix cleared her throat awkwardly. It would be days, weeks, potentially months, beforte she processed the series of events that just happened. But one thing did stick out in her mind that she was capable of processing right then, “What’s this about a pop quiz?”

Kate and (Y/n) both burst into fits of laughter. (Y/n)’s hand shot out and took ahold of Kate’s.

“Oh I really,” a tear leaked from the corner of (Y/n)’s eye as she laughed, “I really can’t tell you that one, but I promise I’ll help you make Jake think I did.”

Phoenix smiled, “That’ll do.”

[shurisneakers]

shut in [9]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, ptsd, shooting

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: ok ok ok ok sam deserves the world and im mad that he’s not getting it

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

He was gone.

10:00am

Time had begun to slip past you. Days where you were forced to wake up at 4am were just a dreary memory you didn’t want to revisit. The rough shoves in the morning to have you awake enough to be in training by 4:30am only fell into the category of things you had forgotten over the time you had stayed here.

Maybe sleep wasn’t a luxury you weren’t allowed to afford.

10:30am

By the time you step into the kitchen, the loose structure of the day you had ahead of you was forming. Maybe if you revisited the small makeshift shooting range you had set up for Sam and you to practice. A couple of old soup cans, a flat boulder for them to sit on and you were good to go. He had allowed you to use his giant board for knife throwing too, laughed when you asked for permission before saying it was for the both of you. 

You made a sandwich for yourself, forcing it down your throat with water. Bread was starting to feel like cardboard and the jam just tasted like nothing. Peanut butter was even worse.

Losing appetite wasn’t an option, even though it had eroded a while ago. The best option was to just scarf it down with water. 

11:00am

Sam isn’t in the house, you had deduced. A morning run or maybe just some fresh air.

You checked for the notes he sometimes left for you when he went out. Something along the lines of when he’d be back, or why he’d left, or where you could find him. 

You looked on top of the fridge where he generally left them; someplace he knew you’d see. You didn’t find one.

You shrugged it off. 

Something felt wrong about the arrangement of the kitchen but you couldn’t place a finger on what it was. All the chairs were in its place, trash appropriately in the bin, no bowls were left from soup day in the sink to wash. 

The origami swan you had made still rested next to his paper airplane. Nothing seemed wrong or out of place. 

You pushed yourself to shake off the nerves, to get dressed instead. The shooting range was waiting for you.

12:45pm

When you shoot for thirty and get all thirty, it tends to get a little boring. Not that you were complaining; if even one was off you’d spend the whole day trying to make up for it.

Violent hobbies weren’t ideal. They weren’t even hobbies per se. Just skills you needed to keep sharp if you wanted to survive.

You even shot at the targets that you had hung up on the trees. Dangerous and completely Sam’s idea. Said the wind made them act like moving targets. Nevermind the possibility of a ricochet.

The target board was empty too. Admittedly, knife throwing was a little harder  to get used than shooting to but it still only took a few tries before you were hitting bullseye over and over again.

There just wasn’t anything to do. And you realised it had been this way for a while but you never noticed due to his lively chatter or how competitive it got with stupid games you were making up as you went. 

1:00pm

You learned against the counter as you ate, eyeing the room, trying to figure out what you had misplaced. The air was cold, even more so after the shower, so you threw on an extra t-shirt to aid you.

You made a noise of disapproval when you couldn’t find what was wrong. A quick wash of your hands before you made your way to the TV, fully intending to doze off while watching Megamind for the fourth time. 

You passed by the mini fridge on the way, noting how you needed to restock the ice cubes when you suddenly stopped in your path.

Your eyes peeled back to the small paper bowl Sam had crafted expertly that was still somehow managing to stick together. But that was what was wrong.

The keys were missing.

The fucking car keys and the pocket change you had taken from Pierce’s house were no longer there. 

Your body moved on autopilot, dragging you towards the front door. You yanked it open, door creaking under the pressure you applied on it.

Your heart sank. 

The car was gone.

1:20pm

You had all the possibilities listed out in front of you with the rest scratched out after you had rationalised it.

Someone had come in and taken the car, which wasn’t likely. 

Sam had stepped out but hadn’t mentioned it to you. If he did, why would he need the car?

Someone had abducted Sam, which was absurd on paper but still left a twinge of uncertainty because you couldn’t definitively rule it out. 

He had just left. Decided he was done and left. 

You stared at the last option. 

“Fuck,” you cursed.

You could feel his muscle shift as he looked at you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You opened your mouth but shut it again. How do you explain it to him without sounding utterly ridiculous?

You wondered if it was that conversation. 

He wouldn’t leave after you told him, would he?

You hesitated before shaking your head.

He’d come back. He would.

1:45pm 

You had added a few more possibilities to the list but discarded it almost immediately.

You now found a place in front of the TV, watching but not registering what was said. Your fingers kept itself busy by playing with the hem of your shirt. You had thrown another one on since his jacket was missing with the rest of him. It had gotten colder.

The woman droned on about how much her husband loved the recipe she was making. It was Sam’s favourite segment, not because it was particularly fantastic or anything, but because it gave him forty five minutes of free content to trash talk.

Your eyes kept glancing up at the clock. Was it broken or was time much slower than you initially thought?

You almost felt like you were in a cognitive dysfunction; you couldn’t do anything other than while away time till you figured out what had gone wrong. 

2:00pm

If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have heard the soft crunch of twigs. The whirring of the wheels as it turned gently only made you sit up straight, hands on the gun that rested on the couch beside you.

It came to a stop. The gun was fully in your grip now, TV turned off to determine what the noises were.

It was the most agonisingly slow minute you spent listening as the car opened and shut, muffled by the distance. You were near the door, using the adjoining wall as a hideaway. 

The doorknob shook as someone tried to push their way in. 

“Sam?” you called out cautiously against your better judgement, mentally cringing. 

It took a second for his reply to return. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Let me in, will you? Stupid door’s not opening.”

Of course it wouldn’t. It was fingerprint activated.

Relief flooded your system, letting yourself hold the gun with only one hand as you hastily made your way to open the door.

However, you paused. As much as you wanted to fling the door open blindly, you waited, hand on the knob.

“Is someone out there with you?”

“What?” he sounded confused. “No, it’s just me.”

You opened the door slightly, peeking out through the sliver of open space. 

Sure enough, it was only him. The car was returned to the same spot that it was.

“Where were you?” You yanked the door open. You sounded way more aggressive than you planned to, you were sure. It didn’t matter though.

“Went to the store,” he said nonchalantly, stepping inside, and dropping the keys back where they were.

“What?” 

He was so relaxed about it, like it was nothing. It only irked you further than you already were.

“Drove the car till the highway, walked into town and went to the store.” He set the bag down. “What’d you do all day?”

“You went to the town,” you emphasised. “To the fucking store.”

“Yeah, I figured you would be up by the time I came back.”

“You were gone for hours.” You crossed your arms over your chest, fighting the urge to yell. You could talk it out calmly. You didn’t have to snap

You hoped he had a good reason. You sincerely hoped, for his well being and security, that he risked his life to go to public space.

“We’re way further out than you think. Nearest dollar store’s almost the next fuckin’ state if you’re walking. Had to ditch the car because it’s a little too flashy, even for me.” He lifted up the bag next to him. “Got us some ramen. And juice. That’s all we had cash for anyway.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly agape. 

“You could have been seen, Sam,” your tone was corrosive, the next best you could do instead of yelling. “For all we know, you could have been followed.”

“No one followed me. I made sure.”

That did nothing to alleviate the anxiety that was crawling into your head. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered. “Fucking ridiculous.”

“Where are you going?” You ignored him, turning on your heel and walking to the bedroom. You didn’t care if it was his day that day. He could rot in the kitchen with his stupid ramen for all you cared.

You cursed as you slammed the door behind you, launching yourself onto the bed. 

There was no denying you were relieved that he was still alive and here. But fuck him. Fucking dickhead. 

Fucking juice.

You spent the next couple of hours feeling absolutely embarrassed for yourself. Why did you spend hours worrying if he was safe when he was out there, gallivanting in public for some stupid noodles?

Both of you could have been absolutely fucked if he wasn’t careful. He may have just jeopardised your entire set up.

But deep down, no matter how much it was annoying to acknowledge, you knew he wouldn’t have. He was smart, strategic. 

Why would he do something like this?

How much you were worried scared you. There was no time where it had occurred that maybe you were in danger too. Every possibility you came up with only pushed the thought of him possibly in trouble further into your head. 

But the more you spend time overthinking, the more you realised that him being in danger wasn’t the entire cause of your worry. 

What if he didn’t come back? Why’d he come back? 

He had the means to leave, the will to and clearly was able to go undetected for a while. He didn’t need to return, but he did. 

And for what; to give you some food he bought from the dollar store. 

He seemed excited about it too, before you had closed the door on his face and decided to spend the next few hours self-destructing.

Fucking ramen.

Maybe if you could just lie there until you decomposed, then you wouldn’t have to have a conversation with him about this. That’s what you would have done a couple of months ago. 

But now the idea of communicating had been implanted and implemented several times before. It didn’t feel right to push it away, not when you’d come so far. A chance to heal.

You groaned, shoving a pillow onto your face before getting up grumpily. 

Fuck this man and his stupid, healthy methods of coping. 

___

You opened the door slowly, creeping into the hallway to assess what he was doing. It had been a few hours of silence in the house. He had given you space, not come knocking on the door to explain himself. 

You took note of the kitchen. The table had been laid with two bowls of noodles covered with a plate along with a glass each of juice. It was domestic. Cute.

He was watching Die Hard but the volume was turned down low. If he was anything like you, he wouldn’t have been paying too much attention.

You cleared your throat awkwardly to grab his attention.

His neck craned to look at you, surprise flashing across his face for a second before he leapt up, turning off the TV in an instant.

“Y/N,” he stated as normally as he could.

“Samuel,” your tone was steady. 

He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Wasn’t sure if you were gonna show up.” 

“Neither was I.” You looked at the table, gesturing towards it with your shoulder. “Watchu got there, Gordon Ramsey?”

Because screw him, but the longer you stood there staring at the bowl, you were starting to understand the lengths he went to to get something other than bread, peanut butter and soup. As much as the prospect of being petty thrilled you, you had survived on nothing but them for the past few weeks.

“Got a few packs of ramen and a gallon of juice from the store. Thought you- we deserve somethin’ nice.” You noticed his quick coverup but didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s not Michelin star worthy, but it’ll do.”

You nodded, avoiding looking at him.

“I-”

“Hey-”

Both of you started at the same time, only to be cut off by the other. You mentioned for him to continue.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I should have told you before I left,” You didn’t expect the sincerity that exuded from every word he let out and you found yourself unable to look away. “I’m not used to people worrying about where I go... but things are different now. I won’t do it again.”

You weren’t used to the feeling of lightness that accompanied an apology. Relief. 

“Thank you,” you said breathily. His face noticeably brightened. “But why’d you come back?”

His small smile left as soon as it came, as his face fell into a frown. “What?”

“You could have just left. You had the car, the-” you stopped yourself from listing out reasons why he should have. “Why’d you come back?”

He looked completely confused. 

“Because I wanted to,” he voiced. “Leaving you behind was never an option. I wouldn’t-”

He trailed off, eyes never leaving yours. 

“You’re stuck with me,” he urged softly. “We’re a team.”

You lingered on him longer than you wanted to admit. He wasn’t lying, you had realised. 

“Care to join me for dinner?” he asked, extending a hand to you.

You rolled your eyes but took it, feeling the heat creep up your neck. He smirked at you and fuck, he was frustratingly cute. 

You understood. You totally understood when you nearly died at the first bite you took, vowing to never take food like this for granted again. It may have been the absolute bare minimum; just the seasoning and noodles he had cooked in the microwave, but it was the best goddamn meal you ever had.

“Good, right?” He looked about as content as he could be. 

“Best fuckin’ day of my life.”

He kidded around some more. You choked out a laugh at some, wholly ignored the others to which he took complete offence. You saw it as a way to humble him.

This was the normalcy you had crushed your craving for so long ago, accepting that it wouldn’t ever happen. A normal dinner with someone who made you smile, no impending doom lurking around the corner and maybe a shot at a glimmer of something happy. 

It was strange that you found it with another hitman in a safe house, hiding from authorities and who knows what else, with food worth a couple of cents. You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Yet there were things that had to be discussed. Conversations that needed to happen.

“Sam, we need to talk about it.” You didn’t have to explain, he knew what you were talking about.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I need to tell you something and I need you to hear me out before saying anything,” you pulled away from him, shuddering at the sudden cold that enveloped you. 

“I’m listening.”

“We do,” he agreed, and you could feel the atmosphere in the room begin to shift. “But we don’t have to do it now.”

He reached across from where he was sitting, hesitantly interlacing your fingers. The sense of fluster you experienced wasn’t healthy, you decided.

You just ducked your head, fighting against the damn smile that was trying to make its way onto your face. You didn’t pull away.

“Okay.”

Next part

[binniesthighs]

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

a/n: hehe hello cuties, before i get to the chapter, I just wanted to say thank you so much for all of the support and lovely messages you that you sent to me for the last chapter. as I said, it was one that was super personal to me and for it to be so relatable and emotional for you all makes my heart feel so, so full. these themes are going to continue, so please read the warnings cuties. as always, thank you so very much for reading my stories <3 

Part 6 

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung 

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst 

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, establishedfwb!jisung, artist!reader, skz side characters, bestfriend!chan, bestfriend!felix, roommate!minho, explicit language, HARD fluff to HARD angst, some sensual-azz fuckin’ (muhaha), unprotected sex (stay safe cuties!), lil bit of breath play, nipple play (f), cumshot, mentions of food, changbin has a cute butt (that’s the tweet) 

CWs: aftereffects of traumatic experiences, mentions of past toxic relationship, self sabotaging tendencies 

Word count: 6.6k (remember when i said i wasn’t gonna write long chapters? wellllll...ooP)  

Chapters 

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

When you were back in high school, before you knew a thing about what love was, your Art teacher had given you an assignment: what do you think that love looks like? At first, all you had really known love to be was the kind that you shared with your friends and your parents, and maybe with your family dog. You had read about love in your favorite books and seen it in your favorite movies, but you had never really considered what it looked like. Obviously, the assignment was all up for you to decide, but there being a million and one things that you considered love to be, to put it to paper with your own hand was something different entirely. 

At first, when you thought of love, you thought of the typical: hearts, hugs, the colors red and pink. But, this was too simple. 

“What are you drawing?” You had sneakily whispered to your classmate. 

She shrugged, and continued scratching away at her sketchbook. You had peeked to see what she was putting together, and for her, she had started to draw what looked like a house on the edge of a lake. The house was in the middle of nowhere and it was surrounded by trees of all different kinds and there was a single bench that sat at the edge of the water. 

You figured, love can be a place, so you started drawing that. 

Your pencil swiped over the paper in strokes big and small, and the lead rubbed off on the side of your pinky as you outlined the corners of your apartment building. 

You thought, I love the people who live here, therefore, this must be love. 

It made sense. People and places could make up love. 

When you turned in your drawing of your apartment building you were surprised to see the variety of other paintings and drawings that the other students had turned in. One student had turned in a whole piece that had been drawn with oil pastel. It was a jumbling of colors: mostly red, as you had expected, but it also held streaks of gold, black and teal. You remember your teacher really liking that one. 

Today, if you would’ve gotten that assignment, it would’ve been completely different. 

It was a sunny afternoon when you sat at your easel with your pencil in hand. Drawing out the mere outline and rough draft, tears welled in your eyes. A long time ago you had promised yourself that if your art didn’t mean anything, what even was it?

The sun filled your room in the golden hour of the day best it could from your frosted glass window. The warmth that the rays held made your whole body swell with a warmth, and it gave your shaking arms the power to keep going. 

You brushed lightly over the rough canvas with your pencil, tracing out the lines as if they were the very memories that you had kept painted in your mind. 

You drew a snowy night, not much unlike the ones that you had been seeing recently. You drew an empty alley, not lit by much light. You drew the way that the oil slicked in potholes mixed with the snow. You planned out the way that the industry of the city lit his back as he stared out into that dark expanse where you knew that darker figures were hiding. You drew him. You drew him on that exact same night that you had fist seen him: a dark outline, who would become full of color. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“What’s that?” 

Changbin pointed to your easel with a sheet draped over it. 

“A surprise.” You answered. “I know that I’m not good with surprises, but, are you?” 

“I don’t mind them.” He chuckled. “For me?” 

“Mmhm. Its not ready yet so you’ll have to wait.” 

“I’m fine with waiting.” He sighed out. 

You nuzzled closer into his bare chest, right up to his heartbeat. Both of you were admittedly a bit dewy in your sweaty afterglow, but this was of no concern to you. These past few days, this had been your preferred way to drift off to sleep. Even on the occasional times when the both of you would be too busy to make the time, when you finally could see him, it was everything to you. In his large and muscled arms, there was no place else where you had felt safer. You too wrapped your whole being around him with a feeling so close it must’ve been unreal. If you could hear the muffled little rhythm of his heartbeat, you were sure that he could hear yours. 

“Soon, all this snow is gonna melt, and then I can take you to loads of other places. I’m just getting started.” Changbin’s airy breath tickled your scalp. 

“Really? Taking me to all the usual places?” You mocked. 

“No.” He said seriously. “I want to take you to places I haven’t taken anyone before. My secret places. I...you know...wouldn’t mind if you could draw them for me either.” 

You giggled, “Ever heard of taking a picture?” 

“Hey! It’s not the same.” 

“Fineee. Okay, okay. I’ll draw them for you.” Your fingertips traced down the muscles of his back. “Maybe I should start charging if you’re gonna keep being like this.” 

“You don’t do pro-bono?” He ran along with your joke. 

“If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll consider it.” 

He tsked, “Could you please draw for me?” 

You masked another adoring chuckle. “I do like it when you say please.” 

Everything about the one moment felt so sickly sweet, it was like you must’ve dreamt it up. In between the swaddling of sheets, you tried your best to enjoy the one moment: it was just enough to keep the doubtful whispers away. After all that he had done, said, all the pain that he had kissed away, or compliments he had hushed into your ear, the creeping feeling that you hardly deserved it all would rear it’s head time and again, even when you didn’t expect it to.

The two of you were quiet for a moment as you fell into the serenity of just existing together. After a while, you would narrow your focus best on the way that his breaths would rise and fall and the way this his body heat would melt into yours under the mess of sheets that neither of you bothered to fix. He would use his thumb to rub reassuring little strokes into the back of your neck where he had you. 

Your hand would fall down his arm, all the way down this wrist where his scar lived. Ever since you had noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking at it. Every time that you did, you were given a tangible reminder of everything that he had been, and was, to you. You rose the uneven skin to your lips to gift a little kiss to it. 

Changbin tried his best to hide his giddy smirk at the action. 

“Do you have to leave tonight?” You settled his arm around you once more. 

“No. Not tonight. But, for the next few days I don’t think I’ll be able to. They put me on the matinee shifts at the theater. I fucking hate those. No one comes in at all so it’s like I’m just sitting there.” 

“Wanna sneak me in some time this week? I should have a break.” 

“I would but...I’d prefer to keep that job. As much as I hate it.” 

“We could do something this Thursday? You aren’t busy on Thursdays as much right?” 

“Ahhhh I think so.” Changbin rolled the two of you over, allowing himself to lean over top of you. With a sly smirk he lowered his voice to say, “You know, my ribs really aren’t hurting as much any more.” 

“Oooh? Good to know.” You ruffled his curly strands. 

“I’m trying to say that I can go for another round if you would like to?” He bowed his head to kiss lightly into your neck and the fading love bites that he had put there himself. 

Your eyes wandered to your clock telling you that it was nearly 2 in the morning. If you had better judgement, you would’ve said no. But, these days, judgement wasn’t something that you took too seriously. 

He kissed down deeper, and pulled at your skin just in the way that he knew you liked it. Changbin knew the ins and outs of you perfectly, as well as exactly what to do send you quivering under him. All he had to do was press his body into yours so you could feel his weight, and it made you fold just for him. He followed his kisses up your jaw where he then lead them into your bottom lip and over every angle that your mouth would crave him. He often didn’t mean to do it intentionally, but between your parted mouths, his tongue would sneakily find yours, and he would slowly slide it against yours. 

“Do you want to?” He muttered between kisses. 

Under the covers, his hand cascaded down your side in a way that tickled slightly, but also made you shiver. 

He broke from his kiss to hold your eyes seriously. “We don’t have to.” 

“No, I want to.” You reached up to hold his sleepy and puffy face in your hands. 

Changbin said nothing more, but instead returned to weaving kisses back down your neck. Under your waist, you felt him angle up your hips higher and the heat of his tip teased at your entrance still slick with your arousal from before, and now renewed. He bowed his head down to your chest to pump himself with a few muffled grunts. After, he rose his head to hold your eyes with his own. The muscles on his arms flared where he held himself up, and those adorable little stretch marks in the corners of his arms moved with them. 

“God, you’re so beautiful.” 

You melted under his compliment. No matter who many times he had said it, you still weren’t use to it. 

“So are youuuu.” You said with a dreamy tone. One other thing that you had figured out about him was that returning such comments to him made him a flustered mess. It was utterly adorable for someone as stoic as him at times. 

“Psh.” He scoffed, then lowered his voice once again. “Beautiful how I fill you up sweetheart?” Changbin angled your waist up higher, then spread your thighs, finally pushing them into your body to tighten you. He aligned himself over you, then pushed himself in agonizingly slow. “Beautiful how I can fuck you so deep? How I can m-make you...” 

He had given up on talking, but rather thrust himself further into you with his shaking breaths and little “mmm’s” getting caught on his tongue. 

“B-Bin...fuck, f-feels s-so good--”

He pushed your legs up closer to your body, allowing himself greater access to graze your g-spot. Your busy fingers found their way around his back to claw all the way down. He still relished in taking his time with you, and would never rush fucking you--it was as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you. You returned around him, tightening has he fucked in and out with his own pace. After a while of doing the same, his hand crept around your neck to give you a couple choking squeezes that made you whimper out like a kitten. He would never keep it going for long however, but rather indulged himself in the way that your gasps would remind him of how good it all felt. After, Changbin dipped his thumb into your mouth to run the pad over your tongue. 

The tip of his teeth caught the skin of his lip which he bit into hard. 

“You feel so good baby. F-feels so good on my cock. It’s all for you angel.” 

An unrestrained groan escaped from your mouth as he continued and your orgasm pooled steadily. In and attempt to steady yourself you clawed back into your pillow supporting your head. 

He swiftly changed your position, taking both of his hands to turn you on your stomach. Without a pause he lead his swelling head back into your pussy where he kept on going at his favored slow pace. Your face smushed into the pillow with hips raised in the air. The fluffy fabric muffled your helpless moans. 

“Louder for me princess.” He growled. 

With one hand he arched over to tweak at your nipples with force: twisting and pulling, then he wet his hand with his own saliva to let your skin feel the cold and wet sensation. His other hand he used to reach around and rub circles into your clit. He was gentle at first, but worked your bud harder and faster. Your knees and legs shook the faster he rubbed, and you spilled your loudest and most unapologetic moans into the room that had risen in temperature. 

“Fuck...” He swore. Changbin allowed himself to quicken his pace inside of you. The action alone sent you spinning wildly into your orgasm: a tear of white hot heat that shook your whole body and turned your swollen bud into a sensitive mess under his fingers which did stop, even when when he knew that you had just cum all over them. The harder he pressed, the more wonderfully painful it felt, and you let your tears fall hot from your eyes to the sheet. You attempted to call out his name, but no words that left your mouth made sense. 

He turned your body once more, using brutish hands on your hips as he pulled you overtop of the sheets to fuck you into the bed once more with your sweating back stuck to the comforter. Your body shook with your orgasm still, and you needily brought his lips down to yours to kiss him with your thank you’s as he milked himself out in your tightening walls. 

Changbin was animalistic in the way that he finally let his hips snap over you, at last reaching his orgasm mere seconds after he had pulled out and jerked himself over you. Ribbons of his white cum came spilling out over your gasping chest and stomach and dripped lazily from his pink and flaring tip. He took in shallow inhales as he did, and kept rubbing until the very end and he had nothing more to give. Even as his hand dropped, you took his dick in your own hand to just twist lightly and ride out the last of his orgasm. He softened in your hand with eyes closed in his focus and came down. 

The combination of your lust held in the air for a few silent moments, then he collapsed back down next to you into a blushing and exhausted mess. His pink chest shook, and his soft heather eyes found you. 

“We should...probably take a shower right?” 

“Probably.” You grinned. 

Changbin leaned over to plant even more sugary sweet kisses on top of your lips. He always was one to admire his work, so he chuckled lightly seeing the way that he had properly covered you in his cum. 

“I can help you clean that off.” 

The bed shook and he rose to get you something to clean up. You wished that you could’ve moved to see him saunter around your room without a single piece of clothing on. It was no secret that he had one hell of a cute butt. 

Changbin helped you out of the bed, finding that your legs had started to shake and betray you a bit more harshly than you had intended. He ran the water for you both, inviting you in to take the task of cleaning you to himself. He took the suds in his own hands to brush them all over your body and took careful and gentle attention to the more sensitive parts of your body. He giggled a little at the way that even under the warm water, your nipples would still harden when he ghosted his fingers over them with soap. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” You scolded him. 

He took care of the little bruises on your neck and collarbones, giving them kisses under the clear stream of water as if he was healing them. After he was done, you did the same and cleaned out his hair with your shampoo. He always let out happy little groans when you would massage his scalp. He still had a couple scrapes on his face from a few weeks ago, so you kissed all of them too. 

Changbin’s favorite part was how he could mess up your hair with the towel afterword and make you look as ridiculous as possible. Of course, you would do the same. You would brush your teeth together, and dress somewhat all of the way back again. A while ago he decided keeping clothes at your place was a good idea, but you ended up wearing them more than he did. You blamed it on dirty laundry, but you really did just like the way that they would smell all tangled up in your blankets on your nights alone. 

With bare legs, you would tangle yourselves all up in eachother once more, and not even bother to look at what time it was then. 

As it had become his habit, before the two of you drifted to sleep, Changbin would kiss into your forehead “l love you. You know?” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Chocolatey goodness wafted up Felix’s nose, and he let out a happy little squeal. 

“~Thank youuu~” He beamed to the waitress. 

He took a careful sip not to burn his tongue, then turned his head to watch the way that the snow had started to flurry outside of the diner window. Minho flipped the pages of his book and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Whatcha reading?” Felix said with a little tap of his feet under the table. 

Rather than answering, Minho sighed out and closed his book. “Nothing now. If you’re gonna ask questions, then I’ll get distracted, so, nothing now.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” Felix frowned. 

Minho rolled his eyes, suddenly becoming exasperated over his new friend’s dramatic reaction. 

“It was something that I’m assigned to read for one of my classes. It’s about economics or something like that. I’m kind of just skimming; reading because I have to....” He took a sip of his coffee. “Y/n should be reading the same book considering that we are in the same class...but I haven’t even seen you with it yet.” 

You prodded at your plate of half eaten waffles. “About that...” 

“If you think that I’m gonna give you the SparkNotes you are sorely mistaken.” 

You writhed in your seat a bit like an upset toddler. “Come onnnnn, Minho, you know that I don’t have time for that, working at the library and such...”  

“--More like stealing my roommate from me. I hardly see him at our apartment anymore.” Minho made his remark with a type of snark, but knowing him, he was still just as sarcastic. 

“Yeah,” Felix piped up. “The three of us haven’t hung out in a while either!” 

“...Sorry, I’ve just been getting...caught up in things.” 

Minho cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that its a bad thing. It’s just something that I’ve noticed.” 

Felix nodded, “Me too! I’m really happy for you!! So is Chan, don’t get me wrong. We haven’t seen you so happy and like, not serious in such a long time. Really, I’m so so glad that you have someone like him for a boyfriend.” 

Your fork scratched your plate. “--Boyfriend?” 

“Yeah!” Felix beamed. “Isn’t that what he is?” 

Minho too held an expectant gaze. 

“I-I don’t think...we hadn’t really talked about what it is that we’re doing...or are.” 

“So you’re saying that he’s not your boyfriend?” Minho cocked his head in his confusion. “Well, you ask him and he’ll think that it’s a different story.” 

“H-he talks about me?” You sat up straighter. 

“Well, he hasn’t explicitly said anything, but the way that he never shuts the fuck up...” Minho suddenly became much more interested in his coffee. 

“What? You don’t want him to be your boyfriend?” Felix looked just as confused. 

In your hands, you crinkled up the napkin that you had resting on your lap. You hadn’t in fact, ever thought of such. Merely, you had thought that you loved him, and that you enjoyed being around him and that he had made you happy. Was it odd that the thought had never crossed your mind? 

“And he hasn’t said anything about it either?” Felix leaned in. To his side, Minho nudged his arm in the most non-obvious way possible. 

“...No?” 

Your heartbeat quickened in pace. 

“Af...after everything that happened back then? Didn’t you say that he like, confessed or something and you did the same? You’ve only been hanging out with eachother for weeks?” Felix pushed his cocoa away from himself to lay his hands flat on the table. 

“I...don’t think that we should press the issue.” Minho patted down the boy sitting next to him. 

It was the feeling that you had been avoiding for weeks: that kind of uncertainty and fear that you had pushed down so far after the night that it all came together, but you didn’t expect it to manifest like this. In your chest a knot tied itself together tightly and in a way that you couldn’t explain. 

“I...just like what's happening right now between us, I didn’t think that he would want--” 

Felix nudged Minho by the hip, motioning for him to let him out of his side of the booth. Minho rolled his eyes, but did so muttering, “I said we shouldn’t press the issue but here you go...” 

Felix slid over to your side of the booth, nearly shoving you up close to the wall with how near he scooched to you. Carefully, he removed the napkin that you had scrunched up into your palm. 

“Relax okay? You’re doing it again. Just calm down.” While his tone was sweet, you couldn’t help but find some condescending edge--real or not. 

“Doing what? I don’t think that I’m doing anything wrong??” 

Felix let you squeeze his hand tight, as patient as ever. 

“Do you not want him to be your boyfriend?” He repeated. “But he treats you so nicely? There’s nothing to worry about.” 

At first you were angry at yourself, angry at yourself for feeling the hot tears well up in your eyes in public, 

I’m so fucking pathetic. 

Secondly, you were furious at yourself for feeling anything less than the happiness that had made up your whole world for the past few weeks. You had worked so hard just to make something that made sense, and he made sense. Why did it have to be much more complicated than that? 

“Y/n?” Felix bowed his head down with his softening gaze. 

“F-Felix, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“I’m just trying to understand so I can help you out with this. Clearly there’s something that’s upsetting you about, I don’t know, putting a label on it? If that’s the right word--” 

Minho sucked at his teeth, “He’s too nice to say that you’re self sabotaging again. Listen, you don’t have to have the answers right now, we’re just saying you’re getting in your own way at having something that could be really great.” 

Felix shot daggers in Minho’s direction. 

“I wasn’t gonna say this, but Bin’s been going through shit right now with his family that I’m sure he isn’t telling you about. Someone tipped them off about what he’s been doing and they’re furious. He’s been telling them that no one knows that he’s tied to them when he raps but they aren’t listening. Literally when he goes to see you it’s like, what’s helping him forget all that shit. He cares about you a fuck ton, and I’ve heard about it all. He wants you to be his girlfriend. Believe me. Don’t know why he hasn’t brought it up yet, but...” 

Felix took in a shaky breath, then turned his attention back to you. “Besides all that, I think that you should at least talk to him about this all. I had no idea that you felt this way. I’m sorry for making assumptions. At least, if you and him talk about it, you can figure something out right?” 

You took at the papery and crinkled napkin and dabbed it harshly on your eyes to dry your tears before they had a chance to run further down your face. 

“Why the fuck doesn’t he tell me anything?” Your voice wavered. 

Minho folded his hands on the table. “Knowing him, he probably thinks that it would be burdening to you. Selfless dick. He thinks that putting that shit on you somehow makes him seem like a handful or some shit.” 

“B-but I don’t feel that way?” 

“Then tell him!!” Felix’s volume rose. “When you talk to him, tell him that.” 

“What the fuck is this, a drama?” Minho laughed a little. “These communication skills are god-awful.” 

“Oh fuck off Minho,” Felix rubbed your back to soothe you. “This is real life, and we’re here to help out Y/n.” 

“That’s fuck off Minho-hyung to you.” The older boy stuck out his tongue. 

You wiped your nose against your hand, then Minho threw another napkin from the holder in your direction. 

“I promise that things will get better when you talk to him.” Felix nodded. “Talking always helps.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Thursday afternoon came, and the forecast had called for snow, but none had come. Rather, the atmosphere had turned to be dreary and grey the whole day long, and the temperature dropped so low that some local schools had to cancel classes for the day. Your university had decided to do the same. While you had been thankful and decided to spend the day working on your various projects, you couldn’t bring your hand to the canvas. 

All day long you had spent figuring out what it really was that you wanted to say to Changbin, and you still hadn’t figured it out yet. Even you didn’t know what it was entirely that scared you deeply. But, you knew that somewhere you did. 

Why her? 

You could do better. 

Isn’t she...boring? 

You hugged your legs to yourself as you waited on your couch. The memories seeped into your brain like some kind of poison diffusing its way. 

No, no. You’re wrong. You tried your best to banish them. 

You’re all mine. No one else’s. Don’t you ever forget that. Tell me. Who’s baby are you? 

You squeezed your eyes shut, and dug your nails into the fleshy part of your knees where you held them. 

You don’t own me. You don’t have the fucking power. 

Three knocks clicked at your door, and you knew that it was Changbin. Your chest shook with a type of anxiety that felt like prickling thorns. You rose to open the door. 

“Fuck. It’s so freezing out there.” Was the first thing that he said. “I wouldn’t mind not having to go back out there if you are?” He slung his coat over one of chairs to your two person dining table. As soon as he was undressed, you were overcome with the desire to be as close as possible as you could get to him. It had been your safe place. 

Changbin let out a little surprised noise when you launched your body at him, but he just as quickly held you back firmly. 

“Is everything okay?” 

For a moment you let his rosemary and cedarwood cast aside all the ideas and words that ate away at you. 

“Can we talk?” You mumbled. 

“Yeah, of course. Can we sit down? Get a blanket maybe?” You nodded and let him do the work of going back to your room to get back your knit blanket that he knew you liked best. He threw it over his shoulders them beckoned you to join him in his arms. You snuggled right up into his chest where he had tucked himself into the corner of the couch. “Want to talk about it now?” 

With glistening eyes you tried your best to look up at him. His cheeks were still bitten pink from the cold. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about your parents? Or about what’s going on right now?” 

Changbin sighed and bit at his lower lip in his discontent. “Minho said something didn’t he?” 

“You can tell me, you know?” 

Changbin shook his head. “It’s not your problem to worry about, so I don’t want you do.” 

“But you’re my problem to worry about. Don’t you get that?” 

He sighed once more, then rested his head atop of yours. Where he held you around your arms, he rubbed gently.  

“And if...being with me helps you...I’ll come around anytime alright? You don’t just have to come here.” 

He laughed a little. “My place isn’t as private as yours is.” 

You toyed with the fraying fabric of the blanket. “You know that I can be quiet if I need to be. Or if you just want me to sleep over, I can do that too.” 

“I don’t want you going out of your way--” 

“--I don’t mind.” You nuzzled a little deeper. “So, your parents are giving you a hard time?” 

He tsked. “Yeah. It’s just...stupid is all. They care so much about what I do and don’t do when I left so it wouldn’t bother them. They’re trying hand out some kind of threats to me like they have the right to do so....they don’t.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

Changbin helped you up a bit higher up his body so your head could rest on his shoulder. “Nothing. Keep doing what I’ve always been. No one knows except the people I have closest to me. They’re worrying over nothing.” 

You formed a “oh” with your lips. 

“But, it’s nothing to worry about. I promise.” 

Already, you had forgotten what you really had decided to talk to him about. It had slipped from your mind just as quickly as you had let it arise. The two of you grew quiet, and you let yourself become overcome with the feeling and warmth that his body and the blanket gave to you. You wondered if he would’ve gotten mad if you had fallen asleep just then. It didn’t seem like the worst idea.

“As long as we’re talking about things, do you mind if I ask you something?” Changbin asked after planting a small kiss on your forehead. 

“What’s that?” You said with a sleepy and cracking voice. 

“You...don’t have to have the answer right now, but I just thought it would be worth it to ask, since we’ve been doing you know, this, for a few weeks now. You already know how I feel about you, I think that I’ve made it pretty damn clear, but, I was thinking that we could make things exclusive between us? Like, it just becomes me and you?” 

Drip by drip, the drowsiness that had swept over your eyes dissipated. 

“Would you be up for that? I just, it seems a bit odd to me that we haven’t talked about it yet considering...well, I think that it would be easier if we knew what we were so then we could, I don’t know, plan or something like that? It’s kind of a commitment, I know, but I want you to know that I’m willing--” 

“Bin...” You pulled yourself up from his chest. 

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? Did-did I say something wrong?” 

Who’s baby are you? 

“You want me to...be yours?” 

“Well, not exactly, you know what I’ve said before, but, I would like you to be my girlfriend--” 

A sob clogged your throat. Now that he had finally said it, the realizations came flooding over you like the deathly winter chill. 

“Angel, are you scared again? I told you that you don’t have to with me, I swear that I don’t ever want to hurt you or anything like what happ--” 

“--Like happened what? Back when I was so fucking stupid to get myself locked up in something that I thought would be good for me? Why is it that you want me to be your girlfriend, huh? I-is it because I-I fall over for you? I can’t run away from you? Am-am I just a good fuck for you? What is it?” 

“What the fuck? Where is this coming from? Y/n, you know that I love you, I fucking love you like crazy and I don’t think any of those things!! I’m not trying to restrain you our use you or anything like that, I don’t know why the hell you would think that!” 

“B-because you might not now, but what about later down the line...when I get boring or you figure out that I’m not as exciting like I used to be or--” 

“--What?! No! That’s not gonna happen!” Changbin reached out to pull you back into his arms, but you shook him off. 

Salty tears filled the corners of your mouth. “The last time that I-I did something like this, I--” 

“--Well this isn’t last time, this is this time, okay? It’s different! I swear to God that I’m not that fucking asshole. I get that you’re scared, okay, that’s totally understandable, but I’m asking you to trust me alright? Can you trust me?” 

Part of you wanted to trust him. In fact, a much larger part of yourself wanted to trust him so bad, it hurt. But, a smaller part of you, a much smaller part of you still screamed into the abyss that he was the last person in the world that you could trust; and that voice, was much louder. 

“I want you to be my girlfriend, and I want to give you everything that I have. All my fucking time, my attention, hell, just minutes ago you said that I was your problem, can’t you be mine? Is that not allowed? I’m just...I DON’T get you!!!” Changbin growled out the tail end of his sentence and only after he had said it he realized it was much louder than he intended. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...please. I’m not mad at you.” 

Your body had weakened, so when he had reached out for you, you let yourself fall into his arms. 

“Angel, can’t you see that what I’m trying to do is the complete opposite of what you think I am? Yeah I mean, it would be nice to call you my girlfriend, but not because I’m trying to control you or anything, but because...fuck, you make me happier, made me feel like I’m less lonely in this fucking crazy-ass world. I want to be that for you and you only.” 

Poisonous thoughts. Why were they even more alluring than the antidote that you had right in front of your face? 

Your limp body mustered up the strength of push yourself off his chest. Looking into his eyes you felt numb. With all the care that he held for you, you felt as if you didn’t deserve one single ounce of it. 

Why her?  

You figured that in some parallel earth, you would’ve been able to have said yes. In that parallel earth, nothing bad would’ve ever happened, and you wouldn’t have been crouched in that alley with snow melting into your dress. You would’ve lived a normal life without pain and doubt. Maybe you would’ve met him there too, and you would’ve been able to say yes. 

“You...don’t have to have the answer right now, but can you please consider it...for me? I meant everything that I said, but I...I also can’t wait forever.” You heard his voice grow thick. “I know that if...you can’t do it, or iff you don’t know, then I can’t just make it happen. There’s not a lot else that I can do. But at least I want to try.” 

You could do better. 

“I-I think that I need to be alone...right now--tonight.” Two more hot tears fell down your cheeks with a sting like a papercut. 

“Right now?” 

“Yeah, just--there’s things that I need to think about, I don’t..I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

“No. I understand.” Changbin sniffled. 

Slowly, your two bodies seperated, and the heat from his body faded. You thought to yourself, it wasn’t yours to keep in the first place. 

You lead him quietly to the door where you watched him lace up his shoes and throw on his coat. His eyes had become puffy, as much as you figured you had looked as well. His grey eyes looked tired, just like the dreary day that you had spent all day hiding from. Still, he smiled. 

“Y/n. I know that you think that you’re hard to love. But you’re not. If you take away anything from this, I hope you know that your past doesn’t define you, and that you can have happiness after it all. I want to be that for you. If you’ll let me. Only if you’ll let me.” 

Your clogged nose made a horrible stuffed sound and you nodded. You had listened to his words, but had you heard? 

He sighed with finality, then bent down to kiss at the salty taste on your lips. 

“Call me, okay?” 

You closed the door after him, then collapsed down the door. Your pent up sobs flew out of your chest with loud and ugly sounding sobs. Each one hurt more than the last to get out. You crumbled against the wood door, and didn’t even mind the cool draft from under the crack. Your world became a blur in front of your watery eyes and your hands shook as they took your phone from your pocket. 

Words of self loathing filled your ears as you searched up the name, but it was the only one that you could think of in your blind emptiness. 

If only things could go back to the way that they were. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

The walk to his apartment was cold, freezing even. You had worn the shoes that you had been scolded for, and the coat that provided you with barely any warmth. You knew the way to his apartment well--it was almost muscle memory by now. Streetlights passed you overhead, and finally the snow that was promised started to drift from the heavens and before you. 

Your hands cracked with the cold when you pushed the button to his intercom, and he buzzed you in without saying a word. You showed yourself up the staircase with empty sounding footsteps echoing against the walls. Your eyes had welled with tears once you reached his floor, but you blinked them away harshly. It was a futile attempt considering that he would see how red your eyes had become. 

His door was cracked with old paint, and the number had been scratched off with age. You knocked one time, no more than that. Somewhere a tiny voice had hoped that he wouldn’t hear the knock at all, and figure that you hadn’t even come up, and that you could quietly slip back away. 

But he didn’t. He must’ve been waiting. 

He too looked to be a mess: his cheeks and eyes had puffed up and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. He wore minimal clothing that hung loosely on his frame. 

“--Jisung--” 

Before you could say any more, he had leapt into you, and wrapped his arms around you so tightly that he could’ve rid you of all your breath. 

“Baby, thank you so much for coming. Thank you so much. I’m sorry how I acted at the concert. I just missed you so much....I missed you so much.” 

[fific7]

Dangerous and Divine - Part 17

Billy Russo x Reader

Summary: Billy Russo is an itch you don’t want to scratch. But he’s all over you like a rash.

A/N: This does not follow canon, it’s mainly fluff & lemon zest 🍋 Hopefully you’ve guessed by now that is my “Billy Russo Deserves Real Love AU” as I totally refuse to accept what happened in S2! The GIF is from Exposed, unreleased pilot show in case you’re wondering 😌... Billy vibes.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW due to sexual content including oral and unprotected* sex between consenting adults. Some drinking & swearing.

*Irl, please don’t go wild in the country without protection.

(My GIF)

“Are you sure about that, Billy?” He laughed nervously, but replied, “Very sure, sweetheart.”

You thought that was really brave of him, considering you were holding his favourite weapon in your hand. You shrugged, “I’ll get the information out of you one way or another, Russo.”

He laughed, “You’ll need to get past all the Marine training first, sweetheart!”

You rolled his cock between your palms then gave his balls a long firm squeeze, hearing a loud groan from him. “What was that you were you saying, sweetheart?” you snarked back at him. Laughing, he gasped, “Do your worst!”

You wrapped two fingers round his tip and squeezed quite hard, eliciting a low grunt from Billy. Then you really set to work on him, using a lethal combination of your mouth and hands. You could hear him whimpering above you, but thought you’d better not risk calling him a puppy again.

“What’s this surprise, hmm Russo?” you asked, before swirling your tongue right around his tip and down onto his slit, teasing it before dragging your teeth very gently down his length. Billy thrashed on the bed, crying out and grabbing a handful of your hair, “uhhh... unnhh!!!” You were now licking his cock very slowly and deliberately; all of a sudden Billy’s hips jerked forward like a pile driver, he shouted “Fuck!!!” and came, really hard.

You daintily wiped a finger across your lips once you’d finished swallowing Billy’s come and rested your chin on his chest, giving him your version of puppydog eyes. “Aww, c’mon Billy, tell me!” You tickled his lower stomach and smiled when you saw the muscles rippling and contracting under your touch. His head was lying right back on the pillows, chin upturned towards the ceiling and you gazed fondly at his beardy neck. He was huffing out breaths and finally tilted his head down towards you, gazing at you with wide eyes.

He merely shook his head, saying nothing and still gasping. “Cat got your tongue?” you teased, remembering how he’d ribbed you for being speechless after sex. His husky voice said, “No, an angel’s got it,” smiling down at you and you stuck your tongue out at him. “Whilst that little session just blew my goddamn fuckin’ mind as well as my balls, I’m not cavin’, sweetheart,” he smirked. “You’re just gonna have to be patient.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

The next morning, you were gently shaken awake. You forced your eyes open, rubbing them while yawning, only to see Billy standing over you, bare naked and holding a tray. “Breakfast in bed, sweetheart,” he cooed, putting the tray down on the bedside table beside you. Trying to drag your eyes away from the view currently being presented to you, eventually you managed to stutter, “That.. uh, that’s uhh really sweet of you, Billy.”

Of course the Russo Smirk was in place, and his hands were now on his hips. He knew exactly what you were looking at, and why you were losing your words. He was putting himself on display for you like a peacock, you thought. Then your mind skipped to all those nature programmes you’d watched, where the female of the species sat on a branch and watched the males displaying themselves, before picking the best of the bunch and mating with them.

Hmmm, you thought, Mother Nature had something there - better than the humans did. Although you did take offence over the fact that the females were usually always small and dowdy and boring-looking. While they did get the pick of the males at the end of the day, you weren’t happy with that aspect of things. However, you suspected that underneath those unassuming exteriors, the females were actually done up like guest contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race, and gave their chosen males a massive shock when they reached the bedroom (nest, hole in a tree, rainforest, whatever) and unveiled themselves in all their true splendour.

You tore your thoughts away from nature and its mysteries, and found yourself still staring at Billy’s lush body. Then you realised he was waving his hand in front of your face, “Hey! Hello! Hey, sweetheart!” You stared up at him, “Oh, uhhh, sorry - I was thinking about birds of paradise.” He burst out laughing, “Huh?” You shook your head, “I’ll explain it to you sometime. I’m not as crazy as I sound.”

He leapt full-length onto the bed beside you, bouncing you up slightly off the bed in the process. Reaching over and picking up the tray from the side, he placed it carefully on your lap. Your eyes widened in pleasure as you looked down at the plate... he’d made Eggs Benedict! “Oh my god, Billy - you didn’t!” He smiled, looking smug, “You told me it’s your favourite! Well, alongside scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. An’ I’ve already shown off my scrambled eggs to you, so here ya go... my Eggs Benedict but without the ham. Just like the lady ordered.”

You picked up the paper napkin and unfolded it, noticing that Billy had drawn a big heart on it with a little smiley face in the middle. Chuckling, you turned it towards him, “Really? Are you sure you were in the Marines, Billy Russo? A sniper? Trained in unarmed combat and still walking around with weapons concealed in every available part of your body??!!” He smiled, looking down at the tray and fiddling with the edge of it, face that cute shade of pink again.

His eyes came up and met yours again, “I know, I know!” Laughing, he carried on, “Look, angel... this is all still a bit unreal for me, okay? Spent my whole life bein’ a ‘never get involved’ kinda guy, to put it mildly - and politely.” His hand went to your face, and his thumb ran gently over your bottom lip. “Met you, an’... an’....boom! It’s like I’ve been hit by a fuckin’ grenade or sumthin’.” He laughed, “Knocked me clean out I reckon, yeah. Woke up and hey - I’m stoned in love with you. Still tryin’ to get my head round it, but it’s how I feel...” he shrugged, still stroking softly, “...maybe this is payback, y’know? Fate just thought, there’s that Billy Russo runnin’ all over town with lots of different women, let’s just teach him a lesson.”

His big dark eyes met yours, an apologetic look in them and a lock of hair falling cutely over one temple. He continued, “Let’s hit him so hard with a case of love at first sight it’ll knock him into next year, never mind next week.” His hand moved to your cheek, laying it gently against it, “And here I am. A lovesick Romeo, as a certain person put it. I’ve fallen so hard and so fast for you and it really, really scares me. I think if you left me, I... well, I think I’d die. I love you so damn much, angel.”

You were staring at him, mesmerised, as he spilled this to you. Couldn’t even get irritated at the passing mention of the Scorned Woman. Feeling your face blush, and sure you’d melted into a human puddle, you leant towards him and kissed him. With passion. He kissed you back, arm going round your neck and pulling you closer to him. You pulled away, putting your lips to his ear and whispering, “I love you, Russo.”

He reared back, a huge smile on his face, “You said it! You said ‘I love you’ to me!!!”

Still blushing, you nodded, “Uh-huh, I did.”

He grabbed you and pulled you up against his chest, and you heard a deep chuckle, “I knew pester power would work one-a these days!”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You’d untangled yourself from him after that, saying that your eggs were getting cold. “Hey!” he said, “.... we’re talkin’ ’bout serious stuff here, sweetheart!”

You smiled, “Food is serious to me too, y’know!” He’d shaken his head, mock-sulking, “Okay then, here we go.” Your hand went to the cutlery, but he grabbed it before you could. Then he cut into one of the poached eggs and toasted sourdough base, and you watched entranced as the egg yolk slowly ran out of it like liquid gold and mixed in with the hollandaise sauce.

He made another couple of cuts with the knife and then stuck the fork into the bit of egg he’d cut off for you, swirling it around to pick up more sauce. “Open up, sweetheart,” he grinned, a suggestive look on his face. Rolling your eyes, you did as he said, and he placed the dripping forkload carefully into your mouth. Savouring it as you chewed, you mumbled round the mouthful, “This is really good! Did you make the sauce yourself? Or did it come out of a jar?”

Billy looked outraged, “A jar!! A jar??” he growled, “No, it did not! It was made from scratch by these fair hands,” and he held up his big hands in front of you, turning them back and forward. You looked lovingly at them; you adored Billy’s long slim fingers. “Okay, Chef - sorry I’m sure!” you laughed.

You’d let Billy feed you another forkful before grabbing the knife and fork off him, and then you started cutting up and shovelling the eggs into your mouth in a rather unladylike manner. Billy looked a bit offended, and you realised you’d spoiled his little romantic moment, so you ran your fingers through his hair, saying guiltily between mouthfuls, “Too slow, sweets. They’re getting cold, plus I’m really enjoying this so I needed to speed up my intake.” A small smile played over his lips, “Okay, then.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

After breakfast and a nice soak in the bath together, where you absolutely didn’t give Billy a helping hand when he got a sudden and rampant hard-on (okay, yes - you did), the two of you threw on some casual clothes and went out for a walk to make the most of the sunny morning. He slid his hand into yours and interlinked fingers with you.

Billy’s place was on the Upper East Side in Lenox Hill, while you lived on the Upper West Side in the Lincoln Square neighbourhood, so you were on familiar territory as he steered you towards Central Park. Strolling through the park, no particular place to go, people-watching as you sat beside The Lake in the sun for a while. The two of you talked about a whole load of nothing before deciding to go for a late lunch in a diner Billy knew and liked back in his neighbourhood.

As you ate, you noticed that Billy was fidgeting quite a bit and kept looking at his watch. You poked him with the blunt end of your fork, “Billy!” He jumped slightly, and you carried on, “You’re fidgeting. Have you got somewhere to be or something? - you’re checking your watch every two seconds!” Not meeting your eyes, he cleared his throat while shaking his head, “Nah, angel - just keen to get back out for some sun and fresh air.” You laughed, “Well, Manhattan fresh air.” “Yeah, true,” he said, now looking at you, “...you nearly done?” “Not quite, Billy, got some beer left too.” He stroked your hand, “Oh, no rush!”

You continued to chew on your chicken wrap, watching Billy as you did so. He’d already finished his food and beer, and was still fidgety - pulling at the sleeves of his leather jacket, fiddling with his hair, moving the ketchup bottles around the table and back again.

What is wrong with that boy? you thought. He’s like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. Finally you finished your food and drained the last of your beer. Billy had already paid, bounding over to the counter to settle up without even waiting for the waitress to bring the check.

Once outside and heading back to the park for a further stroll, you tugged at his hand... you were being disgustingly ’coupley’ today, you thought, a bit annoyed at yourself, but what the hell... and asked, “Billy, what’s the surprise?” He just laughed, shaking his head. “Tell me!” Aware that you were sounding more than a bit brattish, you added, “...please, Billy, go on!”

“No, angel, cos then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?” You managed to resist the need to stamp your foot, but your bottom lip was pouting of its own accord. He leant down and gave you a long, sexy kiss and you gave in, resigning yourself to the fact that the tall ex-Marine was not going to confess anything so you’d better stop sulking. You grabbed a handful of hair, and Billy laughed, taking his mouth off yours, “C’mon, sweetheart - let’s head back to my place. We’ll take the scenic route.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Billy took you on a very circuitous route back to his place, and it took well over an hour to make it back there. As you both walked along the hallway towards his apartment, he dug out his keys and then promptly dropped them before he could slot the key into the lock. You stared at him, what the hell was wrong with Russo? Whatever he might be, he was all about precision and attention to detail - he was not a klutz! Now you - yeah, you’d be the one to drop your keys but not Billy!

However, he’d quickly bent down and grabbed them off the floor, successfully unlocking and opening the door this time. You followed him inside, and then your mouth dropped open.

Soft music was playing on Billy’s state-of-the-art music system. There was an intimate little round table sitting in front of the big picture window in the lounge. A string of LED stars was strung across and down the sides of the window. The table was laid for two, looking like a restaurant place setting - gleaming champagne flutes, plates and cutlery, fancily folded linen napkins, a pearly pink peony in a slim vase in the middle, an ice bucket on a stand next to the table, a bottle of Krug champagne sitting up perkily in it. You swung round to Billy, “What....?”

But you looked up into empty space. Your eyes travelled downwards until they found Billy - down on one knee in front of you. A small velvet ring box was held - unopened as yet - in a vice-like grip in those long, slender fingers you loved so much, and Billy’s big dark eyes were gazing fearfully into yours.

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

@blackbirddaredevil23 @galaxyjane @omgrachwrites @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @ourloveisforthelovely @swthxrry

[365days365movies]

March 21, 2021: Orlando (1992)

Tilda Swinton...confuses me.

Like, in a good way. Because Tilda may be the most versatile actor working today. I mean, look at the goddamn filmography, and you’ll see what I’ve mean. I’ve seen Tilda Swinton in a lot, surprisingly, and I don’t think anything I’ve seen was bad. For example, I am an ARDENT defender in the portrayal of the Ancient One in the MCU.

I understand the controversy here, but I actually think this is excellent casting. Especially considering...being comic book-accurate would NOT have been a good idea with this role, if we’re trying to AVOID controversy. But Tilda Swinton FUCKING KILLED IT in this role, and I will always be happy for this choice.

Let’s see, there’s Jadis in the Narnia films, as shown at the top, there’s Snowpiercer, as Mason (an amazing character, and an acting job that Swinton disappears into), Moonrise Kingdom as Social Services, The Grand Budapest Hotel as Madame D., and Gabriel in Constantine. Which is a good segue to the next talking point...

Gabriel is pointedly androgynous, and honestly, Tilda Swinton kind of is as well. You may have noticed that I haven’t used any pronouns in referencing to Tilda Swinton, entirely out of respect. Gonna be a little hard to keep up with, so I’ll be using she/her from here on out, only because those are the pronouns that Swinton’s most recently promoted for herself. She’s also referred to herself as queer of some variety, as well as being famously gender non-conforming.

Which is fitting, given that a lot of that public image began with today’s movie, one of her first big roles. I’ll be revisiting Swinton in the independent movie scene in a couple of months, but this may be a good introduction. Instead of spoiling anything off the bat, I’m gonna jump right in. And so, I present: Orlando. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

We begin with a young man named, well, Orlando (Tilda Swinton), a young man with a feminine appearance and a good upbringing. His name means power land and property, but all he really wants is company. He writes and rests by a tree in the day, but falls asleep by mistake. When he wakes up, he runs back to where he’s meant to be, with a tribute to Queen Elizabeth I (Quentin Crisp) playing in the background. And that’s a REAL song, by the way, actually sung in the 1600s for Elizabeth! Very neat.

A title screen flashes, reading “1600: Death”, and we see where Orlando is meant to be. He speaks poetry for the Queen and her court, but is interrupted by the aged queen, who asks whether or not his poem is appropriate for her presence, as the poem is about youth, and Queen Elizabeth is not that. Orlando’s father (John Bott), who is serving as host to Elizabeth, intervenes on his behalf. However, it doesn’t seem to matter to the Queen, as she invites Orlando back to England to serve as her “favourite”. He accepts, and soon lives alongside the Queen. She quickly promises Orlando much land and property, for him and his heirs, but on one condition: that he does not fade, wither, or grow old. 

The same wish cannot be applied to Elizabeth herself, nor to his father, as both grow old and die soon afterwards. Fast forward 10 years, and it’s a cold winter in England. Visiting Orlando’s vast estate is a woman from Russia, named Sasha (Charlotte Valandrey), and Orlando quickly falls for her. This is to the dismay of Euphrosne (Anna Healy), his fiancée? I’m not sure, to be honest, but they’re definitely involved, and she’s definitely upset.

However, this is also a scandal for everybody else as well, not just because Orlando’s already engaged, but also because Sasha is Russian, during a particularly poor economic period for the country. Euphrosne angrily throws his ring back at him, and Orlando speaks directly to the audience, telling us that a man must follow his heart. The two go to his private cottage, and they start to make out, when Orlando suddenly comes down with intense melancholy.

Because this is such great happiness that he feels, but this happiness too will one day end. Which is, like, the most emo-shit I’ve ever heard, but I’m kinda here for it. And yet, that happiness does indeed end, when Sasha is forced to return to Russia, despite Orlando’s pleading for her to stay. He asks her to meet him at London Bridge, so that they may elope together.

Later, Orlando happens upon a performance of Othello, noting to us that it’s a terrific play. This is as the death of Othello is being played out, so that’s probably foreshadowing, right? Anyway, Orlando leads two horses through the thick fog, waiting for Sasha to arrive and come away with him. But as a storm sets in, there is no sign of Sasha. And Orlando stands there in the rain. Said rain, though, soon becomes ice, underneath his feet, floating away down the river, along with his hopes of a happy future with Sasha. The treachery of women, according to Orlando.

Over the next week, Orlando languishes in his bed, asleep for the entire time. Increasingly more servants are brought up to try and rouse him, only for him to remain asleep, no matter what they do. But then, he wakes up, noting that he can only conjure three words to describe women, none of them worth explaining.

Forty years later, and the title screen cries “Poetry”! And Orlando looks exactly the same. Guess he really took that whole “don’t grow old” thing from Elizabeth to heart, huh? He speaks to a poet, Nick Greene (Heathcote Williams), and gushes about his poetry, which is a pursuit that he loves greatly. But Nick is...well, Nick is kind of a dick, to be honest. Orlando wants only to share his love and his poetry with him, but Nick’s only in it for the money. Not a true artist, and he mocks Orlando’s poetry, which he reads only after Orlando offers him money. And then, he writes a poem mocking Orlando further, which angers Orlando...but doesn’t stop the money flowing to Nick.

Orlando moves onto his next pursuit, in 1700, in the next section: Politics. Now over 100 years old, Orlando becomes an ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, and travels to Constantinople. There, he receives a somewhat rough and awkward greeting, which Orlando is not helping with. They share some Turkish coffee, Orlando has trouble drinking that Turkish coffee, they drink a LOT of Turkish coffee, and they toast to multiple things, including the “beauty of women, and the joys of love.” Orlando pauses at this, and reveals that he is still suffering quite a bit of heartbreak. His Turkish friend, the Khan (Lothaire Bluteau), bonds with him about this.

After 10 years, Orlando has fully retreated into life as a Turkish man. This is interrupted by a British emissary, sent to bring him news of a new appointment and power from the Queen. However, something goes wrong when the Khan arrives and takes Orlando hostage. The city is under attack, and the Khan asks Orlando if he will help against their enemies. Orlando agrees, and gives them arms, and heads to help himself at the walls. There, he witnesses a man dying, and it shakes him greatly. And just like before, he sleeps it off for seven days. And then...she wakes up.

YUP. WHAT.

Yeah, um, Orlando is now a woman. Like she says: “Same person, just a different sex.” Which is a very interesting premise, not gonna lie. Looks like Orlando now has to live life as a woman, which is going to be...difficult in 1700s Turkey. Or England. Or anywhere. Or any time.

Still, Orlando approaches this new life with aplomb, and without really any needed caution. Parading in some awesome dresses, she greets fellow nobility as the lady Orlando. However, the emissary from earlier, Archduke Harry (John Wood), begins to recognize her as similar to the lord Orlando.

In speaking with a group of poets, however, Orlando learns EXACTLY what men think of women in this society, and it’s not even a little bit good. She leaves, enraged and embarrassed. Harry also speaks with her, assuming that she was a woman all along. However, Orlando’s in EVEN MORE shit, as she’s quickly served with papers that are an attempt to take away all of her property and titles, because Lord Orlando is legally dead, and Lady Orlando is a woman, which one of them says is basically the same thing. FUCKIN’ YIKES, BRUV.

Ah, but Harry tries to help by proposing to her ON THE FUCKIN’ SPOT. He believed that Orlando was perfect as both genders, and is happy to do it. However, Orlando understandably refuses, and after Harry tells her that she will die as a spinster, alone and dispossessed, she runs into a nearby hedge maze. And while in the hedge maze, time passes, and her outfit changes to match the period accordingly.

Forward 140 years now! The year is 1850, and a new chapter begins: Sex.

And as she runs from the maze, she runs into who else...but Shelmerdine (Billy Zane), a man who...Shelmerdine? SHELMERDINE? What fuckin’ witch cursed his entirely family line to have THAT name? That’s the kind of family that was named AFTER a bridge, not the other way around! WHAT KINDA NAME IS FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE?

Well, I’ve looked it up now, and it is apparently a real name. So, if any Shelmerdines are reading this...I mean, I’m sorry, but also, FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE? OK, back to Shelmerdine. He’s twisted his ankle falling off his horse, and Orlando is now taking care of him. She reveals, in the process, that she’s about to lose everything. The reasons for that aren’t quite said, but Shelmerdine offers a place at his side, back to the great free land of America.

After having a conversation about the roles of men and women in the world (which is interesting given the context of the film in general), the two fulfill the chapter’s imperative. And we never see the act, but we do get some interesting angles and hand-holding. But the next morning, this post-coital reverie is interrupted by the lawyers from the Queen. The lawsuits have been settled, and Orlando has been legally declared a woman, meaning that unless she has a son, all of her possessions will be lost.

Shelmerdine (I swear, every time I say that name, a fairy gets chlamydia) leaves as well, with the southwest wind. As he heads back to America to fight for freedom, Orlando stands in the rain, facing an uncertain future, and broken fully by the politics of the time period.

And then...the sound of planes overhead. Looks like a new time period once again, heading into the periods of World Wars, and Orlando is now...heavily pregnant. OH. FUCK. Welcome to the next chapter: Birth.

We jump past the period of World War II, and to the 1990s! Orlando is presenting a book to a publisher, and he believes that the book will sell. With her young daughter in tow, she finally goes back to her old mansion, now finally able to go back after losing it 100 years prior. The narration from the beginning repeats, recontextualized for Orlando’s new life. She is over 400 years old, and finally, FINALLY...she is happy.

And that’s Orlando! I think I loved it. Real talk, this was a fascinating movie, and I’m into it. I’m very much into it. I’m sure there’s more to be gleaned from this film, but I’m glad I watched it regardless. More in the Review, though! See you there!

[penwieldingdreamer]

Dante's Prayer - Chapter 1

Thank you all for your likes and reblogs. I'm really happy you liked it. Now on with the next part. Let me know what you think about it and if you want to be tagged. As always thank you @fortheloveoffanfic for being my beta.

Warnings: Mentions of war, mentions of sex, period-typical sexism, canon-typical violence

Words: 1304

Chapter 1

Arrow House, Warwickshire, 1924

"Tommy, you need to consider remarrying." Aunt Polly told him, bouncing Charlie on her knee as she watched her nephew pace behind his desk. "There have been rumors goin' round."

Taking a deep breath, the leader of the Peaky Blinders turned to the older woman. "What would you have me do, Poll, ey? Take the next best woman that's out on the streets?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tommy. You need someone with good connections and money." she told him, hoisting the boy into her arms and coming to stand next to Tommy. “She has to accept that you’ve been married before, that there’s a child. Even though we’re rich now, doesn’t mean that all women of the world will fall over for Thomas Shelby.”

Snorting, the second eldest Shelby grinned at his aunt, although the smile wouldn’t reach his eyes. Not since Grace had been shot because of him. “As you just so nicely reminded us, we don’ need the fuckin’ money, the Shelby’s are already fuckin’ rich. What are you gonna do? Arrange a marriage, just like John and Esme?”

“Stop the cursin’, will you. There’s a small child here.” Shrugging her shoulders, Polly regarded him with a stern look he just knew all too well. “I talked to Johnny Dogs, he knows a family in Ireland. Lots of connections, loads of old money.”

“No, Poll.” he shook his head, opening the silver case to grab another cigarette, hoping to calm his nerves from the nagging of his aunt. “I’m not goin’ ta bring anyone new into this family. There’s enough people to take care of as it is. Who’s to say that family doesn’t have ties to our enemies?”

Smoothing out Charlie’s dark blond hair, Polly Grace shook her head. “Stubborn as a mule, that one.” she muttered to the boy, the corners of her lips moving up into a smile as she heard the two-year old laugh at her. “Even John wasn’t bitchin’ so much. I know why you won’t do it, Thomas, but you need to see reason. Your boy needs a mother and you, you need someone to warm that heart of yours, even if ye don’ believe me. Be ready in a week, Johnny will take you to see your future wife.”

Grunting, Thomas Shelby watched his aunt leave the study, his son perched on her hip. Grace had only been gone a few weeks - or had it really been months? - and yet his family was forcing him to marry some spoiled high society girl, whose only problem would be the perfect temperature of her tea. Letting out a defeated sigh, the leader of the Peaky Blinders sank into the plush sofa Polly had occupied minutes before and looked at the portrait of his late wife. “What am I goin’ to do without you, eh? You shouldna have been involved in my fuckin’ mess, Grace."

Of course there was no answer from her, the smile on her lips stayed forever frozen. Dropping his head into his hands, he breathed in the air filled with tobacco and whiskey, trying to keep every detail of his love in his heart, never to forget her.

Dublin, Ireland 1924

"Edward, when will you tell our daughter that it's not ladylike to run around with a horse like that?" Helene McCann, Duchess of Leinster and Baroness of Kildare, admonished her husband entering the large sunroom of their country home Castletown House.

Sitting at the table with his other two daughters Amalie and Louise, he read the newspaper and only hummed. "What would you have me do, hm? Send her to her rooms and lock the doors?" Andrew, Duke of Leinster folded the papers and leaned back to watch his wife with an amused smile on his lips. "She is just as free spirited as you, my darling."

"Oh no, I'm definitely blaming you on that one. Saoirse has done everything to avoid being a proper lady, no thanks to you, love." she countered, sipping her tea and giving her husband an angry look. “You know that Mr. Shelby will arrive today and I want her to be presentable.”

Shaking his head, Andrew grabbed his pipe and lit the tobacco. "Saoirse is just like your mother's cousin has been. She was a free spirit, too, a friend of nature and I know you often went to visit her. I do believe Mister Shelby will be very lucky to marry her and you know that as well."

Sighing, the mother of three leaned back in her seat and turned her gaze on the gardens, hoping that her youngest daughter would at least be fine while out there riding through the forest behind their home.

Hooves beat against the cold ground, harsh pants of the horse sounded in the silence of the woods as it raced through the trees, nostrils flared and kept its attention on the sounds around him.

“Socair.” Saoirse spoke softly, guiding her stallion through the thick undergrowth. “Calm, my love.”

Since her mother had told her about the arranged marriage, the youngest of three daughters left to find solace with her animals. Her dappled grey White Knight brought her to the flower field she had found a few months earlier. “Good boy, we’re going to stay here and enjoy the sun before those men come.”

With a snort, the stallion stopped and Saoirse jumped from the saddle, taking the bridle off of him. She took a deep breath and brushed her hand over the speckled coat of the horse. “I can’t believe father agreed to that marriage mother arranged.”

There had never been time in her life that she wished more than ever to not be a descendant from royalty than now. Arrangements had been made with Thomas Shelby, leader of a gang in Birmingham. Her mother had told Saoirse that in a few months she'd be his wife and make sure that their connections would help him further his business and standing in politics.

Leaning against his neck, the young woman closed her eyes. "What should I do, huh? I don't want to be a wife being kept in a house as a broodmare. I just, I want freedom."

Both, rider and horse snapped to attention when a twig broke behind them in the woods. "Who's there?" she called, her eyes flitting through the green leaves of the trees.

"It's just I, princess." the man reasoned, his accent thick as he spoke. Moving through the underbrush, Saoirse could see the kind eyes of Johnny Dogs he only reserved for her. "I knew I might find ye out 'ere."

Smiling, she moved in for a tight hug. "Oh, how I missed you, Johnny. It has been boring ever since you left."

"Oh I know," the Irish mused with a smile. "I bet yer mum has had you reciting poetry and embroidery."

Rolling her eyes, Saoirse lightly hit his shoulder. "Don't remind me. I'm not as much the lady she wants me to be. But now, why are you here? Don't tell me he's here already."

"I'm afraid he's 'ere." Johnny sighed, seeing the defeated look darken her eyes. He had known her since she was a little girl, having worked for the Duke in his stables and taught her everything about horses and riding that he knew. "Please Saoirse, it's not as bad as ye make it out to be."

Exasperated, she turned away from her friend, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm losing my freedom to be a gangster's wife so he can further his business while I'll have to sit in his manor and play the lady of the house, greeting guests and giving him children to make him seem good."

"Just give Thomas a chance, once in a while people will surprise you." Johnny tried to reason with her.

tagging:

@fortheloveoffanfic @fics-not-tragedies

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

I’ll Tell You My Sins (So You Can Sharpen Your Knife)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst! A lot! (ends in fluff tho), canon typical violence, briefly mentioned and very vaguely descried torture, blackmailing.

Word Count: eight fucking thousand words what the fuck

Summary: Reader hides important information about her past from both Steve and Bucky, causing serious damage to their relationships with her. When Bucky’s severely (likely fatally) hurt, the Reader tries to finally do what’s right.

Beta: @walkingaline​ and I genuinely couldn’t have done it without her. She’s the sweetest fuckin person.

A/N: I’ve dedicated my life to this for two weeks, and it’s positively the longest one-shot I’ve ever written. I’m rather proud of how it turned out, and the feelings I got to explore. Would really love to know what you think!

It’s- vines, climbing up her organs, endless, crawling, and overflowing, thorns stuck inside her skin, digging in, and the breaths come shorter, clipped, chest weighted. There’s no alleviating this pressure, this overwhelming whirlwind of emotions, chaotic, heavy and filthy, slimy and awful.

The rumble of her engine, a loud interruption to her vicious thoughts, digging their claws inside her eyes, filling them with tears. The world is blurry, but the vibration- it's a welcome distraction. Familiar and strong, her motorcycle drives her at this point, muscle memory leading to the Compound, tears flying off her face by the whipping wind.

She’s booking it. Time barely registers. It’s somewhere between lashing thoughts and trembling fingers that the off-white building rises between the trees, overwhelming and tall, glinting lights always on, no matter the time of night. Somewhere between gasping, fast breaths and stuttering heartbeats that she throws the bike to park and runs, fast passes every lock with her ID and forgoes the elevator, knowing full well that the adrenaline thrumming in her veins will carry her up the stairs faster.

Shoes as if weighed by rocks, she feels slow, stuck in mud almost, liquid cement, sinking, drowning in quicksand as she rounds the corner and- Steve’s there, arms crossed over his chest, busted bottom lip pursed with his top one, a deep sigh swelling his chest. His hair is longer than the last time she saw him, he looks battered and bruised, and she’s known him for years- she can read his face clear as day. And as situations like this always have him, she knows, in the clench of his jaw, the statue-still set of his eyebrows, in his stony posture; he’s as worried as he is determined.

The phone call had been rushed.

She shouldn’t have heard it, about to jump in her shower, had she not forgotten her towel on her bed. Naked, feet padding on her plush rug, she digs in her bedside table for her usually silent device. It’s Steve, and she hasn’t heard from him in nearly a month and a half. Instantly she knows something isn’t right.

There’s only so many seconds it takes for the words to sink in, words like “mission went wrong”, and “hurt”, and “won’t make it”, and “Bucky”. Soon she’s pulling on clothes at lightning speed like the universe depends on it, shower be damned. Keys, jacket, helmet forgone, tears stream down her face as if she’s already lost him, bike kick-started because what else is there to do but be there.

And now? She’s here. And she feels foreign and bizarre, stepping in a space that she barely belongs in anymore. It’s sorta how she imagines entering an old house that’s now inhabited by new residents feels like- it feels the same, but in the same way it feels all too different, strange and foreign; revisiting an old life that’s been made into a new one for someone else.

It really doesn’t matter though, does it? Because she’s not here for herself- not for Fury, not Steve, not for the Avengers, or the missions. She’s here- she’s here for him.

Steps even slower now, approaching the Captain himself, very much aware of her knotted shoulders, her shaking hands. It’s evident, suddenly, in his posture that he knows she’s there. His shoulders stiffen just this bit more, and with a breath with which his chin raises a notch, he turns to see her. One foot behind the other, and he moves out the way, letting her in his spot in front of the window of the room Bucky is in-

A gasp.

Time finally stops.

Unrecognizable. Buried under wounds and bruises, endless tubes- her lost boy, James, Bucky. Tears fall at a new speed, and she allows this moment of vulnerability in front of Steve, allows herself to cover her mouth, her expression crumples, her tears flow freely, and- despite being mad at her, despite having patches to mend (if they can even be mended anymore), Steve is there, solid as always, with a hand on her shoulder, urging her in his arms. Old friendships die slowly, she thinks bitterly, and sinks in the comfort, eyes unable to be torn from the sight before her.

It takes some time, a good chunk of it, to compose herself, to part from Steve’s warmth and wipe the wetness off her cheeks. She wraps her arms around her front and shakes.

“We got ambushed,” he murmurs, and the statement is heavy. There’s guilt, sorrow, she’s sure it’s not fun to recall. “My fault. Didn’t know they were that many, must’ve had false info. Barely got to get him out of there.” She shudders. The image is loud and clear in her mind; Steve limping with the leg he’s currently not leaning on, busted and bleeding, carrying an unconscious Bucky, blood dripping from his mouth. She flinches.

“Can I-“ hesitation. A deep breath, shoulders squaring, remembering she no longer asks, she states. “I want to go in.” Steve stares for a second, calculating, thinking, looks back at Bucky, limp on the bed. He nods.

“Go.”

Before she knows it, the door shuts behind her slowly, an industrial, metal click, signifying a sealed door, nearly impenetrable if it was locked. She tries to be calm, but there’s no way, no reason to look composed either, so she flings herself to Bucky’s side, fingers twitching, hands hovering over him, afraid to touch him in case he frails like a burnt paper, in case he turns to dust and disappears before her very eyes.

Tears, once again, fall freely on her cheeks, tracing paths already carved by the previous breakdown, and the prospect of never seeing his wonderful crystal eyes, blue and loving, tears her apart. Worse so, the idea that the last time she saw them, they were red, hateful, betrayed, staring at her as if she was a monster, nothing more than the true scum of the earth, and he was right, and she will likely never be able to make everything right again.

It feels like  claws are tearing at her chest like it’s low quality linen, destroying every tiny piece of her into infinitesimal other pieces and then tearing those too. There she is, now, nothing but rubble and ash, on the floor, limp and bleeding. Heart far too heavy for her chest, breaking again and again, her temples feel like they’re about to burst from the pressure.

Sitting on the chair next to his hospital bed, her fingers tremble, carefully sliding under Bucky’s still ones, holding his hand between hers gently, like a lifeline, leaning her forehead on it. She sits there, folded, crumpled, and she cries.

~

Y/n’s palms are red and kind of stingy, but she pulls her sleeves over them and keeps holding the scalding cup of coffee between her hands anyways. Eyes closed, she lets the steam warm her nose, lets the scent comfort her, and she imagines, with her headphones plugged in her ears, that she is elsewhere, in her apartment with Bucky, on the fire escape, watching the sun descend beneath the skyline of New York City. She imagines his arms around her waist, sitting between his legs with her own dangling off the metal landing and over the street. His voice, vibrating through his chest, onto her back, murmuring teasingly in her ear, nose buried in her hair and his warmth all around her. It’s peaceful, it’s soft and warm and everything she has ever wanted.

When her eyes open, she’s met with sky blue ones, not the ones she was just dreaming of, and she flinches, suddenly very happy her coffee cup has a lid over it.

Steve.

With a sigh, she takes a calming breath, and pulls her headphones out of her ears, tugged by the wire pinched between her fingers. She places them gently on the table in the cafeteria for guests and low-level agents in the compound. It’s nighttime, and the lights in the cafe make Steve’s hair look golden and glimmering.

“How’re you holding up?” She’s not sure how much he means that, and she knows he’s still very much mad at her for everything that’s happened between them. She knows, however, he’s also the one that called her to let her know about Bucky. She feels heavy.

“I can’t stop fuckin’ crying, if that’s what you’re asking,” she tells him, no care to maintain a strong persona, not in front of the person she used to consider her best friend until not so long ago. She flicks the edge of the lid of her beverage with the tip of her nail and looks up at him. Steve looks better than she does for sure. Not because he cares less, or because he’s slept at all, but because the serum gives him more stamina than her. He’s not as tired as she is, despite the hours he’s been awake for. Still, despite his enhanced powers, there’s purple bags under his eyes. “You?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with a small shake of his head, sighing deeply. She takes that as her answer. Despite wanting to fiddle with something, a way to prevent her hands from shaking, a nervous habit, she pushes her coffee cup towards him, a peace offering, something to hopefully bring him the comfort it brings her. Steve doesn’t touch it. She fiddles with her sleeves instead.

The cafeteria, despite being open twenty-four seven, is quiet. A blanket of silence falls over them and Y/n crosses one leg under the other just to have something to do, something instead of opening her mouth and ruining the temporary civility between them. The words bubble, climb over one another like beasts, up her throat, and threaten to spill- and there’s just so much of them. So many apologies to make, so many explanations to offer, so many please let’s just go back to how we were ’s, so many this is killing me ’s, so many I can’t bear the thought of losing him without at least saying I’m sorry one last time. I don’t want that to happen with you too ’s. It’s all clogging the back of her throat like a spoonful of thick syrup that just won’t go down.

The idea that this might happen with Steve one day too overwhelms her. Two of the people she had found family in now hate her. She can’t let this happen with him, can’t lose him without telling him all of it. The realization; it’s the drop that makes the glass overflow. What if- what if tomorrow, or a month from now it’s Steve on that bed, Steve dying, what if she doesn’t get to tell him all of it? Never gets to apologize? How will she ever forgive herself for the things she didn’t say?

Her eyes well again. Her tongue feels like lead. It’s time.

“I…” She can’t bear to look at him. “Steve, I’m…” a shiver runs violently through her spine. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not Bucky, Y/n.” It’s like a kick in the stomach. She hears what he’s saying. I can’t forgive you for both of us. It almost sounds like your apology is useless.

“Well it’s not just Bucky I need to apologize to.” She looks up at him, and she wills the tears to be held at bay, matching his intensity with her gaze. She clenches her fists, fingernails digging in her skin just to distract part of her brain, to feel less numb. “Do you want to hear the truth?” Steve watches her. His irises bounce between hers, they do a once over of her stance, and she knows how small she looks in her seat, in contrast to him, who, despite his frame of mind, always makes a room smaller just by being in it.

His expression is grim, as he nods seriously. She takes a deep breath.

“This is the truth.”

~~

The older she grows, Y/n keeps thinking that she’s experienced everything there is to. But it truly feels to her like she’s never experienced this kind of cold before. And it’s not- it’s not just external temperature. It’s icicles, lodged under her skin, brutally freezing, causing her to endlessly shudder, tremble like a leaf out in the winter, causing her jaw to lock, her limbs to knot up.

She walks and walks, a woman with a purpose, head held high, as high as a prisoner can hold it and- something really isn’t right with this morning. Something isn’t right, and she can tell because this morning she- she felt something she hasn’t felt in years, something she thought she’d never again feel, a bubble of emotion she truly believed they had snuffed out in her. But it becomes an itch, an itch she can’t seem to scratch, something she can’t exactly put words to, can’t name.

The more she walks, the more the feeling of dread climbs up her throat. This she’s familiar with; fear. Cold and fear, clouding her senses, paralyzing her, as Müller’s door raises in front of her, and she struggles to remind herself to keep walking, keep breathing, one foot in front of the other, inhale, exhale, calm down. There’s no way to escape this anyways.

Director Müller was as tall as his voice was shrill and loud. His features were sharp, glass-cutting cheekbones and dimples that showed far too often. His hair was strawberry blonde and his eyes sunken, as if he was seventy years old with one foot in his grave. His skin looked taught over his bones. Always sharply dressed and always hiding about a dozen knives and pistols somewhere in his office. He liked Japanese jazz, had an affinity for yelling, and drank his whiskey straight. The only affection he’d ever had was reserved for his two small birds, Friedrich and Brigitta, whose singing he adored and who roamed in his office freely.

When he’d first kidnapped her and her older brother, Y/n sat doe eyed and watched as they beat her only sibling, her last relative left alive, to a pulp right in front of her. They didn’t know she had things to offer then. They did it for fun, a show of their capabilities, power play. They did it to break her into submission. When they found out, though, about her knowledge of science, her love for technology… That’s when her life truly ended.

She walks, now, down the freezing corridors, and knocks on Müller’s door three times. Status report straight to me every four days, he’d muttered in sharp German way back when he’d first assigned her missions, back in the beginning, and true to his word, every four days, Y/n was forced to see the skin around his bony face tighten and stretch with another chilling smile.

“Come in,” he yells, and his awful voice bounces in the empty, concrete walls of the corridor. She hears his birds. The door creaks open loudly, metal as it is, and she quickly closes it behind her so that Friedrich and Brigitta won’t escape, something she’s learned to do over the years, after one particular incident no one likes to remember, never mind speak of. He calls her last name with lewd, slimy confidence, supposedly happy to see her, his rotten dimples making an appearance. She sits on one of his chairs, upon his prompting “How’s your assignment progressing?”

“Nicely, sir. I’ve reprogrammed the Chair and fixed previous faults.”

“See, Y/n…” He sits on the plush leather chair behind his desk, hands wringing together and as he says her name, he sits up, elbows on the arm rests. His long lashes and abyssal brown eyes examine her. “I think you’re not telling me the truth.”

“Uh…” Stance maintained, but lips pursed and hands just slightly trembling, she keeps his gaze. She can’t displease him. There’s no room for her failure. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir. There’s… surely ways to improve, b-but the chair- it works well.”

“Ah, but that is not what I hear.” Müller stands up dramatically, rounds his desk with slow steps, and Friedrich starts chirping consistently, sensing the sudden tension in the room, loud, high pitch hurting her ears. She dares not flinch. The cold returns fiercely, heart climbing up to her throat, choking her. This won’t end well. “As a matter of fact,” he leans, rests on his desk, right in front of her, loving his height difference and accentuating it by standing while she sits, a reminder to both of them that he’s superior. Y/n wants to melt into a puddle on the floor, never to be seen again. “I hear that Smith, your test subject… he has almost already recovered.”

Referring, of course, to the poor boy whom they snatched and have provided her as a sick guinea pig, a way for her to test the torture chair they have forced her to make. It’s a requirement, of course, that she tests it on him herself.

“Sir, I don’t think-“

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” In the flash of a blink, he’s pulled a knife from his belt and he’s pushing her back in her seat, by pressing his blade on her throat. “You know what HAPPENS,” a tilt of his head, “when you LIE.” Friedrich is joined by Brigitta, as well as the echo of Müller’s voice, and Y/n’s heartbeat accelerates, her breath is caught in her throat. She feels like her ears are about to burst.

“He was unconscious when-“

“What did I just say?” Lips purse, scared of making any sound that’ll piss him off further. “Seems to me like you’ve forgotten,” he murmurs, flicking his knife shut and narrowing his eyes. He takes a deep breath, straightens up and she doesn’t dare to move an inch, but it feels like her heart has plummeted to the center of the earth, and she wishes it could drag her too, as far away from this as possible. She’s well aware of what’s to come.

 A chilling half hour later she finds herself sucking up tears that’ll only make her situation worse if someone were to see them. The cold, plastic, remote controller is in her hands, and it’s heavy as it’s ever been. She deems herself desensitized of the emotional toll forcefully inflicting torture on innocent people used to take. However, nothing, nothing, could possibly prepare her for what it feels like watching two HYDRA soldiers dragging her bleeding, thrashing brother from his armpits, and forcefully shoving him into the chair Y/n’s made. Director Müller watches her press the appropriate buttons with a sickly smile on his face.

She begs. For the first time in years, she begs God, the universe, something, to save her, to make her disappear. When this doesn’t work, when pleading for somebody to take mercy goes unheard, when the remote feels like the heaviest thing she’s ever lifted, her eyes draw to Müller, who’s watching her intently, waiting for her to carry on with her new assignment.

The millimeters her thumb has to cross feel endless. The process takes eons. The button is nearly unmoving.

Y/n will never forget her brother’s screams.

~~

In the hours that follow, she’s trapped inside her chamber, a tiny room of blank four walls with a hard bed and an open toilet, looking more like a prison cell than anything, the only difference being that in the daytime she’s allowed to come and go as she pleases within the unrestricted areas.

Tears streak her cheeks for yet another night, and the despair has never felt like this before. She thought she’d escape it one day, the guilt, the weight, but it seems she’s trapped, like an ant under a boot, seconds before she bursts to pieces, with the pressure of the entire world on her chest.

The itch grows louder. It’s right there, in the bottom of her heart, something to pay attention to, in her state of absolute isolation and despair. She’s alone, has been alone for so many years, and she wonders, still, why she hasn’t killed herself yet, but the idea that if she does, they’ll probably also kill her brother comes and slaps her in the face. However, what else is there to do? How much torture can she make her brother go through because of her mistakes, how much guilt can she shoulder?

She sits on the bed, counts the bolts that are screwing the vent door on the ceiling, listens to footsteps pass by every so often, and ponders. Silent tears crawl down the curves of her face. She’s lost so much. She hasn’t spoken her native language in years, and sometimes she wonders if she’s forgotten how to.

A pair of heavy duty boots leisurely walk down the hallway, and she recognizes the voices of two guards. Conversation easily flows between them, and Y/n has no choice but to listen.

“Did you hear about the new chair the American has made?” one of them says. Her ears perk.

“The American? No, what about it?”

“They say it’s one of the most painful things they’ve ever used in HYDRA.” Y/n winces.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s what I heard. Wouldn’t wanna find out myself.” The soldiers share a chuckle. “Müller made the American do it on her brother. I hear he died about twenty minutes later.”

Y/n’s heart drops.

He- he’s- he’s dead?

“No kidding. The bastard survived six years. ‘S a wonder he’s lived this long” And as the soldiers pass by, Y/n’s left in her chamber. The silence grows deafening, but the echo of her heart splitting and falling apart, shattering on the hard concrete floor is ear-splittingly loud. All that she’s done, all the sacrifices, all the sheer, iron will she’s had to muster to maintain her sanity, all the awful things she’s done, the blood on her hands, the guilt, the pain she’s caused and- and in the end… he died by her own hand.

Chaos and confusion, an ocean of lashing thoughts violently crashing and pulling her under. It feels like the crescendo of the longest song that’s ever been written, six years of constant playing, and the orchestra’s hands are bleeding on the strings and buttons, coating everything with their own pain, worked down to the bone, and this is it- the minutes before it’s finally over. The roof is about to be blown off its hinges.

The itch is no longer underlying. It consumes her, and she knows, finally. She recognizes it. Escapism. Revenge.

~

Steve’s silent. He hasn’t looked away from her, hasn’t changed stance, still with his arms crossed over his chest and bulging underneath his dark green sweater. He’s staring at her, patiently as ever, with a set to his jaw that she knows isn’t there out of anger, but because he, too, is overwhelmed with emotion. His shoulders are no longer stiff, and he now has a cup of coffee too, finished in front of him. The bags under both their eyes are darker. 

“I didn’t get to kill Müller. But I managed to run away. Barely. I disappeared, travelled to the States. I found Fury and sold all the information I knew about HYDRA and the department I had been held in, in return for protection. Fury took me in.” It’s a lifeless shrug, weighted and tired, and it’s then that Steve glances at his feet, then back at her. “I trained, learned how to fight properly. Used my knowledge for good. Made it to the Avengers in a desperate attempt to make up for all that I had done. ‘S when I met you.”

Steve seems to remember. He recognizes himself entering the story. It’s almost like he’s reliving the time they first met, back on that Helicarrier. A good memory, all things considered.

“There’s little excuse for me lying to you. I know. But please, you have to understand. The burden of getting to know the best friend of the person you’d been forced to help torture for years… becoming close friends with you? How could I ever say anything about anything and have you actually trust me?” She shook her head.

“What do you mean…?”

“They forced me to make weapons, new torture methods, even tried to make me refine Zola’s formula. A way to get a better grip on Bucky’s mind. I didn’t know much about all of it, nor who it was for, wasn’t my field anyways, and Zola’s formula was successful as it was, there wasn’t much for me to add. They later left me to the torture part, not the brainwashing. Even if I had known, though, I wouldn’t really have had a choice in the matter. I did anything I had to do to protect the only family I had left.” He nods seriously.

“We grew closer and closer and I wanted to tell you, to share my guilt with someone finally, but… the prospect of losing you was… too much. I didn’t want to lose the person that had reminded me for the first time in decades what it was like to be cared for. You were-“  a gulp “are like a brother to me.” Steve looks down. “I couldn’t see the betrayal on your face. It- it paralyzed me.

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out, honestly, how was I supposed to know you’d find my file? But don’t think I never felt guilty. It was always there, like everything could crumble at any moment, like a cloud looming over my head, but… I guess I kind of learnt to ignore it. I had found a family, Steve. After years of pain, pain received and pain caused, after so much darkness, I had finally found people who understood what guilt felt like, what it meant to be composed on surface level. I found people that loved me for what I was then and there. The idea of losing that crushed me.

“I know I can’t take it back, but for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Steve.”  

Steve stays tight-lipped, pondering, staring at the table, then at her, then at the table again. He’s carefully controlling his expressions, clearly analyzing the information he’s been given, and she holds her breath. Whatever his reaction is, she thinks, nothing compares to the breath of fresh air she can allow herself to take, free of this awful, lengthy story. Finally, clear honesty, a sort of vulnerability with her best friend that’s different and new. True, down to its core.

It’s the sigh that does it for her. Resigned. Her eyes snap up at him. “You should’ve told me” He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at her, and shaking his head. “I would’ve understood. Nothing would’ve changed.” He looks right at her, very much like a discouraged parent. “What am I gonna do with you?”

And it’s- it’s the way he says it, as if everything makes sense now, shoulders dropping all the way down. The way he just- like he says you absolute moron, but in their own, loving, sibling-like way. As if  he can’t stay mad for too long. Looking at her with the tiniest sympathetic curl of his lip.

It’s relief, because it’s in that half a smile that she sees it all. She sees the forgiveness, the understanding. She sees the love. It’s as if he’s looking at her, saying family, am I right? Despite her situation, for the first time in years, so, so many years, she breathes deeply, breathes oxygen that feels nurturing to her lungs, that makes her think she’s floating, and smiles, apologetically, trying to telepathically communicate I’m sorry for being an idiot. Sorry for not trusting you. Sorry for fucking up this badly. I promise to be better.

She knows, he’ll always be there to give her another chance.

~

It’s moments, a handful of them, in which time and space seem to stop existing, to warp into something else entirely, a world that’s so confused, nobody knows how to put it back. It seems, in those moments, one forgets where they are, how they got there, their brain has not yet escaped from the liquefied dreamland it’s manifested, can’t seem to fit in the strict, square rigidness of reality.

Bucky finds himself in that place. His eyelids seem to weigh about twelve tons, barely feeling his fingertips. It takes a great deal of effort to have thoughts, to- to maintain them, and as his mind slowly starts running a little faster, he remembers faintly, cloudy memories barely registering, that the last thing he saw was three soldiers, that had sneaked up on him, he remembers the gun being aimed at him, instinctively moving and getting nailed in the stomach multiple times.

Wherever he is now, it’s quiet. He worries for a second that he’s been left for dead in the HYDRA base, worries that he’s either dying on the floor or a vague prison cell, resembling something he’s been in already, but he’s comforted by the fact that the surface he’s on seems soft, the lights behind his eyes bright. Whatever the case, he should wake up now, he might need to get up and defend himself.

And as his eyes open, heavy and tired, he meets another pair of gorgeous ones, familiar and soft, and he feels warm all over. He’s- he’s safe. He’s safe because she’s here, and he loves her, with all of his being he loves her, and she’s holding his right hand close to her chest, he feels everything, her warmth, and he knows it’ll all be okay, it’ll all fix itself. He doesn’t have to try.

There’s something lingering just beneath his skin though, a need to recoil. Like a small bucket of icy water thrown over him, because, yes, he loves her, but she betrayed him. She could be out to get him right now, could be working with HYDRA still, and he might be trapped somewhere, and his heartbeat accelerates, because he has to escape and he can’t trust her anymore- until he sees the tears. The tears streaking her cheeks, over old salty marks, and a smile, broken but whole. This isn’t the behavior of a captor, he decides, deems himself, if not safe, then entirely incapable of fighting back, should he need to anyways. Why worry now? Let his future self do the work.

His eyes move around the room, blue-ish gray walls vaguely familiar, and- there’s another figure, another pair of eyes- blue, happy. It’s Steve.

Bucky feels safe. He knows he’s alive. He knows he’s home.

~

Like any other free afternoon, Y/n finds herself on her couch, curled up as much as she can with a book in her lap. There’s a short lamp on the side table, and she leans on the armrest comfortably with her toes curled, flying through pages and pages of words. Her hair is down, she wears comfortable clothes, and has a blanket over her legs. The weather’s been getting colder lately.

A warm sound, four soft knocks on her wooden door, are enough to pull her out of her novel, enough to make her eyebrows stitch together. She’s not expecting anyone.

Her feet are bare and she’s well aware of how close her knives are to the front door, just in case she has to fling herself over and grab one. She presses her eye against the little peephole, but it’s old and foggy and the workers who had once repainted the building managed to cover part of it with small drops of paint and she hasn’t gotten around to trying cleaning it. Doorknob cold under her palm, she tilts and-

Oh.

The first thing she notices is his shirt, a maroon Henley, buried under two more layers of clothes, a brown hoodie and a darker brown leather winter jacket. The buttons on the collar of his Henley are open, giving her a cheeky peak of the skin of his chest. She loves this shirt on him. It feels like someone tugged at her heart from every direction. Longing.

The second thing she notices is that this- it’s Bucky. Bucky standing in front of her door with an expression she’s rarely, if ever, seen on his face before. Her favorite, gorgeous light blue eyes staring straight at her after briefly scanning her down, as if he, too, is making sure she’s actually there.  She is. And so is he. Here. Now. In front of her. Looking at her. Her feet are on the floor, she’s not dreaming, the world is round and Bucky is here.

Oh God. He’s really at her door.

“James…”

He seems to shiver. A shake of his head, something she recognizes as him convincing himself this is happening, then eyes meeting hers again. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. She holds the door less tensely.

“I think…” squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, looking at the floor. “Steve said to talk to you.” A heavy breath. Shoulders awkwardly, tensely shrugging, sorta like a kid forced to apologize by their parent. She doesn’t know how, but her head manages a nod, gulping. She pulls away from the doorframe, makes way for him to pass.

“Come in.”

 New York sounds as alive as it ever does, even at eleven at night, and Y/n wishes she was sitting, because her legs are unsteady. It makes tears well in her eyes, seeing him here again, in her kitchen, looking around absently. The world feels different, much like it did in the Compound when she’d gone to visit him, even if nothing has changed in it apart from them.

Despite the passing cars outside, and people yelling, heard through the open window, it feels quiet. As if they’re the only ones in the world, being here with him feels like a cosmic event. She remembers what it was like sitting here and being so overwhelmed by the love in her heart, remembers what it was like to be surrounded by his arms and held so impossibly close to his chest. She remembers what it was like to look in his eyes and see them so affectionately looking at her, as if she’s everything he could ever ask for, as if she’s the light in his world. The cold of the night and of the space between them feels very much like a slap in the face.

“I know you no longer work for them,” and it truly breaks her heart how part of that statement feels like he’s trying to convince himself, or as if it’s difficult for him to process. How awful, the shift between being someone’s favorite person and being someone who’s trustworthiness is little over questionable. The weight of being responsible for fucking up the most important relationships in her life suffocates her. “Steve told me.” 

There’s nothing to do but nod numbly. She looks at him, watches the warm, glimmering lights of her kitchen fall on the curves and edges of his face, admires the yellow-ish hue outlining his features, making his eyes look iridescent.

She mustn’t cry.

“He told me everything, actually.”

She must not cry.

Bucky doesn’t say a lot of words, but they’re there, at the tip of his tongue, floating in the air like dust particles. In this, there’s a lingering question, a large Why. Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you hide all this from me? Why did it have to be this way?

Y/n looks down. What to say, really?

“I just- I can’t believe-“ she jumps at his loud tone, Bucky never one to have vocal outbursts. She sees the tears in his eyes, gaze lingering away from her, towards the living room for a second before looking up at the ceiling momentarily, then straight at her. His hands are shaking, and she sees it all then. The betrayal, the hurt, despair, the- the loss. There’s no alleviating this pain that overwhelms both of them. She hates herself for this, can’t believe she caused all of it.

“I- I did what I thought would be best for us-“

“No, don’t pull that shit with me.” He glares now and points at her, and she never, ever wanted to be in the receiving end of such an intimidating look. Venom is laced in his tone, harsh and biting, and it feels like the temperature in the room dropped below zero, her spine rigid. “You did what you thought was best for you,” said as calmly as the tears that slowly leak from the corners of his eyes and over the apples of his cheeks are. “In fact, I doubt you thought at all”

That’s not true though. The amount of times she’d sit in her bed, with his arms around her while he slept, weighed down by the lies and the guilt; the guilt of all the terrible things she’d done, and the guilt of hiding them from the most important people in her life. She’d scale the pros and cons of confessing everything, for hours she’d make lists in her head, extensively long, but the cons were always destructively larger and would always win. She’d choose to stay as she was, with them oblivious and happy, until they would finally see her for what she truly was, and she’d convince herself, it would all be worth it for the time spent with them.

“I couldn’t tell you- I couldn’t face the idea of losing you I-“

“So you’d rather lie to me? You’d rather hide your past from me? I trusted you, Y/n.” He hasn’t called her by her first name in so long, and it feels like he just took one of her knives on her kitchen counter and stabbed her straight in her chest with it. “I gave you all of me, I told you every single little thing about myself, everything I hated, everything I’ve done, and I trusted you to have it and- and you couldn’t even trust me to listen to you? To- to understand you?”

She deserves this, she does, but she can’t- can’t deal with him yelling at her and, reflexively, she lashes out- “I was scared, Buck,” –and it’s a pitiful excuse, she knows, but it’s the bitter truth and the reason behind everything. “You have to understand- this isn’t some black and white situation, I thought you’d hate me for everything, I didn’t wanna lose you, or Steve!”

“Scared?” he seethes, walking towards her with angry steps, and she starts stepping back too, entering the living room. She realizes how large he looks, how his anger fills every corner of the room. “You were scared?!” She can practically taste the condescension on her tongue. “And you think I wasn’t?! You think I wasn’t paralyzed you’d run away after everything I’d done? You think I wasn’t terrified of my feelings for you and how fast they came to be?” She wishes she could answer that, but part of her is terrified to know what he used to feel for her and how much of it she actually ruined.

“But I’m a fucking adult, and I dealt with it. You… you lied about everything. Did you even give a shit about how badly you were gonna fuck me over, if I ever found out?”

“Does it look like I fucking like it? You know how sorry I am, how much I hate myself for everything I’ve done to ruin both yours and Steve’s trust in me!”

“I don’t know shit,” her legs bump on the back of her navy couch. “You hurt me- hurt us. We gave you everything, I put my heart on the line for you, and you couldn’t even have a little faith in me to believe in you, and what you truly are.”  A monster rings in Y/n’s brain. Nothing but a monster.

“Please, stop.” Submission. That’s all she has left, by now, because his words ring nothing but true. Because she can’t bear to hear everything she feels about herself being told back to her in his voice, it would literally be a nightmare come true. Everything drains in her body, and it all comes down to this. She just wants all of this to stop, the pain in both of them to stop.

“No,” he hisses, and she can’t really blame him. He’s close to her, about two feet away, and she’s trapped between him and the couch. “I’m not gonna stop just because things got uncomfortable for you, just because you had to come back because I was dying in a gurney. You barely tried to make everything right before that. Do you even care?”

“Don’t you see that I did everything because I love you?!”

Silence. Bucky nearly staggers back, as if the words that have never, before, been said came out and punched him in the face.

“Why the fuck do you think I didn’t tell you anything? Because I wanted to break your heart? No, you clueless asshole, I’m in fucking love with you!” His expression is stunned, eyes wide at her outburst, watching as she takes the steps she needs to close the gap between them. Her finger is jabbing at his chest, which is raising and falling with panted breaths. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, couldn’t take to watch your trust break, couldn’t bear the thought of you finally seeing I’m a monster!” And she breaks down, a sobbing mess now, the tears that once trailed down her face, now endless. She covers her mouth, face crumpled and red.

“I j-j-just wanted us t-to be okay, bec-cause I love you t-too much to fuck-king lose y-you”, As her eyes shut, crying relentlessly in her hand, throat feeling like it’s gonna burst, she feels so eternally cold, as if showered by a bucket of icy water. The idea that she might once again be left alone in the world while someone she loves is taken away, all because of her actions- it’s too much. It takes her back to the worst day of her life, brings back a kind of cold so furious, it knots her joints and sends shudders down her spine- her hands tremble at the thought. She can’t believe how colossally she’s managed to screw things up with him, how much he hates her and genuinely believes she did anything less than care about him. .

Like a tidal wave, the emotions overwhelm her, the self-hate like a boulder that smacked her in the face and threw her down a cliff and now everything hurts, and her stomach feels like it’s climbing up her throat. Her heart tears through her chest, painful and slow, and it’s all her fault, everything, and there’s nothing there to fix it all, to make it better- except, all of a sudden, warm, strong arms curl around her. She breaks down harder, curling in his chest because she fucking missed this, missed his affection, his protective embrace, his comforting smell.

Fists clutching his shirt, she sobs, acutely aware of her tears wetting the material of that maroon Henley she loves so much. The arms around her curl tighter, one hand dipping under her hair to hold the nape of her neck gingerly, keeping her against him, thumb rubbing gentle circles. And it’s then that she hears it, his own sniffling, his chest shaking. He’s crying too. The need to provide the comfort she seeks is overwhelming, and she lets his shirt go, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him together too. “I’m so sorry,” she cries, shoulders shaking, and Bucky shushes her, shaking his head slightly. His arms tighten briefly.

In her crying, she vaguely registers him moving them to the couch, both sitting down, and her curling up into him instinctively. For a while, until she calms down slightly, she lets herself be held and holds him back just as fiercely. It feels like she’s finally letting go, an outburst that frees her of part of the weight she’d been shouldering for years on end. It feels like release, a dam that broke and is spilling every last drop of water that’s been pushing at it for so long.

When she quiets down, when her sobs no longer hurt, no longer feel like they’ll split her ribcage to splinters, when her breathing sort of evens out, she pulls one of her hands to rest on Bucky’s chest, and pulls away to look at him. Bucky’s arms tighten to keep her close.

She’s well aware she must look like a mess, what with all the crying, but this is Bucky after all, her James, the love of her life. He’s seen her under all kinds of light now, and there’s no need to hide. Like he wants, if he is to care for her, after all this, he should care for her for all the things she is, not the things she pretends to be.

Bucky’s eyes are a little less bloodshot than hers. She cups his chin gently and watches his eyelashes flutter, his eyelids softly shut. With her thumb she gently strokes his cheek and notices the way he seems to lean into her palm, lips parting with heavy breaths. He missed her too.

He opens his eyes again to look at her and leans his forehead down to touch hers, holds her closely and brushes the tip of his nose on the bridge of hers so lightly she almost misses it. She sighs. “You have every right to be angry at me,” she whispers to him, pulling her hand back and tucking it in her chest. “I lied, and I didn’t trust you, and I acted the complete opposite way of how I should have. For all of that,” a breath sucked, almost clogged at the center of her chest, “for all of that, I’m sorry.”

Bucky, still infinitely close to her, shakes his head gently. He takes one arm from around her, and she thinks this is it; this is where he says goodbye-

But, gentle as always, he places his right hand on the side of her neck, softly nudges her head up to his and drops his lips on her own, a ghost of a kiss, short and unexpected, before he pulls back and looks at her. “I love you.” He whispers, breath hitting her lips, and her eyes well with tears once again, as she looks up at him. She never thought she’d hear those words, not after everything. Bucky kisses her single fallen tear away, noses at her temple.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, the same way you didn’t think I am one. You helped me heal, helped me learn that those things I did, they weren’t me. I didn’t have a choice.”

“B-but-“

“No, you listen to me.” He tells her, his grip around her body tightening, giving emphasis to his words. “You did what you had to do to protect your brother. What you did… The blood isn’t on your hands.” He has not let her gaze go for a second, and she’s transfixed, tears still overflowing- she wonders when she’ll finally run out of them. “I love you.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I love you more than I thought I was ever capable of. Thinking you betrayed me completely incapacitated me, but I understand you. I see you. I forgive you.”

She gasps, shudders, and in the spur of a single waking moment, lunges at him, kisses him fiercely, holds him tightly. Their lips mold together, and the last pieces of the universal puzzle of the cosmos click to place. Everything settles, mouths moving in sync, desperate, hungry, all the emotions tumbling out all at once, and it’s like the slingshot snapped, and the missile hit the target. She bites his bottom lip, and the groan he lets out comes from deep within his chest, tongues tangling together. His metal arm crushes her against him, hand buries in his hair, their noses smush together, breaths strangled, air shared, and…This- this feels like belonging. No- more like, this feels like coming home.

Inevitably, they part, trying to suck in much needed air, foreheads knocking together gently and chests heaving. It seems like they feed off each other’s personal space, like they hold each other in one piece, while also completing one another. To Y/n it feels like a breath of fresh air.

“This doesn’t mean we’re perfect yet,” Bucky utters gently, not in a menacing way, but as a soft clarification, a request even. “I- I’m gonna need some time.” She’s grateful he even chose to give her a chance at all. Y/n smiles up at him affectionately and nods.

“Of course, Buck. All the time you need.” She caresses the side of his face with gentle fingers, traces his features with a feather-light touch, then cups his jaw. “Thank you.” And it’s weighted, hangs low in the air. She looks at him intensely to make sure he knows she means it. Bucky closes his eyes and leans into her touch, then blinks them open, brilliant, sky blue irises staring right at her. “I love you so much.” He breathes out heavily.

“Say that again,” he whispers. She grins at him as if he’s all good things in the world, because he is.

“I love you, Sergeant Barnes.” A kiss pressed to his cheek. “I love you with all of my being.” A kiss gently tucked on each of his eyelids. “I love you for all that you are.” And she kisses him on his lips sweetly, and he responds like she’s made out of glass, like she’s fragile. He sighs out. They breathe close to each other for a while.

“I know you said you need some time. Do you… wanna go out with me? Coffee? At Michelle’s?” Bucky grins. Their spot. He nods.

“I’d really love that.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. An olive branch. The first step to gain his trust back. There’s nothing Y/n deems more important. With a deep  breath, she knows. She’s ready to do anything, to work her hardest to earn a place in his life, the one he’s so graciously offered her. To get to build a future with him, on steady foundation this time.

Their life begins now. Y/n can’t wait to live it. With him.

~~

A/N 2: please tell me what you thought!

[keeper0fthestars]

Fear and Trust

francisco (frankie) morales x fem reader

2K words

warnings: two idiots in love, language, fluff, so much fluff, cheesy intimate moments, Frankie is husband material

summary: There is only one thing in this world that scares you and that thing is heights

a/n:  based on this trope 

I am so blown away by everyone who reblogs my erratic little scribblings and sends me comments, you fuel me more than you will ever know.  And as always i would love to know what you think. 

~~

In search of your shoes, you walk down the hall in your bare feet, hands occupied with the zipper of your sundress. Rounding the corner into the living room, you find Frankie on the couch tidying the mess books and papers on the coffee table. Focused the space in front of him, he pulls a pair of sandals from under the coffee table, letting them dangle on two fingers. 

“Looking for thes-,” 

And that’s when he sees you. 

He doesn't drop the shoes in your outstretched hand as you expect; instead, they fall onto the couch and he takes your hand, pulling you up to him, knees knocking with his. His gaze is glued to your dress, the way it matches your eyes and fits you in all the right places and flares just above your knees, leaving just enough bare skin for his eyes to latch onto. He doesn't even need to say anything, your skin is already tingling under the weight of his eyes and you forget why you walked into the living room in the first place. His eyes finally drag back up to yours, his throat bobs and- 

“Tell me something, babe,”  leaning back on the couch soaking up the sight of you. "How the fuck am I supposed to wanna go anywhere with you dressed like this?"

You let him tug you down on top of him, content knowing that the effect you have on him is equally disarming, “Hey, this was your idea, remember?” 

Sinking into the worn leather of the couch, you brace yourself on his shoulders, knees hugging him on either side, your dress bunching over your thighs.  His hands settle on your hips, guiding you down, blowing a hot breath out of his mouth when he catches a glimpse of the dark lace between your legs. He looks weak and starved all at once, running his hands up your thighs, curving around your ass, giving you an appreciative squeeze.

“Mmhm...” he hums, hooking an index finger under the one strap, sliding it off your shoulder, he sits up, his mouth focused on the skin of your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your bare skin. “I've got more ideas and all of them include this dress on the floor right now.”

“How am I supposed to resist that?” Sinking your fingers into his hair, you guide his mouth to yours.

His hands slide underneath your dress. “I hope you can’t.”

///

It’s taken all damn day and three caramel apples but he’s finally got you standing in line with him, sharing popcorn and more junk food, and every few minutes when the line advances, his hand finds the small of your back, tracing soothing circles, and you think maybe it’s the way he’s just licked cotton candy off your thumb, or maybe it’s the fact that he could not seem to keep his hands off you all day, but whatever he’s doing is working because the nervous flutter in your chest isn’t so bad anymore. 

From across the pier, it didn’t seem that big, but now that you’re standing directly under it, this is by far the worst ride in the entire park and you blame the sugar high for letting him talk you into this. He senses your jitters again and he tucks you into his side, pressing his lips softly to your temple. Your free hand slides into his back pocket and the brim of his ball cap skims the top of your head, he is warm and solid and more of your tension bleeds away. The next empty bucket that jerks to a halt is for you.

“You owe me for this, Morales.”

“I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer; he just laces his fingers with yours, that dimple in his cheek melting the rest of your resolve and fuck, it’s kinda hard to deny him anything when he smiles like that. He leads the way up the ramp and into the open metal carriage with the narrow bench big enough for two. 

Everything from your elbows down is hidden from sight inside the swaying bucket.  The sturdy bar positioned across your lap looks like it was painted blue at some point but had long since been overtaken by rust. You resist the urge to look up.

The ride operator steps up, reaches inside and jostles the restraint over your lap, testing its latch before shutting the half-door with a clink. Without warning your bucket is yanked backwards a few feet and your stomach lurches, knuckles turning white on the rusted bar. The bucket then jolts to a stop to let the next people in line a chance to get on. 

Yep. Worst idea ever. 

“Oh god,” Taking a shuddering breath, you would give anything to be as relaxed as he looks, knees splaying, back slouched, “I cannot believe you talked me into this.”

He pulls you into the circle of his arms, his calming, “Breathe, baby, I’ve got you,” is the only thing that makes the next few jolts bearable as you climb higher. He reaches across your lap and gently tugs your knees together pulling them snug to his side. 

Turning your face into his shoulder, you wait for him to tell you this is nonsense and that you have nothing to worry about. 

But he won’t because that’s the thing about fears. They’re irrational like that. 

“Hey,” he coaxes into your ear, “you’re okay, I’m not letting go of you.” 

Forcing yourself to breathe, you relax your grip on the bar in front of you just as another jerk propels you backwards again, then another, and another and now you’re halfway up the back of the massive wheel. Squeezing your eyes shut, your heart is beating inside your throat now and you’re fairly certain your stomach is lying somewhere on the ground below. Frankie has to pry your hand off his thigh.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching me lose my shit over the damn Ferris Wheel.” 

“But you’re doing it,” with his nose, he nudges your face up, pressing his lips to yours, “even though you’re afraid.”

The truth was, you wouldn’t be doing it if he weren’t with you. And he knew that. 

When he’d learned there was only one thing you were scared of, he found it hard to believe at first and also adorable as hell, but he never bugged you about it; he knew what it was like to be teased about something you can’t control. The irony is not lost on you that your boyfriend happens to be a pilot. The only thing he'd said at the time was, only idiots are not afraid of anything.

Jerking to a halt again, you’re above the trees and now it’s the unobstructed view that captures your attention and steals your breath. It's spectacular, all glowing neon and twinkling lights. The sun is sinking, turning the sky into breathtaking orange and pink, matching the sprawling scene below.

“Oh," you breathe, "this is gorgeous.” 

"Yeah," he lets go of your shoulder to drag his thumb down your neck, placing his mouth just below your ear. “It is.”

Your shiver is accompanied by a familiar surge of warmth under the softness of his voice because he's not talking about the sunset.

Deep down, Frankie knows there would never come a day that his heart would not trip over itself and spill butterflies into his stomach whenever you’d enter a room. 

There used to be a time he'd thought he’d never be enough, but you’d put those deep-seated fears of his to rest a long time ago. You’d been the unshakable and constant stability in his life that left no room for any doubt. Not that he’d had any qualms or cold feet about spending the rest of his life with you; it was quite the opposite.  The purple velvet box at the bottom of his pocket induced enough butterflies to fill his truck bed if that was any indication of how strongly he felt about you. The rush he'd felt in his insides during his very first simulation at the academy was nothing compared to the glow he felt today and he had to keep hiding his smile against your shoulder to try and rein it in. 

The ride starts to glide smoothly and okay; all things considered, this wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought. Dusk is beginning to settle and Frankie’s arm rests warm and heavy across your shoulders. The wind on your face feels fantastic and you’re not quite sure when your nervous energy changes into something else but every time you feel the downward pull on your body, your face splits into a grin and if you weren't so damn happy, you'd be rolling your eyes right now wondering when your life turned into a fucking rom-com. 

When he faces you, the sun leaves dazzling flecks of deep gold in his eyes, making them shine like bronze. His crooked smile pulls softly at the corner of his eye, a smile that tells you he knows exactly what you’re thinking, a smile that makes your heart lose its balance. It’s the same look he’d had when you came out of the bedroom this afternoon; the same look you’d pretended not to notice all day, wandering the pier together. Your heart is suddenly fluttering again and it has nothing to do with being three hundred feet off the ground.

“Okay Frankie, what’s going on? This all part of some plan of yours?” 

He takes off his ball cap and then replaces it in the same spot on his head, clearing his throat. “What plan.” 

“Getting me on the biggest ride here, winning me over with… with enough sugar to last a year and all your sweet talk and... listen, it's gonna take a lot more than a few well-placed kisses to get me into your co-pilot seat.” 

You feel his chest beginning to shake with laughter, “Baby, my chopper is much safer than this fuckin rust bucket. The-,” 

Your mouth gapes.  “Oh fuck you.

Just when you were starting to relax.

He blocks your loose fist with a gentle grip before it hits his shoulder, uses it to pull you in, your affronted gasp cut off when his lazy grin bumps with your open mouth. You had a dozen comebacks for the way he just teased you, but they all melt before they have a chance to materialize. His eyes glitter with amusement and something else but he doesn't give you a chance to examine it. 

“Lemme kiss you properly and then you can think about fucking me, ok.”

It's a little hard to be irritated; it’s a little hard to think straight at all when his fingers start dancing up the inside of your knee. The rush in your stomach now has nothing to do with the way gravity is forcing you down into the seat. Damn this guy and his ability to silence every single thought in your head.  

The ride is nearing the end, and you find yourself disappointed remembering how nervous you’d felt about it at the start. It slows and eases to a stop, suspending the two of you at the highest point in the rotation. 

The sun half gone now, the clouds are washed with purple and dark orange, the leaves in the treetops kissing each other in the breeze. It’s peaceful up here, hanging above the world and you understand why Frankie loves it. And your heart just might shatter right now because for the first time you realize that’s why he wanted to share it with you. 

Your throat clogs up and you don't trust yourself to speak but you don't need to because he shifts slightly, angling you so he can slip his arms around your waist from behind, tucking his chin into your shoulder. He's the one steady hand in your life. You fall asleep at night and wake up knowing that he's never going to be anywhere but beside you.

“You're right,” you manage, "this was worth it."

The edges of his heart twinge at the lightness in your voice, he soaks it up, knowing he’s the one responsible for it, knowing all the things he wants to promise you, knowing he’s the one you lean on, the one you call in the middle of the day just to say hi, the one you trust, the one you’ve said countless times you want to grow old with so why the fuck was he so nervous. 

That’s the thing about fears. They’re irrational like that.

A fragment of a forgotten conversation echoes in his head, something he’d told you a long time ago: Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything. 

He ignores the trembling in his fingers and reaches into his pocket.

~~

taglist: @opheliaelysia @oldstuffnewstuff @pedropascalito @sistasarah-sallysaidso @pascalispedro @wickedfrsgrl @fromthedeskoftheraven @givemethatgold @domino-oh-damn @cinewhore @hiscyarika @oloreaa @buckstaposition @fleetwoodmactshirt  

if you would like to be added or removed, please come yell at me

my masterlist

[sunmoonandeddie]

i don’t need a roof

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3,496

summary: Bucky thinks he’s running out of time, and needs to make sure his girl knows she’s taken care.

warnings: Bad words, almost death

a/n:  So this was inspired by this song from Big Fish the Musical.  There are lyrics from the song in the dialogue.  Also, this is the brownstone they were talking about.  Also I’m so sorry if this hurts, but there is a happy ending.

Bucky was cold.  In all the time that you’d known him (three years and four months, actually), he’d never once been cold.  He’d always been your own personal space heater, even before the two of you started dating.

But as you held him in your arms, his head on your chest, you were struck with the fact that he was cold.

The HYDRA agents that were holding you had injected him with something a few days ago, some glowing liquid that made a weight appear in the pit of your stomach.  But you could only watch as they injected it into his bloodstream.  You were too weak to do anything, too weak to protect the love of your life.

When the agent holding you had let you go, letting your kneecaps hit the concrete floor with a thud, you’d rushed to him, holding him as close as you could.

You’d never seen him in so much physical pain.  The super soldier serum was trying it’s best to keep up with whatever he’d been injected with, but it was like it set his blood on fire.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered as you rocked him back and forth, your head resting on top of his.  You didn’t realize you were crying until you tasted the saltiness of your tears on your lips.  It was all your fault.  You were the reason that you two got captured, and had been held in this cell for at least a week.

At least they hadn’t separated you.  You would’ve gone absolutely feral if they had even tried that, not to mention what Bucky would have done.

“Agent Twelve, on your right!  Incoming!”

You turned to see a HYDRA agent with his knife in hand, ready to strike.  You waited for just a second for him to get close enough, before ducking and sweeping out his legs in the same motion, catching his own knife in your hand and shoving it into his throat.  “Got him,” you said, yanking the knife out with a wince.

The sound of someone choking on their own blood as they died was never one you could get used to.

This was supposed to be an in and out mission.  An hour or two, tops, with minimal fighting.

But your intel was wrong, and you’d been led into the trap.

It felt like with every agent you took down, two more appeared.  They kept multiplying, like bunnies.

“No, not like bunnies,” you mused to yourself as you fought off two more agents.  “I like bunnies.  These guys—”  You grunted as you wrapped your legs around one of the guy’s heads, squeezing and twisting just as Natasha taught you to do.  “These guys are fuckin’ rats!”

You could hear Bucky snorting on the commlink, and spotted him shaking his head in amusement as he took down three separate agents at once across the airfield you two were currently fighting on.

God, your man was fucking hot.

An entire year, eleven months, and twenty-four days together, and he still made you sweat like a teenager going through puberty anytime you saw him.

Which reminded you.  You had your two-year anniversary in, like, six days.  You knew that he definitely had something special planned, the secret romantic that he was.  Fuck, you needed something to do for him.  Despite the fact that he always said you didn’t have to, you wanted to.  You wanted to make your man feel just as special as he made you feel.

Flowers.  You could start with flowers.  People were always so surprised to find that your boyfriend loved flowers, but he did.  It was sweet.  His absolute favorites were pink begonias, since they reminded him of his mother’s garden.  Well, the flower box she kept on the window sill, since they didn’t have the space or money for a full garden.

What else?  You couldn’t just get him flowers.  Two years was a big deal!  Especially considering the kind of people you two were!  The both of you were stubborn as an ox and lacked communication skills.  You were both used to doing things on your own, and dealing with issues without asking for help.

But that doesn’t work in a relationship.

You knew a lot of people thought you wouldn’t make it a month, and they were almost right since you two had your first fight at three weeks and a day, but then something happened.

Bucky stopped in the middle of the fight, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh came from his bones, and said, “I’m not doing this.  I love you too much to let something as stupid as this ruin us.”

It had been the first time he’d said ‘I love you.’

And you hadn’t heard him at first and kept yelling, before abruptly stopping and staring at him like he’d grown two heads.  “I’m sorry.  What?  You…  You love me?”

And he’d simply nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I…  I love you, too,” you said, clearing your throat as you shuffled your feet.

After that, you two decided to go see Donna, a couple’s therapist.  You were both already going to therapy separately, but going together was an entirely new ball game.

And it worked.  Sure, it wasn’t always smooth sailing, but it wasn’t like you were screaming and shouting at each other.  You handled your problems like a team, because that’s what you were.

You could always get one of those little USO showgirl uniforms…  As much as you hated Amazon, their Prime feature really was a godsend for times like these.

Or maybe you could pay a shit ton of money for someone to make it in five days or less, since you had money now.  It’d be worth it, and there were thousands upon thousands of costume designers and seamstresses in New York City, the world capital of theatre.

And you still had that red lingerie he loved so much that you could wear underneath it…

“TWELVE!”

You shook yourself out of your daze just in time for a HYDRA agent to plunge a needle into your neck, black quickly overtaking your vision as you passed out.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasped out as you held Bucky that much closer.  It hadn’t been hard for you to connect the dots once you’d woken up in the tiny concrete room, a steel door being the only way out.  Bucky had been captured because he’d been trying to save your ass.

He grunted as he moved, his eyes squeezing shut in pain.  “It ain’t your fault, baby doll,” he said, his hand grasping onto your forearm.  “Stop blaming yourself.”  He leaned his head slightly to the side so he could look at you, reaching up to wipe your tears.  “Wipe that frown off your pretty face.  ‘M right here.”

“Yeah, but—”  You were cut off by him placing a finger over your mouth.

He took a deep breath before he spoke, his face pale.  “Now, baby doll…  I need you to listen real good, okay?”  He waited for you to squeeze his hand in confirmation.  “There’s a brownstone at 154 Hicks Street, Brooklyn,” he said, wincing with the effort it took to talk.  “Now, I know it’s in Brooklyn, and you love Manhattan, but—”

Brows furrowed, you cupped his cheek in your hand.  “Brooklyn is just fine, but what are you talking about?”

You could visibly see the cogs turning in his head as he carefully chose his words.  “I already paid for it in full, so no need to worry about that.  Sam knows where the keys are.  And—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said, cutting him off.  “Why are you talking like this?”

His flesh hand reached up and cupped your chin, his thumb running over your bottom lip.  “You always said you’ve never had a home, but you wouldn’t mind having one with me,” he said, his voice barely audible.  “So I got you one.  It’s got a garden and everything, so you can plant flowers and... and a peach tree.  ‘Cause I know just how much you like peaches.”

“Then stop talking about Sam knowing where the keys are,” you chided.  “You can show me the garden yourself.”  You knew where he was going with this, but you didn’t want him to.  You didn’t want him to say it, because then that might make it real.

“Baby doll, I don’t think I’m gonna make it out of here,” he said as gently as possible, his voice cracking.  “So you gotta listen to me.  It’s all paid for.  Every penny.  The papers are in my desk in our room, the second drawer from the top.”  He took in a shaky breath, trying to hide the pain.  “There’s a ring there, too.  It’s yours, but I thought you might wanna live together for at least six months before I popped the question on ya.”

“Stop it,” you said, leaning your forehead against his.  “You can propose whenever you want, but you gotta stop talking like that.”  Your nose nudged against his as you tried to hold back a fresh wave of tears, though you were quickly finding that was impossible.  “Stop talking like you’re not getting out of here, too.  We’re gonna make it out of here, okay?  And then you can show me the brownstone with the garden in Brooklyn.  So stop talking like you’re going to die because you’re not.”

“My stubborn girl,” he said with a weak laugh, his smile watery.  “I got you a home.  For our two year anniversary, which...”  His brows furrowed, his head cocking to the side a little.  “I think it was four days ago?”

Sniffling, you grabbed his face a little tighter, leaning back so you could look in his eyes.  “Don’t you get it?  You’re my home.”  Letting out a huff, you wiped a tear from his face.  “In your face, I see a lifetime.  In this place…”  You pressed your hand to his heart, feeling the slow but steady beat under your palm, through his thin white undershirt.  “I feel at ease.”

He looked at you like he wanted to interject, but didn’t, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Wallpaper peeling, paint wearing thin,” you said, teasing him a little about his age like you always did.  “Here’s where I end and begin.”  In his eyes, you could see all the trouble of his past, swirling in those brilliant blue depths.  “I don’t need a roof to say, ‘I’m covered.’  I don’t need a roof to know I’m home.”  You curled up on his chest, right where your hand had been.  It was much nicer to be able to hear it as well as feel it.  If you closed your eyes, you could imagine you were in your bed at the Tower, going to bed together like any other night.  “There could be a single shingle dangling overhead.  I don’t need a roof to make my bed.”  Fingers running up and down his flesh arm, you tried to get him to relax.  “Close your eyes, I’m still beside you.  No goodbyes needed today.”

Thunder cracked outside, and if you listened close enough, you could hear the soft pitter patter on the roof.  His breathing was starting to even out, and you didn’t know if it was because he was calming down or if he was actually starting to go.

“Hear what the rain says, know what it knows.  After the rain, something grows.”  Your fingers intertwined with his as tears ran slowly down your cheeks, and you squeezed softly.  His metal arm wrapped around your waist, holding you between his legs.  “I don’t need a roof to say, ‘I love you.’  I don’t need a roof to call you mine.”

If you got out of this, you were retiring, and you’d make him retire, too.  You wanted to live a life with him without worrying about possibly dying before you got a chance to see him go gray.

If you had children, you wanted to be alive to see them grow up.

You’d give up being an agent.  You’d become just a consultant, or you’d give that up, too.  You didn’t care.  You’d just be Mrs. Barnes for the rest of your life, and you’d be perfectly happy with that.

“I don’t need adventure in some far away frontier.  I don’t need a roof to feel you near,” you said, starting to get choked up.

He was definitely fading.  His vibranium arm around your waist was starting to go limp, his grip on your hand loosening.

A lump formed in your throat as you clutched onto him that much tighter.  “All I need is you and you forever.  All I feel is true and absolute.”  You leaned back, holding his face in your hand.

His blue eyes fluttered open as he tried to stay awake for you, tried to fight the darkness overcoming him.

Your lower lip wobbled as you ran your thumb over a cut on his cheek bone.  “I don’t need a legal deed to help me play my part.  I don’t need a roof to hold my heart.”  You leaned in and pressed your lips to his.  “Stay with me,” you whispered against his lips, desperately.  You could taste the mix of your tears and his.  “Stay with me.”

But god, he was in so much pain.  You could see it in his face, feel it in the way his grip on your hand readjusted, like it was taking up all of his energy just to hold on.

It probably was.

Swallowing down the sob that was threatening to come out, you said, “It’s okay, Bucky.  It’s okay.  I’m here.”  You pulled his head to your chest, so he could hear your heartbeat in return.  Your fingers worked their way through his tangled hair.  “You’re my home, Bucky.  It’s you.  Please, stay with me.”  But you knew he was close to the end, and the likelihood of him making it out of there was getting smaller and smaller with each passing second.  “I’m here, love.  I’m here.”

Your mouth opened in a silent sob as you felt him go still, your nails unintentionally digging into his arms.  Small puffs of air were still coming from his nose, but his heart was maybe going at five beats per minute, if that.  Your body shook as you rocked him back and forth, unable to let go.

The love of your life was leaving you.  You were feeling him slip away in your arms.

“Bucky?” You whispered, almost afraid to speak at all.  “Baby?  Bucky, please…  Please, stay with me.”  Your voice cracked as you buried your face in his greasy hair.

You didn’t want a brownstone or a ring if you didn’t have Bucky.  You didn’t want anything if you didn’t have him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, kissing his hair.  “I love you.  I love you.  Please, Bucky.  Please.”

The faint sound of footsteps approaching the door made you raise your head, and you steeled yourself, ready to fight back against the HYDRA agents that had no doubt been watching the two of you.  The monsters were just waiting for him to die, and then they were going to take him from you.

Not if you had anything to say about it.

You tightened your grip around him, not bothering to hide your tears.  There was no point.  A lack of tears wouldn’t help you.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and there was a pause.

Then it blasted open with a bang that startled both you and Bucky, who’s heart rate picked up just a little bit at the sound.

You cried out with relief as you saw Tony standing there in his full Iron Man suit.  “TONY, HELP HIM, PLEASE!” You begged, urging him to take Bucky from your arms.  “HELP HIM!”  Sobs wracked your body as the man nodded, taking him without hesitation, and getting out of there.

Despite their past, Tony loved you, and had learned to love the super soldier by extension.

You sat on your knees, your forehead resting against the ground.  “Please, please, save him,” you cried, your nails dragging painfully against the concrete floor.  Your heart was in absolute shreds.

You had no idea who you were praying to, or even if you were praying at all.  You didn’t know if he could be saved at this point, but you were willing to ask every deity you could think of.

“Twelve?  Twelve, come on.”

Strong hands gently pulled you up, and you found Natasha guiding you towards the door.  “You have to help him, Natasha,” you croaked, dazed and stumbling over your own two feet as you walked forward.  “You have to save him.”

“I know,” she said quietly, her own voice thick with tears as she held you up, making sure you didn’t collapse in the middle of a HYDRA base.  “We’re gonna try, okay?  It’ll all be okay.”

You weren’t able to go to the brownstone with the garden in Brooklyn for three weeks.

You couldn’t leave Bucky’s side.

Tony had gotten him to New York City in record time, and had immediately thrown him into Doctor Cho’s cradle.

He was in there for thirteen days straight as his body fought the new serum, the cradle being the only thing keeping him alive.  It kept his heart and other organs working, his brain functioning.

After two days of you sitting in a chair by the cradle, unable to do anything else but wait, someone wheeled in a hospital bed for you to sleep on.  You’d actually been asleep when he woke up.

And then, when you finally did wake up, the first thing he said to you, his voice muffled by the glass, was, “How long has it been since you showered?  You smell worse than Sam after the gym.”

The absolute asshole.  He almost died and he had the nerve to get onto you about how much you smelled.

It had taken everything in you not to throw yourself at him.  You scrambled off the bed, clinging to the side of the cradle as you looked down at him, frantically hitting the button to get the lid off.  “Bucky,” you said, reaching down to touch his face.  You almost pulled it back, afraid that if you touched him, he’d disappear.

But he simply pushed himself up onto his elbows with a wince, leaning his face into your hand.

“You almost died,” you said, letting out a weak laugh as you rested your chin on the edge of the cradle.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes just as bright as they always had been, even if they looked a little pained at seeing you such a wreck.  “We’re gonna have to talk to Donna about that, huh?”

A little over a week later, and he was cleared to go home with you.  He was still weak—that serum did take a lot out of him—but he was alive.  And according to every single doctor Tony brought in, there was no chance of him just dropping dead now.

And if they were wrong about that, they’d have you to deal with.  And they all knew that the new Mrs. Barnes was no one to trifle with.

“You got it, baby doll?” Bucky asked as he followed you up the front steps.  He had to take it easy, and you told him that he should consider getting a cane since it was still a little difficult for him to walk.

You were only half kidding about that, though.  They still didn’t know if he still had the original super soldier serum in him after what HYDRA had done, but he was slowly gaining his strength back.  Either way, you didn’t care.  You’d love him with or without his super strength.

“Yeah, I got it,” you said as you slid the shiny gold key into the lock, turning it and opening the door.

The U-Haul truck was sitting on the street, waiting for you two to carry all of your boxes in, but that could wait.

You walked into the front foyer, taking in a deep breath.  It was completely bare, but the furniture that you two had ordered while sitting in his hospital room together was in the U-Haul as well, ready to be arranged.  Sun was streaming in through the large windows, giving a warmth to the house that you couldn’t find at Tower.

“Welcome home, baby doll,” Bucky said as he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.  His chin rested on your shoulder, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes pricked with tears as your hands grasped his forearms, making sure he was there with you.  A large diamond ring glittered in the late morning light on your left hand.  “Welcome home, Bucky.”

[smuggsy]

heyo! If you feel like a prompt, I'll offer up one for the flyboys? How about, “Am I going to die?" pls <3

Thank you! I always feel like writing for these two! Two prompts in a day, wow, this is unheard of. I would feel accomplished except I should've been working on an essay for my medieval history class so I only feel guilty lmao.

Anyway. Here, have some pining idiots. Bit of angst sprinkled in but really this is just Collins biting off more than he can chew. You know I love putting him in these situations #sorrynotsorry.

Collins has always been the heavier drinker. He's more easy-going, always accepting pints from the younger lads and beating them at cards and joining in on their bets when dark clouds loom close to the ground and they're allowed to leave for the day.

It's usually Farrier keeping him in check, walking him back to base late at night and watching carefully from behind, giving him space but close enough to grab in case he trips over his feet after a good amount of beer has numbed his reflexes.

Collins naively assumes Farrier isn't a booze lover. Isn't that into alcohol in general; he never has more than two pints, not even when Collins refuses to indulge in it does Farrier let himself get too comfortable at the bar or at a table.

Never when Collins is with him, anyway. This is a thought that has just recently taken form, as in, about ten minutes ago when Collins caught up with the group at the local pub after returning from his daily rounds.

Today he walks into the crowded place brimming with pilots as a thunderstorm announces itself outside, and when he takes a seat next to his wingmate on the far-off corner from the door he finds Farrier doesn't look up to meet his gaze.

"Evening," Collins greets, but he's not sure he's heard him over the music and incessant chatting of their peers.

Even if he does, Farrier pays him no mind.

To say that Collins is instantly bugged by it is an understatement. Farrier stares down at something in his lap, he's hunched down and sports a permanent frown and the overall sight of him just looks wrong.

"Ey, alright?"

He realises, but only once Farrier snaps his head up, that his eyes are a bit too glassy, his breath smelling a bit too strong when he sighs in Collins' direction.

"What? Oh, hey."

Collins only sees the paper in a flash, before Farrier tucks it back into the inner pocket of his jacket. The quick motion clearly meant to keep it away from prying eyes is the only reason Collins doesn't ask. Yet.

"Having fun?" he says instead with a smile, trying to brush away the sudden heaviness of a conversation that hasn't even started, and he leans back on his own seat and surveys the table in front. He counts at least five empty pints close enough to Farrier's side.

"Fun," Farrier scoffs with a shake of his head.

Collins finds the irony dripping from the word so strong and uncharacteristic that he leans over and takes a chug or two of his own beer.

"Let them have fun," his mate continues, gesturing vaguely towards the youngest recruits fooling about on the dancefloor, "they don't know what's fucking coming."

At that, Collins can't help but stare.

He gently places his pint back on the table and doesn't tear his eyes away from Farrier, now stumbling out of his chair looking much drunker than he did just a second ago.

"M'gonna head back," he says, trying to walk past Collins who only manages to move his chair back once Farrier's already on the other side.

"It'll be pouring outside!"

Just then, a thunder rumbles low and menacing under the sweet voice of The Andrews Sisters coming off the gramophone. Farrier stops dead in his tracks for a moment and just when Collins thinks he's going to turn around and sit back down, he shrugs and walks away.

"Ah, s'only a bit of rain, innit..."

He only stops by the bar to pay for his round of drinks, pushing through one or two excited couples dancing away the night and apologizing to one of the gals for almost stepping on her foot.

Collins watches the whole exchange from his spot, a bit taken aback by Farrier so easily brushing him off.

He gives himself a few moments to feel hurt and then he stands up and pays for his own unfinished pint, only catching up to him as he rounds the corner and the first droplets of rain start announcing a hell of a storm.

"Yer gonna be wet straight through if ya walk back now!"

"Yeah," Farrier says over his shoulder, lighting a cigarette and sending a sour smile Collins' way, "I am."

His gaze seems only a bit clearer as he stares Collins down, giving him a once over and taking in the sight with an approving nod. It makes something in Collins' stomach turn.

In a good way.

"You go back though, get yourself a nice bird to dance with. Put in all that effort to walk me back like I'm your granny?"

With the dragging of his words and the cigarette he keeps firmly placed in between his lips, Collins almost doesn't understand him.

He lets out an emotionless laugh and starts walking again when Farrier does.

"What effort? I always look like this."

Farrier blows away the smoke and nods again.

"You do."

"Something happen?"

There it is. He asks.

Farrier almost halts, just almost. He looks like he's about to answer but then the cigarette is back in his mouth and he openly ignores his question for a whole minute. Collins gets the cue but he still doesn't turn back. He figures he can play chaperone tonight, like Farrier's done with him so many times before.

Except, he's always ranting on after his round of pints and his wingmate's not much of a talker. No way to fill in the awkward silence. Collins can't help himself.

"You got mail," he tries again, a statement, just a simple comment that doesn't mean any harm and it definitely doesn't mean to make Farrier turn around like that - like he's properly annoyed at him for asking. For caring.

"Just go back," Farrier bites out, harshly, "you just got 'ere. Go on, don't lemme spoil your night."

"You're not."

"Collins..."

"I'll go if you really want me to."

That makes Farrier look at him again, truly look at him like the words have taken a bit of the alcohol off his blood and sobered him up. He stares for a long moment and then starts walking again without a word. Failing to answer again but answering nonetheless.

The lamp-posts they walk past light up the heavier drops of rain as if warning them of what's to come. Collins' hair is still wet from the shower so he doesn't feel much of a difference.

"You're a good kid, Jackie," Farrier says after a while, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking up to the moonless sky. When he does, he seems to lose a bit of balance that he quickly regains before Collins can actually grab his arm to steady him.

He reckons it's better he didn't get to, judging by Farrier's general snappiness tonight. Can't be completely sure his help would be welcomed. 

"What did you just call me?" he teases with a grin.

He sees a smile tug at Farrier's lips.

"A good kid."

Jackie.

"I'm twenty-fuckin'-five, thank you very much!"

At last, Farrier lets out a laugh. Collins feels like a heavy weight's been lifted off his shoulders.

"You're a fuckin' tease, s'what you are."

It's just as well that mother nature stops him as he intends to give an answer, because the words get stuck in his throat at the implication of that sentence.

The sky goes white for a split second, lightning flaring up above their heads before the cracking of thunder seems to switch on the merciless pouring rain once and for all. They're already far enough that they'd still end up drenched from head to toe even if they walked back to the pub.

"Shit, come on!"

Farrier starts running forward, where there's a couple of leafy pines by the road before the clearing starts the path back to the airbase: a very long and tree-deserted runway and training field.

In short, they're fucked.

Farrier beats him to the cover of the canopy and Collins thinks that perhaps he wasn't that drunk after all.

"Quicker in the air than on the ground, eh lad?"

"Want to race me, old man?"

"Nah, wouldn't want that spotless suit wrecked with mud."

Collins turns to answer and finds Farrier grinning at him playfully, looking him up and down again for the second time in twenty minutes - the spark in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed because he's never caught him staring so openly before. It makes his pulse quicken and turns his filter off.

"You really like me in my suit, dontcha?"

Farrier's next words sound fuelled by beer, as does that almost imperceptible lick of his lips.

"Why, of course I do."

He looks away to the curtain of falling rain in front of them, pooling down on the grass, and he shakes his head and talks so low that Collins almost doesn't hear him again.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"I'm drunk."

"Yeah, I know. Ye keep lookin' at me like ye want to eat me or somethin'."

Farrier snaps his head back to look at him, mouth half-open like a fish out of the water - like he can't quite believe what he's just heard, and Collins panics, thinks he's misread the situation completely (thinks that even if he didn't, he really shouldn't have called Farrier on it because, as his wingmate so bluntly put it, he is drunk). Thinks that's a very reckless and stupid thing to say and that he hasn't even downed half a pint of beer so he can't even use that as an excuse.

Collins stares back, for a moment he considers stepping away, jumping over that poodle increasing in size and running away in whichever opposite direction Farrier means to walk.

Try and pretend he didn't fuck this up royally.

"Well, would you want me to?" Farrier blurts out all of a sudden, openly staring at Collins' lips and neck and cheeks and hair now.

"What?"

"I said, would you want me to."

Another lightning. Farrier's face is so close that Collins can count the scattered freckles on his nose and cheeks where stray drops of rain slide down on his skin. He has very long eyelashes.

"Eat you or something."

The thunder following the light drowns out that pitiful noise that escapes Collins' throat. He feels drowsy like he's the one who spent hours sitting down at that table in the wet sweet air of the pub gulping down pint after pint.

Farrier is very, very drunk even if he doesn't look like it anymore.

He must be.

Collins wonders: if he answers truthfully, will Farrier remember it tomorrow?

"Yeah," his wingmate snickers, and after what feels like ages he takes the slightest step back and smiles that sour smile from before, fishing another cigarette out of his pack and putting it between his lips, "thought so. Pretty boy like you."

Pretty boy like– what the fuck's that supposed to mean?

"Answer me this, Collins. Am I going to die?"

And just like that, the conversation steers away from longing looks and unspoken words. Farrier's back to smoking that ciggy that's already wet and his hands return to his pockets and Collins feels he's just lost an opportunity that isn't going to arise again any time soon.

"What?" he repeats, like a broken record, refusing to let his own eyes derail from Farrier's face, refusing to look away to the falling of rain, the runway, the clearing, the town far away like Farrier himself is doing. Refusing to let the moment go.

"What are my chances? What are our chances?"

Collins shakes his head in frustration.

"Surviving this shit. Let me tell you: they're very thin. So it's better this way. I mean, it's me but– well it's just not worth it, is it? Forget it."

"Forget. Forget what? Tom, the fuck are you on about? Is this about that letter?"

"Fuck that letter."

He tosses the cigarette to the ground.

There's no remorse in the words, no hatred despite Farrier turning back to him and suddenly standing up straight, shoulders broad, gaze unwavering and challenging. Collins is still a bit taller but that doesn't mean he feels taller.

"I– sorry I– didn't mean to–"

"My fiancée," Farrier cuts him off, cocking his head and studying Collins' reaction for a moment before continuing, "got killed. A bombing over Portsmouth."

He drags the paper out and almost shoves it in Collins' face, who just stands there at a loss for words, again. Stammering like a broken record, again.

"I–," didn't know you were engaged, "–sorry, I'm sorry that happened."

He wants to kick himself for his lack of eloquence but it's the least of his concerns because he was just flirting with Farrier a moment ago, and Farrier was leading him on for some fucking reason – a fiancée?

That tends to mean one's attracted to women.

A dead fiancée.

"Sorry, Tom."

"Don't be."

Another lightning, another thunder, more heavy rain and Collins is already starting to feel the cold reach through his layers of clothes.

"I'm not. Fuck, I'm relieved!"

Farrier runs a hand over his face.

"I'm– fuck."

"It's okay," Collins offers uselessly.

"She's dead and I'm relieved I don' have to marry her. How fucked up is that?"

Collins thinks he hears a cry, and when Farrier tries to look away again he knows he heard a cry, and he doesn't let him turn around and steps forward to hold him in a tight embrace instead. Farrier wraps his arms around him tightly like he'd been waiting for Collins to hug him.

"I'm fucking horrible," he says, words muffled in the fabric of Collins' suit and sniffing through a runny nose. Jack keeps a hand rubbing at Farrier's back in what he hopes is an empathetic touch.

"No you're not, you're not."

They stay like that, holding onto one another against the trunk of a tree that's doing a really poor job of sheltering them from the rain at this point, but is better than nothing. Farrier doesn't really cry, stubborn as he is even in this state of inebriation, and after a while Collins feels his stubbly chin brushing against the side of his neck and smells the scent of alcohol again.

"I like it when you use my name," Farrier mumbles, words still muffled and burrowing his nose in Collins' shirt like it belongs there.

Collins' only thought at that moment, frozen and unable to say anything back, is that Drunk Farrier is a real piece of work. He thinks he understands, now, why he doesn't drink.

[capriciouslyterminal]

Wolves Don’t Do True Love’s Kiss

(Aka I wrote an Ishimondo Wolf Among Us oneshot thing instead of editing a paper and I’ve never posted my writing on tumblr before).

~Full idea credit goes to @andy-deer​ and his amazing art if you like Danganronpa or just cool art you really should follow him~

~Mondo’s the big bad wolf, Ishimaru’s the blind prince from Rapunzel. I know in the original fairytale I think the prince is blinded by thorns but listen a version of him being blinded by snakes lives in my brain from somewhere and I couldn’t not write it.~

~P.S. I don’t know that much about Wolf Among Us and I am sorry about that~

Mondo Oowada had been having the same dream a lot lately, ever since that night he shoved the guy who used to be The Minotaur through the display case of a yarn shop.

Normally he and the other fables didn’t have such violent altercations now that he split off from the pack, but then the detective called in a fucking favor from the big bad wolf himself.

And what else was he supposed to do? When the guy wouldn’t own up to the blood of all those teenagers stuck in his teeth and he wanted to put his horns through the dancing princess turned detective and her naive sidekick?

If he’d known the whole thing was going to lead to a blind prince from another story storming up to his apartment from the DA’s office to yell at him about property damage and chances of exposing the whole fable community at two in the morning while he was trying to sleep of the few times he got gored, he wouldn’t have bothered. 

It really wasn’t his fault The Minotaur couldn’t afford enough glamor to withstand a single punch. And he’d told the annoying little shit as much, but the whole thing inevitably meant that he was seeing a lot of Kiyotaka Ishimaru whenever he was roped into being the muscle behind Kirigiri’s investigations. Which was fine. And normal.

But then the dreams started after that night at the bar, and everything changed.

~*~

He doesn’t know when it changed, when he went from running in the forest of his mind on four feet to two as he slept.

He never lost the sights or the smells of the old forest that had no name. But now he ran it as a man. No matter the wolf he would always be deep in his heart.

It was something like when his brother died. He’d been too young, hadn’t even finished cutting his teeth, when he was shunted from the dreams of hurtling through the night at the front of the pack to hurtling alone through the end of days.

There the isolation was a nightmare, a punishment, but this is not the same. This is a simple shifting of reality.

Sometimes he wonders, looking at the webs of veins stretched under the skin on the backs of his hands in the gray light of morning, when the glamor started to feel more real than his body. 

When he grew so used to the delicate tapping of hands, to standing tall and far from the ground, that the memory of the nights spent slinking through the shadows on his belly faded. He would never truly know when that was lost.

All that meant was that now, whenever he had to shift back, it was no longer the shrugging off of a costume like in the early days in this new town. 

It was shouldering back into an old coat, ill-fitting and smelling of pine, that stretched at the seams to hold him.

He was freezing now, dreaming, skin unprotected from the winter that could steal the breath from your lungs. He was running towards the tower with a panting in his heart and a frenzied howl in his mind. 

~*~

He mentioned it only once, over drinks.

Or, well, more specifically, only Mondo had the real drinks. Something old and amber that burned as it went down. Something served in a glass of gently melting ice that was always refilled whenever he shot a slip of teeth to the bartender and flexed his bloody knuckles while eyeing the shelves of glassware behind him.

The bartender in another life, another place, not that it mattered much anymore, had been a pig. Mondo could tell not just from the swell of his pale throat and the slight tilt of his nose, but the fear that sprang in the air as soon as Mondo had entered that first night in town. The man froze like he was still the prey.

As soon as he’d entered the establishment for the first time, and seen the bartender shakily reach to stroke the brick wall for comfort, he knew the little pig remembered him. Mondo hadn’t paid for drinks in four years, and he hadn’t even needed to threaten to blow down the joint.

Not that he would do that anymore. Now, with cigarettes and cash in the pockets of his long coat, he would have had some complaints for the structure of the building and nothing more to add. Now, he could have figured out how to bring it down with his fist in moments instead of having to empty his lungs.  

Getting Kiyotaka within the brickwork bar’s confines had been an accomplishment of its own, a sign of respect for their still growing friendship that made Mondo swell with pride and grin to himself at the sight of an old world prince crammed into a booth at his favorite dingy bar.

The first time he asked for drinks after a successful arrest, and had seen Kiyotaka nod against the neon backdrop of the city with an uncertain smile, he’d practically howled with glee. If he still had his tail it would have wagged.

 But getting him to sip anything harder than soda water was a losing man’s game.

~*~

The pines are so familiar he could think of them as his own brothers, feeding the deer whose innards he lived on before he found new villages to savage. Even as he left the skin of the wolf, he would never be free of this forest that still shuddered with his howls if he stopped to listen.

But the tower, crooked and dark against the snowy sky, is new. Rising from the thorny ground as if it had been summoned from Hell itself.

A break in the tree-line, a monument of dark stone frozen in a twisting shudder as it reached for the clouds. The single shining yellow window gleams like an eye watching him approach. 

If he saw eyes like than in an animal he’d think it was rotting from the inside out. He wouldn’t eat it, and instead leave it to bleed sluggishly into the soft earth.

The tower is sick.

A man is climbing it.

~*~

He’d been five drinks deep, warm in the belly and ready to curl up by the golden hearth that kept the bar warm, when it finally happened. He hadn’t actually curled up by a hearth in years, and would only consider it after five more drinks.

But needless to say, he was drowning in golden comfort when he’d asked about the tower. 

When he felt the air that had been so warm a moment ago freeze as the words left his mouth. A question that had been scratching at the backdoor of his mind since Kiyotaka had pounded on his door and demanded Mondo put on a proper glamor when he accidentally grabbed a hunk of his hair.

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Mondo said. The words slurred, flowing between his teeth and tongue like a river. “A blind prince of all fuckin’ people. Breaking and entering.”

There was that twitch of an eyebrow, displeasure kept on a tight leash, that made Mondo’s heart clench with fondness. 

It was a feeling like he swallowed the sun, his gut full of light, only for it try to kick its way back up out of his throat.

“I wasn’t always–I did not break anything! And I entered with permission.” 

Kiyotaka had discovered the napkin dispenser on the table earlier in the night, sopping up a ring of condensation that Mondo had been happy to leave to sink into the table. He made use of it now, and quickly shredded a napkin between his pale fingers.

“Come off it, man.” Mondo chuckled, raised the glass to his lips, and took another swig. “What would permission to break into a tower in the middle of the fuckin’ woods even sound like?”

“I didn’t break into her tower.” Even blind, Kiyotaka knew how to glare with the best of them. Another napkin was plucked from the table, but he worried at it for a bit longer this time.

“She was screaming,” Kiyotaka said. “I was nearby, hunting, and at first I thought it was the wind. But then I really listened. And she was screaming.”

~*~

The man is up higher than the treetops, clutching the stones of the tower with his bare hands. The wind is whispering, the clouds humming in anticipation.

Mondo breaks into the space, and a name rings out like a bell in his throat. He howls with it, staring up at the figure as he runs. He is too far away to catch him should anything happen.

When the man turns to look down, all Mondo can see is the red pinprick of his eyes burning against the grey eternity of the sky. And his hands.

His fingers are bloody at the tips, streaks of crimson left on the stones. He broke his nails against the brick of the tower, flecks of scratched into his pale skin. He surely has been climbing for days and is nowhere closer to the top.

Even as he runs, Mondo knows that though he has hands, he cannot climb fast enough to reach him.

“Stop!” He hears himself roar. “You’ll fall.”

The man looks down, and Mondo feels his smile on the wind. He is weeping, tears freezing before they reach the ground to shatter into icy shards.

~*~

“What did you hunt?” Mondo was not sure where the words came from inside of him.

Kiyotaka’s sightless eyes were pale flecks of ice under his furrowed brow. He crumpled the napkin in his hands, and immediately tried to smooth it out with a regretful twist to his mouth.

“I don’t know for sure anymore…it was so long ago. But there was talk of a wolf, I think.”

He let the space hang between them, gave Mondo a chance to haul him up by his collar with a growl. But the rage never came. Mondo knew him now.

He continued on.

“I wasn’t much of a hunter. But I knew that my grandfather should have–,” his voice melted as it always did when the old king came into the conversation. “It is the royal family’s duty to protect their people.”

The freezing slush of the past seeped down Mondo’s spine. For a second he almost could see his breath, as if the old forest had risen back up around him.

For a second he could almost imagine it. Them meeting there. 

He could imagine himself standing on all fours heaving, staring into burning red eyes against a dark and ancient sky. A figure fit to stop his rampaging ways. Not a woodsman, crude and homely, but a prince. 

Would he have used a bow? A sword? What would have come first? A slice through Mondo’s belly or Mondo’s teeth in his neck?

But those times were long gone, and the quiet murmur of bar patrons tethered the two of them in the present.

“She screamed, and I followed the sound…and I found the tower. I called up to her.”

Mondo could imagine that with ease. Kiyotaka thundering out of the forest like a madman, yelling up at a witch’s tower to try and ascertain if a screaming woman needed his help. 

Kiyotaka trying to figure out the best way to help her as the sun went down and the temperature fell. 

Kiyotaka shedding a finely embroidered coat to climb a random ass tower despite any good sense he might have been taught.

His princely fingers, tapered and gentle.

“I thought she had lowered a rope. I didn’t know until I held it in my hands that it was her hair. Sometimes I can still feel the slick weight it.” 

His hands clenched, old scars scraped into the pads of his fingertips drawing across the table.

~*~

The man leans back, and with the gentle gasp of the wind, he falls.

Mondo is sure his heart falls with him

~*~

“She was so young. And so frightened, Mondo. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her face,” Kiyotaka said, stricken. “Her hair falling to the floor.”

Mondo was only aware of the thundering breaths he drew in and had to focus to release with care. The howling of the wind was still inside of him, screaming to be let out.

“I promised her I’d help her, find a way to get her out of that place. I had to.  It was a single room and it was freezing. In the middle of winter! Imagine it, Mondo, a single stone room is all you know for eighteen years. I think I was the first man she’d ever seen. She stared at me like she couldn’t understand what I was. She held my hands and…and she wept.”

His hands were shaking bad. Mondo focused on his breath and felt claws scrape somewhere down deep with his bones, hiding under the skin of a man.

“I promised her I’d help her because that was my duty to my people. Because she deserved more than to be a witch’s prisoner. I promised her that I’d keep her safe. I just needed a ladder, something so she could climb down. I had to go back for one, and she didn’t want to let go of my hand. I had to pry her fingers off my wrist. She cried after me.” He admitted it like some shame, like something heavy on his chest that Mondo understood.

“It took a full day’s ride to return. I hadn’t realized how far I’d travelled. And as soon as I found a ladder long enough I turned and went straight back. I think I almost killed my horse, but I couldn’t stop to think.” 

The words were falling out of him faster and faster. Mondo didn’t know how to stop him.

“When I got back, when I called up to her, there was no sound. She tossed nothing down for me. So I climbed on my own.” His fingertips twitched, a sardonic grin followed them and looked wrong on his face. “But I was too late. I wasn’t fast enough. She was not there to greet me upon my return. But the witch was.”

~*~

The man is caught in thorns. His fine clothes in the style of their homeland torn and dirtied. He is bleeding from his crown and moaning, but he does not scream. His bones are broken, his skin is bloody, his eyes are screwed tightly shut.

Mondo feels something terrible will happen once he opens them.

The snakes are looming, dry static across the ground.

Mondo flings himself into the thorns on instinct bred by his old skin and bellows at the pain of it.

~*~

Mondo suddenly reached out, on instinct bred by his old skin, and felt himself take Kiyotaka’s hand.

The prince of the old world was startled. Mondo heard the stutter of his heart. The gasp of his breath.

Mondo knew a want like a chasm, stretching and straining from his chest through his whole body. It drove him to hunt, to shatter, to shrink his pupils to slits, and to take all the world had with a guttural howl. This want shuddered through his body at the sight of Kiyotaka, golden in the light, parting his lips to speak.

He wants–he wants–he wants–

In a way he had not wanted since the old days.

~*~

He rips into the throats and bellies of snake after snake. He tears scale and muscle with his teeth and flings the corpses away with his hands until the ground is littered with them.

Only when they are all dead, when the root-like curve of their bodies are all he can see, does he turn back to the man. He whimpers and the tears leak from under his closed eyes. He is beautiful.

Mondo takes his face in his hands, feels the sharp press of his cheekbone against the palm of his hand, and moves close enough to feel the warmth of his shuddering breath on his face. Holding him close, their foreheads almost touching.

Mondo feels the venom drip from his lips now, venom from the throats of the snakes that would fall to the man’s eyes and have force him cry out while his body recoiled. Venom that would steal his sight and cast his eyes in icy nothingness.

But it is all he can do to press even closer, feel the man’s heart beat in one with his own, and ghost his lips over the chilled ones.

The man screams into the kiss, and Mondo howls with him.

He always wakes in a cold sweat, and the moon is full and staring down at him from the sky.

~*~

Kiyotaka had continued the story, Mondo had not listened, too entranced by the simple impossibility of holding Kiyotaka’s hand.

“I think she kept her there the whole time, Mondo. And I don’t know what I wanted to do but that woman…she told me I had failed to protect the girl and she–she grabbed me and…” 

Mondo could hear Kiyotaka’s heart thundering in his chest. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, tears welling up the creases of his eyes. It was like he could feel Mondo looking at him even as he kept his eyes downcast.

“And I fell.” His voice was hardly a rasp, utterly hollow. 

Again, Mondo moved on instinct.

Pulling Kiyotaka to him felt like coming home, squeezing his arms around his back as tight as he dared felt like obeying a rule of the new world. Like casting a glamor.

“Hey man, it’s alright now,” Mondo murmured. Something warm blossomed through the want in his chest, and it coated his voice.

“Mondo.” Kiyotaka’s voice was strangled, his arms hovered above Mondo’s back, as if he were unsure how to put them down.

“None of that shit matters anymore, yeah? You’re here now. With me. And I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to you again, swear on my fuckin’ life.”

Kiyotaka took in a shaking breath that hitched in his chest.

“We’re out of the woods, Taka. You and me.”

Kiyotaka let out the slightest sob, equal parts relieved and haunted, and finally wrapped his arms around Mondo. He surrendered himself into the embrace, and Mondo felt everything inside of him shift as Kiyotaka Ishimaru took up residence within the beating of his heart.

And everything changed, simple as that.

~Thank you for reading this, if you did! And thank you again to @andy-deer for their amazing art which has made me smile any day when I was feeling particularly down~

[thiswasinevitableid]

if you're in the mood for requests i would absolutely LOVE something from the hidebehind au? (maybe including blindfold sex??)

Here you go! I decided to do this for monster march. We’ll figure this counts as prompt 18: claws.

All things considered, Duck is lucky. He’s employed which, given when the newspapers are calling the great depression raging across the country, is a blessing. His days are spent among the mighty trees of the Pacific Coast, he has a small cabin all to himself, and a cat to keep the mice away. 

He just wishes he wasn’t working for a fucking logging company hundreds of miles away from anyone he’s ever known. 

Winthrop Logging needed someone with an arborist or botanists training to make sure the woods stayed healthy before they were chopped down. So they pay Duck a fine sum to make sure diseases or pests don’t send their prospects toppling like dominos. As he traverses his usual route between the trees, he wonders if there will ever be a way to convince them to preserve some of the land rather than profit from it. 

He stops, studying a pine. There it is again, the feeling that someone, or something, is behind him. Watching. Waiting. 

It started three weeks ago, when he was deeper in the woods than usual, humming to himself and occasionally talking to the trees. The skin on his neck prickled, all his senses forcing him from his thoughts and into the present moment; something was there, tracking him as he moved. Not a bear, our a cougar, as the birds still called and the insects chorused. Whatever it was stood directly behind him, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing but the path. 

For the first few days he tried to spot it, never got more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. He came home exhausted, the day spent on high alert as the primal part of his mind demanded he remain on guard for the moment his hunter decided to strike. 

The moment hasn’t come, and Duck is growing used to the gaze crawling up his spine. He decided to ignore it, pretend it was just his imagination and some days that worked. 

Today, there’s no getting around the fact that something is peering over his shoulder. Twice now he’s felt fingers millimeters from his neck. When he feels them again, he reaches his arm back, eyes firmly on his notes, and grabs hold of his stalker.

----------------------------------------------

Humans are not known for their speed. Indrid’s foresight showed this one as no exception, so when the man is fast enough to grab his leg, he chirps in surprise. 

“Fuckin knew it, there is someone back there.” Warm fingers smooth across the short down of his leg.

Indrid appreciates being called a someone instead of a thing, but not the position of Duck’s hand. 

“Please let go. That is my thigh you are grabbing. My upper thigh.”

The hand stays put, “Anyone ever tell you it’s mighty rude to stand right behind a fella when he’s tryin to work?”

“I cannot stand anywhere else, though the proximity is due to-”

“Uh huh, sure, just like you can’t help but play and hide and seek whenever I try to figure out what’s goin on. Lemme guess, you’re one of the other fellas from the loggin camp playin tricks on the new guy?”

“I am nothing of the kind.” Indrid contemplates moving the hand himself, but it feels so very nice.

“One of the locals then? I keep tellin you, I’m a country boy, I’m not gonna get scared by campfire tales or weird noises in the woods. Try that government fella instead.”

“What about the part of me you are touching suggests I am human?”

“Probably a left-over monkey suit or somethin’ from Halloween.”

“I am not a costume, I am a Hidebehind.”

The human pauses, then shakes his head, “No such thing.”

“You are literally touching one.” Indrid stamps his foot, frustrated by the turn this is taking and the fact that futures do not show the human believing him any time soon. 

“Don’t believe I am.” The human turns his head. Indrid’s body whips sideways, keeping him from view. The human holds on, tries again from the opposite direction, only for Indrid to be wrenched back the way he came. 

“Stop movin!”

“Stop trying to look at me!” He’s twisted to the side once more, wrenching the humans arm in the process. 

“Ow!” The grip on him tightens, “quit this fuckin game right now. You don’t lemme see you, I’ll drag you right back to camp with me.”

“I can’t!” Indrid chirps, panicked, the noise continuing into a wail of alarm at what might happen if he’s surrounded with nowhere to hide. 

His fear must register as genuine, as the human releases him with a sigh. After a moment he removes his hat, running his fingers through his hair but not turning around. 

“You still there?” 

“Yes.”

“Why are you even followin me in the first place?”

A peek at the futures says the truth will be most effective, though almost all timelines end with the human telling him to “get gone.”

“I find you intriguing. You do not chop or hack at my home, you study it. You speak to the trees when you think you are alone. You look soft to touch, especially the fur on your head. I like looking at you and being near you. That was why I stood so close.”

“...You been followin me because you’re sweet on me?” The drawl, as soothing as movement of water through plant limbs, seems confused. 

“I do not find you sweet. I could only do that if I ate you. Which I do not want to do.

A chuckle, “Not quite what I meant. You been hangin around me because you think I’m swell and wanna get to know me. Guess I can’t fault you for that, I'm a decent fella to know if I do say so myself.  You got a name?”

“Indrid.” This is an unexpected turn of the timelines. 

“Nice to meet you, Indrid. I’m-”

“-Duck” Indrid says along with him, “apologies, I can see the future and am thus a bit ahead in conversations.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta head back to town. If you wanna talk again, I won’t mind. Just tell me you want to instead of lurkin, you hear?”

Indrid grins, “Yes. I hear you perfectly.”

----------------------------------------------------

“Fuck” Duck picks himself up from the dirt where he fell, brushing pine needles from his coat. He’d been angling for a better look at a set of roots and tripped over a different set in the process. 

“Are you alright?” A now familiar voice asks from behind a tree to his left. 

“Depends. You see me make a fool of myself by fallin on my face?”

“Yes.”

“Then my body is fine but my dignity is real wounded.”

A laugh like spring breeze through new leaves, “I suspect it will recover. You do have quite a deal of leaves in your hair. May I help you with them?”

Duck nods. Slender fingers pluck at his hair.

“Ohhh, it is just as soft as I thought it would be.” Indrid murmurs, “does it feel nice?”

“Don’t feel like much--oh, uh, fuck, that does though. Feels damn good.” Duck groans as claws scritch his scalp. The first time he felt them on his shoulder when Indrid was talking, he tensed; The hidebehind isn’t small, and the claws suggest he could shred Duck to bits and scatter him across the woods. But after weeks of keeping him company, Duck knows the worst Indrid might do to him is steal too much of his lunch. 

The hidebehind, endlessly fascinated by Duck’s job, will sit out of sight as he works. Duck asked him if he only watched Duck the entire time. It turns out the creature draws as well, and Duck now recognizes the sound of a pencil under the rustle of leaves and calls of wildlife. Indrid also spares Duck dangerous climbs into the trees, offering to look at marks or discoloration and describe them if they’re too high for the human to see. 

Turns out he also gives a mean rubdown, his claws moving from Duck’s head to his neck, banishing the knot that’s been bothering him all morning. 

“I like touching you.” Indrid chirps. Duck hasn’t forgotten their first meeting; if a man had come to him with such flattering shyness in his voice and an interest in Ducks body, he’d have been in Duck’s bed by the end of the night. 

He’s not ready to take a hidebehind home, but he’s ready to tease one.

“Seems mighty unfair that you get to touch and I don’t.”

“You would have to close your eyes to so much as shake my hand. My form does not care how little of me you would see, it will pull me into hiding regardless.”

“Then I’ll close my eyes.” Duck does just that, tips his head back so Indrid can see it’s safe. One hand continues massaging his head, while a spindly arm reaches around his chest.

“Bring your arms up, towards you a bit more, yes, there we are.” 

Duck runs his hands over the limb; it reminds him of Manzanita bark he saw in the Sierra Nevadas, smooth but unmistakably of the woods. Towards the elbow the texture changes to soft, short feathers, like the ones on Indrids leg. 

The hidebehind tightens his hold, pulling Duck to his torso. More feathers prickle the back of his neck and the creature shudders. 

“You alright back there?”

“I...it has been so very long since anyone or anything touched me. I foresaw my body being sensitive to it but the intensity is, is-” he lets go so suddenly Duck stumbles, “I am sorry, it was too much and yet I wanted, wanted more.”

Images of Indrid surrounding him, chirping and purring as Duck touches him all over, flood his mind. The embarrassment in his voice keeps the arborist from acting on them. 

“You, uh, gonna show me that Saw-Whet Owl nest?”

“Of course, sweet human. Take the right fork of that deer trail just ahead, and we shall go from there.”

------------------------------------------

“I have something for you. Close your eyes.” 

Duck, still perching on the stump he was using as a lunch chair, does as instructed. Indrid sets a piece of paper in his right hand. 

“You may now look.”

An illustration fills the entire page. It shows a being with stick-like arms and legs leading to a narrow body covered in short, leaf shaped feathers in mottled browns and greens. The face is angular, shaded to suggest it’s dusted with fuzz, and leads to several stick-shaped horns. The eyes are wide and black, the claws long, and there are short, triangular shapes behind its shoulders. 

“Holy fuck, you’ve got wings?”

“Indeed. I do not use them much. I believe they help my kind migrate when our habitats dwindle.”

Duck traces the face on the paper, “How long did it take you to make this?”

“Two days, as the lakes I use to study my reflection tend to attract townspeople and loggers looking to take a break from their toil.”

“You did all this just ‘cause I said I wished I knew what you looked like.”

“Not solely. I...I wanted to show you it as well. So you might know the face of the one who, ah, whose days you brighten.”

Carefully, Duck folds the portrait and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat, “Find I like my work even better with your company too, ‘Drid. Would you, uh, be okay if I tried to match what you showed me to what I can feel?”

An intrigued chirr floats through the air as Duck shuts his eyes and waves to the ground in front of him. A scuff and rustle of dirt and leaves, and then he feels Indrid in front of him. Cool hands guide his own onto the multicolored feathers.

“Shoulders?”

“Correct.” Indrid moves their joined hands upwards, stopping on velvet-dusted cheeks, “oh, oh goodness, I have always wanted to be held like this.”

“Yeah?” Duck’s heartbeat is in his fingertips, “what else have you always wanted?”

“To, to be touched, to be known, toMMMphohh” a rough tongue laps at his lips as he pulls Indrid into an awkward, bowed kiss. 

“How’s that, darlin?” Duck kisses along what he thinks is Indrids’ jaw, “that the kind of knowin’ you in the mood for?”

“Yes, oh my sweet human you spoil me, oh” claws grab his shoulders, “I, do you really wish this, with me? This was in so few timelines I assumedAH” he squirms adorably as Duck gropes the feathers of his chest.

“You better believe it, sugar. It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I ever wanted and I want it, want you, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long fuckin time.” Curious and eager to fill every one of his senses with Indrid, he buries his face against his upper chest, finds skin beneath all the camouflage and bites down. The hidebehind keens, pulling Duck from his seat into his lap. Duck laughs, bites down once more and gets a nose full of fluff. 

“AhCHOO!” His eyes pop open on reflex after he sneezes, sending the hidebehind out of view and Duck flat on the ground. 

“Blasted physiology” Indrid chirrs, frustrated. 

Duck sits up, Indrid’s cries of pleasure ringing in his ears and giving him all kinds of reckless ideas. 

“Don’t worry, darlin. If my hidebehind wants to romancin’, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

-------------------------------------------------

He takes to wearing a kerchief around his neck at work. The loggers and company pencil pushers assume it’s an affectation, not a tool for covering his eyes for some uninterrupted kisses while deep in the woods.  Today, he’s not sure kisses will be enough. 

Duck woke up hard, dream of Indrid looming above him in bed fading into the morning sun. His hidebehind has yet to show himself, so the humans mind has nothing but his fantasies to distract him on his trek through the woods. 

He’s ahead on his tasks for the day. He’s five miles deep in the woods. And he’s got an idea. 

After rinsing his hands with water from his canteen, he leans back against a tree and undoes his suspenders, followed by his fly. Closing his eyes, he slips his fingers into his underwear, teasing himself and sending soft moans into the air. It doesn’t take long before he’s wet enough to push two up into himself with ease.

“‘Drid” he gasps, letting his head loll back, “‘Drid, fuck, that feels so fuckin good.”

A single leaf crunches in front of him, and his kerchief slowly slides up his face to shield his eyes. 

“It is about to feel much better, dear one.” Indrid kisses the top of his head, “Shall I take this shameless display as evidence that you wish for me to, ah, fuck you?”

“That it does. And I’ll have you know I got plenty of shaAAmeWHoah.” Duck flails as his pants fall down and his body flies up in one smooth motion. Indrids claws prick his thighs as he spreads them open, holding him against the trunk with ease. 

“So very polite of my sweet one to prepare himself for me. It makes this all the easier.” A round, bumpy cock teases his folds, pressing in with a stretch that makes Duck twist in his lovers hold. 

“Fuck, fuck, that’s so fucking good but holy fuck, are you packin a fuckin pine tree down thereOH, ohfuckdarlin, that’s, that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”

“Half of it? My, who knew my human could take so much? Wait, it is not too much, correct?”

“N-nope, just the right amount” the bumps rub every inch inside him, one on the shaft catching his cock as Indrid thrusts and wiggles his hips. 

“Wonderful” Indrid purrs, “I have dreamed of this all dayAHnnncareful” he chides after Duck bites the part of his arm he’s able to reach, “or I shall take you so roughly your back will wear imprints of bark for days.”

Duck whimpers excitedly, very aware of thick pre-cum dripping into him, “Yeah lets do that.”

He can hear the grin.

“If you insist.”

“FUCKohfuckohfuck” his hands scrabble at the tree and at Indrid’s arms, “that’s it darlin, that’s it, fuck, gonna give you the best goddamn rub-down after this, touch you until your body forgets what it’s like to be without my fuckin hands on it.” Leaves scatter in his hair and down the back of his shirt as Indrids fucking turns frantic. 

“I, I shall hold you to that AHhnn, sweet one, you are so tight, so deliciously slick and inviting, I, I am not going to last long, you are too perfect, just touching you makes me burn like wildfire” His thrusts sharpen, never pushing too deep but making Duck feel like a log split beneath an axe of ecstasy, “Duck, sweetheart, yes, yesyesyes” Indrid spills into him, cum running out of Ducks body and back down his shaft. 

For a minute, Duck is nothing more than a pinned specimen, spread eagle on the tree as Indrid shudders, purrs, and drags fuzzy kisses along his throat. Then his shirt rides up as he slips down the tree, but Indrid doesn’t put him down. Instead, a rough tongue glides up one thigh and then the other. The human gasps, gripping Indrid’s horns for balance as Indrid buries his face between his legs.

“Ohhhhhh, oh I do so love tasting how we mingle together.” Indrid’s breath is ragged and hot against his dick, “I am going to do this every day.”

“Please” Duck squeezes his horns, his orgasm painfully close, “please ‘Drid, wanna cum on your tongue, want you holdin me up while I, I-ohfuck.” His legs kick weakly as Indrid sucks him off, tongue lavishing his cock with so much friction he goes hoarse from moaning. The fact he cannot see makes it all the better, makes his world nothing more than Indrids mouth, his claws, his desire that wraps around Duck like vines. 

He cums, arching his hips into the “thank yous” Indrid presses to his legs. 

When his boots touch the ground, deft claws begin pulling his clothes into order, Indrid kissing and caressing him as he does. 

“Y’know, I can get my own britches up.” Duck ruffles a nearby patch of feathers. 

“I know, but I wish to take care of you. Hidebehinds are attentive to our mates, and while I cannot build you a nest, and I can least clean you up after you let me do something so wonderful with you.”

Duck wraps his arms around the cryptid, resting his cheek against him, “Would you wanna do this, uh, wonderful somethin again?”

“Of course.”

The human smiles, reaches his hand up to stroke Indrids cheek. This means he feels the hidebehind smile when Duck says, “Glad to hear it. But I’ll have you know, one of these days I’m gonna expect a nest.”

[heli0s-writes]

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Summary: Bucky (sort of) agrees to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, but what he ends up wearing is much worse. This is for @holy-captain‘s 1.2k writing challenge! Congratulations, Liv and thank you for hosting! I’m so sorry it’s late!! 

Pairing: Exasperated!Bucky x ChaoticDumbass!Reader

Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 1.8k

It’s supposed to be a fun and light-hearted thing—a season full of shiny-glowing-fantastic-twinkling excitement and ruddy red noses and misty breath in the chilled air. A season of joy and celebration, of spiked eggnog, fuzzy striped socks, and sliding down the compound hillsides on Steve’s shield.

And he’s screwed it all up.

It sinks in like the swollen marshmallows in his now cold cocoa, drooping to the bottom where the rest of the sediments lie. Outside, snowflakes gust and whip, blanketing the pine trees and skeletons of shrubbery in white flurries. Red holly berries peek out where they can and glare at him with their crimson eyes.

His phone lights up with picture messages of Steve and Sam, hurriedly trying on a cluster of sweaters in preparation. Horrid renderings of cats on ornaments. Oversized slouchy sleeves flecked with tinsel. Santa’s dreadful ass-crack peeking out of a chimney.

Bucky grumbles and turns his phone face-down, leaning back in his chair to stare at the Christmas tree in the corner. He wants to scream and put his leg through the damn thing.

Soft footsteps draw his attention to the hallway when you emerge, blinking slowly as you stifle a yawn from behind your hand until you see him. Then, you scoff and disappear back down the hall.

“Wait!” Bucky calls, leaping from his seat and nearly knocking the tepid mug from the table, “Damn it, wait!”

You’re gone. Stomped back to your room and even if he starts running now, he wouldn’t be quick enough—only getting the slamming door on his nose. He’ll try anyway.

Bucky slumps against the panel, pushing his chest against the cold metal of it and his cheek until his words come out smushed into his teeth.

“C’mon!” A pathetic whine of your name before he sticks his fingers underneath the slit of the door like a cat, wiggling the bent tip back and forth. Incredible. The Winter Soldier sprawled out all over a corridor, begging for forgiveness over this.

Only silence replies; you’re probably on the bed, thinking about scratching his eyes out. He can practically see you flicking him off with both hands. You’ve never been this upset before, and it deeply troubles him considering the dynamic of your very friendship spun on the axis of one single truth: Bucky’s the annoyed one. You’re the fuck up.

And now he has no idea what to do.

One week of it and he’s completely lost; the start of it all—December 1st when Tony announced: Ugly. Christmas. Sweater. Party.

Two days before Christmas, the team will be gathering in the common area for a white elephant gift exchange, and sweaters will be judged based on ugliness. What a stupid idea.

The winner will be awarded with “no team meetings for a month” and Tony’s personal stash of bourbon as long as no one touches his whiskey.

Upon the proclamation, you had clapped your hands together and grinned, “We’re gonna win this damn thing.”

And Bucky, being regular Bucky who ignores your half-witted ideas and short-sighted fixations, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to thinking normal-person thoughts.

For the next several weeks, you dove into your knitting, the needles clicking together faster than he’s ever seen, weaving sparkling black and bright cherry red. The rows were tightly bound, looped and coiled expertly until he could finally make out the shape on the front of it.

He really did love your sick sense of humor—although he’d never admit it—funny, twisted, always brought him a bit of joy.

“Fuck no,” he had laughed at the image of a mutilated deer, antlers dangling silver ornaments showcasing his sigil. “I am not fuckin’ puttin’ that on. It looks like hell.”

“You agreed!” And then the needles and yarn hit him right in the nose.

On your way out, a low chuckle came from the corner of the living room where Steve sat sipping a cup of steaming chai. “You know Christmas is her favorite holiday?”

A snorting laugh bubbled the surface of Steve’s tea, “Good goin’, Buck.”

-

“Last Christmas” is on, blaring synth beats through the halls. George Michael croons sweetly, longingly, grieving an unrequited love before jingle bells ring in the scattered percussion.

Bucky hears your voice as you carol along to possibly the cheesiest song of all time—infuriated and baffled that you won’t speak more than two words to him but will sing your heart out to this crap. George Michael, Wham! and all of England can eat his whole ass.

He trudges from his room and into the den where the lights are dimmed and the table is set with snacks and a crock pot of hot chocolate. A dish of pine cones sits in the middle, flanked by a merry snowy village filled with little ceramic teddy bears and reindeer. On the edge is a deflated Santa Hat filled with paper scraps and pens for the voting process at the end of the night.

It is seven-thirty and you are standing next to Sam with bent elbows, wiggling your hips to the chorus, sliding back and forth on the polished floor in fuzzy socks. The two of you are facing the window, pointing at the flurry and a mountain of sludge that was previously a horrid misshapen lump of Snowman Steve.

Bucky squints a little, alert when he sees two matching sweaters—black on the back. Hell no, he thinks.

Sam turns around and Bucky’s worst holiday fears are confirmed. One innocuous “Oh hey, man,” and all the warmth drains from him.

On Wilson’s chest is that terrible disfigured deer you constructed, its antlers spearing out from its head to reach all the way up to his shoulders.

Bucky flies across the room and before either you or Sam can do anything about it, he’s peeling the hem of it over Sam’s head, kneeing him in the groin, and taking him down onto the floor. “What the hell!” Sam yells, struggling to get out of his grasp. “Shit—get off—Barnes!”

“A red star isn’t even your fucking symbol!” His hair is in his eyes along with Sam’s elbow, their limbs and joints knocking into each other in the wrestling bout. The sleeves and front are being stretched terribly, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Hey,” Your calm voice calls from above them—falling on four deaf ears. “Hey,” You try again, and when it doesn’t seem like two grown men can stop aggressively fondling each other over a damn pullover, you raise your hand and decisively land it across the back of Bucky’s head in a deafening crack.

A swell of multiple shocked gasps rises from behind you and when Sam and Bucky freeze, they see the rest of the compound’s inhabitants staring at the scene like a disfigured Nativity display. They also see your palm, at the end of your motion, resting next to your shoulder.

Bucky gingerly rubs his wound. “Ow,” He grumbles.

“Room… now.” You command, pointing your finger down the hall. Wilted, he shuffles away dutifully, saying nothing to the others as he passes. When he’s gone, you look scornfully at Sam and your beloved jersey, loosely hanging at the edge of his torso, pulled nearly apart.

“Voting starts in twenty, kid,” Tony mentions breezily.

“Yeah,” You reply through gritted teeth, “Don’t worry, we’ll be there.”

-

Steve coughs behind his hand awkwardly when Bucky steps back out, the once snugly-fitting sweater around Sam hanging collapsed and loose on Bucky’s right side. You’re close behind, bouncing on your heels and smiling as if nothing had gone wrong. Steve’s not sure which is worse: your wrath or glee.

“You, uh, you alright?” He calls quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Right, Buck?”

Bucky swallows, “Uh. Yeah.”

He has no fucking idea; when you shut the door behind him, the sweater in your hand was calmly unfolded and held up to his shoulders, damage assessed by a calculating mind. Bucky still has no clue what possessed you not to scratch his eyes out that very second.

Then, you looked him up and down and said, “Put it on, Barnes. Show’s about to start.”

And if he was a weaker man, he’d be shaking in his goddamn boots at how calm you are.

The team gathers around the tree, various colored pens and torn scraps in hand as they evaluate each other’s attire. Natasha is boldly displaying a patchwork kind of cardigan with what looks like the Michelin man ominously hovering behind a tree. Tony, of course, has custom-ordered a perfectly sized wreath knitted around his arc reactor heart. Steve has completely missed the Christmas memo (or is perhaps the politest Grinch on Earth) wears blue, the tiniest hint of gold tinsel woven through.

And Sam -- stupid, stupid Sam-- who didn’t plan on being robbed of a perfectly knitted sweater five minutes before the voting process, is out of the game.

Bucky is about to write your name down, because a medium part of him feels guilty for hurting your feelings while a much larger part of him feels apprehension about what exactly might happen if you lose, but you suddenly dig your hand into his pocket.

All five fingers shove deep until your fist is gripping tight and your knuckles stab his thigh.

“Hey! No hanky-panky during voting!” Tony is scandalized.

A vicious snap of his pocketknife swings open and before he knows it, your left hand is fisting the yarn on his chest and your right is ripping it straight through. The room falls silent when you do it a second time and Bucky’s at a loss for words until the breeze hits.

Chills.

A tendril of AC sneaks through the two open holes you’ve carved and goosebumps bloom all over his chest. Dread settles in his tummy.

His nipples are pebbled and exposed for everyone to see and with a quiet click of the blade retracting, you tuck it back into his pocket. 

“Let the voting begin.”

No one moves. No one makes a single sound and the whole place is quieter than a crypt until a shrill wheeze squeaks out of Sam’s nostrils. Through the choked snickering and the slowly building crescendo of everyone else’s laughter, Wilson admits, “They’re browner than I thought they’d be.”

There’d be no need for a voting process, Bucky knows. You’ve stolen the show – or rather, his nipples have stolen the show, and the once-worthy prize is now his Sisyphean burden to bear. He closes his eyes and counts to a million.

Screw exemptions from team meetings, Bucky thinks, praying desperately that when the bourbon is bestowed to him, by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, he’d be able to get shitfaced again.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes​ @crist1216​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​