#medium wood nightstand

[redheaded-eskimo]

Bedroom in Sacramento Inspiration for a mid-sized, traditional master bedroom remodel with a carpeted, beige floor, beige walls, and no fireplace

[vintheuk]

Phoenix Master Bedroom A small southwest master bedroom design example with a carpeted floor, beige walls, and no fireplace.

[totheexperts]

Master in Orange County Bedroom - mid-sized modern master medium tone wood floor and gray floor bedroom idea with gray walls, a metal fireplace and a ribbon fireplace

[makestrongminds]

Transitional Bedroom in New York Inspiration for a sizable transitional master bedroom remodel with a dark wood floor and a brown floor, blue walls, and no fireplace

[atlasmagazine]

Bedroom Guest Mid-sized mountain style guest carpeted and beige floor bedroom photo with white walls and no fireplace

[kahvikirahvi]

Bedroom Guest

Mid-sized mountain style guest carpeted and beige floor bedroom photo with white walls and no fireplace

[youknowyourefromsingaporewhen]

Guest - Traditional Bedroom Bedroom - mid-sized traditional guest light wood floor bedroom idea with beige walls and no fireplace

[seventeen-plz]

Transitional Bedroom in New York Inspiration for a sizable transitional master bedroom remodel with a dark wood floor and a brown floor, blue walls, and no fireplace

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 13

Summary:

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Words: 9,914

Tony scribbles feverishly into his notebook, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the quiet room. His Art and Duty of Childrearing textbook lies abandoned on the floor beside him, pages bent and cover askew.

A casualty of negligence.

Propped up in bed, he leans against his and Arnie’s thin, mismatched pillows. The faint yellow glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered surface of his nightstand, highlighting the smudges of graphite staining his fingers.

He nibbles on the end of his pencil as his eyes flick between messy calculations and intricate sketches.

The thing is, he had sworn off this nonsense weeks ago.

It had been a fucking headache, if anything. A dead end, something better left to time and the patience he didn’t possess.

Besides, the memory was still fresh—sharp words, sharper fists, and an ugly, lingering threat that Tony couldn’t dismiss, no matter how hard he tried to shove it into a deeper crevice of his mind.

And yet, here he was, defying all logic and better judgment, pencil in hand, letting curiosity pull him back in.

Because, like all bad ideas, this one had resurfaced with a vengeance.

(And had been sparked, no doubt, by both the mind-numbing drudgery of his current coursework and the glaring absence of a certain Alpha to distract him.)

His notebook is a chaotic sprawl of equations and diagrams, the pages covered in his usual chicken scratch, lines overlapping in a barely organized frenzy.

At the center of his muddled, distracted focus was the concept of a crystalline core—a theoretical medium to focus and amplify the radiation. Around it, he had scrawled potential materials, rough calculations, and the faint outline of a containment chamber: lead-lined walls to shield against leaks, an observation window made of reinforced glass, and a rudimentary control panel. The dials for adjusting intensity and duration are painstakingly labeled, though their precision remains theoretical at best.

In the margins, as if shouting at him from the page, he had scrawled the words “BIG RED BUTTON” in blocky letters, a failsafe to terminate the process in case of catastrophic failure.

The numbers sprawled across the page are rough, a messy mix of intuition and rapid estimations, but they start to form a picture.

He jots down an energy output estimate of 12.7 kJ/kg, scribbling question marks beside it, and notes that such an output might just activate Erskine’s super secret magic serum. The challenge, he knows, will be distributing the radiation evenly across a six-foot frame.

As he flips back through earlier pages, more questions fill the margins: What’s the long-term stress tolerance of synthetic quartz? What happens if the subject’s heart rate spikes? Could sub-threshold pulses mitigate the worst of the unintended effects?

He bites harder on his pencil, splintering the wood further as his scowl deepens. The textbook he’s supposed to be “studying”—yeah, right—mocks him from the floor, its neatly printed title a sharp contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last hurried calculations, he underlines a phrase he’s written in bold, steady handwriting—a mantra that’s guided him through countless inventions and disasters alike: "Stark Rule #1: Always build it twice. The first one’s for the mistakes.”

He stares at it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets out a guttural groan, the kind that could rattle the hinges off the lab door. With a flick of his wrist, the notebook sails across the room, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor with an unimpressive thud.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Very mature.”

Fingers rake through his hair, tugging at strands as if loosening them might untangle the chaos in his head. He doesn’t even notice the caffeine buzz anymore—too much shitty dining room coffee, not enough food, and exactly zero good ideas.

“Some mastermind you are, huh?” He laughs, short and humorless. “Mastermind of digging your own grave, maybe. Idiot.”

A mastermind who will inevitably end up disowned, or worse, a victim of casual manslaughter, for this brilliant little detour.

He drops onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. The mattress groans beneath him in solidarity—or maybe protest. Above, the ceiling stares back, its cracks and water stains sprawling like some ancient, forgotten map. He traces the imaginary continents with his eyes, trying not to notice how the edges seem to blur.

"This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done," he announces to the empty room. His voice sounds small, swallowed by the radiator’s low, steady hum.

Hopelessly foolish endeavor or not, the itch won’t leave. It burrows deeper, demanding attention, like a stubborn splinter lodged under his skin.

The crystalline core. The perfect medium. The impossible dance of energy and matter, balanced on the razor’s edge of genius and disaster. It taunts him like an ancient spell, daring him to solve its riddle or perish painfully trying.

He turns his head toward the notebook lying facedown on the floor, pages splayed like a wounded bird. The edges flutter slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. For a second, he considers leaving it there—letting it rot alongside the other half-finished ideas that litter his life.

But a stronger, more reckless impulse wins out.

Tony rolls off the bed with a graceless grunt, landing in a crouch on the floor. He snatches up the notebook, ignoring the torn page at the corner, and flips it open to the most recent entry. His eyes scan the scrawled notes, his brain already working to untangle the mess of ideas.

"Okay," he mutters, dragging the pencil back to his mouth for another absent nibble. This is what happens when he skips supper—he starts eating his stationery. "What’s the play here, Stark? You need power—stable, scalable, non-lethal power. Sure. That’s easy. No problem at all. Just rewrite the laws of physics while you’re at it.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out against the uneven surface of the bed.

"Step one," he says aloud, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the core’s containment unit. "Figure out the heat dissipation. No point in building a glorified bomb. Step two..." He pauses, pencil poised mid-air. "Find someone stupidly altruistic enough to let me test it on them.”

That thought makes him pause, his posture deflating as his expression twists into something sour. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, and for a moment, his hand hovers uncertainly over the page. He knows better than most what unchecked ambition can lead to. The wrong hands, the wrong intentions, the wrong test subject—it could all go sideways so quickly.

He sets the pencil down and exhales, his breath shaky.

"Stark Rule #2," he says quietly, repeating another mantra he’s lived by since childhood. He thinks of flying cars. Stolen glances at classified files on his father’s desk—nuclear bombs. "Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. But even as they settle, his eyes wander back to the notebook. The diagrams. The equations. The tiny, insistent kernel of possibility that won’t let him walk away.

Tony knows himself too well to believe he’ll leave it unfinished. He never does.

He lies sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, the growing ache in his neck a distant afterthought. His mind hums with restless energy as he conjures equations from nothing, the numbers unfurling like spectral ribbons. They stretch toward the ceiling, forming intricate patterns—floating variables that shimmer and shift, like constellations only he can decipher.

The ceiling becomes a canvas for his imagination, an infinite expanse where equations morph into possibilities. Variables twist and curve, dancing in a chaotic ballet as he tries to tease meaning from the mess. His lips move silently, murmuring numbers and theoretical principles, the words barely audible over the soft creak of the radiator.

A sharp knock breaks his reverie.

“Go away,” Tony grunts, rolling onto his side and sliding his notebook under his bed with a sharp shove.

The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. Tony scowls, sitting up on his elbows and glancing warily at the door.

It’s past curfew. Room checks were hours ago.

It’s clearly not enough to stop Tompkins and his pathological need to catch Tony in some imagined act of delinquency and debauchery.

Well, maybe not so imagined, not anymore. To the trained, prying nose, his sheets most definitely still smell like Bucky.

Tony had been writhing in his lap only twenty-four hours earlier, after all, before Bucky had so graciously flipped him around and pinned him to the mattress, spread Tony’s hips with his thighs, sucked a bruise to his collarbone, and rocked him to a swift, messy orgasm before Tony could even unbutton his pants.

“So easy, doll,” Bucky had laughed into Tony’s throat, squeezing Tony’s hip as Tony’s pleasured aftershocks ebbed into a more heated type of mortification.

“Gonna have to hand wash these, you animal,” Tony groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hiccuping weakly as Bucky punished him with another slow drag of his hips, relishing in Tony’s overstimulation.

“Not my fault you’re on a hairpin trigger, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’ when you just made me blow a load into my pants, Barnes, gross.”

It’s too late now for Tony’s sheets. Besides, until Tompkins catches Tony ‘in the act,’ so to speak, Tony has just been heavily relying on his best friend—plausible deniability.

Straightening his tie (askew since breakfast) and brushing graphite smudges from his hands, Tony clears his throat. "I'm studying," he says, loud enough for the words to carry through the door. “You know, like a model student.”

There’s no response—no impatient drawl, no snide comment about Omegas needing discipline. Just a muffled sound that sends a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Byron?” he tries again, this time more cautiously. His hand hovers over the doorknob. “If this is another surprise ‘search and seizure’, you’re too late, sir. My harem’s already disbanded for the night.”

Still nothing. He presses his ear to the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, a sniffle.

Tony freezes.

He finally swings the door open, the sight on the other side rooting him to the spot.

Becca Barnes’s shoulders tremble under a plain uniform sweater, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she clutches a crumpled telegram to her chest, fingers gripping it like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Tony,” she whispers, her voice cracked and broken. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his, filled with a grief so deep it takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Becca? What—” He stops short, stepping aside to let her in. She sways slightly as she crosses the threshold, and Tony catches her elbow, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed.

Her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs, and Tony drops to his knees in front of her, uncertain, his mind racing.

Tony, historically, doesn’t do well with tears. Other people’s or his own. He doesn’t know how to handle them—what to say or where to start—but something about the way she trembles makes his stomach twist.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the telegram clutched in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling.

“It’s Joey,” she finally chokes out, barely managing the words before her voice breaks.

Tony’s brain stalls, caught between relief that it’s not Bucky—it’s not Bucky, he hasn’t gotten his orders yet—and a sharp pang of guilt for the thought. His eyes flick to the telegram in her hands, and though he doesn’t ask for it, she thrusts it toward him like it’s burning her.

With hesitant hands, Tony unfolds the paper. The words hit him all at once, stark and clinical against the cheap yellow stock.

“We regret to inform you that Private Joseph Proctor is missing in action. Further updates will follow as they become available.”

Missing in action. The phrase lingers in his mind, carrying with it the weight of all its implications. Not dead, not confirmed—but not safe, either. Not home.

“Becca,” he says carefully, setting the telegram down on the bed beside her. “I—” His voice falters, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Her shoulders shake harder, and before he can figure out what to do, she collapses forward into him.

Tony freezes. She’s clutching at his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder, and he’s absolutely, completely out of his depth. He sits stiffly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, panic rising in his chest.

What is he supposed to do? Hug her? Say something? He glances around the room as if the peeling wallpaper might offer some guidance.

“Uh, hey,” he tries, his voice thin. “It’s—uh—okay?”

She doesn’t stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder, her entire frame trembling against his. Tony’s heart hammers in his chest, and finally—finally—he manages to drape one arm around her shoulders in the most awkward, tentative hug imaginable.

“There, uh… ” He clears his throat, patting her back stiffly. “There, there?”

She doesn’t respond with words, just cries harder, and Tony’s awkward pats slow until he’s holding her in a loose, uncertain embrace. The position feels strange, foreign, like wearing a suit two sizes too big.

He doesn’t... comfort people. He’s not good at it. But Becca is falling apart in his arms, and for once, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It’s… it’s not over yet,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, less stilted. “They said he’s missing, right? That means there’s still a chance. He’s probably out there thinking about you. About how much he wants to get back home to you.”

Becca hiccups, her tears slowing enough for her to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his. “What if… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Tony’s throat tightens, and his own breathing suddenly feels constricted in his chest. He forces himself to hold her gaze as he says, “Then… you’ll deal with it when you know for sure. Until then, don’t let yourself lose hope, okay? John wouldn’t want you to.”

“Joey.”

“Joey wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony’s grip on Becca spasms momentarily, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cardigan, before he loosens his hold again, uncertain. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into him, her weight anchoring him to the moment. Her breathing hitches, soft hiccups breaking through the stillness, and Tony focuses on those tiny sounds because they’re easier to manage than the chaotic storm brewing in his own head.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Comforting people, sitting with their pain—it’s all alien to him. It feels like trying to hold water in his hands, everything spilling through the cracks no matter how tightly he tries to hold on.

He’s failing, isn’t he? He must be. Becca’s still crying. His words hadn’t helped. His presence hadn’t helped. He’s just a placeholder—just here because she needed someone, anyone, and he happened to open the door.

She’s trembling in his arms, hiccupping breaths that shake her small frame, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—with her grief, with her fear.

Because it isn’t just her fear anymore, is it? It’s his, too.

The thought twists something sharp and bitter in Tony’s chest.

He’s spent months shoving it down, locking the fear away behind the endless buzz of equations and ideas and the warmth of Bucky’s grin, the way his voice drops when he teases Tony, the way his hands linger like they never want to leave.

Tony had told himself that was enough. That as long as Bucky was still here, still with him, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Do you ever think about the war?”

The crumpled telegram sits on the bed beside them, the stark, clinical language burned into Tony’s mind.

Missing in action.

It’s Joseph Proctor's name on the paper, not Bucky’s, but for the first time, Tony lets himself consider���really consider—that it could be.

That one day, some faceless messenger could knock on his door, hand him the same slip of paper, and tear his entire world apart in one word.

He swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. The thought feels too big, too heavy to hold in his chest, and yet it’s there, pressing down on him all the same. He’s spent weeks pretending the war was something far away, something that happened to other people.

Other Alphas. Not Bucky.

Not his Bucky.

But the war isn’t far away anymore. It’s here, in his room, in Becca’s shaking hands and tear-streaked face. It’s in her sobs, and the weight of the paper she’d handed him like it was burning her alive.

It’s in the question he’s been too afraid to ask himself: What if?

Becca shifts slightly against him, and her words pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to… to sit here and not know.”

Tony closes his eyes, gripping Becca a little tighter. His breath feels too fast, too shallow, and he forces himself to focus on her instead of the spiral pulling at him. She’s here, crying, looking to him for something—comfort, answers, anything—and he has nothing to give. Nothing that doesn’t sound empty or wrong or too much like a lie.

“You just… keep going,” he mutters, his voice thin, shaky. The words feel foreign in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. “You block it out. You don’t think too much. And you hold onto…” He trails off, his grip loosening as he glances at the telegram again. His throat tightens as the words hang in the air between them.

Because he doesn’t want to imagine the empty days and nights Becca will have to face, the silence stretching on without answers. He doesn’t want to imagine himself sitting in this same position, staring at a piece of paper with Bucky’s name on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t let it in. That’s how he’s survived so far, isn’t it? By not letting it in?

Becca pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes full of a quiet kind of devastation. “Is that what you do?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Tony’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t meet her gaze.

The truth sits bitter and heavy in his chest, impossible to spit out. He’s been doing exactly that—blocking it out, refusing to think about the letters piling up in mailboxes, the names of boys shipped off to fight wars they might not come back from.

Refusing to think about Bucky and the unspoken inevitability hovering over them both. Because once he lets himself think about it, there’s no turning back.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe.”

Becca’s hand brushes against his, tentative but steady, and it jolts him like a live wire. He glances down, startled, as her fingers curl lightly over his. “Tony,” she says softly, her voice still trembling, “Bucky’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words hit him square in the chest, a mix of comfort and something sharper. Not yet. It feels like a countdown, like the moment the other shoe will drop. And yet, it’s also true. Bucky hasn’t left. He’s still here, sneaking through Tony’s window, teasing him, stealing kisses when no one’s looking. He’s still here.

Tony nods slowly, forcing himself to meet Becca’s gaze even as the weight of everything presses harder against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, the word barely audible. “Not yet.”

Before Tony can fully process the weight of his own words, the air shifts around him, subtle but inescapable. He feels it before he understands it—a presence folding into the room, slipping between the stale heat of the radiator and the sharp tang of Becca’s distress.

And then, it’s there. Firewood and snowfall.

It wraps around him in a way that’s both grounding and unbearable, soothing and terrible all at once. It floods his senses, pulling him from the moment even as it tethers him more tightly to it. Tony’s breath catches, his pulse stumbling over itself as the scent settles deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

The window creaks.

Tony stiffens, his heart kicking hard against his ribs—equal parts anticipation and dread—as Bucky hauls himself through the narrow opening. He moves with the same practiced ease as always, his boots landing softly on the floor, his shoulders rolling loose as though the weight of the world has never once touched him. His hair’s mussed, wild from the wind, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing arms dusted faintly with soot. And then there’s the grin.

Lopsided, easy, and warm, like the night is his to command.

Tony can only watch, frozen in place, as Bucky brushes dust from his shirt and casts a glance around the room, oblivious to the weight pressing down on it. “Evening, sweetheart,” Bucky greets, his voice rich with its usual warmth as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Know I wasn’t supposed t’stop by tonight, but…” He shrugs, his grin widening. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

For a moment, Tony feels like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, every part of him stretched thin under the collision of two worlds. Bucky, carefree and teasing, full of life and ease. Becca, trembling in his arms, her grief still a raw, open wound. The contrast is jarring, the shift too sudden to reconcile, and it leaves Tony paralyzed under the weight of it.

Bucky doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still unwinding his tie, pulling it loose with a casual flick of his wrist. “Miss me?” he teases, stepping further into the room.

Then he sees her.

Bucky’s steps falter, the grin freezing halfway across his face before it dissolves completely. His gaze sharpens as it locks onto the bed, his brow furrowing deeply as he takes in the scene: Becca, curled tightly against Tony’s chest, her face blotchy and red; Tony, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, his body wound so tight it might snap.

“Becks?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, sharper now, tinged with alarm. He steps forward, his movements slow but purposeful, his steel-grey eyes darting between Becca and Tony. “What’s going on? Why is she—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingers on Becca’s trembling frame. “Why is she crying?”

Tony tries to respond, but the words catch in his throat, jagged and unsteady. “It’s…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “It’s Johnny.”

“J-Joey,” Becca corrects between hiccupping sobs.

Bucky freezes, his entire body going rigid. The name seems to hang in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, his expression shifts, the confusion melting into something darker. “Joey?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, lined with a growing edge of dread. “What about Joey?”

Becca doesn’t answer. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she presses her face harder against Tony’s shoulder, her sobs rising again, fractured and uneven.

Tony swallows thickly, his gaze darting between the siblings as he wordlessly gestures to the crumpled telegram on the bed.

Bucky’s eyes follow the motion, narrowing as he steps closer. His hand trembles faintly as he picks up the telegram, unfolding it with a deliberate precision that belies the storm gathering behind his gaze. Tony watches the exact moment the words hit him. Bucky’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as his eyes dart across the text.

Missing in action.

The words seem to knock the air from his lungs, leaving him standing there, silent and still, his jaw working silently as though trying to chew through the implications.

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough as he rakes a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t turn to Becca right away. Instead, his gaze flicks to Tony.

His expression is unfamiliar. Raw, unguarded—emotions that Tony isn’t sure he’s meant to see, and it makes his chest feel too tight, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Tony meets his eyes, the breath catching in his throat as the unspoken passes between them. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, as heavy as the telegram.

Bucky sighs, sets the paper down on Tony’s nightstand, and takes a cautious step closer. His hand moves before his words can, reaching out to settle lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is brief, almost fleeting, and Tony flounders under the weight of it—his own nerves fraying at the edges.

For just a moment, the world seems to still. Bucky’s thumb brushes against the edge of Tony’s neck, the faintest, almost imperceptible movement—and Tony’s breath hitches, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s face. There’s something uninhibited in the way Bucky looks at him that makes the knot in Tony’s chest loosen, if only slightly.

Tony swallows, nodding once in acknowledgment, though his heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Bucky’s hand twitches but lingers for another heartbeat before he pulls it away, his movements deliberate as he shifts his attention to Becca.

He moves quietly, his boots barely scuffing the floor as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, Becca doesn’t react. Her small frame remains hunched over, curled against Tony’s chest, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

“Becks,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and gentle as he leans toward her. He reaches out, his hand hovering near her back before settling lightly against her shoulder. His touch is cautious, careful, as though afraid she might break beneath the weight of it. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Becca hiccups softly, her sobs catching in her throat as her head shifts slightly, her cheek brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his other hand sliding under hers with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly around her trembling grip. “C’mere, Becks. I’ve got you.”

Tony feels the moment her hold on him falters, her hands slipping from his shirt as Bucky gently coaxes her away. There’s no resistance, only a quiet surrender as she turns toward her brother. Her movements are slow, almost hesitant, but when she finally collapses into his arms, it’s with the full weight of her grief.

Bucky pulls her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her as she buries her face against his shoulder. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances that Tony can’t quite make out. His hands move in soothing circles across her back, anchoring her to him.

Tony exhales, the sound shaky and uneven, as he sits back on his heels.

He should leave; he knows this, but he feels rooted to the spot.

The quiet of the room feels oppressive, broken only by Becca’s uneven breaths and the faint creak of the wind pushing through open window. Tony’s fingers twitch against his knee, the urge to do something—anything—gnawing at him. But there’s nothing to do, no easy fix, no clever quip that could make this moment any less harrowing.

His eyes drift toward the window, the cold air seeping in from its slightly warped frame. He tells himself he should get up, close it, climb out it—do anything to give them some privacy. But he doesn’t move.

Because Bucky’s eyes keep finding him.

Over Becca’s shoulder, Bucky looks at him with something unspoken, something open and unguarded that Tony doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it’s not dismissal, either. It’s something in between, a thread pulling Tony back every time his thoughts stray toward leaving.

Becca shifts slightly in Bucky’s arms, her quiet sobs giving way to hiccups as exhaustion begins to weigh her down. Her fingers clutch at Bucky’s shirt, trembling as her breaths stutter unevenly. Tony watches as Bucky presses his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring something so low that Tony can’t catch the words. But the cadence of it—the quiet, steady rhythm of Bucky’s voice—settles something fragile in the air.

Tony swallows hard, looking away to give them some semblance of privacy, though there’s nowhere else for his gaze to land. The room feels smaller than ever, the three of them compressed into this tiny, suffocating space. He lets his gaze trail back up to the ceiling. Wishing he could find answers instead of constellations full of equations and improbable variables.

Tony shifts his weight, his knees protesting the hard floor, and eventually leans back onto his palms, his body folding into the silence.

The stillness stretches, minutes bleeding into what could be hours, until Bucky’s voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“She fell asleep,” Bucky says eventually, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Tony’s head snaps back down, his gaze darting to Becca. Sure enough, her breathing has evened out, her face slack against Bucky’s chest. She looks younger somehow, smaller, and the sight makes something twist sharply in Tony’s ribcage.

Tony swallows audibly, his mouth opening and closing a few times before his gaze darts across the room.

“Yeah, no,” he says, shaking his head and blinking as his mind catches on the words. “Sure. You two take the bed. I’ll crash on Arnie’s. No big deal.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “Tony,” he says quietly. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, pushing himself up onto his feet and wincing as the feeling comes back into his legs. I have extra sheets… somewhere. Probably. And I’ve been stealing Roth’s pillow, anyway. Seems silly to drag Becca back to her room—”

“Tony.”

Tony freezes, mouth tense, a hand tugging through the messy strands on the back of his head. He looks at the Alpha.

The Bucky that Tony knows is… effortless. All easy grins and self-assured confidence.

But now, sitting on the edge of Tony’s shitty, too-small twin bed with his little sister cradled in his arms, Bucky looks different.

Tired. Resigned, maybe, or weighed down by something Tony can’t quite decipher. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem deeper, Tony’s usual favorite crooked grin replaced by a faint downturn of his lips. His broad shoulders, always so solid and unyielding, slump just slightly.

It’s disarming, Tony realizes, seeing him like this.

There’s no bravado, no easy grin to shield the cracks in his armor. He looks unpolished. Vulnerable in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache and his breath hitch.

The realization pulls something sharp and uneasy through him, and Tony’s gaze flickers away, but there’s no escape from the weight of it—or from Bucky’s scent, which hangs thick in the air now, impossible to ignore.

It’s still familiar in its warmth, still steadying in the way it grounds Tony when everything else feels too loud. But now there’s a bitter undertone curling beneath it, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet sorrow that lingers like the first sharp bite of frost before a snowstorm. It seeps into every corner of the room, clinging to Tony’s senses and wrapping around him in a way that makes his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He inhales without meaning to, the scent pulling at something deep and instinctive, something he doesn’t want to name but can’t shove down any longer. It presses against his ribcage, heavy and unrelenting, and he feels himself teetering between the urge to offer comfort and the impossible desire to fix it, even though he knows he can’t. Not this. Not tonight.

“Tony.”

The quiet rumble of Bucky’s voice slices through the haze, steady but laced with a softness that catches Tony off guard. When he glances up, Bucky’s sharp, perceptive eyes are already locked on him, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Tony want to squirm. Concern, sure—but also something deeper, something Tony’s not ready to face.

“Stop scentin’ me,” Bucky murmurs, though the words carry no real command, only quiet insistence. His jaw tightens as he glances away, his fingers flexing gently against Becca’s back. “Didn’t mean for it to get to you. Just…” He trails off, his voice lowering as he nods slightly. “Hold on.”

Tony flinches, heat crawling up his neck. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into his palms. “It’s fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice sharp with defense.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers for a beat longer before he shifts his attention back to Becca. Moving with a quiet deliberateness, he adjusts her until she’s lying on the mattress, her head propped against the pillow and her small frame tucked carefully against the wall.

Tony watches in silence as Bucky leans down to slip her shoes off, his movements careful and precise, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile peace they’ve built. Once Becca is settled, Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his own boots with slow, deliberate motions.

Still, Tony doesn’t move. His feet feel like lead, his body rooted to the spot as he watches Bucky without meaning to, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

Bucky straightens, his boots landing softly on the floor beside Becca’s. His hands rest briefly on his knees, fingers flexing like he’s bracing himself for something. Then, without hesitation, he looks up at Tony and holds out his arms.

“C’mere,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He shifts on his feet, his arms tightening across his chest. “What—”

“Just come here, doll,” Bucky says, his voice gentle but firm.

Tony hesitates, his gaze darting between Bucky’s open arms and Becca, who’s still fast asleep, her breaths slow and even. The bed is tiny. There’s barely enough room for Bucky and Becca as it is, and the thought of squeezing himself into that cramped space feels… impossible.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, his voice awkward and stilted. “There’s no room. I’ll just—”

“There’s room,” Bucky interrupts, his arms still outstretched. His expression softens, but there’s an edge of stubbornness in his tone now, the kind that always leaves Tony feeling off-balance. “You love havin’ this argument, don’t you? Just humor me.”

Tony snorts, shifting his weight uneasily. “Probably not gonna get much humor out of me tonight, Buck.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bucky says, his lips quirking in a faint, tired smile. He nods toward the bed, his gaze steady and insistent. “Come here, baby. Please.”

The please is what gets him.

Tony swallows, the sound loud in the stillness, and finally takes a cautious step closer. “This is stupid,” he mutters, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the words fall flat. He toes off his own shoes as he drags himself forward. “You don’t need me crowding you two all night.”

Bucky shakes his head, the smile fading into something quieter, more earnest. “I do,” he says simply. “I need you here.”

The words stop Tony in his tracks. He stares at Bucky, his mind scrambling for a witty retort, something to deflect the heaviness of what’s hanging in the air between them. But nothing comes.

Instead, he just exhales sharply and mutters, “Fine. But if I fall off the bed, I’m taking you down with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches out and catches Tony’s wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His hand is warm, calloused, and before Tony can process what’s happening, Bucky tugs him closer—not onto the bed, not yet, but to the space between his knees where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Tony stumbles forward, blinking in surprise. “What are you—”

“Just… hold still for a second,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and steady.

Tony freezes, his pulse ticking sharply against his throat as Bucky’s hands reach up to the knot of his tie. The movements are deliberate, careful—nothing like the hurried, heated way Bucky had tugged at his clothes a few nights ago, impatient and hungry as he backed Tony against his desk.

The memory flares briefly, unbidden, making Tony’s face burn. He remembers Bucky’s hands then, quick and sure, undoing buttons and pulling fabric aside like it was in the way. The way his lips had followed, leaving a trail of heat against Tony’s skin, drawing soft gasps and murmured protests that neither of them had meant.

This is nothing like that.

Now, Bucky’s touch is unhurried, almost reverent as he loosens the tie from Tony’s collar. There’s no rush, no teasing smirk, no deliberate press of his body against Tony’s to ignite sparks. Just quiet, deliberate movements and a weight in Bucky’s eyes that Tony can’t quite name.

The tie slips free, and Bucky sets it aside before his hands move to the buttons of Tony’s blazer. His touch lingers briefly, just enough to make Tony’s breath hitch before the first button pops open.

“You don’t have to—” Tony starts, his voice coming out shakier than intended, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I do,” Bucky says simply, his gaze meeting Tony’s as his hands move to the next button. “Just let me.”

Tony swallows hard, the words catching in his throat as he nods, barely perceptible. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he lets Bucky work, his hands steady as they ease the blazer from Tony’s shoulders.

The quiet intimacy of it all feels strange, too raw for Tony to handle, but he doesn’t pull away. He stands there, frozen but compliant, as Bucky folds the blazer and sets it aside with the same care he’d shown with the tie.

When Bucky’s hands settle lightly on Tony’s waist, Tony’s breath catches again, his gaze darting away. But before he can spiral too far into his own head, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

Tony exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re really… something tonight,” he mutters, his voice quieter than intended.

Bucky hums faintly, his thumbs brushing lightly over Tony’s hips. “Yeah, well…” His gaze flicks to Becca, nestled behind him, her face slack in sleep. “Guess everyone’s a little off tonight.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The warmth in Bucky’s voice pulls at something deep in his chest, but before he can dwell on it too long, Bucky shifts, his hands steady as he guides Tony toward the bed.

“C’mere,” Bucky says softly, his voice calm but insistent. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat tight with something unnameable, and doesn’t argue. He lets Bucky guide him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles hesitantly beside him. Bucky leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Tony adjusts awkwardly, curling into Bucky’s side and fisting his hand into the material of Bucky’s tear-soaked shirt. “Don’t blame me if I elbow you in my sleep,” he whispers, his tone pitched low and uncertain. The bed is small, and Tony’s already bracing himself for the inevitable fall if Becca so much as shifts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky murmurs, his hand settling lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is steady and warm, grounding Tony in a way that makes his throat tighten.

They fall into silence for a long moment, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft sound of Becca’s breathing. Tony lets his eyes adjust to the dark, his gaze flicking to the faint outline of Becca tucked against Bucky’s side. She looks smaller than usual, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. It’s soft, but there’s a weight to it, something heavy and resigned. “Joey… he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. Never thought it’d get this serious between them, but she loves him. Always has. Since they were little.”

Tony swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He’s never met the Alpha, of course, but the way Bucky talks about him—steady and low, tinged with quiet fondness—makes him feel like more than a name on a telegram. It’s easy to picture the boy through Bucky’s eyes: the neighbor kid with a shy grin and a good heart, someone who grew up alongside Becca and earned her love in a way that feels unfairly fragile now.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just a kid. Fifteen. She should be worried about dances and sneaking out to see a picture show, not… not this.” He exhales shakily, his grip on Becca tightening slightly. “Not waiting for news that might not come.”

Tony presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and smoke washing over him—sharp and steady, but tinged with sorrow. It anchors him and unsettles him all at once, pulling at something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters after a moment, his voice barely audible. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer, and Tony doesn’t resist. He lets himself sink into the warmth and the weight, the quiet presence of the man beside him. It feels like too much and not enough all at once, but for now, it’s all he has.

“You’re good at this,” Bucky murmurs after another long pause, his voice soft and low, breaking through Tony’s spiraling thoughts.

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “What? Squeezing into a bed too small for three people?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow, soothing motion. “This. Being here. Taking care of people.”

The words hit something raw and fragile inside Tony, and he stiffens slightly, his breath catching. “No,” he mutters, his voice rougher now. “I’m not.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tony’s head. His lips linger there for a moment before he rests his cheek against Tony’s hair. “You take care of me,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Hey, sweetheart?” “Yeah?” Tony croaks.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends. But… thank you. For being there for her.”

Tony bites down on the inside of his cheek and buries his face into the Alpha’s armpit to hide the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“We’re not friends. She forces me to eat breakfast with her. Steals my breakfast and cheats off my homework.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t do ‘homework’.”

“Exactly,” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s how much of a menace she is. She cheats off assignments I don’t even do.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Tony can feel more than hear. It’s warm and familiar, and for a moment, it cuts through the weight pressing down on the room. Tony’s grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens slightly, his fingers flexing before curling again, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

The darkness around them feels impossibly heavy, but it’s not suffocating. Not quite. It’s the kind of weight that settles rather than smothers, wrapping around them like a blanket too thick for the season. Tony closes his eyes, letting himself focus on the faint, steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the quiet creak of the bed as it shifts under their combined weight.

“Hey, Bucky?” He says quietly.

Bucky hums. “Yeah, baby?”

Tony hesitates, his question lingering on the edge of his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t ask—knows the weight of it—but the thought has been gnawing at him for weeks. Tonight, though, with Becca curled against Bucky and Joey’s absence casting a shadow over everything, the words slip free before he can stop them.

“Why haven’t you been called up yet?”

Bucky’s hand stills, his breath catching just enough for Tony to notice. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and for a moment, Tony regrets asking. He lifts his head slightly, glancing up at Bucky’s face. “Forget it,” Tony mutters, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky interrupts gently, exhaling a slow breath. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, distant and thoughtful, before it falls back to Tony. “Guess we have to talk about it, sooner rather than later.”

Tony doesn’t respond. His chest feels like it’s caving in, his lungs straining against the weight of the conversation he’s been avoiding since the beginning.

“When Ma and Dad died,” Bucky begins quietly, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “it was just me and Becca. She was thirteen, still a kid, and there was a pile of debts bigger than anything I’d ever seen—hospital bills, the funeral, everything they left behind. Someone had to take care of it. Someone had to take care of her.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “So when the notice came, I went down to the recruitment office and told them I wasn’t tryin’ to dodge it. Just… asking for time.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “They let you do that?”

Bucky shrugs faintly. “I think I got lucky. This was before things really took off. Before Japan attacked us. Maybe they took pity on me, y’know? Some kid fresh outta school, no parents, trying to hold things together for his sister. Told them I’d go if I had to, but I couldn’t leave her with nothing.”

Tony swallows hard, the image of Bucky standing in front of some indifferent bureaucrat, pleading his case with the same quiet determination that Tony’s come to know so well—it twists something deep in his chest.

“And now?” Tony asks, his voice quieter.

Bucky’s hand falters for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. “Now our grandparents are helping. Paying for her schooling. She’s with them when she’s not here. They’re good folks. But… that doesn’t mean the clock’s not ticking.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m on borrowed time, Tony. Just waitin’ for the day the letters start coming again.”

Something in Tony’s stomach lurches. It feels like dread, but heavier.

Anguish.

There’s no point in masking it. He knows Bucky can smell it.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. His hand continues its steady rhythm on Tony’s back, grounding and patient, giving Tony the space to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. But Tony can feel the Alpha’s gaze on him, sharp and searching even in the darkness.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to dump this on you,” Bucky says softly after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet, apologetic in a way that twists something deeper in Tony’s chest. “Not tonight. Not…like this.”

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no humor in it. “What’s one more thing to worry about?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Might as well pile it on.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand stills briefly before resuming its soothing motion, firmer now, as though trying to ease the tension out of Tony’s frame. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than he intends. “Be realistic?”

“Minimize this,” Bucky counters gently, his fingers brushing against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re allowed to feel this, Tony. You don’t have to… bury it.”

Tony scoffs, though the sound comes out weaker than he’d like. “Yeah, well. In my experience, burying my crap tends to work better than facing it.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Bucky knows what “it” is. The war. The draft. The inevitability of Bucky’s name coming up, of the letters arriving, of him being sent off to fight in a war that’s swallowing up everything and everyone in its path.

Tony shifts abruptly, pulling away from Bucky’s warmth and turning onto his side, his back facing him. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the weight in those steel-grey eyes, the resignation that’s already settled in. It feels too much like an ending, and Tony doesn’t know how to hold that in his chest without breaking apart.

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The confession trembles in the air, so quiet and raw that Tony isn’t even sure Bucky heard him. His voice cracks on the last word, the sound splintering like glass, and Tony clamps his mouth shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop anything else from spilling out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the mattress dips, and Tony feels the warmth of Bucky shifting closer behind him. A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder, hesitant, before sliding around his waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back against the solid warmth of his chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and Tony’s breath catches as he feels Bucky press his forehead gently against the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and heavy with something Tony can’t name. “I know.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his body stiff in Bucky’s embrace.

He can’t help but think of the last time they’d been tangled together in bed—only a few nights ago, at the tail end of his heat, when the world had felt far away and distant. Bucky’s bed had been too warm, their limbs intertwined, Tony too boneless and content to care about anything beyond the four walls of the bedroom.

He thinks of the lazy, indulgent smile on Bucky’s face, the way his mouth had trailed patterns down Tony’s bare shoulder, both of them sticky with sweat but too relaxed to do anything about it. They’d talked about nothing and kissed endlessly, the kind of careless behavior that felt safe because the world outside hadn’t crept in yet. Tony’s heart had been full that morning, his body humming with the comfort of Bucky’s scent and the warmth of his skin.

Now, the bed feels cold despite the heat of Bucky’s body against him. There’s no teasing, no smirk, no lazy contentment. Just the weight of what’s coming and the words they can’t take back.

“You don’t—” Tony’s voice falters, breaking apart before he can finish. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be left behind.”

To be cast aside by everyone you know.

Bucky exhales softly, the sound shaky in a way that makes Tony’s stomach twist. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t. And I’m so damn sorry that you have to feel this. That Becca has to feel this.” His arm tightens slightly, his hand resting against Tony’s side. “But you’re never gonna be alone in this, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest aching as he fights to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Bucky’s scent surrounds him—heady and incensed, still tinged with that quiet sorrow that makes Tony’s heart hurt—and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside him, something that makes him want to stay wrapped in this moment forever.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony whispers finally, his voice barely audible. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Petulant. Selfish. “You don’t have to go.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his hand moves, his fingers brushing lightly over Tony’s side in a way that’s both comforting and  devastating. “I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands fisting in the sheets as he presses his face against the pillow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the reality of it looms too large, too undeniable, and it feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

Bucky shifts closer, his arm tightening around Tony as if he’s trying to hold him together. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the ache that lingers there. “I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. You have my word.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony mutters, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bucky insists, his voice firm but gentle. “And I am. You hear me? I’m coming back, Tony. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and Tony wants so badly to believe him. But all he can do is nod, the motion small and uncertain, as he lets himself sink back into the warmth of Bucky’s embrace. His breathing is uneven, his heart racing in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, pressed against Bucky, and lets the Alpha hold him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Bucky’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing circles against Tony’s side.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got you, Tony.”

And for now, in this quiet, fragile moment, it’s enough.

Tony doesn’t recall falling asleep; the crushing weight of his thoughts must have eventually dragged him under.

He wakes before dawn, the pale light creeping into the room, casting everything in a faint gray haze. The mattress beneath him is too warm, crowded with too many bodies. Becca is still curled up against the wall, her face slack in sleep, while Bucky’s arm remains slung protectively around Tony’s waist, holding him in place.

Tony untangles himself with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake either of them. He doesn’t look back as he slips out of bed, his bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. His mind is already racing as he pulls on his blazer, though his tie remains slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He doesn’t need to be presentable for what he’s about to do. Just… prepared.

The hallways are eerily silent at this hour, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft creak of Tony’s footsteps. The early morning chill seeps into his skin, but he doesn’t care. His destination is clear, and his purpose even clearer.

Byron Tompkins’s office door is closed when Tony reaches it, the plaque on the wood catching the dim light. Tony doesn’t bother knocking. He grips the handle, twists, and pushes the door open with enough force that it smacks against the wall, rattling the frames hung with awards and irrelevant accolades.

The headmaster is seated at his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews the morning paper. He jumps at the sudden intrusion, his head snapping up, and the color drains from his face when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Stark,” Tompkins says sharply, though his voice wavers. “What on earth—”

“Becca Barnes is excused from finals,” Tony announces, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Tompkins blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Excuse me?” he says, recovering enough to feign authority. “Christ—you don’t have the authority to make that call, Stark.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s voice is calm, almost bored. “She received a telegram last night. She’s grieving, you absolute cretin. Do you expect her to sit through exams and recite poetry while her world is falling apart?”

Tompkins clears his throat, clearly flustered. “This is an institution, Stark. We have protocols—”

“To hell with your protocols, Byron,” Tony snaps. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to phone her grandparents and explain the situation. Tell them to come pick her up. She’s excused from finals, and she’s excused from the rest of the term.”

Tompkins glares, his indignation flickering behind a thin veneer of control. “You don’t get to decide that, Omega.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile, and he leans forward, planting his hands on the headmaster’s desk. “You know who my father is. You know what he could do with a single phone call. Do you really want to test me on this?��

Tony won’t test this. He’s completely bluffing. His father wouldn’t give a shit.

But the threat works, anyway. It’s worked for two years.

Tompkins visibly swallows, his eyes darting away as the weight of the unspoken threat settles over him.

“She’s a child,” Tony hisses. “A grieving child who doesn’t need some bureaucratic leech like you making her life harder. And while you’re at it, write a note excusing her from every last responsibility she’s got. Outstanding assignments, obligations, whatever else you pencil-pushers are dreaming up to make kids here miserable. She’s done."

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders sagging as he realizes he’s lost. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ll… make the call.”

"Fabulous."

Tompkins scowls as he reaches for the phone on his desk. Tony doesn’t leave until the first dial tone sounds, ensuring that the man follows through.

As he steps back into the hallway, the burden in his ribs doesn't lift; it just shifts. For a moment, he stands still, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight, like he’s daring the weight of the morning to press harder.

The faint hum of the headmaster’s voice drifts from the office, low and reluctant as the call begins. Tony doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t need to. The message has already been delivered, the balance of power tilted just enough to leave Tompkins scrambling to save face.

He exhales slowly, his breath sharp in the quiet, and begins walking again. His steps echo in the empty corridor, steady but heavy, like each one carries the weight of something he can’t shake.

There’s no satisfaction in the victory—only the dull ache of inevitability settling deeper.

Lodging itself firmly into his chest.

[gffa]

Sometimes I get defensive about those house decor posts I see going around where people say that the neutral colors/black & white sleek look is "soulless" and they want to bite, kill, rend, and destroy for getting rid of the color in their homes. Setting aside that people should be allowed to do whatever they want in their own homes, let me tell you what "color" means to me: Everything in my life was a different color. Every room had every color crammed into it. Which sounds like, oh, that must have been a pretty rainbow effect! It wasn't, none of these colors were meant to go together, it's a hot pink plastic shoebox set on top of a dark brown folding table holding three wildly different shades of brown hand towels, some cornflower blue notebooks, and orange pens. It's burnt orange shag carpeting in the living room and hallway, with slate blue chairs, and a white tv tray loaded up with bright yellow pill and cornflower blue bottles and pale wood bookshelf next to dark brown folding table next to pine-colored dresser next to medium dark wood nightstand, all of those that fake material with the sticker made to look like wood, not actual wood. It's lime green countertops and dark beige flooring with one faded yellow wall, one off-white wall, and one faded mint green wall. It's a pine wood mimicking kitchen table with gold trim that's a sticker not actual wood, combined with one black rolling chair, one maroon and oak chair (not actual wood), and one gray upholstered chair. It's a robin's egg blue frayed blanket tossed over the red-and-black walker in the corner, which is also loaded up with the dark green and dark blue exercise bands. It's white and beige pieces of paper plopped everywhere. And all of these colors are faded so they're not really even pretty on their own, it's just a mishmash everywhere. All of this together in one house and that's just a fraction of it, it's a constant clashing of colors and, if there was a foot of space against the wall available, it had another dresser, nightstand, or bookshelf shoved into it. I look at some of these colorful homes that people love and I think they're beautiful and I get so much joy out of people in their homes loving their surroundings! But I will never be able to live in that kind of color for myself again without being heartsore about it. I've gone for a neutral palette now that I'm making the design decisions, I'm choosing white walls (admittedly with a little bit of a blue undertone that you only notice when it's picking up other things' colors), black trim, and gray/white/black/brown reclaimed wood flooring. I picked out a gray/white/black comforter to throw over the bed with a black headboard and black + gray pillows. I'm getting some subtle green accents to put in the room, the guest room has been going with a pale yellow theme (to accent the black/white/gray/grown colors), I'm not eschewing color all together, but those bright, overwhelming colors are not what makes my soul sing. Neutral colors are not a soulless choice on my part, it's the first time in my life that I feel like it's finally clean, that I can breathe properly. You could scrub down a room with seafoam and forest green colors and have it so clean you could lick the walls and I would still have to go outside and take a moment to gather myself together if I had to live in it, because for me "color" means messy and I've had an entire lifetime of mess. I love when people put bright orange or bright green on their walls, that rocks and I will come over and genuinely tell you how beautiful it is, because I understand that it makes your soul sing. But understand that, in turn, having sleek, subtle colors makes my soul sing in a way that's just as genuine.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot #11

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: somewhat explicit implied future non-con

Ambrose led him to their next stop. It was a small, wedged in between a large general goods store and the town butcher. 

Another bell tinkled when Ambrose opened the door. A man looked up from his work: polishing a shoe. 

Elliot glanced around the room. The interior was far different from the tailor’s clutter. The shelves were neat and orderly, one side held boots and the other shoes. There were even two shelves dedicated to dress shoes, both brown and shiny black.

“Hello, Ambrose. I haven’t seen you in a while.” The man put down the shoe, straightening it to align with its twin. Elliot did not like this man.

“To be fair, I haven’t needed to visit. Your craftsmanship holds up too well,” pointed out Ambrose.

The man smiled, sharp and smug. He leaned against the desk.

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is Elliot. He needs a pair of shoes and a pair of winter boots. As soon as you can manage.”

The man looked him up and down. 

“Well, can he manage to pay for speed? Otherwise, he’ll have to wai-”

“David.” snapped Ambrose, scowling. 

David straightened, pursing his lips. “I see. Well, come over here and sit, then. I’m a very busy man.”

Elliot came over and sat. Ambrose followed close behind.

The man had him toe off his borrowed shoes, and Elliot was very happy he’d taken the time to scrub that morning.

David measured his size, noted down a few things, and that was that.

“I’ll bill you later,” he bit out as he escorted them to the door.

“Fine.” retorted Ambrose.

They stepped outside, and the door closed sharp behind them.

“Sorry about that,” said Ambrose. “He’s sort of an asshole, but David’s the only shoemaker in town. It gets to him.”

Elliot wasn’t sure why Ambrose was sorry, but he nodded anyway.

___________________

They went back to Hearthwood for lunch.

“Tonight we can just relax,” said Ambrose. “I don’t open on the third day of the week.”

Once again he held a cup of tea, but no meal. Elliot was pretty sure it was jasmine.

“Yes, sir.” Elliot wasn’t smart, but he knew his place in the world. Master Ambrose wanted sex tonight, and Elliot’s duty was to serve. He’d always done well with men. Maybe Master Ambrose would be gentle in bed like he was outside of it, but masters needed outlets and that was Elliot’s job. It could go either way, but it was inevitable.

“How are you feeling?” Another vague question.

“I’m alright, sir.”

“Would you like to rest a little, or go back out? I’d like to get some furniture for you, but there’s no rush.”

Lying was disobedient, but refusing to please was worse. Elliot considered how tired he was. He didn’t really want to go out more, but he wouldn’t get touched furniture shopping. And staying in meant he’d have to go later anyway.

“We could um, go back out.” 

___________________

To his relief, there was only one place left to go. They met a nice lady, Jennifer, who made all kinds of things from wood and stone. There were plenty of pieces to pick from and Elliot was nervous about having so many choices. In the end, Ambrose had him pick out a cedar chest and dresser, a nightstand, and a vanity. They were all medium reddish-brown.

Jennifer was set to deliver them tomorrow. Her siblings would carry it upstairs and all Elliot had to do was choose where to put them. 

He was admittedly distracted; tonight loomed over his mind. Elliot waited for Master Ambrose to correct him, but it didn’t come. Maybe the punishment for being distracted was forcing him to think about it.

What would Master want? His mouth? His ass?

Would he strangle him or tie him down?

Would he beat him?

The belt or just his hand?

Would he slap him across the face or would he take him from behind?

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Elliot would be good and take it, no matter what.

He just hoped it would be quick.

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

[pastelbatfandoms]

Marvel dr memories and a shift!

3/22/24 Had some dr memories from Erik while I was meditating with him. First ones we're kinda all over the place bits and pieces of us fighting other villains then him and I protecting each other with our powers (Magneto was helping me turn my shadow and light into a protective barrier while he made it stronger by overlapping his magnetic shield around it,while he held my hands) Then us sharing drinks together outside while looking over the courtyard of the X mansion. Us meeting for the first time, him actually kissing my hand. Then us making out in his room. Then it turned into a full memory of me coming back after leaving Shield the second time, once they figured out I had powers, Erik wasn't happy seeing as how he thought I had died not knowing I could heal myself, I tried to explain things to him, how I thought it would just complicate things if I hadn't left. He did use his powers on me by pulling me towards him via my necklace, I thought he was going to choke me and he did wrap the chain lightly around my neck but then staring at me, he let me go. And left the mansion, that was when he went to prison for "killing the president" I stayed at the mansion for awhile but as things got worse, especially Xavier and our disagreements I took a page out of Raven and Erik's book and left.

4/2/24 I've been taking a break from my Marvel dr recently but I think I had a dream or minishift idk which I'm sick and not trying to focus on what it was right now. But anyway I was in this bed that was a bit bigger then a full sized had a couple pillows and a plaid blanket on it and the room was medium sized with wood floors, desks and dressers around the room with a bunch of clutter and boxes everywhere. It was messy. I got up and went over to this nightstand that was agaisnt a wall furtherest away from the bed, it had a medium sized mirror on top leaning agaisn't the wall. As well as a bunch of nail polish and makeup all over. I remember looking into the dirty mirror and being taken a back because it didn't look like me in my cr, I looked like Chloe Bennet or Daisy. So I must have been Lili since Daisy is my twin in that dr. I had hazel eyes, shoulder length lighter brown hair and bangs parted to the sides that I kept messing with. That's all I remember before I woke up. I think I might have been in Bucky's room when he wasn't there. It did feel real and I did feel disoriented after I woke up, like I slept too long. My friend Hannah confirmed that it is very likely that was an ungrounded full shift!

5/1/24 I've been taking a break with shifting but I did get a short memory with Bucky as The Winter Soldier, we were in Hydra because I was 15-16 years old and he was holding me in a very protective way. Trying to keep me away from the guards, then Zemo walked up and Strucker walked up behind Bucky. Bucky pointed a gun at Zemo who raised is hands and told Zemo to stay away from me. Then Strucker told them to grab Bucky and Zemo took me. They took control of Bucky and Zemo took control of me which I was not happy with.

5/7/24 Had really intense visions while meditating. They were of Zemo and I. He has been trying to protect me not just from Hydra but himself as well (the reason he said he didn't love me was cause he felt like I deserved better.) We were in the back of a black car with Reinhardt and I didn't want to comply anymore, so I ran off. Zemo stopped Reinhardt before he could get to me. Werner punched him then reminded Zemo what he could do if Zemo betrayed Hydra (though he does later) I kept seeing a theme of Zemo trying to defy their orders and getting beaten down, threatened with the super soldier serum or threatening to torture me instead. Then what I gather is the fall of HYDRA. Everything in rubble, Zemo is fighting at our side. I can't travel since there's no shadows close so Zemo grabs me up sheilding me then throws me to Bucky. Who runs with me in his arms. Then we hide behind a ruined wall as I hear gun shots and Zemo fighting off Hydra agents. I see Magneto hovering in the distance using his metal powers. He gives me a small smile and nods when he sees I'm okay. There's only so much Bucky can do with his metal arm and my shadows are useless here. Just then an artifical sheild appears out of no where with the literal SHIELD logo on it. I look up and see Coulson grinning down at me. "Dad!" "Hey sweetie. Need help? I see Quake lived up to her name here…" I nod a thanks then I jump out from behind the wall along with my widow sisters Nat and Lena as I see arrows fly from Hawkeye (both of them) Us Widow sisters fight back to back as they take out there batons. I take out my glass sword, Zemo sidles up to me still with his mask on and hands me his own sword a mischevious yet loving glint in his eyes as I take it and fight. That's all I got cause like I said it was really intense but at least I know how it ended for now. I also thought I saw Zemo or a form of him in my peripheral vision yesterday which was trippy. Zemo has been trying to get through to me through music (specifically the song 'I'll do better') for a couple days now.

[traincarsandstars]

for the future yinyue-jun, dan feng leaves behind a few of his finest brushes and most expensive inks --- someday, a world of endless recitations will await her, but perhaps having something nice to write with will make the experience a little less painful.

alternatively, some of the finer-tipped brushes work well for doodling in the margins ...

"Huh? What's this thing?" Carefully, Bailu used her tail to pull the mysterious wood box closer; once it was close enough, she reached forward and dragged the box out from underneath her bed.

Bailu was currently in the Forbidden Residence- the ancestral home of all Luofu High Elders, doing one more sweep before reuniting with the others on the Express. She wanted to be sure that everything that was of personal importance to her was either on the Express or moved to her storage unit located in the Exalting Sanctum. As Bailu was rummaging through her nightstand, one of the spare pens she kept in the inner pockets of her zhaoshan fell out and rolled underneath her bed. She grumbled and got on her knees to retrieve it; that's when she noticed the box.

Bailu didn't know how long the box had been under there; however, judging by the layer of dust, it had to have been a while. The box itself was wooden, medium-sized, and relatively light. Yet, despite this, the little High Elder could make out a wavy blue design on the lid. Squinting, she wiped the top with her sleeve and found two burning eyes of an azure dragon staring up at her.

"Woaahh!" She blinked. Back then, imagery of the Azure Dragon was only for the High Elder, but now those stuck-up preceptors use it all the time. "This must have belonged to a previous High Elder," she said as she stood with the box in hand. She walked over to her desk and placed the box down before she continued to wipe the dust off; it wasn't long before she got most of the dust off- revealing the box's hidden splendor. The lid depicted an azure dragon with eyes made out of yellow gemstones swimming in a sea of carved waves and coral; both the right and left sides delineate a crane with its majestic wings spread as if to take flight. The front and back faces' featured both dragon and crane, with the crane flying high above and the dragon swimming in the sea below.

"This is really fancy," Bailu mumbled, almost in awe of what's in front of her. Curious as to what could be inside such an expensive-looking box, Bailu quickly lifted the lid to find--

"Brushes?" Fancy brushes, actually, with azure dragons carved on each handle. Bailu lifted a few out of the box to admire the craftsmanship when she noticed a small stack of- what she guessed to be high-quality inkstones. "This must have been some High Elder's calligraphy set," she mused.

Suddenly, her phone's alarm went off; Bailu scrambled to grab it, nearly dropping one of the brushes. She clinked her phone on and saw the time; the Express was leaving for Jarilo-VI for a festival, so they needed to go at a certain time to make it. Quickly, she placed the ornate brushes back into the box and closed it; she retrieved her medicine bag, which lay abandoned on the floor, and carefully slipped the box inside. No chance she was going to let the preceptors have these brushes! Even though she barely practices calligraphy and her penmanship isn't that great, it's still her inheritance. (Maybe?) And she's not giving them up for the world.

Besides, Dan Heng seems like the type to be into calligraphy, maybe he'll know what to do with them.

@astrcls

[wallartideas]

MDF Jewellery Boxes: A Blend of Style and Function

Introduction

Jewelry is one of the most cherished possessions, and keeping it organized and safe is a priority. Whether you have a few precious pieces or a growing collection, storing them properly is essential. This is where MDF Jewellery Boxes come into play, offering the perfect blend of style, functionality, and versatility. But what makes these boxes stand out in the world of home décor and jewelry storage? Let's dive in!

What are MDF Jewellery Boxes?

MDF stands for Medium Density Fiberboard, a material made by combining wood fibers, wax, and resin. The result is a sturdy yet lightweight board perfect for crafting durable products like jewelry boxes. These boxes offer a unique combination of elegance and practicality. Not only do they serve as perfect storage for jewelry, but they also double as beautiful pieces of home décor.

Composition of MDF

MDF is known for its smooth surface, which makes it perfect for home décor crafts. It is highly customizable, meaning you can have intricate designs, vibrant colors, or a natural wood finish for your MDF jewelry box.

Why Choose MDF for Jewelry Boxes?

MDF’s durability and ease of manipulation make it a popular choice in creating custom jewelry boxes. It offers long-lasting protection for your precious items while enhancing the aesthetic of your room. Whether you’re looking for a box that complements your home plate design or serves as a centerpiece on your dresser, MDF jewelry boxes are a great fit.

Aesthetic Appeal of MDF Jewelry Boxes

Design Elements

The appeal of MDF jewelry boxes lies not only in their functionality but also in their design. With various finishes and patterns, these boxes can be designed to match any home décor style, from modern minimalist to traditional charm. Whether it’s sleek lines or a more intricate Indian home décor style, you can find or customize a box that suits your taste.

Modern vs Traditional Designs

MDF boxes are available in a wide range of designs. Modern boxes typically feature clean lines, minimalist features, and vibrant colors, while traditional designs might include ornate carvings, inlays, or even aesthetic wall hanging elements that create a timeless look.

Customizable Options for Unique Touches

One of the best aspects of MDF jewelry boxes is their customization options. Whether you’re adding a personal touch to your box for a special occasion or designing a one-of-a-kind piece for your beautiful room décor, the possibilities are endless.

MDF Jewellery Boxes in Home Décor

Integrating with Indian Home Décor

In Indian home décor, rich colors, patterns, and textures often take center stage. An MDF jewelry box, especially one featuring traditional Indian motifs or patterns, can add a beautiful touch to your room. These boxes become more than just storage; they become conversation pieces that tie your entire space together.

MDF Jewelry Boxes as Part of Home Interior Decor

When it comes to home interior decor, small decorative items can make a significant impact. An MDF jewelry box placed strategically on a shelf or vanity not only organizes your jewelry but also adds visual appeal to the space. It’s the perfect accent piece for beautiful room decor that doesn’t overpower the surroundings.

Beautiful Room Decor with MDF Boxes

There’s no denying the ability of a well-designed MDF jewelry box to brighten up a room. Whether placed on a nightstand, a dresser, or even hung on the wall as part of a unique wall art display, MDF boxes offer an aesthetic appeal that’s hard to match.

The Practicality of MDF Jewelry Boxes

Durability and Strength

While style is important, so is practicality. MDF jewelry boxes are incredibly sturdy, offering long-lasting durability. They provide a safe haven for your jewelry, protecting it from dust, scratches, and damage. Whether your pieces are delicate or more robust, these boxes are built to last.

Organization and Storage Features

Organization is key when it comes to jewelry storage. Many MDF jewelry boxes come with multiple compartments, trays, or even mirrors, allowing you to keep your jewelry neatly arranged. From rings and earrings to necklaces and bracelets, there’s a spot for everything in an MDF jewelry box.

Home Plate Design and MDF Jewelry Boxes

Artistic Inspiration Behind the Design

The home plate design is all about clean, geometric shapes that reflect modern sensibilities. When paired with MDF jewelry boxes, this design can turn a simple storage item into an art piece. Think about a box that mimics the sleekness of aesthetic wall hanging or a design that matches your unique sense of style. It’s all about finding the right balance between art and function.

Perfect Pairings for Your Space

Pairing an MDF jewelry box with other design elements, like contemporary wall art or home décor crafts, will help it blend seamlessly into your home. Whether you want to emphasize the geometric appeal of a home plate design or keep things minimalistic, the choices are vast.

Why MDF Jewelry Boxes Are a Smart Purchase

Affordability vs Luxury

MDF jewelry boxes are surprisingly affordable, offering a touch of luxury without the hefty price tag. For those who want to add a beautiful room decor element without breaking the bank, MDF boxes are a great solution. They provide a balance of quality and cost-effectiveness that’s hard to beat.

Accessibility with Online Shopping Platforms

Thanks to platforms like dbeautify.com and mystore, buying MDF jewelry boxes online is incredibly convenient. You can browse a wide range of designs, compare prices, and have the perfect jewelry box delivered to your door in no time.

Where to Buy MDF Jewelry Boxes?

The Convenience of Online Shopping

Purchasing MDF jewelry boxes online is easier than ever. With e-commerce platforms like mystore, you can explore different designs, read customer reviews, and find exactly what you need.

dbeautify.com and E-commerce Platforms like MyStore

If you're looking for high-quality MDF jewelry boxes, you can always trust platforms like dbeautify.com. These online marketplaces offer a variety of options that cater to different tastes and budgets.

Incorporating MDF Jewelry Boxes in Your Space

Accent Pieces for Every Room

An MDF jewelry box is more than just storage—it’s an accent piece that can elevate any room. Whether you place it on your vanity or use it as a decorative object on your shelf, it adds a layer of sophistication and charm to your space.

Enhancing Wall Art with a Touch of Style

You can even use your MDF jewelry box as part of your wall art by hanging it up as an artistic piece. Combining it with other decorative elements like pictures, sculptures, or plants can create a visually interesting focal point.

Conclusion

MDF jewelry boxes are a beautiful and practical addition to any home. Whether you're storing precious jewels or adding a stylish touch to your home décor, these boxes serve as versatile storage solutions. With their sleek designs, affordability, and customization options, they are truly the best of both worlds.

FAQs

What makes MDF jewelry boxes a great choice for décor? MDF jewelry boxes offer both practicality and aesthetic appeal, blending seamlessly into various home décor styles.

How do I choose the right MDF jewelry box for my space? Consider your room's color scheme, style, and the size of your jewelry collection to select the perfect box.

Can I customize my MDF jewelry box? Yes! Many companies offer customizable MDF jewelry boxes, allowing you to add your personal touch.

What are the benefits of shopping online for MDF jewelry boxes? Online platforms offer a wide selection, easy price comparison, and the convenience of home delivery.

How do MDF jewelry boxes fit into modern interior designs? MDF boxes with sleek lines and modern finishes fit perfectly into minimalist or contemporary interior designs.

Know More About Modern Wall Clock

[dreamhomediaries01]

Furniture Shopping for Kids: A Price Breakdown by U.S. State

Furniture shopping for kids can be both exciting and challenging. As parents and caregivers, you want to create a space that’s functional, stylish, and most importantly, safe for your little ones. However, with so many options available in the market, it can be difficult to determine where to start, especially when it comes to pricing. Understanding the cost of children's bedroom furniture across different states in the United States can help you make more informed decisions while ensuring you get the best value for your money.

In this article, we’ll break down the prices of children's bedroom furniture in various states and explore some key factors that affect these costs. Whether you’re looking for a cozy toddler bed, a bunk bed for siblings, or a stylish dresser, knowing the price trends in different regions can save you time and money.

Factors That Affect Children’s Bedroom Furniture Prices

Before diving into the price breakdown by state, it's essential to understand what factors influence the cost of children's bedroom furniture. Several elements contribute to the price variation you might encounter when shopping for kids’ furniture.

Material Quality: The material used in the construction of children’s furniture plays a significant role in its price. Furniture made from solid wood or high-quality materials like oak or maple tends to be more expensive than pieces made from cheaper materials like particleboard or MDF (medium-density fiberboard). Solid wood furniture is more durable, which is why it often comes with a higher price tag.

Brand: The brand of furniture can also influence the price. Well-known brands with a reputation for quality and safety, such as Pottery Barn Kids or Restoration Hardware, typically cost more than lesser-known or generic brands. However, these brands may offer additional design features and higher-quality construction, which some parents are willing to pay for.

Design and Features: The design and features of the furniture are another crucial factor that impacts the price. For example, a simple twin bed without storage will cost less than a bed with built-in drawers or a lofted bunk bed with additional storage and workspace. Customizable options, such as changing the color of the furniture or adding unique accents, can also increase the price.

Location: The state or city where you are shopping can have a significant impact on the cost of children’s bedroom furniture. Urban areas with higher living costs tend to have higher furniture prices due to factors such as rent, labor costs, and overhead expenses for furniture retailers. Conversely, suburban or rural areas may offer more affordable options.

Shipping and Delivery Costs: Shipping fees can add to the overall price, especially if you're purchasing from a store that doesn't offer free delivery. Furniture retailers that provide free or discounted delivery within a specific region or state can help reduce additional costs.

Price Breakdown by U.S. State

The cost of children's bedroom furniture varies widely across the United States, influenced by factors such as regional demand, store availability, and local economic conditions. Below is a breakdown of children's bedroom furniture prices by region:

Northeast

In the Northeast, states such as New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts often have higher furniture prices due to the high cost of living in metropolitan areas. On average, children's bedroom furniture in this region can range from $300 to $1,200 for a basic bedroom set, depending on the materials, design, and brand.

In New York City, for instance, parents can expect to pay higher prices for premium brands or designer furniture. However, outside the city, in suburban areas like Long Island or parts of New Jersey, prices may be more affordable, with basic sets starting around $250.

Example Pricing (Northeast):

Basic twin bed set: $250 - $450

Full bedroom set (bed, dresser, nightstand): $500 - $1,200

Midwest

The Midwest region, including states like Illinois, Michigan, and Ohio, tends to have more affordable furniture prices compared to the Northeast. The average price for children's bedroom furniture in the Midwest ranges from $200 to $1,000.

In cities like Chicago, the cost of living is relatively high, and you might find that furniture prices align with those in larger urban centers. However, smaller towns in states like Michigan and Ohio can offer lower prices for quality furniture.

Example Pricing (Midwest):

Basic twin bed set: $200 - $400

Full bedroom set: $400 - $900

South

The South is known for its diverse range of prices when it comes to children's furniture. In states such as Texas, Florida, and Georgia, you’ll find both budget-friendly options and high-end designer pieces. On average, you can expect to pay anywhere from $200 to $1,200 for a children's bedroom set, with some states offering more competitive prices due to lower living costs.

In Texas, for example, you might find high-quality, affordable children’s bedroom furniture in cities like Dallas and Houston, where a wide range of stores offer discounts and promotions year-round. Meanwhile, furniture prices in Florida can be higher in popular cities like Miami, but more reasonable in areas like Tampa.

Example Pricing (South):

Basic twin bed set: $200 - $500

Full bedroom set: $400 - $1,000

West

The Western United States is home to some of the priciest areas for furniture shopping, particularly in states like California, Washington, and Oregon. In cities such as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle, prices for children's bedroom furniture can range from $350 to $1,500, with premium brands and designer pieces pushing the upper end of the spectrum.

However, in smaller cities or rural areas of the West, you may be able to find furniture at more affordable prices. Shipping costs can also vary significantly depending on your location, especially for families living in remote areas or rural parts of states like Montana or Wyoming.

Example Pricing (West):

Basic twin bed set: $350 - $600

Full bedroom set: $600 - $1,500

Children's Bedroom Furniture Price in United States

Across the United States, children's bedroom furniture prices can vary based on the region and the store you choose. From basic budget-friendly sets to luxurious designer pieces, there's something for every budget and style preference.

If you're looking for affordable yet stylish and functional options, you may want to explore online retailers or local furniture stores offering discounts and promotions. Shopping during major sales events, such as Black Friday or end-of-season clearance sales, can also help you score great deals on children's bedroom furniture.

Factors to Consider When Shopping for Children’s Furniture

In addition to price, there are several other factors to keep in mind when shopping for children's bedroom furniture:

Safety: Ensure that the furniture you choose meets safety standards, especially when it comes to bed frames, cribs, and other pieces that may involve sharp edges or heavy materials. Many brands now offer furniture designed with safety features such as rounded edges and non-toxic finishes.

Durability: Children’s furniture needs to withstand the wear and tear of daily use. Look for high-quality materials and solid construction to ensure the furniture will last as your child grows.

Storage: Kids’ rooms often require extra storage space for toys, books, and clothes. Consider furniture pieces that offer built-in storage, such as beds with drawers or desks with shelving.

Design and Style: Children's bedroom furniture should reflect their personality and interests, but it’s also important to choose pieces that can grow with them. Opt for neutral colors or timeless designs that can transition from a toddler’s room to a teenager’s space.

Children’s Bedroom Furniture Prices in United States

When shopping for children's bedroom furniture in the United States, prices can vary significantly depending on the region and store. However, understanding price trends and shopping during sales can help you find affordable and high-quality options. Whether you’re in the Northeast, Midwest, South, or West, there are plenty of choices to suit your budget and style.

Conclusion

In conclusion, when it comes to purchasing children's bedroom furniture, prices can vary depending on where you live, the brand you choose, and the features you prioritize. However, if you're looking for the best deals on children's bedroom furniture, Five Star Furniture Store is one of the best places to find affordable prices without sacrificing quality. Whether you're looking for a budget-friendly set or a more luxurious option, Five Star Furniture Store offers some of the lowest children's bedroom furniture prices in United States, making it a top choice for savvy shoppers looking to furnish their child’s room on a budget.

[atplblog]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] Material & Size: This Tyla Solid Wooden Coffee Table Is Made Of Natural Wood. It Has An Excellent Coating. This Coffee Table Comes With 42 X 20 X 16 In (L X W X H) Size.; Comfortable: The Tabletop Comfortably Accommodates Food Serving Items, And The Shelf Is Large Enough To House Your Papers & Other Items Various Usages: This Wooden Table Can Be Placed In The Living Room, Great Room, Bedroom, Entrance, Hallway, Or Window Side To Liven Up Your Space Instantly. It Makes A Stylish Coffee Table, Plant Stand, Or Nightstand Unique & Elegant: Give Your Home A Luxurious Look With This Wood Tea Coffee Table. This Table Will Change The Outlook Of Your Home And Give A Live View To Your Eyes Coupled With A Great Design, Long-Lasting, High-Quality Material Multifunctional: This Wooden Table Not Only The Table Has A Unique Look, But Also The Table Is Multifunctional. This Luxury Table Can Be Used For More Than One Purpose, Such As A Coffee Table, Kids Study Table, Utility Table, Breakfast Table; Assembly Instructions: Diy; Size Name: Medium; Item Shape: Rectangle Item Shape: Rectangular [ad_2]