#i need to inhale like ten short stories in the span of a few days i think.

[erstwhilesparrow]

i need to, like, write an essay and then be viciously mean to myself in the editing annotations. that would fix me.

[notcanoncompliant]

Ain’t On the Surface

(WinterIron) I wrote this one a while back, please be kind lol

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

"You're leaving me for him?" Steve exclaims, anger quickly overtaking the hurt disbelief on his face.

James' jaw is so tight he's surprised his teeth aren't cracking. "No, Stevie." He pretends not to see Steve flinch at the nickname. "I'm leaving because you lied. You knew I murdered his parents, and you lied. You lied to me, you lied to Tony. There are other things, but, I just--" James hesitates, looks down, swallows. "You're not the guy I fell in love with, anymore."

He looks back up.

And that's it.

That's the end of the Great American Love Story, the legendary, 'star-spangled romance' that spanned almost ten decades. Through war, through incalculable violence and years of separation, after an impossible, insane reunion, and, fuck, an engagement--James winces internally--it's over.

He pulls off the ring and sets it down on the kitchen island between them. Steve makes a sound like the wind's been knocked out of him. His expression fits: shock, breathlessness, pain.

"It's over, Steve."

***

James isn't sure how long he's been hitting the reinforced bag; he'd lost track after the first hour.

Tony finds him.

"Hey, Armed and Dangerous, those bags don't grow on trees, you know."

James stops, halts the swing of the bag. He steels himself a moment, and then smirks over this shoulder.

"Yeah, well, a certain benefactor of mine has more money than God himself, and probably more brains than that; I'm sure he could find a way to make it happen."

It earns him a chuckle, and part of James preens in spite of his mood.

"Seems like a worthwhile endeavor," Tony says. He stops a couple feet from James and looks at him. His eyes are warm, but concerned; searching.

"You okay, Frosty?"

James gives him a tight smile, and turns back to the bag.

"I--uh. I ended things. With Steve." He chews his lip for a moment. Inhaling audibly, he turns back to face Tony, who looks dumbfounded. James shrugs one shoulder, sighs.

"It was coming a while. Just counting down to that last straw, you know?" He huffs a laugh.

"It never really occurred to me; us not being a unit. 'Til the end of the line', and all that." The ache radiates through James' chest, and he fights the urge to hug himself. He doesn't really want to bring Tony into this; it's not Tony's problem. It'd be easier to just push this aside for a little while and be superficial with the snarky genius.

He looks up, intending to crack some joke to steer them away from the storm that is James Barnes' personal life, but the words die on his tongue.

Tony looks...guilty.

Well, a mix of things, really: guilt is the most prominent, but there's disbelief and surprise, worry and....hope?

Before James can address any of what he's seeing, Tony's face shutters. His dark eyes go flat, tense, and his press-mask sympathetic smile doesn't reach them.

"Sorry, Buckaroo. That's rough stuff. I'd offer you a drink, but I don't have any of that Asgardian stuff laying around--I've got scotch. Wouldn't do much for you, but symbolically..."

James doesn't know what to say.

The billionaire keeps going. "Or vodka, if you're looking for a taste of the motherland--"

"Tony."

"--all I'm saying is we've got options, Barnes, options. They're limited to various kinds of liquor at the moment, but if you're looking for something in particular, I'm sure we could--"

"Stark."

Tony pulls up short, jaw clicking shut.

Bucky closes his eyes, suddenly tired. He wipes a hand down his sweat-tacky face, and looks to the side, over the other man's shoulder. Opens and closes his mouth wordlessly for a moment, and then:

"It was hard. But...you know something?"

He pauses. His skin feels too tight. Tony doesn't say anything.

"It wasn't as hard as it should have been."

The other man's silence is somehow both encouraging and nerve-wracking, and James can't quite work up the courage to look him in the face. He swallows, the click of his throat loud in the empty gymnasium.

"I feel like I should've been...devastated, broken, after...At just the thought of doing it," James says. "But I--I wasn't."

Suddenly, he needs Tony to know, needs to tell someone, that maybe Bucky Barnes didn't survive the fall from that train; not in the ways that count.

James inhales sharply, flexes his hands in and out of fists at his sides, builds it up...and then the wind goes out of his sails.

"It should've been harder," he finishes, lamely.

There's so much more he wants to say, but he doesn't think he could muster up the energy or the guts to pour it all out right now. He doesn't know if he could make it through the reveal, the truth of the matter.

Steve had wanted Bucky, that silver-tongued sniper, the childhood best friend and lover he'd known so well, and James had tried to give it to him. He really had. He'd stayed close, reminisced, fought and ate and slept by his side. The newness of the modern world had given him an excuse, something to blame for the growing distance and discomfort. But denial...denial's a weak veneer, and James has never been the type to hide.

(He'd laughed bitterly about it in private; the bullheadedness being the one thing he did feel comfortable attributing to the man he used to be.)

He is aching; not because he'd left the man he'd loved his entire life, but because of guilt--because he couldn't convince himself to stay. He's been beating himself to hell since the moment he looked up at Steve and felt...nothing.

"--ey, Barnes," Tony's voice cuts through the silence.

The soldier looks up at the other man.

The genius is projecting perfect ease, posture relaxed, both hands held up and open, his face just the same. His eyes are cautious, but the soldier can't really blame him for that. Not right now, when even James is a little worried he might fly apart.

Now that he's got his attention, Tony nods, licks his lips--the only sign of nerves.

"I didn't wanna do it without saying something," he says, "but I'm gonna put my hand on your shoulder, now; is that alright?"

After a pause, James nods shortly.

Then, as if in a dream, he watches his own hands reach forward to gather the smaller man to his chest.

To his intense (but foggy) satisfaction, there's only a moment of stiffness before Tony settles without protest. One of his arms slides up between James' shoulder blades while the other wraps tightly around the soldier's waist. He can feel Tony's breath against the side of his neck.

There's a hesitant, open energy between them, but neither man speaks.

James holds on for a while.

***

There are a few days of awkwardness after the embrace in the gym ("Um. Well," Tony'd coughed, "that's about all the Christmas spirit I think I can handle, Frosty," and he'd practically run from the room), but they fall back into their normal dynamic of easy, casual companionship fairly quickly.

James is incredibly grateful for the genius' quips and comments throughout leisure time and training alike, and the light conversation when Tony tinkers with the arm, because his other relationships are not rebounding nearly so well.

He only really has history with Sam and Natasha, and thankfully they're both of the mind to mind their own business, and interact with him per usual (Sam, slightly less so), but the others...the others radiate disapproval. They mostly just cold-shoulder him: avoid bringing him into conversations, find reasons to leave the room if he walks in. They're not giving him the stink-eye or anything, but they're not really going out of their way to be subtle, either.

At the opposite end of the spectrum are Tony's friends. Rhodes, and Spider Kid, and a few others that don't live at the compound. They're people who are unfailingly supportive of Tony, and the billionaire must have said something, because suddenly, they're supporting James, too. They draw him into their midst without him realizing.

On weekends Peter visits, James has a teenager-shaped satellite.

On the rare days Rhodes stops by the compound, the colonel goes out of his way to trade quips with James over coffee, ropes him into his and Tony's easy back-and-forth schoolyard ribbing.

The first time Ms. Potts greets him casually by his first name ("James," she says, smiling warmly and professionally), he has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder to check for the person she was actually addressing.

Hell, even Tony's driver, Happy, acknowledges him with a casual nod when they cross paths.

James definitely could've struck out on his own long ago; he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself (his solo stint after his last escape from HYDRA was evidence enough of that). Now, with these steadily forming relationships...He's grateful for the reasons to stay.

He finally feels like he's living James' life, not trying to carry on Bucky Barnes' legacy.

*

Through all of this, Steve is...there.

James can't be around him, around the broken looks Steve keeps sending his way. He doesn't want Steve to figure out that James isn't hurting for the same reason he is. He may not love the man, or see him the way he used to...but he's not soulless.

But after a few weeks, Steve starts trying to reach out.

Little things: popping up in the gym at the same time James is in there by himself, appearing in the rooms he happens to be in. James is beginning to suspect Steve might be asking FRIDAY about his whereabouts.

This has the opposite effect of what he knows Steve's going for. It pushes James to go where Steve can't.

*

The first time he shows up at the door to the workshop after everything, without an prosthetic-related issue, he's not sure he'll be welcome. He is, after all, another reason most of the team has chosen to attempt to alienate Tony further, and even if it's not something he's doing himself, he's still kind of the root of another one of Tony's problems.

His concern (fear) is laid to rest as soon as he touches the indicated scanner and the door slides open with zero pause. He steps into the room, stares around in awe for a moment (he'll never get used to the future he sees in this room), and then his eyes fall on the man at the main work station, and his heart kicks in his chest.

Tony looks...really good. Great. He's digging around in one of the suits in nothing but a tight white tank top and old worn jeans, streaks of grease scattered over his exposed skin, a light sheen all over from the exertion involved in the physical labor of machine repair.

When Tony turns to reach for something, it puts James in his line of sight, and after a flare of surprise, he smiles with open warmth.

Fine, Tony doesn't look good. He looks loveable. And fuckable.

The genius calls up to FRIDAY to turn down the music and strides towards James.

"Hey, Tasty Freeze, what's up? This a visit or a hideout?"

He says it so cavalier, like he isn't being put through the ringer by the things James has done, and it makes James want to hug him again.

"Why can't it be both?"

"Touche. I'm at a good stopping point anyway--by that I mean FRIDAY and Pep are both demanding I take a break--so how about you give me another reason to stop for a while?"

It's innocent, definitely just the inventor offering to eat some lunch or just sit and shoot the shit, but a light flush that has nothing to do with work blooms across Tony's cheeks.

James' sharp eyes track the physical manifestations of this man's desire for him, the signs Tony always tries to keep hidden: the flush, the dilation of his pupils, the almost jitters, the aborted reaching motions and the way his eyes cling to different parts of James' anatomy when he thinks the soldier won't notice.

He notices. He's always noticed. But he's never pushed or mentioned any of it.

Now, he stalks forward into Tony's space, confident, but carefully monitoring the man's reactions in case the advance is unwelcome.

Tony's eyes go wide, but he doesn't step back.

God, he's adorable. He lights a fire in James that hasn't been lit since before HYDRA, since before all of the bullshit with the return of the 'Rogues'. Through all of his internal conflict, through all of his uncertainty about his place in this new order that's been established here at the compound, he's never really doubted Tony's support. It's why he'd opened up so easily after everything, and why he's here now, staring down at the smaller man, the smaller man who is actually so much bigger than all of the people who try or have tried to crush him down.

"I can give you plenty of reasons," James says, smirking as he pulls the genius into a kiss.

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

Everything Tag List: @the-amazing-spidertwink, @starkercrossedlovers, @silkystark, @hoeforthegays

(I hope y’all don’t mind I’m tagging you on this not-Starker nonsense)

[quarterfromcanon]

Rough Draft

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 14 - Love Letters [2,625 words]

The waking disorientation lasted for a shorter span of minutes with each new day Valencia spent in a bed that was not her own. She got used to the way the early sunlight fell through the window at an odd slant as the rays passed above wall outside; she grew accustomed to the layout of the room in the wan illumination and the cool slide of satin across her hips. 

What did not decrease in novelty was the sight of Heather sleeping beside her.

Valencia’s air kept getting lost somewhere inside her lungs, caught between the inhale and exhale, hitching just long enough to leave a sting before she remembered to release it again. That morning was no exception. Sixty hours in each other’s company, fifty-seven of which were in varying states of undress, and they’d reached the level of comfort where both fell asleep nude the previous night. The curve of Heather’s spine in the warm glow of dawn called to Valencia’s fingers like a persistent itch. Her slow, even breathing made the sheets crumple in a pool around her waist. The tattoo on Heather’s right arm smiled at Valencia with its crooked robot mouth. 

Good morning, Wilbur, she thought. Valencia traced its outline and reflected on the first occasion when she heard the story of her friend’s prominent body art, and just how much had happened since that afternoon on a different bed belonging to Heather. It felt equal parts inexplicable and inevitable, a course of events neither of them predicted but which seemed like the only logical conclusion once they were here.

Yet, despite their increasing intimate knowledge of one another, there was so much Valencia still wanted to say. Half an hour ticked by in which she wrestled with declarations and curiosities, so close to shaking Heather awake to share it all, but uncertainty stilled her hand. 

Valencia climbed off the mattress and searched for clothes. She found Heather’s before her own and allowed herself the indulgence of slipping the loose, comfortable fabric onto her frame. Her fists balled up the camisole under her nose and she inhaled deeply. Cedar, citrus, and sea salt - no one product produced the co-mingling aromas but they all embedded into anything that pressed against Heather’s skin. Valencia wondered if perhaps she was adopting the distinct scent now, too. The thought pleased her more than she chose to admit.

She opened the bedroom door and padded around the corner into the living room. The yoga mat she borrowed from Heather’s car waited beside the couch, left in place on the floor after multiple uses. Valencia went through her sun salutation but the state of undisturbed serenity kept receiving interference from the brush of Heather’s madras shorts against her legs. They were comfortable to move in, but a relentless distraction woven with memories of how they wound up by the closet for her to wear in the first place. 

When her morning routine was complete, Valencia went back to the open doorway. She leaned against the frame and gazed down at Heather for a few minutes, curls in her face and calves overlapped beneath the blanket. The terrible need to divulge the contents of her whirring mind rose once more. Valencia’s mouth opened as if to let some of those emotions escape, but she closed it before any sound from her might disturb Heather’s peaceful slumber.

She shivered and pulled the crochet duster cardigan off Heather’s chair for extra coverage. Her arms folded over her stomach while she contemplated how she might broach the subject of where they stood after the recent developments between the two of them. No introductory premise held much potential. She was sure to get tripped up in the delivery, and the embarrassment of wanting to talk at all burned from the imagined exchange alone. Maybe the reliance on speech was not the best call to begin with, and the written word could prove easier to control. 

Valencia fetched her purse from the corner and rummaged until she found her portable bullet journal and a pen. She curled up in the chair and flipped to a blank page. Just as with her practiced conversation, the question of where to start was the most daunting. There were so many options - a joke, an anecdote, an admission - but the ideal beginning existed somewhere in the middle. She touched pen to paper and tested a few lighthearted sentences in precise, steady-stroke cursive.

You’ve had me crying out this entire weekend (not just in literal tears). I mean sexually you’ve had me crying out. What if the whole neighborhood hears? But as I’m heaving my chest, struggling to catch my breath, there’s something I’ve got to bite my tongue not to confess: I’m so scared. I think I like you. I want to hide I think I like you. It’s reckless, but you make me weak in the knees, and it’s not just your mouth that’s got me begging please...

She gave a disgruntled sigh and tore the draft free. Valencia crumpled the first attempt and tossed it into the trash can beside Heather’s nightstand. A fresh set of empty lines stretched underneath, ready to be filled, but Valencia put off a second trial in favor of leaving a note to herself. Her pen dug into each letter with unnecessary force.

Remember: NO NO NO This is just about sex. NO NO NO Keep this longing in check!

Valencia flipped deeper into the journal and looped her contemplation across unused parchment in a stream-of-consciousness, which she partially edited upon review.

I see you in nothing but that old blouse with the doughnut stain, and just like that, all I’m thinking again is holy crap, I think I like you. Don’t hate me. I think I like you. Why can’t I get lost in bumping and grinding like your face disappears inside my thighs? ’Cause as I’m returning the favor and you’re on your back, I want to see myself through your eyes. Then you curl your finger, beckon me to the brink, and suddenly it’s like way down deep I think I like you. Secretly, I think I like you. Can’t help falling harder every day. You’ve got me knotted up... not in a foreplaying way.

“Whatcha workin’ on, buddy?” Heather inquired.

Valencia jumped so hard that her notebook nearly went airborne. She shut it with a snap and tucked it under the cushion of the chair. “Oh, just finding things to do until you woke up,” she answered in a casual tone that directly contradicted her unusual behavior. 

Heather, much to Valencia’s relief, was too disoriented to detect anything suspicious.

“Thanks for letting me sleep in.” Heather tilted her phone, checked the clock, and rubbed her eyelids. “They don’t even need me at Home Base until ten, but I’d better go ahead and shower, though. What about you? Any plans for today?”

Valencia shrugged. “I’m wide open.”

A mischievous smirk formed at the corner of Heather’s lips. “Good to know.”

Valencia blushed and smiled in return. “Is it okay if I stay here while you’re gone?”

“Sure, of course. Mi casa and all that. You’ve got some of your stuff here to begin with, and anything else that comes up, you can just borrow mine --” Her gaze scanned Valencia’s outfit. “-- which I see you’re already doing. Are those all my clothes?”

Valencia self-consciously rubbed her kneecaps. “Yeah, they are. I got a little cold.”

“Shoulda never left the bed. I could’ve warmed you up.” Heather held out her hand. “C’mere.”

Valencia fell into the embrace and blanketed Heather’s body with her own. She hummed appreciatively and trailed her hands down Heather’s front. “How are you so much toastier than me when I’m in layers and you’re still naked?”

Heather nosed the cardigan aside and scraped one of her cuspids along Valencia’s shoulder. “There’s actually a scientific reason for that, but it’s way too nerdy and un-sexy to explain while you’re playing with my nipples.”

Valencia snorted and cradled Heather close. “I don’t know about that. I think the way your mind works is pretty hot.”

“Dude, careful. I’ve got like a decade’s worth of Gen. Ed. crap up there. You don’t wanna sit through all that.”

“Depends where I’m sitting.” Valencia caught Heather’s lower lip between her teeth and tugged.

Heather groaned. “Your wordplay game has seriously leveled up now that you’re all out-and-proud. I’m gonna have to sharpen my skills.”

She wriggled one hand under the back of Valencia’s waistband while the other inched up the cami. “Did you put on my underwear, too?” she asked just before her touch advanced far enough to reveal there was no sign of them. Valencia shook her head to answer regardless. Heather’s nails scratched with deliberate pressure over the expanse until Valencia shuddered and arched. “You even wear my clothes the same way I do,” Heather remarked. “Commando’s out of the norm for you. I appreciate your commitment to accurate imitation.”

“It’s the sincerest form of flattery.” 

“Mm, and the most helpful.” 

The madras was midway up Heather’s forearm by the time her fingers reached their target. Valencia rolled her hips. She gripped both sides of Heather’s face and kissed her until they both swayed dizzily. They worked together to discard the duster and Heather coaxed Valencia flat against the pillows.

Time unfurled outside of their awareness, the passage of an hour they were both happy to lose, and when Heather finally returned to her side of the bed, the purloined ensemble was scattered around the room where it began. 

“Okay,” Heather panted. “Now, for real, I have to shower.”

Valencia pressed one last kiss to Heather’s arm before she departed for the bathroom. What little oxygen Valencia had to spare left her in a dazed chuckle as she finger-combed her matted hair. She hugged her knees and rested her chin on them. The numbers on the cell phone screen blinked and changed several times before she retrieved the notebook and jotted down a third paragraph, but the fuzzy giddiness of her brain produced admittedly ridiculous results. 

Are there dental dams to block out this keening? Is there a strap-on long enough to thrust some space between my crotch and heart? Take out the batteries before I vibrate into ecstasy fantasizing an apartment, and maybe a pet, and then we get to ride on a Pride float...

Valencia held the journal away from herself with a grimace. “Oh my God!”

I think I like you. Her hand trembled, but she resisted the urge to cross out the truth. What to do? I think I like you.

She turned back to the old page, doodled her lover’s name, and retraced the reminder.

~*~ Heather ~*~

NO NO NO

NO NO NO

NO NO NO

NO NO NO

Valencia grumbled and ripped away the lot. She dropped them into the trash can and restored the journal to her purse.

Her own clothes turned out to be beneath the bed in a pile. Valencia put them on and went to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge. She was scrutinizing the expiry dates on some of Rebecca’s choices when Heather reemerged from the bathroom. 

“I’m making something to eat real quick before I head out. I can add enough for two servings, if you want in on it,” Heather offered. “Let me just dry my hair and then... ah crap. This happens every time.”

“What’s wrong?” Valencia called from where she now sat beside the island.

“Nothing major. I went to unplug my phone and knocked it into the trash. I’ve seriously done that like five times already. I’ve really gotta move this thing.”

The blood drained from Valencia’s face. She dropped off the stool and raced toward the bedroom. Her ribs collided with the door as she skidded to halt. 

Too late.

“There’s a whole stack of paper scraps in here,” Heather said, hands full of tattered sheets. “This is your handwriting, isn’t it?” 

She glanced at the uppermost piece and her eyebrows lifted. Valencia froze. 

“You made my name look really pretty.” Heather held up the rest of the pages. “Was this gonna be for me?”

“Please don’t read any more,” Valencia pleaded.

“Okay.” Heather gently restored the discarded musings to their place. “That’s the only thing I really saw, so, whatever you don’t want me to know is safe.”

She plugged in her hairdryer and sat on the bed. Valencia could feel the shift in the air between them. While Heather guided the gusts of heat in systematic lines from scalp to end, Valencia perched at the foot of the mattress. She clasped her hands atop her legs and fought off the tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Heather glanced her way for a fraction of a second when she paused to press the snowflake button in the middle of the dryer, but her stare was inscrutable and she said nothing. Valencia’s throat ached and her fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and hold Heather’s hand in her own.

Heather slid the plastic bar to ‘off,’ unplugged, and rolled up the cord. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” Valencia permitted in a quavering voice. “Anything.”

“The secret... which, by the way, suckiest hiding place ever... is it a good thing or a bad thing?” Heather busied herself with reluctantly putting on a bra and briefs to go beneath her work outfit.

“Good. I think. I hope.” Valencia hugged herself and crossed her ankles. “I just don’t know if it’s something you want to hear.”

The tension left Heather’s body as if she’d been holding her breath. “All right. Well, I respect your privacy so, I mean, I’m not gonna pry. Just know you can always talk to me, if you want to.” She buttoned up a blouse and stepped into a pair of slacks. “I won’t judge you or anything. Scout’s honor although, to be fair, that doesn’t count for as much as it could because I only went to like two meetings during cookie season.”

Valencia laughed, and a relieved smile brightened Heather’s face. She leaned down and brushed a soft kiss across Valencia’s cheek. Their eyes met when Heather pulled away. The revelation flew from Valencia’s mouth before she could stop it.

“I like you.”

“Good. It’d put a different spin on the last few days if you told me we were hatefucking this whole time.”

Heather gave Valencia’s shoulder a little shove and then walked out of the room. Valencia followed so quickly that it startled Heather when she turned around and found her standing there. 

“I don’t think you understand.” Valencia’s features were gravely serious. “I like you.”

“I like you, too. Do you want pancakes?”

“No, I mean I like like you,” Valencia clarified with wide eyes.

“As opposed to unlike liking me?” Heather prepped the skillet and set the temperature for the burner.

“Heathe...” Valencia’s expression was a unique blend of reprimanding scowl and petulant frown as she popped onto her earlier seat. 

Heather laughed but, upon seeing Valencia’s continued genuine distress, she relented. “I get it, V. Don’t worry. I just like teasing you. Y’know, to be flirty.”

“Would it be so hard to make this easy on me?” 

Heather pulled Valencia nearer, counter stool and all. She cupped Valencia’s face in her hands and kissed her. “Like that?” she joked. Heather leaned in until their noses and foreheads touched. “Was that easier?”

Valencia tried to look sullen but the facade wouldn’t stay in place. She locked her legs against Heather’s back pockets, draped both arms around her neck, and found Heather’s lips again with hers. “It’s not a bad start.”