#think I recognize archer's now that you mention it

[corvidcrossbow]

would you maybe write some daryl fluff? maybe reader is carols adopted daughter (20ish years old)

daryl comforting reader after henry and how carol acted in the tunnel? maybe r sees carol taking pills n stuff. idk just daryl maybe talking to carol “what about her? henry’s gone but she’s still here!” just daryl sticking up for reader and hugging her n looking after her while carols off.

~•♡•~ What One Has

➳ Summary: Following the Savior war, Carol took you and Henry in as her adoptive children. But through the events of the Whisperer war, your relationship with her became sort of estranged; at least you had Daryl looking out for you (Daryl + Fem!Reader)

➳ Setting: Post Whisperer war, around 10x18 + 10x21

➳ Word count: 1.9k

➳ C/W: Mentions of pike scene

➳ A/N: Ima be so fr, I struggled writing this, I think because I wasn't quite sure what direction I wanted to go but I needa stop sittin on this n I hope you like it nonetheless anon 😭🫶 Hopefully now that opening day at my job has passed I can refocus on writing (and hopefully we never have a day like that ever again cuz someone dropping and coding in front of me was not in any of my expectations 🗿)

Daryl groaned an exhale and shifted in his blankets, rolling over onto his back with a clenched fist resting on his forehead. Darkness shrouded his room in the basement, Dog curled up close to him no matter how many times he tried to ward the canine off from dirtying the plush couch by sleeping on it too.

Despite the threat of the Whisperers eliminated, and what he could only hope would be some time for rest, he didn't rest. Sleeping never proved easier no matter how many times a conflict was eased: he knew more would always follow. Especially now, where the repercussions of Alpha and her actions were so grave it shook foundations he'd prayed would stay stable.

The archer threw back his covers, picking himself from the makeshift bed and finding a shirt he'd earlier thrown aside, and a pack of cigarettes set on the edge of his workbench. He tisked at Dog, instructing him to stay while he quietly existed from the cellar, carefully ascended the stairs and opened the front door to head outside and smoke.

Closing it and throwing his head back to clear the messied hair from his face, he paused at the figure already occupying the right side of the steps. In the faint glow of moonlight, he recognized you despite your hunched posture, seemingly trying to obscure yourself.

“Why ya out ‘ere?”

“Same reason you are.”

It was a rhetorical question, really. He knew why, who this was about. It wasn't the first time he'd found you awake in the night as he was, having become an increasing commonality over the past 10 months since you moved here, and increasingly concerning.

Daryl stuffed the pack away in his pocket, coming to sit near you on the opposite end of the step, propping his elbows on his thighs. “Ya won’ talk ‘bout it?”

“It's not really gonna make a difference,” You replied, head bowed to stare at the wooden planks in front of you, twisting a loose thread you'd plucked from your jeans between your fingers.

“Could. Least yer not carryin’ it by yerself,” He tried to persuade you. Although he was guilty of doing it himself, his conscience didn't sit well with knowing those close to him were lost in their own minds like he so often was. Especially you, who he not only cared about, but had cared for. “C'mon, ‘m listening.”

You heaved an uneasy sigh, reluctantly accepting that he was right. He felt like the only person you had at this point. “I miss her.”

Daryl's head turned a bit so his gaze could flick to you then shifted back, nodding – more to himself – understandingly.

“And it's so weird because she's, what… 30 feet away from me right now? Maybe less? But she feels even further than she did when she just up and left to go on that boat.” You paused for a moment, coaching yourself through your breaths and not allowing them to grow erratic. “I thought, maybe after everything at the tower, she'd warm back up to me again. But I feel like the… thing, wore her raw, and then the blizzard froze her so solid she won't thaw back out.”

The man stayed silent, taking in your every word but knowing to speak now would halt the tracing of your thoughts; hinder you from fully opening up.

“Does she think because I'm grown it doesn't have a major effect on me? Henry wasn't just her son, he was like my brother. Families are supposed to be there for each other when you lose someone– and, and then I almost lost her too. I mean, you remember all the pills; how she never left her room. I could hear her some nights, just talking to herself. She was talking to something that wasn't real more than she talked to me!”

Now you were struggling, that choking feeling tightened around your throat and broke some of your words, mask slipping as the weight of everything started to collapse in on you just like– “And the cave. I… I'd never been more scared in my life, being in there with you guys. There's so many times I thought I was gonna die but nothing scared me like that. I still hear all the walkers sometimes, how she screamed, the sound of that dynamite going off. I still feel like I'm coated in dust just–... What was she thinking? I was right next to her. It's like I was invisible, or erased from her memory, and all she remembers is Henry.”

Daryl pulled you to him before you'd even realized you were crying, holding your stiff body against his, and through a few sobs, feeling you relax and give in. His strong arm wrapped around you was the most secure you'd felt in a long time.

“Shhh… s'alrigh’. ‘M ‘ere.” Soothing words were few and simple, but they were what you needed; the reminder that someone saw you, remembered you, and took account for your feelings in all of this.

You scooted closer to him, further tucking your head into his chest as if you were trying to finally find a moment of peace by escaping into his embrace. Daryl rubbed his palm over your shoulder, doing nothing but just being there for you.

A moment passed and you recomposed yourself to some extent, shuffling away with a sniffle while he loosened the hug. His eyes caught yours for just a second, seeing so much of himself reflected in your irises.

“Sorry, didn't mean to…” You trailed off while rubbing your face with the back of your hand, ridding the salty streaks from your skin and gesturing. You turned away, embarrassed from your venting and finding it hard to face him.

“Don't. Whole point'ah talkin’ is so ya ain't bottlin’ allat to yerself.” He quieted again, casting his gaze to you then up to the sky as he fidgeted with his hands. “Had a brother too; from before. Was an asshole, but still ma brother.”

You perked up a little, following his line of sight to the black above you. “What happened?..”

“Wa'salways gettin’ stuck with tha wrong people; last time jus’ cost ‘em. Happened bouta year into this; had tah put ‘em down mahself.”

“I'm sorry…” You swallowed and unsurely nibbled on the gummy flesh of your cheek. Was there ever really a right way to respond to that kind of thing?

“Ts'fine, long time ago. Point is I get how it is tah lose family like tha’, ‘nd ‘ll always listen when ya need it. Ya got me.”

“Thank you… for everything; bein’ there every time you already have. I really appreciate it, Daryl.” Truthfully, you'd flat out needed it. He'd remained a constant when all else altered. “I just don't know what to do anymore. Dad's been so distant too, and if I'm gonna lose him to cancer... I'll need her there for that.”

You licked your lips, taking a shaky inhale and biting your tongue a bit. “Sometimes I feel like all she sees when she looks at me is my head on a pike too.”

Daryl's jaw tensed, fearing you'd confess something like that. “‘Ll talk to ‘er.”

“No, you don't have to do that. I know you two are already–”

“Nah. ‘M gonna. Ya shouldn't ever think somethin’ like tha’. She still cares ‘bout ya: ts'jus’ hard for ‘er, been through a lot.” He gave a gentle squeeze to your shoulder before removing his hand. “She loves ya. Get sum rest.”

You nodded faintly, taking another breath to gather yourself and lifting from the spot to retreat inside, leaving the man to his own solemn nature.

❥-》》—————➣

Daryl often wondered if some things were worth it, this included; begrudgingly agreeing to let Carol tag along with him on what was meant to be a hunt, yet tracing paths back to that long abandoned cabin he would've preferred to add ‘forgotten’ in the title of.

He damned Dog for leading him back there, but figured something was going to push out the full story regarding how he spent all those years in the forest – and at least it opened the conversation for more important ones that needed to be had.

It wasn't ideal; borderline arguing with the woman he'd so casually dubbed his ‘best friend’, who'd been there when he needed her and vice versa. It hurt, but it wasn't all she hurt him for, and he was far from the only one she did.

“I'm sorry for Connie,” She spoke, head bowed and pursing her lips to shove back the tears that gathered in her waterlines. “But I'm not sorry for going after the horde and I'm not sorry for making Alpha pay for killing Henry because I was right.”

“‘Nd tha's all tha’ matters; you bein’ right, huh?” Daryl angled to look at her, keeping his forearm braced against the wooden post. She questioned the depth of his motivations, and he shook his head disapprovingly.

“Ts'ain't all about ‘em, ‘ts barely ‘bout me. ‘Ts ‘bout'cher damn kid; tha one ya still got.” They met eyes for a moment before hers shot away, shamefully avoiding the confrontation. “Ya think ‘bout ‘er in all this? Tha’ what you lost, she lost too? Ya know feels like she lost you? Tha’ she don’ sleep much anymore, misses you like yer already gone, ‘cause ya might as well be … Ya still have ‘er, ‘ts sum’thin’ we can't say fer a lotta people, so quit actin’ like ya don't.”

A painful silence settled, clawing at the both of them as he pivoted away and focused out the dirtied glass plane ahead of him. The archer bit back further words, part of him regretting the harshness of such even though it felt required.

“Ya shouldn'tah come.”; brought Carol's sharper attention back, sparking meaner accusations and disclosures between them – predominantly on Daryl's part – regarding their situations.

She turned around, drifting fingertips over the structuring of the cabin's foundation and sniffling before muttering a few things more and trailing into the other room.

Tension hung heavy enough to keep it mostly quiet, even as they later parted ways while returning to Alexandria, forced through seeming trials; Daryl with his motorcycle, and Carol while attempting to cook.

Once he finally got that damn bike working and rode home, he stifled a chuckle at how the silver-haired woman stood there, disheveled appearance matching his own. The man appreciatively declined her offer for soup, exhausted from his troubles and preferring to just go lay down with Dog.

He followed the shepherd round the house to enter through the front door, watching the cheerful wagging of his tail as he padded across the hardwood and down steps to the basement.

Daryl readjusted his crossbows strap around his shoulder, brushing back his hair before descending. He picked up Carol's voice in the distance, sequenced by yours, and paused to shift his vision for just a quick glance; you perched against the kitchen counter, bowls on the surface, and for the first time in a while, a genuine smile on your face as the older woman came up beside you.

His own tugged the slightest bit at one side of his mouth, satisfied with the apparent reconnecting. He continued his action, setting his things down in his room before partially undressing and flopping back on that couch.

Even if his relationship with Carol remained rocky, granting some stability to yours was enough for him. That was worth it.

©corvidcrossbow 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified or adapted to other platforms. My work may be translated only if asked and with proof of given consent.

[of-storms-and-sadness]

Kill a Dixon

Hi! It's been a while and I had these two requests sitting in my inbox for a really embarrassingly long time. To these two anons, if they're even still around, I apologize...but here it is now.

8. As much as I want you to rest right now, it’s freaking me out that I can hold you down this easily!

Daryl storms through the front door of the house you share with Carol and him, before slamming it shut and heading towards the couch. You can not see him yet, but you recognize the sound of his footsteps and, tonight, they sound angry. 

You wipe your hands off your pant legs and peek your head into the living room, where you now see him sitting, a human mess covered in blood and mud and god knows what else. Your heart does a weird thing in your chest and you skip towards the couch to see if he’s been hurt. It probably isn’t his blood, so calm down and take a deep breath before you make it worse, you tell yourself inside your own head. 

You stop right in front of him, but he does nothing to acknowledge you there, even though he knows. “Daryl? Did somethin’ happen? You hurt?” You are ready to run over to the infirmary and fetch Denise if that’s the case, but the archer looks up at you for just a second before he speaks. 

“Nah, ‘m fine,” he says and goes right back to staring at his own hands while you stand there and stare at him. 

“Are you sure?” 

Now this is pushing your luck. Daryl and you aren’t exactly close. You share a house, yes, but you can only thank that to the circumstances where your old home burned down and Carol and him had room for another person. There was a moment in time where you thought you were getting closer, but that was before you two have had a little slip in the shower of his basement suite and things have been awkward since then. It was something you never talked about, though. It didn’t exist, it had been just a drunken mistake and it was now being treated as if it never even happened at all, yet it still hovered above your head whenever he was around. You have no idea how it even came to happen. It is a mistake you can’t stop thinking about, though. 

The point is, you know this man enough by now, to also know that, if he brushes you off the first time you ask, he’s gonna brush you off the second time too, and he’s not going to be gentle about it. 

“Ya deaf or sumthin?! I said ‘m fine!” He snarls and you hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Okay, okay! You’re fine! Christ! No need to bite my head off…I’m gonna go finish the dinner, you could maybe take a shower and then join me in the kitchen?” you suggest and he just grunts in response, while your cheeks blush just from saying the word shower around him. Just thinking back to that night makes you weak in the knees sometimes. Not to mention how, laying in your bed alone at night, unable to fall asleep, it sure helped you get rid of some tension more than once. God, you just wish he wasn’t so difficult to talk to. If talking to him wasn’t that damn hard, then perhaps you would’ve said something. 

**

An hour goes by. You are now sitting at the dining table, your fingers tapping one and the same melody against the wooden surface as you wait. The food is long done. The table is set for two, since Carol is at Rick’s, babysitting. Time drags and it feels like forever has passed since you heard water running down in the basement. Did he fall asleep? He had been gone for three days, so it’s a possibility since he definitely was exhausted. What if he lied though? That tiny voice inside your head whispers. What if he’s hurt? Maybe you should go and just check on him. 

So that's exactly what you do. You swiftly get up and march down the hall, but your movements turn more gentle and quiet as you reach the stairs leading down to Daryl’s little apartment, because what if he’s sleeping? You don’t want to wake him up, he needs his rest. 

The door is left slightly ajar and you softly call out his name. There’s no answer, so you decide to peek in and there he is, spread out on the couch and sound asleep. Shirtless. You lean against the doorframe and admire the sight for a moment, until he suddenly gets restless. Dog is sleeping by his side and he seems to notice too, as he’s stirred awake and jumps down, stopping for a quick cuddle with you before running up the stairs and leaving you alone with his master, who is most obviously having a nightmare. You step closer and reach down to wipe the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as you call out his name. His eyes fly open at the same exact second you realize he’s burning up.

“What the fuck, Y/N?!” His growl comes at the same time as your worried statement about him having a fever. “Nah, I’m fine,” he says but you push him down as he tries to get up. 

“No, you’re not!” You argue. “You’re burning up and you’ll lay back down while I go fetch Denise!” 

“I said ‘m fine,” he insists, but as he tries to get up again, you push him back down with an ease that only makes you worry more. 

You stare at him with worried eyes. “No, you’re not fine! And as much as I want you to rest right now, it’s freaking me out that I can hold you down this easily!” You say, furrowing your brows as your mind is racing. Is it the flu? A cold? Was he injured? Oh god, had he gotten bit?! Nah, you refuse to believe the last idea that popped up in your head. Had a walker gotten him, you know for damn sure that Daryl wouldn’t come back here. He wouldn’t risk putting anyone into danger. “What happened? You gotta tell me, Daryl…this is serious…if you’re hurt and it gets infected, you could die…” you try to reason with him, but he gives you his usual answer and he even manages a snicker. 

“‘s just a scratch, no one’s dyin’, Y/N. Only a Dixon can kill a Dixon..” 

You scoff. “No, an infection can kill a Dixon too!” You say as he shows you this scratch that's actually a pretty deep gash on his leg. It looks red and nasty. “I’m getting Denise now and you won’t move your ass off the couch, because if you do, then I swear to god, Daryl…you’ll see a Y/N can fuckin’ kill a Dixon too!” Your words make him snicker again, but that only makes you more aware of how bad it is. Had he been fine and you talked to him like that, you know he would NOT find it funny. “I’m serious…” you assure him, starting to walk backwards towards the door. “Don’t fuckin’ test me, you hear?!” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and he even raises his hand in a little salute gesture that makes you shake your head as you turn and run up the stairs. 

[cinamonqirl]

Drive you crazy

Kate Bishop x female reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Summary: You and Kate run away from a boring party to spend more interesing time in her's mom car.

Warnings: smut (as always) 💋

A/N: this is your belated christmas present lol. I hope you like it and sorry if some mistakes are in english. I had to mention her hands, beacuse I am so gay for her. And happy christmas and happy new year everyone! 🏹

(You can listen to this song while reading)

*ೃ༄

Your back slammed into the back of the car before Kate's mouth was on yours again and her hands returned to your waist, squeezing your dress. You moaned into Kate's mouth as she began to grip your breasts through the fabric of the dress, that you fully intended to wear for her.

After Kate thought she could take a moment not to think about you, then when she saw you in a tigh dress, and archer arleady knew she couldn't stay away from you. Kate has dreamed of you for centuries, and every time she couldn't bear to see men drooling over you. But she didn't know that it was for her that you wore that dress, just to seduce her and finally understand your begging.

That's why you left a boring party when Kate she remembered that she had the keys to her mother's car in her pocket.

"Get in beauty" she muttered as she opened the door and nearly pushed you inside. You stumbled into the backseat and was on top of the dark-haired girl in no time before she even closed the door behind her. She bet you need her so much right now.

"So impatient, huh?" She noticed when you straddled on her lap. Which Kate found really appealing, because she'd always wanted to see you on her lap. There was a lot of space in the car, so it's not surprising because her mother has a lot of money, so the car is comfortable and luxurious.

Of course Kate also has her own car but she didn't take it to a party this time, which she regrets because she could show off and impress you.

"Maybe" you whispered, squirming on her lap to be in a more comfortable position, and Kate gasped at the gesture, paying her full attention on your hips. She thought you looked really hot sitting on her lap in a tight black dress that showed off your perfect figure and your hair fell over your shoulders. And a rather large cleavage, which archer has already spent enough time looking at. But she couldn't help but glance at your breasts, because it's not her fault that you're so beautiful.

"Have you wanted this, as long as I am?" she asked as her hands fell to your thighs under your skirt, as you feel her cold rings making you shivered against the cold metal and breath quiver slightly at the sensation.

"Yes, Katie" You confessed into her mouth, wishing Kate had done it sooner. She kissed you back hard, as if your confirm turned her on, and she started kissing you impossible fast. She undid the top two buttons of her shirt and loosened her tie eagerly beetween sloppy kisses and then she sighed with relief. "I wanted you so bad" you continued and slid down to her neck starting kissing and sucking her skin while she tilted her head back, jaw clenching until she growled at the gesture. Her hands tightened on your thighs when several sighs and curses escaped from her mouth under her breath.

Kate thought you were really bold, even though you don't seem like it, because you're always calm and cute. But seeing how hard you kiss her and guide her hands closer to your panties, and aside from the fact that you're sitting on her lap right now, it does not recognize you at all as you are with others, that is, innocent. You moaned into her neck as her hands squeezed your ass, and at the sound, Kate felt a pleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach. You are really driving her crazy.

"Do you like it?" You asked in a seductive voice against her neck that brought Kate's senses back, reminding herself that all evening she had thought only of making you feel good. She chuckled in a deep voice, and the butterflies in your stomach went crazy at that sound.

"Mmmm.." she mumbled relaxing and then ran her fingers over your lacy panties as if nothing had happened. She lifted your skirt to admire the expensive fabric with her hands, remembering how she had imagined the fabric clinging to your body. She could do a lot now when you are her's. But you had other plans, wanting to get into Kate's pants, but she grabbed your hands that were going to her strap, pulling them aside.

"No beauty, my job is to make you feel good. You are keeping your hands off my pants tonight" You bit your lip looking at her amazed.

Kate is aware that people might walk by from time to time, though she doesn't really mind because she would like others to know how good Kate fucks you. But she knew you might feel weird about it. So she put her hands on your ass, lifting you up like a feather to pull you up more onto her thighs so that she moved a little to the right with you to be obscured by the seat in front of You. And it turned you on even more knowing that she did it without a problem, proving how strong she is.

"I got you princess" she whispered putting her hands back under your dress, knowing full that it made you feel some type of way, flexing of her skills.

"Oh fuck you're so strong" you said in an almost squeaky voice, feeling lots of butterflies in your stomach. Kate chuckled hoarsely shaking her head, knowing that all those years of practice had finally paid off.

"My fingers are better" she added arrogantly. But you didn't deny it, you are sure she is right, and she is about to prove it.

"I don't know that yet" you teased as you waiting for her neat fingers to penetrate your lacy panties. Because Kate brags so much about how good she is with her fingers, but she hasn't proven it yet.

"Yet" she emphasized pressing her lips to yours kissing you passionately, becoming addicted to your lips. You kissed back as fast as you could, pressing your lips harder against Kate's. Now it was Kate's turn to caress your neck with sloppy kisses. You moaned as archer leaved a few hickeys on your neck, just to show everybody who you belong to.

You're moving on her thigh needing friction, probably messing around on her black suit pants. She knows what you need, but she wants to give you even more pleasure by touching you all over your body.

"Patience princess, I'll do whatever you want if you're a good girl" She spoke in a deep voice into your skin, leaning you back with her hands on your waist a bit so she had easier access to kiss down your neckline and shoulders. You don't know if you're going to listen to her, on the other hand, you'd like to be her naughty girl which will have its consequences, but also being her good girl has its advantages.

She continued, leaving hot kisses on your neck, enjoying your every little moan while you enjoyed the pleasure of holding her neck close.

"My beautiful girl" She murmured into your cleavage, sucking your skin. Her hand returned to your thigh, stroking it with her thumb.

You were about to beg for more, but her fingers found their way to your soaking panties, caressing your clit through the fabric.

"You're so wet for me baby girl" She snarled, surprised at what a mess she had made of your panties. She looked at you to find you breathing shallowly with your eyes closed. "Want me to fuck you?" she asked in a low voice waiting for your reply.

"Yes Kate" You gasped, biting your lip in excitement.

At your need, she pushed your panties aside to slide her fingers inside you, feeling your back arching up. You finally feel relived.

Her neat fingers moved slowly inside you trying to make you feel comfortable. You moaned quietly then Kate's lips find yours, and started to kiss you, but you had hard time to concentrate on kissing, so Kate slid down to your neck leaving there gently kisses.

You needed more friction so you sat more on Kate's fingers, so they get deeper in you. Archer noticed it, and sped up her fingers moves. Just to let a few moans and sighs come out from your mouth. You threw your arms around Kate's neck, keeping closer to her.

"Quietly princess, you don't want somebody to caught us, right?" she whispered into your neck with low voice, that just hit you to the core. You bit your lip trying not to let out a loud moan from your mouth.

"Please Kate, I need more" Kate was doing such a job with her fingers that you felt stupid begging her for more. but Kate didn't care, on the contrary, it motivated her.

"Yes ma'am" she used her thumb to rub your clit with circles. And you used your hips to move them and started to ride on Kate's fingers to speed up and quench your thirst. As she felt yours hips moved, she put her other hand on your hip to help you move. It really turned you on when she complimented you in her low voice, and as if she read your mind she leaned against your ear and uttered a few words.

"You're such a good girl riding my fingers" she announced running her other hand through your hair. You couldn't tell what Kate was doing that made you feel so good, but she defenietly knows she's doing it good.

"This is way better than that boring party, hm?" she asked the question to move away from you a bit, because she was definitely close, to admire you and your reaction to each quickening of Kate's fingers.

"Defenietly" Kate didn't expect an answer to her question because she knew you were focused on what she was doing with her hands, but the answer did not disappoint her.

Not even a minute has passed and you already have felt a familiar feeling in the lower abdomen, while you threw your head back in pleasure.

"Oh Kate" A moan escaped your throat as her fingers continued to move inside you to give you more pleasure.

She watches you with a smirk, as you choke on your moans and whines as she keeps her rhythm without a pause, aware that she can feel you clenching around her digits. she pressed her lips back to your neck to graze your skin with her lips, to give you more pleasure.

"Kate" you moaned as you cum on Kate's fingers, clutching her jacket over her shoulders. Her free hand went to your ass squeezing it. You sighed in relief, smiling coquettishly at Kate. Archer remembered how she had been dreaming all day about making you feel good, and now she could finally feel the satisfaction of having done it, and even in such a short amount of time.

"You're not that good at all" you stated with an arrogant smile after a moment of catching your breath. Of course you was joking, because Kate did a great job, and it still drives you crazy.

"So those moans were faked?" she asked amused, knowing full well that you were joking. You hummed, tilting your head to the side smiling. She ran her tongue over her lower teeth, narrowing her eyes. You were grateful to Kate that it wasn't awkward and you felt at ease around her. You knew it wasn't a one time thing.

She shook her head, then a mischievous smile appeared on her lips. She bent down pressing her lips to yours again, realizing she missed them. Your tongues met in a perfect dance as you moaned into Kate's mouth. You pulled away from her mouth to bite her lip.

"Just kidding, you were amazing" you admitted holding her close by the neck. Her charming smile made you want to squeal throwing yourself on her lips. And you could faint at the sight of her.

"Oh I know that my lady" she replied arrogantly at which you rolled your eyes sarcastically, biting your lip to keep from smiling amusedly. "Oh fuck you really driving me crazy" She growled, throwing her head back thinking you look so beautifully and hot. A mischievous smile appeared on your lips at Kate's comment.

"You do this to me too" You chuckled softly, "Especially by wearing this suit" You continued quietly, Adjusting her jacket. Kate smiled to herself, remembering how she thought of you while she was wearing this black suit, imagining what you would wear tonight and what you would look like in it, and those were definitely innocent thoughts. She close her eyelids as archer lifted her head from the backseat to smile innocently at you.

"The fact that I look good in it, turns you on?" She asked placing her hand on your thigh. It really puzzled her.

"Definitely yes. But I like your hands even more" You admitted smiling shyly. Her hands really made you feel butterflies in your stomach every time you saw them.

"What?" She asked frowning her eyebrows with a stupid smile on her face, obviously confused by your confession. You rolled your eyes sarcastically, taking her hand from your thigh, to show it to Kate.

"They are so slim, strong and really veiny" You explained looking at her hand "And skillful" You added quietly, smiling stupid, reminding how you imagine how skill her fingers could be.

"So..?" Kate looked up from her hand to look at you questioningly. You giggled at her confusion.

"This makes them attractive" You replied amused.

"And that makes you horny?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Ah-ha" you admitted humming quietly biting your lip. Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise. she didn't understand how you could enjoy it, but if you did, Kate is glad to know another way to tease you.

"So you must have been imagining my fingers inside you, hm?" Her smirk only grew as you nodded your head blushing. She giggled, as she shook her head at the new information, unable to help thinking that you were probably touching yourself thinking about her.

"Mh, good to know" she looked at her hand again, trying to figure out why it turns you on, but she couldn't find anything. You looked at her with a smile as you saw the confusion in her eyes. You move a little on her lap bringing her back to reality and her eyes connected to your body.

"Well, my hands excite you, and your whole body excites me more" she said boldly licking her dry lips, staring a little too long at your breasts. Her hands landed back on your hips and her hoarsly voice and her confession had you moaning. You and Kate enjoyed each other's company for a while longer, then decided to head back to the party and spent the rest of the evening smiling at each other decidedly innocently.

[sunshinesickies]

Kate Bishop x Platonic!reader blurb

*TW Mentions and descriptions of anxiety/anxiety attacks

Rich and Ridiculous

“Oh hi, y/n…” Kate opens her door with an easy smile after a series of frantic knocking pulled her attention away from brainstorming new trick arrows. It’s late but she’s always happy to see you, though you say nothing as you rush past her and immediately start pacing in the middle of her apartment.

“Uh, you okay there?” Your best friend asks, closing the door and meeting you in the middle of the floor. You pause your pacing, turning to face her. Your eyes are wide as you chew your fingernails and your breaths enter and leave your body in a much too rapid fashion. Your head shakes ever so slightly.

“Jeez who died?” Kate laughs, trying to make light of whatever was going on, her default awkward humor kicking in. You roll your eyes and begin to pace again but the archer places a hand to your shoulder. “Woah…hey, y/n. I’m sorry that was…what’s going on?” Her other hand moves to rest on your other shoulder as she assesses your current state, starting to work out what’s going on.

“I-I um…shit-I…” You breathe in a panic, unable to think straight. Kate frowns. “Hey, hey. Deep breaths, okay? Like this.” She starts to breathe long and deep, holding eye contact and prompting you to follow her motions. She now recognizes that you’re having a bit of an anxiety attack. You don’t have them too often but you’ve had them enough times during your friendship that she knows what to do.

You try and even out your breaths and you’re not sure when Kate led you to the couch, but once you become reoriented and your breathing calms, you notice you’re sitting on her couch as she sits next to you, holding your hands. “There we go.” She lets out a relieved sigh and gives you a sweet smile.

“Sorry.” You murmur but Kate shakes her head. “What’s got you all worked up, it’s not about tomorrow is it?” She inquires gently, knowing you’ve spent the last week expressing how excited you are to start your new job. You nod and her face twists in confusion. “I just can’t stay calm. I thought I was excited, well I guess I still am, but now I…well what if it’s miserable? What if I suck at it or the boss is mean or I mess up on my first day or make a bad impression or…”

“Shhh…y/n, hey. It’s okay.” Kate interrupts your nervous rambling with a gentle squeeze of your hands. “I know how hard it can be to get out of your head sometimes, especially when you’re anxious, but you’ll be okay. More than okay. This job is perfect for you, you’ve already showed them that. You are so talented and so smart and they’re going to love you, just like I do.” Your friend reassures you and you sigh, a soft smile forming on your face at her sweet words.

Kate can be really sweet, and actually wise sometimes when she’s not being a pain in your ass. And you wouldn’t have it any other way, she’s the best friend you’ve ever had.

“But if it does suck, I’ll just buy the company and fire everyone who’s sucky to you.” She adds and you can’t tell if she’s joking our not. “You wouldn’t!” You burst out laughing, feeling the last of your anxiety falling away as you know you’ll be fine. You’ve got Kate in your corner. She raises her eyebrows and joins in on your laughter. “Oh we both know I would…” She says sounding fully serious yet the smile on her face says the opposite. “…but I won’t have to.” She finishes and you smile, laughter dying down.

“Thank you, Katie. You’re the best.” You hum your appreciation before a smirk dawns on your face. “Y’know I can’t tell if being so rich makes you absolutely ridiculous or if that’s all you.”

Kate laughs. “All me, duh!” She proclaims way too proudly and you can’t help but burst into another fit of giggles. Kate stands up, offering you her hand. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home. You need to actually get some sleep or you’ll be a zombie tomorrow.” You take her hand in yours and with a smile on your face and a calm feeling settling into your chest, you yawn. “Good idea.”

[kerubimcrepin]

Liveblog - Dofus, livre 1 : Julith [PART 11]

As I've mentioned, Kerubim and Julith have Beef.

As far as she is concerned, whether he was behind her framing (he wasn't) he is one of the people to blame. He defeated her that fateful day, and then she never saw her son again.

I've already went into detail, on the way "killing" her has affected him, (A mixture of horror and duty. Killing a mother and making a child an orphan for the sake of a city. Being grateful for her dying because it made him a father instead. Feeling awful for that thought.) but it is interesting, how he reacted to her turning out to be alive, when he killed her with his own hands.

Seething. Perhaps even coping.

This is chichala, which we had seen. I suppose he uses it to buff himself up before the boss fight. Drinking alcohol before a fight is very much RPG logic.

Sadly, there are no interesting buffs to it in-game:

I think a lot about the way Kerubim, Joris, and Atcham would be characterized in video game logic, by the way. I still have no working theory of how the hell their fighting styles would synergize. Would Joris be their buffer/debuffer? Their glass canon? Both? And do any of them take ranged weapons on missions...?

They probably do. It'd be kinda dumb not to. Personally, I like to imagine that Atcham would be the one using those, most of the time. He has that "skyrim stealth archer" vibe to him. (Though they're all melee users, through and through.)

Despite how smug he is at a couple of moments, he really was struggling during this fight.

My honest reaction whenever Kerubim does this fucking face is just:

This is very much a "deeply mentally ill adoptive father (who inadvertently ruined his child's life by adopting them to atone for his sins + because he was abused as a child) fighting through an army for his child before dying in their arms and saying they're the only good thing he ever had" look for him.

Another reason that one has to support both women's rights and wrongs when talking about Julith, is that, like.,.. what was she playing at, here? There are two possibilities:

That she would destroy whoever has the dragon's soul and set it free, giving her an advantage.

That Kerubim would shield that person.

Either one is good. :)

Either way she was perfectly willing to risk/attempt blowing up a random, innocent person, who was hiding from her.

My personal headcanon is that while Julith is physically stronger than Kerubim, she lost ten years prior because she couldn't stop thinking about The Baby. Where were they taking Joris? Did Bakara leave with him? Is Joris alright? Didn't Jahash give him to this cat man, who was now trying to kill her? What the fuck is going on, who did this, why, why, why?

I imagine seeing him lose for the exact same reason brings her great pleasure.

the nonbinary slay here was insane

Guys I think this might be bad for Joris's long term mental stability.

On a more serious note, I think there should be more content about Joris fucking hating Julith. During the movie? There's too much going on to work out what he feels.

But after? He has all the time in the world to hate her for everything she did.

I do think that he probably grew up and found whoever framed her to take revenge on/to get justice. But hating her, and wanting to clear her name of the crimes she DIDN'T commit so she could have some peace in death, so that people would stop smearing her name, — are two things that can coexist.

Like to slap his bald scaly head, reblog to slap his bald scaly head.

Kerubim never changed his stupid ass baka "George George the Farmer Farmer" name.

Though we've been knew.

BAD. I DON'T LIKE THIS.

AND she recognizes him by the blue eyes. AND, this implies that, for the entirety of the Dofus show, — and the entirety of Wakfu as well, since he, once again, has yellow eyes there, — he had dragon eyes.

Imagine being Simone, waking up at 3am, realizing because you forgot something in Joris and Kerubim's bedroom, sneaking in, and seeing this.

It also raises some questions about adult Joris, because we know he no longer has Grougalorasalar in him. The easiest explanation is that he spent so much time with the dragon, that after their final separation, his eyes couldn't change anymore.

After all, — the changes the dragon made to his height/skin/hair are permanent. It would make sense that, with time, even his eyes would be permanently altered.

I don't think it's a sad thing, by the way. Imagine going your whole life with beautiful brown eyes that look a bit like your adoptive father's. Then imagine suddenly having blue eyes (scary) and that they're your Dead Father's Who You Never Met but whom everyone misses. Like which pair of eyes would you choose? Because I think there IS a right answer to this riddle.

I think Julith has convinced herself that whoever took her and Jahash out wouldn't want loose ends, and that Joris was taken out as well, or something. Maybe that's why he wasn't really on her mind.

Mind you, this is a tinfoil hat headcanon.

This is so beautiful, to me... She was so emotionally stricken by seeing him again as his mother, that his father, who was both fatally wounded and stricken by seeing her perform deeply painful dark rituals on his son after traumatizing him, could land one last hit on her to save said son.

Julith has been a mother for a grand total of a few days to a month, while Kerubim has been for 10 years. Of course, her first concern is getting surprised it's him, and not that she hurt him. Because she couldn't even dream that she'd ever see him again.

There's a tragedy in that. She never even had a chance to learn how to be his mother, or who he is as a person, — she was the mother of an infant. Her love for him is far more theoretical than Kerubim's.

It's a love for Joris not as a person, but as a lost opportunity.

So she has no regrets about hurting him, — and she will hurt him as many times as it takes, if that's what it takes to get back her family.

[castieltrash1]

summary → patience is a virtue and you show bucky barnes he’s worth waiting for

word count → 17k

warnings → angst/comfort, pining, insecurity/jealousy, partial soldat!bucky, mentions of violence, ptsd/nightmare references, ambigious pre-wakanda timeline, alcohol, wanda/vision mentions, reader is non-gendered but gets called “sweetheart” “doll” “darling” and “kid,” bucky is scared of thunderstorms, physical scars and canon-level violence, basically just a big ball of emotion with a happy ending 

a/n → yes guys it is, in fact, finished. i’d like to thank the academy aka my bucky anon and @f1nalboys​ bc without them this fic would’ve never seen the light of day </3 this one is for yall MWAH !!

+ each section of the fic is kind of based on a different song so u can listen to those [here] hehe :3 but the whole fic is based on the song outer space/carry on by 5sos (the title is from lyrics hehe)

---

I. The Archer; “And I don't see an end to this, so I'll enjoy the fire.”

Bucky enters the kitchen almost silently, the slosh and drip of his drenched clothes giving away his sudden presence.

You turn your head just in time to watch a few drops hit the floor, water collecting into a murky puddle of shadow on the tile around his clunky boots.  It takes an eternity of a stretched second for you to recognize him. Everyone had turned in for the night, supposedly. When your brain registers who’s standing in front of you, your eyes widen, heart skipping a beat. Even with everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve watched him do, it still doesn’t feel right to see him in this state.

He’s already stalking off with a rubbery squeak when you grab a spare dishtowel from the counter and rush over to him. For a moment you think he’ll ignore you, but then he stops in his tracks, albeit without sparing you a glance. He’s not all there -- stance stiff, eyes glazed in a way that disregards the usual sliver of warmth in his deep blue gaze. But he’s polite -- obedient -- regardless.

“Sorry,” you quickly apologize -- for not being fast enough, not noticing him; anything he might take offense to in this sensitive state. “I didn’t realize you were still out... I thought…” He doesn’t reply, but his jaw ticks as water trickles from his hair to his cheek. It lets you know he’s not completely numb. Not yet. You lift the towel, but he grabs it from you before you can get any closer.

He drags it across his eyes, forehead, nose, before shoving it back into your hands. When he slicks his hair away from his face, you take note of the blotchiness of his skin; concentrated around his nose and under his red-rimmed eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the veins are bright against his grey expression.

He offers you no more than a sniff as he brushes past, heading towards the bathroom.

When the door slams shut behind him, you break from your stupor and trace his wet footprints back to the puddle that’s begun to seep into the lines between the tile. You sacrifice the already dirtied towel to clean it. Bucky will feel bad for the mess eventually, even if he’s apathetic now. The searing hot shower will slowly bring him back, steam opening the guilt-filled pores that hide under his scarred skin. He’ll come out and scrub the grout until his hands bleed.

The water is still running when you reach the bathroom door to wipe up the last of the mess, just a heelprint of thinned mud.

As you retreat to your room, you text Steve. He’ll be the first one up, and the only one equipped to deal with the emotional hangover. He’ll be the only one who really cares.

You let him know that Bucky just got home, hoping he’ll note the late timestamp of your message. And you tell him Bucky seems tired. Tired. It does little to encompass everything -- all the exhaustion, fear, and confusion he’ll wake up with. But Steve will understand. He always does. And you do your best, even when there’s not a single recognizable part of Bucky left.

Steve catches you by the wrist in the lounge the following early afternoon, tugging you to the corner of the room. A soft smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the sweaty remains of his morning run; all warmth, skin glowing in a way that only happens after a good workout.

His eyes scan the rest of the room, a movement almost too fast to catch. He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh when he realizes you’re alone, and brings you to the nearest couch.

“I got your text,” he says lowly, hesitant to breach the topic in person. “I wanted to thank you.”

You see the nervousness in his gaze and scoot closer to pat his shoulder. “Of course. I know he can be… Unpredictable. You deserve a heads-up if you can get one.” Steve’s been caught off guard before; you all have. It’s easy to think Bucky is just being distant, just being him. And then he’s sleeping too late, saying too little. His dinner plate will stay untouched, but the kitchen will be ransacked at midnight once everyone’s gone. Steve can barely catch up, and you doubt Bucky can either.

Steve shifts, letting out a shaky breath. “I want to help him.”

“You do more than any of us,” you reassure, truthfully. “Bucky trusts you -- he loves you. I think your presence is all he needs most of the time.”

Everyone else has to put more effort into their support. Natasha peels back the scars of her past in hopes of sharing the pain. Bruce spends weekends hunched over his desk trying to make sleeping pills that Bucky’s metabolism won’t immediately digest; tired fingers shaking as he tries a new dose, a new capsule, a new something.

But Steve’s existence alone is more of a contribution than anything.

“He knows you help, too,” he finally says, staring in a way that makes you squirm. It’s the hardened soldier’s gaze that leaves no room for argument. Whatever he’s telling you is a belief buried deep in his soul, an unwavering promise.

It makes your chest clench. Steve confirming that Bucky pays you even an ounce of attention is enough to make your heart race. “I’m just trying to be a friend.” You stress the last word, hoping it’s not visible that you’re curled around the ledge of a maybe more.

“He’ll notice eventually,” he tries, but his determined gaze is gone, and he’s holding onto hope just as much as you are.

The surface of Bucky’s healing has barely been scratched. There’s an entire life for him to uncover, remember, forget, and relive. It’d be selfish to expect any more than that from him. You know that, Steve knows that. A part of you hopes Bucky does too -- that someday he’ll realize his existence isn’t at the expense of others, even if that expense is love.

Steve stands with curled lips and a gentle double-pat on your leg that’s too comforting for something you shouldn’t even be disappointed about. It makes you feel like you’re mourning, but maybe you are, and maybe he’s just the only one who realizes it.

II. Studio 6; “I reached out to wake you but I learned that he'd taken you back.”

Group dinners are impossible, but there’s always a good handful of you in the kitchen at one time.

Tony will sip something bubbly that’s worth a mortgage, while Bruce tosses a salad fit for two; perpetually charged with thinly veiled green anger. Clint will scarf down a slice of week-old pizza and Nat will scrunch her nose at the unpleasant sounds she can never seem to avoid when he’s within range.

And, if Steve’s around, so is Bucky. The latter has only made an exception for Sam if his prior friend is on a mission for too long that he can’t sustain a hunger strike.

No one questions it or why his presence is more likely to exist when the dining room is crowded. He seems more inclined to show up when he can sink out of a conversation without anyone noticing, without any eyes on him -- except yours. He always catches onto your staring quickly though, feeling the heavy and uncomfortable weight of your focus.

But tonight, his chair by the corner of the room is noticeably empty. No one dares to disturb it, even if the extra seat is needed. No one says anything either -- at least not too loudly, though you catch some distant mumblings between Sam and Tony. They’ve chosen to forget (or purposely ignore) the fact that Steve, who’s sitting beside them, has beyond-perfect hearing.  

And he’s quick to hear the vibrating of his silenced phone, brows furrowed as he discards his fork to reach for the device. Normally, he’d scold you for ignoring table manners, but when he reads your hasty message, he understands.

“Have you seen him eat today?”

Steve gives you a tight-lipped frown and discreet shake of his head as a response.

You’re quick to stand from your chair with a sigh, the room quieting as everyone’s eyes focus on you. “I’m done, so I’ll do dishes tonight.” All of them happily agree without question, piling their plates onto yours. Wanda smiles in gratitude, whereas Clint presses a messy kiss to your cheek in thanks. Steve, who usually has clean-up duty, just nods, giving you permission for whatever you’re planning.

Thankfully, the kitchen stays empty for a while. Laughter and voices echo from the lounge, and you half listen to the retold stories as you load the dishwasher. Everyone is still going strong by the time you finish cleaning and grab a new plate from the overhead cupboard.

You hope Bucky won’t take offense at the basic sandwich; certainly not the homely dish of meat and potatoes he might think of as a family dinner. No silverware, no mess. The fridge is mostly stocked, if you ignore the Asgardian leftovers and the three-hundred-dollar block of cheese, so you pile up what you can.

The sliced tomatoes wobble while you walk down the hall, dish balanced in one hand. Light spills underneath Bucky’s bedroom door frame, but when you knock softly, there’s no response. You tap a bit harder, and call out: “Bucky… I have some food for you.” Try as you might to keep your voice steady, there’s a waver that makes you grimace. Contrary to what he may believe, it’s not him you fear -- not in the way others do. He still doesn’t answer you.

You leave the plate on the ground; a pathetic offering of inclusion and peace.

It’s just a sandwich.

When you’ve retreated to your own room, you send him a text letting him know what’s waiting for him. And even though it stings when he doesn’t reply, you feel a silent weight lifted off your shoulders. You played your role today, just as you did last night.

If there’s one emotion Bucky has never evoked in you, it’s guilt.

You don’t check your phone until you’re making coffee the next morning, barely awake as the smell of roasted beans fills the air. The sandwich and its recipient feel like a half-forgotten dream. Only when you’re a few sips into your drink do you see the notification, and the one word it bestows.

Thanks.

It catches you off guard, and you busy yourself by rinsing the pot for the next person, a ceramic glint catching your eye. The stainless steel sink is home to a single plate -- the plate. There’s still a smudge of mustard on the corner from when your hands shook, and the squeezed condiment missed the bread.

You scrub at the dried stain, a much easier mess than the mud-covered floor. It’s just a small task, just a sandwich, just a friendly gesture.

It’s clear Bucky thinks nothing more of it either. The following weekend he’s fine in his own way. After an episode, the air around him feels off; a thick aura that makes your gut instincts fire up. He’s a human timebomb, one wrong step away from mass destruction.

And then he smiles at Steve,  you overhear their conversation about Coney Island, and suddenly all that fear is gone.

His laugh is more of a throaty chuckle than anything else, but there’s a flash of his pearly whites when he jokes about taking Steve on the Cyclone (a story you’ve all heard countless times) and time seems to slow. You hang onto the sight of him like a single frame in a movie; the sway of that one curl on his forehead, the slow upturn of his lips. It’s almost like he’s not there, not really, because he’s someone entirely different -- and not in the ways you’ve seen before.

It feels like you’re standing in the museum again, looking at all the Sergeant Barnes plaques and pictures. Not a hint of Winter Soldier, not even Bucky, just… James.

You must be grinning like the lovesick idiot you are because Steve finally nudges your shoulder. “Don’t you start laughing now. You’dve thrown up too if you went on that thing.” It takes a second for you to realize they’re still talking about roller coasters, and you just shake your head.

“Whatever you say, Cap’.”

“C’mon, Buck, back me up here!” He’s reverted to the past just as much as his friend, though less noticeably. Just a shift of the shoulders and a stance that fits a skinny Brooklyn kid, not a trained Avenger.

“Nah.” Bucky laughs again, stifled now that you’re involved in the conversation. “Steve’s just a chicken.”

“Oh, eat it,” Steve retorts. “I had stomach ulcers! Of course, I threw up.” He acts truly offended, but there’s no malice in his tone. He loves a good row, even when he acts otherwise. You pretend not to catch his barely visible smirk even as he walks away to go talk to Sam, who’s just entered the room.

You lean closer to Bucky, hand covering the side of your mouth, voice lowered. “He’s just bluffing. I heard he screamed over a spider yesterday.” There’s not much space between you two, and your head spins as you realize he must’ve leaned in too. Just a little. Unconsciously, perhaps, though a hopeful part of you thinks he calculates every moment, no matter how small.

He laughs, enough for you to see his chest puff, but too quiet to cover the whirring of his metal-plated arm. Making him laugh gives you a feeling that’s unmatched by any other form of euphoria. It’s a baby step, a sign of comfort, a realization that maybe, just maybe, you’re enough. Enough for him.

Your heart skips a beat, and when his eyes dart to watch your upturned lips, you wonder if his does too.

III. Sign of the Times; “Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets?”

A part of you is beginning to believe good and bad luck are destined to come hand-in-hand.

It’s an odd feeling having Bucky next door to you, even with the heavy, soundproof wall border. There are simultaneously mere inches and a world apart between you. His steps are silent and his door is always closed, but his presence is still there, and you don’t know if you’d still feel it if you weren’t head over heels for him.

Considering the rest of the building’s layout, you’ve been blessed with this corner of the facility. Steve’s across from Bucky, Sam from you. Despite the square shape, they’re a tight-knit triangle most of the time, even if you consider yourself somewhat involved in their friendship. But it’s partially relieving to not always be included since they can be a handful otherwise.

And that much is proven true when a loud clattering wakes you up at four in the morning.

The sound would wake anyone up, but your job and training are responsible for the way you jolt, heart racing. Any remaining sleep is blinked away as your fingers drift to the side of your bed, where you know a knife is sandwiched between the mattress and frame. No one can get in or even close to the facility without Tony’s knowledge, but the smooth metal feels reassuring against your fingertips regardless.

Silence follows for a few seconds, long enough for you to wonder if the disturbance was just a vivid nightmare. And then you hear one door open, and another; both slammed into the wall behind them. Steve’s voice echoes down the hall, calling your name, and you slide off the bed to your door, forgetting your disclosed weapon.

Steve’s halfway through your name again when you enter the dark hall, finding him standing in Bucky’s doorway. He’s bleary, blue eyes clouded with an uncertain look you’ve only managed to see once or twice; most notably, on the freeway that fateful day. He’s forced to adjust to the situation quickly, you realize, when you join his side and peer into the room.

Everything about Bucky is wrong.

His chest heaves, and when Steve shifts forward, he growls. It’s not a warning, but a threat. If his mouth could foam, you’re sure it’d be dripping down his chin at this point. He’s an offensive predator at first glance. And then you notice the little clues: disheveled sheets, sweat gathered on his brow, the broken vase by his bed stand, and the water dripping from his flesh hand.

Bucky suddenly becomes a wounded, scared animal.

You inch closer, Steve grabbing your wrist when Bucky reacts with a snarl. But you don’t halt, forcing yourself past the threshold. One checkpoint at a time.

“Bucky, it’s me.” You stand, palms face out. “I don’t know what you dreamt of -- I’m sure it scared you. But Steve and I are here, ok?” His eyes flicker between you, respectively, and a glint of recognition flashes in them. “Can you sit back down on your bed?”

His expression trembles, metal fingers curling and stretching repeatedly.

You rack your brain for any idea of ways to de-escalate the situation when he doesn’t follow your suggestion. And then it hits. He doesn’t need a suggestion. He needs an order.

With a deep breath, you steady your tone and catch his gaze. “Bucky…” His eyes glaze, but you try again. “James.” He twitches, just a small shift, but you grab onto it. You want to use the least amount of soldier-related words you can and if his legal name works, you’re not going to push your luck.

“Sit down on the bed, now.” You can feel Steve burning holes into your back, but you ignore his presence, and keep your eyes trained on Bucky. His shoulders drop after a moment and he blinks a few times before shuffling backward until the underside of his knees hit the bed frame. His recline is slow, but he finally sinks into the soft mattress with a heavy breath.

When you walk closer, he doesn’t react at all -- just watches your movements. And when you sit beside him, he continues to stare at you curiously. Steve’s still watching as you grab Bucky’s warm hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of his palm in a soothing repetitive motion.

You begin to murmur affirmations while you continue, not daring to initiate any more physical contact. And he slowly, almost unnoticeably, begins to react to it. Steve sandwiches Bucky’s other side and grabs the latter’s fluffy thick blanket from the middle of the bed.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper to Steve, and he nods, but adjusts the fabric on his friend’s shoulders anyway.

“He doesn’t like the cold.”

You swallow down the quickly forming lump in your throat.

Bucky blinks away the fog a few silent moments later. His fingers grip yours and he looks down at them, tracing your arm up to your face. He says your name quietly.

“Hey, Bucky.”

He scrutinizes you for a second, making your heart flutter, and then his gaze shifts to Steve.

“Steve?”

The blond smiles and nods, patting Bucky’s back gently. “Hey, punk. You alright?”

He swallows thickly, too many words and not enough answers. His fingers are still within your grip. “Yeah. I think.” The wavy strands of hair around his ear are slick with sweat and his tongue darts across his chapped lips in a nervous tick.

“Steve, can you get some water?” you ask, and Steve seems taken aback by your control of the situation, but he finally stands and makes his way to the door. When his steps grow quiet, you return your focus to the man beside you.

“I’m sorry if we scared you,” you begin, but then Bucky jerks his hand from yours as if your touch is the red-ringed surface of a hot stovetop.

His vulnerability shrivels away and he covers the rest of it with his blanket as he shifts toward the other end of the bed. If he notices your hurt expression, he doesn’t mention it, and you do your best to hide it as you stand from his bed.

You slowly drop to your knees, beginning to pick up the remains of the shattered vase; counting each thread in the carpet to take up more time. The flowers that fell are already shriveling, stems cracked into stringy vertebrae, petals smashed into the woven flooring.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky suddenly asks, voice gruff, but with a hint of hesitance. When you look up at him, your breath catches; the table lamp behind him is a warm yellow halo, and you can’t dismiss the feeling of kneeling before him, rose gathered in your palm as you pray he loses the solemn look that covers his face.

“Do what?”

He gestures his chin toward the floor. “Pick up my… messes.”

Steve’s promise rings through your ears. He’ll notice eventually. Your hands shake, and you look back to the floor; constant and unchanging, unlike his expressions. “It’s not a big deal. We all make messes sometimes.” And while that’s true, both of you know there’s no one else you’d be picking up glass shards for at four in the morning.

“You don’t,” he says, before continuing in a hushed tone, almost so you don’t hear, “make messes, I mean.”

His words make you still: what does he perceive? What does he know about you, what does he see that you overlook? What has he pieced together on how absolutely ruined you are for him?

Steve walks in with a cup of water, and the questions silence.

He feels the change in the air quickly and grasps your shoulder with his free hand. “I got it. Go back to bed.”

You toss the glass into the trash, pocketing a few of the intact flower petals to press and save.

When their quieted murmurs and sounds of cleaning continue, you dare a glance back. Bucky pulls his blanket closer, chasing as much warmth as he can take. His hair is almost dry, but the shorter and thinner strands are still stuck to his forehead with sweat. When you blink, he looks the same as the night before last -- wet from the rain and too uncomfortable in his own cold skin.

His reaction to the rain suddenly makes all too much sense.

IV. worldstar money; “Don't hate me, am I crazy? So tenderly you watch me burn.”

It turns out that the nightmare is the peak of Bucky’s episode, and his outburst ends quickly after. He returns to nightly dinners -- with Steve in tow -- and you don’t wake up to either of them yelling again.

Coincidentally, his plateau of emotions also lines up with Thor’s periodic arrival. His presence is always a date to anticipate and the team can spend up to a week preparing if they’re given the time. The god is not a handful, per se, since he’s more than capable of entertaining himself. But, at this point, it’s a tradition that his appearance is paired with a party. The few times one hasn’t been organized before he shows, Thor’s taken it upon himself to create one spontaneously; with no regard to his surroundings. Tony’s already lost a few pieces of furniture to Asgardian liquor stains and he won’t make that mistake again.

As the preparation begins and the excited trainees at the facility are informed of the event, your mind drifts back to Bucky. His attitude change seems too instantaneous. The decline and regrowth can take weeks. A part of you hopes it’s a sign of healing - the fast recovery. The logical side of you thinks he’s simply hiding his discomfort since everyone is busy, too busy for him.

Thankfully, Wanda keeps you distracted. Whenever something normal like a party happens, she’s the most excited, and it’s hard to not feel infused with her radiance. Even Natasha becomes more playful, talkative. Despite popular belief, it seems that redheads have the most fun, especially ones who crave some regularity in their lives.

“What about this one?” Wanda pulls the nth dress from her closet, both you and Natasha lifting your heads from where you’re lying on her purple bed. It’s a simple red piece, with a small flower pattern and flowy skirt.

Natasha sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Too simple.”

“You only wear little black dresses,” you retort, sliding up to her side. “I think it’s pretty, Wanda.”

“Hey, it’s a staple to any good wardrobe.”

“Nat?” you playfully jab. “Are you hiding a secret stylist side of yourself from us?”

Wanda clears her throat and you glance back at her. “Nat’s right. I’ll order something new.”

You frown at their obvious attempt to gang up on you. “I thought I was right!”

Natasha chuckles and Wanda attempts a sputtered excuse before she ends up laughing as well. You flip both of them off, but they see the smile gracing your face regardless.

“Fine. What about you, Nat?” You rest your head on her shoulder, feeling her shrug.

“I don’t plan for this stuff.” A total lie, but you let it slide.

Wanda looks over her shoulder as she returns the dress to her overfilled closet. “Picked something to seduce Bucky in yet?” Her accent deepens as she fakes a sultry tone, sending a mascara-lashed wink your way.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“I think you should get something to highlight your ass,” Natasha muses, playfully tapping her chin. “That’s a pretty obvious hint, don’t you think?”

“Not you too!” But she pulls you into her arms regardless. Wanda jumps on the bed a few seconds later, curling up to your other side. You’re so close to them, and not just physically. You feel like you could reveal anything, admit any secret, and it’d stay in this group of minds forever. A Bermuda Triangle friendship for your confessions.

You can’t help but mumble: “Why doesn’t he notice anything I do?”

It still feels selfish to think, let alone say out loud, but there’s no judgment in response. There’s not the pitying comfort from Steve or the teasing grins of the others who don’t understand the depth of the situation. Natasha pats your arm and Wanda squeezes you a little tighter, and they don’t need to offer an explanation because just having them listen is enough. You know that’s how Bucky feels with Steve and you wonder if, in some other dimension, he trusts you just as much.

Natasha leaves first; off to the shooting range with Clint, and you follow soon after.

“Hey, Wanda,” you call, halfway through the threshold. She looks up from investigating her heeled-boot collection, red waves of hair crashing over her shoulder. Her thin brow lifts in question, and you smirk.

“I think Vision would like the flower dress, just saying.”

You don’t look back, even when you hear her sputter a retort, because you already know her face is flushed to match the outfit hanging in her closet.

V. sex money feelings die; “Trade love for one night, two pills and a red wine.”

The air in the facility only changes when Tony Stark is in charge. Routines, workouts, meetings -- they’re all forgotten and replaced with tipsy staff and good music. An inkling of professionalism remains in the lounge, but it’s discreet; fancy champagne, expensive suits, and a few public heads lingering in groups. But as a whole, it’s nowhere near the usual stiffness of your daily life. The facility may be your home, but it’s your workplace as well. Except for during moments like these.

You’re able to spot everyone quickly. Unlike the previous Stark Tower parties you attended a few years back, the guest list tonight is much smaller. Natasha is holding her own in a conversation with a few snobby businessmen and Clint lingers on the balcony behind her looking like he’d rather jump off than engage in any small talk anyone has to offer.

Wanda, in all her flowered-dress glory, is a tad tipsy, but Vision stables her with a hand on her waist, and you can see her cheeks flush from across the room.

Tony is with Bruce at the bar, and Thor is surrounded by excited trainees who’ve only heard stories about him. A second later, your gaze lands on a group of three: Steve, Bucky, and Sam. The last catches your eye and waves, heading your way before you can take a step in their direction.

He stumbles on his path, which means he’s drunk. Sam Wilson is not a lightweight, but deep inside his body lives a frat boy who only appears when he’s had too many shots to remember.

“Hey!” He grins and pulls you in for a hug, the type he’d usually give you after a two-week mission away, even though it’s been two hours since you talked last. “I didn’t see you around. Thought you decided to skip.”

You chuckle. “You know me. Just… Lingering.” And watching for Bucky.

Sam raises his brow cartoonishly high. “I think you’re partying wrong. You,” he starts, grabbing your hand before you can blink, “should be dancing.” He extends your arm above your head until you appease him with a spin.

He whistles, then sighs. “You know, I hate to admit it but I think Barnes would be a better partner. Dude’s how old again?” Sam laughs, palm warm as he squeezes your hand. “Seven decades of dance moves. Hell, you think he can moonwalk?”

It’s a nice thought: Bucky, not yet greying due to his years on ice, being free in the eighties. His hair fluffed with hairspray and a neon earring dangling from his lobe. But that’s another life. Another era he’ll never live.

“Hey, you alright?” The new wave illusion fades away and you’re left staring at Sam’s toothy smile. “You have too much to drink?”

“No, actually.” You play off the spaced-out moment and Sam is too inebriated to notice. “I haven’t had anything yet, really.”

He immediately gets a playful glint in his eyes. “Steve got his hands on some of that God beer, or whatever -- if you wanna try.” Despite internally refusing the offer, you don’t dismiss Sam. Mainly, because Bucky is still standing by Steve, and you can see the invisible walkway leading up to them. You nod, and Sam heads back in their direction with you trailing behind him.

Steve pulls you to his side the minute you’re within reach, breath hot and sweet against your cheek. “Wondered where you wandered off to.” He loosens his grip but lets his weight rest on your shoulder, enough to keep you warm. He flashes his flask at you, silver metal and dark brown leather, but you shake your head.

Before you can politely decline, Sam reaches over to take the offer from Steve’s hands. Three sets of eyes watch, with bated breath, as he tosses back a shotful, complete with a face-scrunching cough. “Is it that bad?” you ask, but Sam’s too busy clearing his throat to respond, and Bucky grabs the flask.

He makes Sam look like an amateur as he takes his own drink. It goes down smoothly, the veins in his neck tensing as he swallows without hesitation. None of his other muscles even twitch. You marvel at him in quiet awe as he licks away the last golden drops clinging to his lips.

Bucky’s eyes catch yours when he’s done. Tonight, he stares, like he’s trying to understand your gaze for once. A part of you wonders how he can struggle to profile emotions as visible as yours. Another part of you wonders if he remembers what attraction and amazement look like to the naked eye.

You don’t have time to consider it before the man of the hour is pushing his way into the conversation, sliding a toned bicep around your neck to pull you in. He grins, sends the other guys a nod. “My favorite human,” he starts, though you’re not sure if that ranking was decided pre or post-Jane. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, Thor, thank you.” He pats the small of your back in response and then directs his attention to the others -- distant chatter of mead and parties fading into the background. You’re in the midst of zoning out when a gentle, but direct, cough alerts you of someone’s presence. Thor doesn’t pay you any mind as you pull from his grip, turning to face a guy you think you recognize. A security guard, maybe -- or a media reporter?

You’ve got a superhuman soldier on one arm and a God on the other, but this, presumably mortal man stays rooted in his place. “Good evening,” he starts and throws your last name out like the idea of being beneath you socially crushes his already crippling ego. “I know this might be, well, quite forward, but…” In the back of your mind, you realize the others have halted their conversation to watch how this will unfold.

“I’ve been waiting to see you all night.” You give him a polite smile and hope your cringe isn’t obvious.

“Thank you…” He is optimistically brave and you know that letting him down without a fight is unavoidable, so you play along to save face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” His grin is bleached white, a staggering contrast against his dark suit and brown eyes.

“Well, now that you’re here,” but he can’t finish the tacky line before Sam snorts, only silencing when Steve jabs him in the side.

You feel downright sick. His intentions aren’t pure, obviously, but you wonder what his motive is. It always starts like this -- a nice, albeit forced, conversation, and next thing you know, he’s asking which Avengers are fucking behind closed doors (or whatever other gossip is trending at the moment.)

“Anyway.” You brace yourself; here it comes. “There’s a private gallery showing downtown next weekend. I was hoping you’d be interested in going with me?”

Oh. Oh.

“I’m sorry?” You’re still not convinced. “Are you asking me on a date?” The word leaves your mouth and you faintly feel Steve take a step closer, gentlemanly instincts kicking in. He’s watched the others be tempted by similar propositions, only to be ambushed by paparazzi or caught in a pre-planned scandal.

“You could call it that, if you’d like,” the guy responds, a flirty lilt in his tone. “I understand if you’re not available -- a lifestyle like yours doesn’t leave much in the schedule, I assume.” He rustles in his suit’s breast pocket before pulling out a card, off-white with a dark grey print. You catch a glance of his name -- Tom -- before he’s speaking again.

“If you end up having time, I’d love to take you.”

You nod dumbly, still not sure how to process the situation at hand. But if his disinterest towards your opinion wasn’t obvious before, it’s clear when he’s already walking away with a grin before you can attempt to respond.

When you finally turn around, all four men are staring at you with different expressions. Thor is impressed, it seems, even when he falls into a bout of surprised chuckles. Sam’s slightly more annoyed, but not enough to stop himself from laughing either. Steve is staring daggers into Tim -- Tom’s -- departing figure, and Bucky is… You’re not sure. His jaw is clenched, tightly, and his stance is far more predatory than it was before; shoulders squared, chest puffed. He’s the perfect picture of jealousy, but you know he’s probably just put off by Tom’s cocky demeanor.

Regardless, the change in the air is palpable, and you end up excusing yourself before you can choke on the tension. You rescue Natasha from her painfully dull conversation and pull her onto the balcony to relax with Clint. He’s staring off at the landscape below, and you both press against the railing with him. His gaze doesn’t shift, but a smirk becomes visible on his sharp profile. “Nice escape in there, you two. Barnes and those businessmen were really shaking their heads.” Natasha scoffs, but you tense.

“Bucky?” you ask, and Clint huffs, faking surprise.

“Yeah, Bucky. Thought the old man was about to go into cardiac arrest when that other guy asked you out.”

“What guy?” Natasha cuts in.

At the same time, you say, “How did you know he was asking me out?”

Clint isn’t easy to annoy, so he continues to answer your questions. “I know because Barnes looks jealous as hell. I can hear his heavy breathing from here, and in case you’ve forgotten,” he gestures towards the purple aid lodged in his ear. “And since you’ve gotten over here, he’s taken it upon himself to finish off Steve’s flask.”

“Gross,” Natasha groans. “I wouldn’t touch that shit if it were the last drink on Earth.” She accentuates her words with a sip of her bubbling champagne, long red nails tapping the glass flute.

“Whatever you say, Barton,” you chuckle, but there’s a hesitation in your words; a silent gap waiting to be filled with more questions. Was Bucky really jealous? Is Clint just humoring you? The thoughts drift around in your head, and your friends let the conversation flow into another topic, saving you from dwelling for too long.

As they begin to playfully argue over something -- like always -- your eyes drift back to the party. It’s reached a quiet buzzed state, the energy of the room coming to a lull. The calmness is enough to leave you feeling dazed, letting the cold breeze coat your skin with goosebumps. You silently hope that Bucky is watching from afar, indulging in your shadowed silhouette against the darkening night. But when you examine each partygoer to find him, you land on Steve instead; with that look.

Natasha finally notices, or at least announces, your distraction: “You alright?”

“Yeah…” You trail off, watching as Steve and Sam glance around the room; searching, worried. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring more drinks on your way,” Clint suggests, but his favor leaves your mind the second you head inside.

VI. SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK; “Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms.”

Your shoes clack against the floor and Steve lets out a sigh of relief when you enter his line of sight. “Thank God you’re here,” he half-jokes as if you can’t see his flustered expression. “I was just about to call you. Bucky wandered off and... I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. He’s not in his room -- Sam checked.”

“Bathroom?” You ask, but Sam, approaching, shakes his head. He looks like he’s a second from toppling, his earlier shot taking a visible toll.

“Looked there first.”

You raise a disbelieving brow. “Geez, I’ve barely been gone five minutes and he just disappeared on you both? Isn’t that what he does?” You discreetly gesture around to the crowd, gritting your teeth. “This isn’t really his scene.”

Steve’s concern doesn’t lessen. “No, I know. He just, he somehow got buzzed. I don’t think he’s slept in days and… I don’t know...”

You know his ability to burn off alcohol is unparalleled, but unlike Steve, Bucky hasn’t touched the stuff since ‘42 -- not even one of Tony’s mild wines at dinner. If he was drinking as much as Clint said, there’s a fair chance he could be slightly inebriated; just enough to throw him off his perfectly calculated balance.

You can’t leave him to his own devices, so you let out an exhausted huff. “Fine. Take Sam to his room, though. He’s about to pass out.” Said drunk sends you a glare, then promptly stumbles in place. “I’ll make the rounds in the meantime. Text me if you see Bucky on your way.”

Both men nod, Sam’s head bobbing in a way that makes you dizzy. They head off, attracting a few whispers along the way, but make it down the hall without too much of a scene. You sneak away in the opposite direction, towards the other half of the facility. It’s eerily quiet as the voices fade away until there’s just silence. The lights automatically flicker on as you walk, turning off behind you when you leave their range.

The closest rooms are the lounge and some storage closets, but they’re all empty, along with the pool. He can’t be in the shooting range or armory, since they’ve been locked up tightly for the night; FRIDAY can’t even open them without Tony’s approval.

But there’s another set of bathrooms down the hall; less used, without everyone’s necessities inside. When you walk past the door, a few sounds catch your attention: a drunken mumble, squeaky boots, and water running. There’s a possibility it’s a public hookup since it’s practically a mile-high achievement to fuck at a Tony Stark party. At least, it was, back in 2011.

You push open the door slowly.

Bucky is leaning against the sink, face flushed and dripping water. It’s been unceremoniously splashed against his skin, dripping down his neck and spilling across his maroon dress shirt. The patches of wet fabric cling to his chest, and you barely manage to pull your gaze away from the smooth outlines of his torso. His jacket is draped next to the faucet, freckled with stray droplets like a garden flower.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror, blue drifting into a hazy grey.

“Hey…” You trail off, closely monitoring his expression. “Steve wondered where you ran off to.” You refrain from mentioning your own concern; a good choice, considering Bucky gives you a tight smile in return. You’re just thankful for more than a grimace at this point.

“It’s pretty loud in there, right?” you continue, looking away as you grab some paper towels, thin white, masking your palms like sheet ghosts. Bucky’s eyes are still on you when you turn back, making you jump. You try to play it off by taking a step closer, slowly raising your hand. “Is this alright?”

He doesn’t respond, but his chin juts outward. When he’s steel-faced like this, you can’t tell who you see more: Sergeant or Soldat.

His reaction seems like a yes, albeit a stubborn one. His skin is warm even through the napkins as you gently pat his face, drying it off. He’s completely still, and it takes a second for you to realize neither of you is breathing. You’re sure your heart is beating much faster than his. You dab his cheekbones and when you move to his forehead, he tilts toward you. It’s tender and trusting and your heart melts; dripping over your rib bones and living jitters in your stomach.

Bucky’s lips pout as you press them once, twice, and you savor the indirect kiss.

And then you pull away, and he leans back.

You smile, and for a second it looks like he does too. “All dry.” He’s quick to grab his jacket, slinging it over his broad shoulder. Right as you move aside to let him leave, he takes an unbalanced step, hurriedly adjusting himself. The sight of Bucky tripping over his own feet is enough to make you giggle, and the quieted sound makes his cheeks flush a shade darker.

“Are you drunk?” you press, and he scoffs.

“Can’t get drunk. You know that.” But the corner of his lips upturn just barely, and you know only a drunk Bucky would ever smile at you.

“Whatever you say…” You pull his jacket onto your own shoulder. “But I’m taking you to your room. Steve’ll put me on dish duty for a week if I don’t.”

VII. Out Like a Light; “If I betray our lonely nights spent out like a light, with no kiss goodnight...”

Bucky is quiet the entire walk to his room, but his presence is warm and comforting behind you; thick like drizzled honey. You don’t have to look back or strain your ears just to feel him, to sense him. You don’t mind that he doesn’t utter a single word or attempt to sync his steps next to yours -- you just make your way down the hall, distantly noting Sam’s door being open a sliver. It’s a habit of his, like many others, that you’ve grown to recognize. He can be overly cautious, sometimes to a fault, but you’re relieved to know he got to his room with a few screws left intact inside that wild head of his.

“And here we are, safe and sound.” You extend your arm to Bucky’s door with a cheesy grin: “Home sweet home.” When he tenses at your words, you try not to falter -- even when you know home to him is a century away, in another life, and another world. Even if home to him means young laughter, warm cooking, and a scratchy record. You can’t apologize for wanting to be home, for hoping the occasional laughter of Peter and the motherly nagging of Pepper are enough to makeshift a family.

Bucky gracelessly stomps into his room, immediately falling back into his unmade bed. Any other night, you’d close his door and walk far, far away. But tonight he’s still got his shoes on and you know one wrong move will track God knows what across his sheets. You can’t help but wonder how many messes Bucky Barnes will make before you finally give in and kiss him.

Without another thought, you close the door behind you, causing Bucky to look up with a raised brow.

“I’m not gonna let you fall asleep fully dressed,” you tell him, voice stern, and he’s half-asleep by the time you’re untying his second shoe, tugging it off his socked foot. He managed to undo one button on his shirt, but promptly gave up, leaving his arms beside him.

You murmur his name and he groans. “Buck, c’mon. What do you normally wear to bed?” He answers by rolling over, muttering something into his pillow.

It’d be frowned upon to go through his drawers, but you’ve got no other choice. You quickly grab a t-shirt and some sweats. You don’t stare when you pull off his button-up and slacks, and you don’t ogle when you pull his impromptu pajamas on. You don’t glance at his scars or his chest or his stomach because he trusts you.

He’s as vulnerable as you could ever hope for, but he’s also stumbling drunk, and bound to forget this encounter tomorrow morning. He will never trust you like this again, so you cling to the moment as you tuck him in and brush his bangs from his face.

The thought of his upcoming headache sends you to the bathroom to fill a glass of water, thankful the tap is filtered. You set the cup on his bed stand, next to his toppled prescription bottles. He’s got a memo pad, unmarked but indented from previous writings, and a silver pen there too. You scribble a note telling him to drink water and take his meds in the morning. You add a little heart, stick it on the glass, and resign yourself to the fate of this being a blurry moment for the rest of your life.

You’re finally about to walk away when Bucky grabs your wrist, completely catching you off guard. His eyes flutter open, drowsy blue and thankful in a way that reminds you you’d do anything for him. “Please, don’t leave me.” He blinks, glossy and unfocused, and you sit next to him with a gentle nod. His hand stays locked in yours, even when he shifts to rest on his side. Your thumb rubs his knuckle while his opposite metal one clicks into place with a soft rattle.

“‘M sorry,” Bucky mumbles, but when you ask why, he just shakes his head and dozes off with a few slurred words. Something like thank you, and then a gravelly rumble of Russian -- Золотце.

A part of you wishes you didn’t understand it. Another part of you is glad Natasha has called you darling so many times before.

VIII. Even If It’s a Lie; “And I know you don't love me so, but please say it once before I go.”

If Bucky remembers anything from that night, he never acknowledges it. The others joke about the party in their sober states, reminiscing and reliving all the antics you missed while you spent the night baring your heart and soul to the man who now can’t stand to look at you.

“I wish I’d drank more and forgotten that night,” Clint jokes before the mention of alcohol jogs his memory and he glances over at you. “You never brought back our refills, so I’m blaming you.” You can tell he’s playing around, and you hope his words will fly under everyone else’s radar, but then Nat nods, growing suspicious. You’re all having dinner -- one of the good ones, where everyone is warm and full -- so you hope she won’t prod. But you can feel the shift in her energy as she leans in, raising a sharp brow.

“You’re right, Barton -- for once in your life.”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you go?” Her cherry lips curl on one side, and Wanda can’t hide her amusement as she snuggles up to Vision on the loveseat; unlike you and Bucky, they’ve barely left each other’s side since that night.

Instinctively, your gaze darts to Bucky, and you’re surprised to catch him already staring back. A hint of something lies in his gaze -- something more unrecognizable than usual. It’s neither embarrassment regarding your time together, nor a glare warning you against speaking up. If anything, it’s almost a silent plea, though not one rooted in regret. He’s asking this to be your secret and yours alone.

“Sam got hammered,” you start, rolling your eyes jokingly. Bucky physically relaxes, you note, watching him from the corner of your eye. “I had to help him get to his room -- with Steve, who did most of the heavy lifting. Literally.” Everyone seems appeased with the answer and you’re relieved to have made the right call.

Someone -- you’re not paying much attention at this point -- remarks how difficult it is to get drunk nowadays; between being on-call and not being able to enter a bar without ten different security precautions. You don’t doubt the gratitude the team shares, both for each other and the satisfaction of saving people. But it comes with a certain yearning. You see it at Steve’s apartment when he makes you dinner and talks to you about the weather like you’re just his neighbor. Or when Wanda paints her nails before missions, even when she knows they’ll be chipped bare by the time you return home.

Everyone wants what they don’t have; a normal life -- a chance at something different, mundane, peaceful.

And you… You want Bucky.

Considering his usual aversion to your presence, it takes a while for you to realize he’s purposely ignoring you. You’d hoped your white lie to the group would build you some rapport in his mind, but the awkwardness builds up until it rolls off him in waves whenever you walk by.

The silent-stand off reaches unbearable levels until Bucky ends up assigned to a day mission. It’s a sad realization, but you can tell the entire facility relaxes at the lack of his presence. No one’s gotten the hang of being around him, so it’s easier when he’s just...gone. If anything, he’s usually in a better mood when he gets back. The alone time, the structure, and the familiarity of burning knuckles and bloody lips calm him in a way nothing else can.

Steve pulls you into his room that late afternoon. He’s all furrowed brows and pouty lips; his thinking look. You sometimes forget he doesn’t have all the answers, despite appearing old and wise. He’s navigating the same life as you are. He’s lived two eras, but so few years. He doesn’t always understand.

His room is clean and stark, bare walls and pristinely tucked sheets. It’s still warm, in all the right ways. It smells soft and sweet like him -- a woodsy linen scent -- and there’s a cream, knitted blanket draped across his bed that drowns you whenever he lets you borrow it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, sitting on the edge of his bed with you. His broad frame takes up most of the space, but you don’t mind. “How did things go that night, with Buck? I asked him how he got to his room, but he said he doesn’t remember.”  

The single spark of optimism you had for keeping that night a special secret fizzles away without another word. Within a mere second, the realization hits you. Bucky’s not cherishing some romantic rendezvous because that’s not what it was. If anything, he’s probably ashamed at how easily he opened up to you after too much alcohol.

You can’t help but scoff to hide your pain. “Lucky him,” you joke, nudging Steve’s side. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he frowns, immediately scooting closer to you.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

You’re blinking back some form of emotion -- heartbreak, anger, the burning feeling of your conscience sneering I told you so. I told you this would happen. “I just got him to bed, that’s all.” It’d be easier to believe that, to gaslight yourself until the memory is nothing more than a faded delusion. If Bucky refuses to acknowledge it, why plague yourself with the isolated recollection?

With the tone of an overbearing mother, Steve sighs. “I know that’s not true, doll. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” And then you feel your wet cheeks and the faint taste of salt gathering on your lips, tears streaking without you even noticing.

“He called me… Darling -- in Russian.”

“What?” Complete disbelief. “Are you sure?”

You know he’s just as surprised as you were, but the question burns: Why would Bucky ever call you that? It’s what Steve’s secretly asking. “Nat,” you answer. “She’s used it with me before. I recognized it right away.”

“Darling...” Steve muses, the world pulling out in a Brooklyn drawl instead of a Russian purr. “Well, I can’t lie and say I was expecting that, but…” He tilts his head with a smile, blond wisps curled around his ears, glowing white in the setting sunlight. “That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

You go to wipe your eyes, but Steve beats you to it, rough knuckles brushing the tears away. “I don’t think so. He won’t even talk to me now. I think he’s ashamed -- but he shouldn’t be, right? It was just a drunk mistake. We all make those.” You know your tone isn’t convincing -- you’re still trying to prove it to yourself, and Steve’s face morphs into a look of pity. His features are drawn with guilt, and you don’t know when you both began to take the fall for Bucky’s faults.

“I’ll be honest.” Steve sighs, leaning forward. It’s hard to see him like this, so unsure. “I can’t always tell what Bucky’s thinking -- not anymore.” He shakes his head. “Maybe back then, before. Things were less complicated. It was easy to understand him.” He reaches for your hand, cupping it between both of his, and the contact steadies your wavering heart. “Sometimes, I think he’ll handle things like he used to, you know?” Sergeant Barnes -- the flirt, all confidence and smooth words. He’d treat you differently, but that’s not what you want, who you want.

“But that doesn’t mean you can doubt yourself, ok?” Steve’s words aren’t a cure-all, but they soothe the growing ache in your chest. He’s a terrible liar, so you know he’s being honest, and his reassurance means more than most people’s.

“Whatever Bucky decides to do - that’s his choice. You’re not doing anything wrong by trying to offer him love.” He doesn’t hesitate with the last word, which burns in every way possible; relief, knowing he understands the depth of your feelings; pain, that even with that knowledge, he only has hope. If Steve, with all of his unwavering optimism, is hanging by a thread, you know you’re past saving.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He says nothing else, just pulls you closer, and lets you rest in his arms for a few beats while you take in his natural scent and warm hands. In another life, he’d be easier to fall for. You’ve snagged a part of his heart, just like the others, but whoever gets it all… That’d be a type of love you’re not sure you could ever wrap your head around.

“I’m gonna go for a walk - try and clear my head. Alright?”

“Yeah, doll. Get to bed soon though, ok?”

You nod, and the sun has set by the time you make it down the hall, incoming moonlight lighting your way up to the balcony.

IX. Two Slow Dancers; “It would be a hundred times easier, if we were young again.”

The outside air is crisp, occasional winds biting into your arms and coaxing goosebumps from your skin. It’s the type of weather that leaves you alone with your thoughts, too sharp to let you zone out into an unfeeling haze. Everything lingering in your mind confronts you when you’re cold like this, and you wonder if that’s why Bucky hates the midnight chill so much; if it forces forward the memories that aren’t really his, the guilt of his subconscious actions.

You’ve all made countless mistakes, misjudgments. It’s part of the job. When you rely so heavily on instincts and adrenaline, slip-ups are bound to happen. But at the end of the day, you have yourself to own up to, not a foreign entity wearing your skin. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier, but the Winter Soldier is a part of Bucky, in a way that can’t be denied. To consider them separate entities would be ignorant, but to blame Bucky would be cruel.

Bucky mirrors your route at some point in the night, quietly joining you. The cold is making your body ache, much like your mind, but you can’t find it in yourself to turn around and go back in, especially when you see him. He’s still in his mission clothes, dark and clinging to his sweaty skin. He looks untouched, though you’re sure he’s got a few cuts and bruises you can’t see.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until the morning,” you state, with a slight chatter of your teeth. The stars above shine brighter than they did at the tower, unobstructed by city lights and various forms of pollution. They feel closer, almost as if they’re listening to every word you say and whispering amongst themselves.

Bucky busies himself by tugging his leather gloves off. “Got done early. Steve said you’d probably be here.”

Bitterly, you acknowledge he didn’t check on you because he felt inclined. Rather, he’d been put up to it. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you hum. Your mind races with what Steve must’ve said, how it led to this. You know you’re being given the conversation you spent nights begging for, but instead of joy, you feel fear. A sour bile rises to your throat. Bucky has dirt caked on his clothes, you’re half-freezing in the dark night, and the universe is cruel for deciding now is the moment.

“I know what you’re doing.” He’s straight to the point, just like always. No flowery language or attempt at sugar-coating, which you find both a blessing and a curse. He won’t say anything that could be misconstrued, but his statement is vague enough to lure you into your own admission.

“Yeah? What’s that?” The crest of fresh tears burns your already irritated eyes. You feel the end of all ends coming, but you won’t be the one to start it. Your pride was what kept this infatuation going for so long, even though it’d been predestined to fail. And your pride is what keeps you from giving in, even with the settling realization that Bucky never intended to treat you differently or give you a chance.

His hands, and their now visible bruised knuckles, curl around the balcony railing. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you, yet he’s never felt so far away. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he says gruffly, and it sounds worse coming from him than anyone else. Less comforting, more pitying.

“Look at me.” You hesitate before obliging.

The sight catches you off guard. You know what Bucky looks like when he’s uncomfortable; seen it countless times - this is worse. He’s gone through Hell and back, yet he still looks more tortured glancing at you than at any time in his past. Why he wants to see you when he does this, you don’t know. Sadistic is the best word for it. Why must he gouge a hole in your chest while giving you those baby blues?

His eyes are dark, stars catching in their reflection as the colors swirl like a galaxy. The celestial vision is only yours to enjoy for a moment before he squints, brows furrowing. He must see the tears, the pleading look on your face that you no longer bother to hide. “Doll?” Like a stab to the gut, he delivers the one word you’ve imagined falling from his lips so many times before. There’s no warm sun or shy smiles or soft kisses to accompany it, only a pitying gaze and the gloomy sky.

“Please - don’t call me that.” You attempt to be stern, but your voice wavers, words barely coating a stifled choke. The second you turn away, Bucky latches onto your wrist, calloused fingers pulling you close; finally wanting you to invade his space.

His lips form a tight line. “Won’t you at least listen to what I want to say?”

“Why should I?” you ask, voice sharpening into a bite. “I know what you’re gonna say. I can tell just by looking at your face.” Chest heaving, you continue. Now that the confidence to speak has hit you, you can’t seem to stop. “I’ve known every day since you came here, Bucky. I know you don’t like me, but I don’t know why you seem so determined to rub it in my face.”

Ripping your wrist from his clutch, you rub away a fresh set of oncoming tears. Bucky blinks, wide-eyed, but composes himself quickly. “You think…” He almost laughs in disbelief. “You think I want to hurt you?” For a second, your stomach churns with guilt, but it dissipates before he speaks again. He is hurting you, whether he intends to or not. “I’m telling you this because I want to protect you.”

Voice trailing into a barely restrained yell, your chest bubbles with frustration, spreading like wildfire. Every word slices through the icy air with a hiss. “Protect me from what?”

Bucky shakes his head, brown waves of hair swaying with the motion. “You don’t know what you want,” he says, sternly. “You think you know how you feel, but you don’t. You… You don’t realize the things I’ve done -- what I’m capable of.”

A second of silence passes before the dam inside you breaks. The tears dry up, scorched away by the anger in your veins. “We all know, Bucky,” you retort, not missing the flash of hurt on his face. All you can think of is Steve, Tony, everyone who’s lost in the name of the man in front of you. They’ve worked tirelessly to push aside the past, putting their trust in the future, in the one who has caused them so much pain. “And we are the ones who have given you a second chance, despite it all. You’re the only one who can’t forgive yourself.”

His chest heaves, letting out a low breath as your words sink in. “You’re right,” he admits, lowly. “Which is why I can’t let you shoulder that burden.”

“Stop assuming you know what I can and can’t do,” you snap, lip curling into a snarl. “This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that you refuse to think anyone can see the good in you!”

“That’s because there isn’t any good in me!” Bucky yells, finally managing to startle you. He steps closer, chest puffed and jaw twitching. For a moment, you imagine this is how his victims must’ve felt in their final moments. “It’s the ugly truth and you’ve gotta face it. I can’t ever be what you want.”

At that moment, you realize it’s never been you that he’s disliked; only himself. The thought makes you spiral, and you immediately soften, voice hoarse and hushed. “You are what I want,” you tell him, hoping he understands. “Just as you are, Bucky. Why can’t you accept that?”

“You’re…” He shakes his head, strung so tight his body shakes. “You’re being unrealistic. I - I can’t see you with hope now when I know that there’s no future where I’m the person you’re imagining.” He’s entirely resigned to the fact, despite all you’re willing to give him, every possibility ahead.

You have to remind him of the light at the end of the tunnel. “What about all the work we’re doing? The therapy, the meds? Steve’s even making negotiations with Shuri… I… Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“What if it works?” Bucky questions and the thought makes you stop. “Are you going to follow me there? To Wakanda?” he asks, and it’s almost sad how quickly you come to a decision. For him, and the chance of something more, you’d leave it all behind.

“I would,” you admit, keeping your voice steady. “If there’s a chance - why… Why wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t even consider it. “It doesn’t matter… It’s something I have to do alone.” He’s burrowing himself into a pit of isolation despite your pleas. Every time you hold your hand out to help, he’s just inches away, fingertips brushing yours. Just one reach and you can pull him to safety.

“I know I can’t heal you, Bucky - that’s not... That isn’t what I’m trying to do. I just… I want you to know I’d wait for you, every step of the way.”

He stops, thinking about his next choice of words. Somehow, you already know what he’s going to say. “What if…” His voice is hesitant, almost as if it pains him to speak. It’s going to hurt you even more. “What if I don’t want you there?”

Finally, it hits; the admission you’ve always been preparing yourself for. The excruciating buildup slams into you with a deafening crescendo. The letdown, the pure collapse, is unavoidable. Not a cell in your body can fight it. Any chance of convincing him is over -- completely and utterly so. It’s the sharpest ache you’ve felt in so long, but you can’t break in front of him - not any more than you already have. You can’t allow him the satisfaction he’s been waiting for since he demanded you look him in the eye; the fact that he is wholly, unequivocally, and painfully right.

“Okay,” you finally exhale, trembling but not looking away. “If you… That’s all you need to say. If that’s what you want.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen Bucky regretful, because the emotion held in his eyes is not something you recognize; downcast eyes, slumped shoulders. This is one instance where the guilt is entirely his own. “I care about what you want too, Bucky,” you tell him, unsure of how he could ever think differently with all you’ve given him. “Just because I feel a certain way… I-I’d never force you to feel the same.”

The balcony falls into silence, neither one of you having anything left to say. The last bit of warmth disappears as Bucky retreats to the doorway, gentle winds brushing his hair back for just a second; long enough for you to see a light gloss of tears coat his eyes. He blinks them back, features relaxing on instinct as he shifts into the perfect picture of numbness like he’s been trained to do. Any hint of emotion is washed away in one crawling, desperate wave.

He stops halfway through the threshold, one final consolation on his tongue. “It wouldn’t have been forced,” he admits, and, for a second, it’s like the dream you’ve always imagined; his soft eyes, the chance of him feeling the same. But the confession is for another life, a different version of yourself that you can’t quite imagine.

Bucky gives you a trace of a smile, and your frustration spills away as quickly as it came. All that remains is the longing for what could have been -- for what will never be. “Thank you,” you tell him, and this time you mean it. He leaves quietly, almost as if he’d never been here to begin with.

You’re left standing in the cold, nose burning, and fingers numb. The stars stare down from above, twinkling and all-knowing. You can’t help but wonder how many heartbreaks they’ve witnessed in all their years, finding yourself grateful for a finite lifetime of them. One streaks across the sky and you let a silent wish cling to the bright white tail, hoping and begging to never take its place in the universe. You’re not sure how many more broken hearts you can handle.

At the very least, not an eternity’s worth.

X. Strange (Instrumental)

The night on the roof slowly fades away, word by word, until you start to forget exactly what Bucky said, and in what tone. The emotions linger in a way akin to sickness; a tight chest, twisted stomach, clammy skin. At the very least, the physical reactions are easier to hide, covered by excuses like a sparring match gone wrong or spoiled leftovers.

To most, you seem entirely fine. No one knows about your conversation beneath the stars, though a few begin to suspect something happened after Bucky’s return. He’s calm. He’s participating. He sits at dinner with everyone else, passing you the salt when you ask and listening intently to your repetitive drones about training. Natasha and Wanda watch with wide eyes, not bothering to muffle the sounds of them smacking each other under the table every time you and Bucky so much as glance at each other.

You neither confirm nor deny their suspicions, partly so you can revel in their happiness. They deserve the relief of thinking your silly little crush is over, even if they do believe it ended in a more favorable conclusion.

Your fork has barely touched your finished plate when Steve picks it up for you, stacking it upon his own scraped dish; three servings packed away in his super soldier stomach. Dinner cleanup is usually his chore, but he’s prematurely eager about it tonight. Everyone is still sitting around the lounge and kitchen, forgotten bites dangling off their cutlery between conversations.

“I got it, doll.” He presses a gentle kiss against the top of your hair before heading to the sink and you don’t miss the curious glances sent in your direction; Tony, halfway through a bite of pasta, focuses his brown eyes on you like a laser.

You know exactly what Steve is doing. Steve knows you know. He’s been stuck to your side like glue for going on a week now, and you’re equally thankful and sick of it. His footsteps sync with yours on the way to the gym, the pool, and even your shared hallway. At night, you curl up into his blanket, which he lent you with a silent acknowledgment. It’s soft and easy to cry into, even if it doesn’t heal the painful cold that fills your body.

Faintly, you wonder if Bucky’s blanket does; if, when he dreams of the blood-stained snow, it warms his metal heart.

Your facade lasts another couple of days before it begins to crumble. Bucky is completely unaffected and, for once, you find yourself envious of him. It’s disgusting to admit, to tell yourself you’d rather feel his aching numbness than the deep pit of sorrow nestled in your stomach, but it’s true. Everyone else praises his change in attitude: That’s three nights in a row that Barnes has come to dinner. Isn’t that great? The words seem to echo in every room you enter and you want to scream, revealing to everyone that the only thing different in Bucky’s life is you. He’s finally rid himself of you, cut you from under his skin like nothing more than an obsessive parasite.

Thankfully, it’s easy to come up with an excuse. In your line of work, everyone gets burned out from time to time, retreating to different areas of the world. Clint goes home while Tony visits the beach. Bruce drops off the grid entirely.

“And you swear you’re alright?” Tony asks, again, watching as you pack an overnight bag. You know he’ll drop it eventually, begrudgingly respecting your privacy, but it’s obvious you’re not being entirely truthful about why you want to leave. If you want to admit it, now’s the time.

You stuff Steve’s blanket into your old duffle. “I’m sure, Tony. Just tired, you know?” He scoffs, nods, and gives you a slight smile -- in that order -- silently agreeing; I’m Iron Man, kid. I’ve been tired since 2008.

He finally relents, clapping his hands like he always does when filling an awkward silence. “Alright, well… I’ve got a driver downstairs for you. He’ll take you wherever you want to go -- which is where again?” You give him an unamused look and he huffs. “What?”

“None of your business,” you remind him, with a smile. “Thanks.”

He waves you off, suddenly humble, and goes to leave the room, actually making it halfway down the hall before his steps audibly reverse. Tony sticks his head back in your doorway with a hesitant look; an expression you’re not used to seeing. “If you want me to, uh, take care of Barnes while you’re gone…” He drags his index finger against his neck in a cartoonish gesture, his smile softening after your laughter quiets. “Just let me know.” His expression isn’t aggressive or vigilante, closer to what you assume is his attempt at fatherly protection. I’m here for you, he says silently.

You’re thankful he leaves before you have a chance to respond, unsure of what you’d even say. You’ve always known not to underestimate Tony, even with his questionable social skills, but another part of you knows you’ll never fully grasp him, and not just in the way you’ll never truly get anybody but yourself.

If everyone is a grain of sand, Tony is a speck of snow. No matter the weather, you will never understand a blizzard.

XI. Outer Space/Carry On; “And the rain, it came too soon, I will wait for you to love me again.”

The door to your apartment swings open with an old creak, wood bouncing off your jutted hip. It smells like dust and there’s a distinct humidity filling the rooms. Your complex is far from dingy, but you do have to smack the air conditioner a few times before it switches on; probably from a lack of use. When you do visit, the electricity and water are usually questionable for a day or so, but the landlord never questions your absence -- a perk of Tony’s bribing.

You drop your duffle on your bed, which, while unmade, is still relatively clean. Knicknacks flood the surrounding bookshelves and your socked feet rub against the old rug tucked under the slatted frame. It’s a far cry from your room at the facility, which is fitted for everyday use. It holds your most worn clothes, all of your life’s necessities. Your apartment is more complex, deeper memories lingering in the walls. It has all the things you couldn’t box up and take with you. There are pictures of old friends on the walls, their voices long forgotten, and belongings from your childhood slipped under your bed in undisturbed nostalgia. Bucky’s question from that night suddenly hits you in full force. If he had to go to Wakanda, could you leave here behind?

You don’t have an answer and soon his voice fades away too. For the first time in a while, you sleep well, only stirring awake once, at around five in the morning. The room is filled with that early blue filter and your sheets are extra cold, your body tingling in its barely awake state. The world is quiet, and you think only of the eyes that match the outside sky.; steel, with icy highlights, and the mist of unshed tears and almost rain.

The weekend morning greets you with dark clouds rolling overhead. Rain drizzles lazily as you walk to the nearest bodega, a couple of stray bills stuffed in your coat pocket. It’d be smarter and safer to order takeout, but you crave the normalcy of buying groceries and cooking dinner, especially now that you’re alone.

The shop is relaxed. Radio music and news announcements overlap in dull robotic voices, patrons harmonizing as they talk amongst themselves; arguing over deli prices and which cheap wine to pair with dinner that night. No one looks at or speaks to you, and you feel invisible, which is somehow a relief. Again, you think of Bucky. He has so often tried to fade away -- usually bringing more attention to himself -- but you finally get it. The ignorance of the customers is your much-awaited bliss.

It seems, you realize, you’re understanding Bucky more every day.

You follow the speckled tile floors to the cashier, who gives you little more than a glance. Her glazed eyes focus on the box television behind the register, hands blindly scanning your items out of instinct. She mutters your total with a heave of nicotine breath, but you barely notice. You wish she understood how much her disinterest means to you.

The plastic straps of the grocery bags dig into your wrists the entire walk home, but you’re just happy to be free.

The storm reaches its full, beautiful, raging glory by the time you get back to your apartment. Lightning strikes, illuminating the living room with flashes, followed seconds later by heavy rumbling. The windows streak with tear-like drops, each one chasing the other to the bottom of the pane, and you feel like a child again, betting on which one will win the race.

Thunder shakes your apartment lightly, and the droplet you watched connects to the one beside it, gravity pulling them both into a long splotch. On the coffee table, your phone blinks awake, unread texts rolling in one after the other. The messages are all similar declarations of missing you, but each one makes you smile, even if you’re a bit surprised no one’s noticed your absence until now. Then again, you’ve been guilty of the same, even with Bucky; not realizing he’s disappeared all day until everyone gathers for dinner. You’re used to sharing confused glances with Steve across the lounge or in the kitchen, two pairs of hands deep in the soapy warm water filling the sink. You did the same thing right after Bucky moved in, cowering and suspicious like a stray dog.

“Is he going to be ok?” you’d naively asked Steve, scrubbing away the soup-dried bowls from dinner.

He had simply smiled, the back of his hand meeting yours beneath the water. “I think so.”

At that moment, you’d dedicated yourself to the cause; to saving Bucky Barnes -- if not for himself, then for Steve. In your eyes, there were two lives lost, two souls who’d gone through Hell and back just to reconnect in an equally cruel and gracious act of destiny. They both deserved a second chance, especially considering they never got a first.

“I can help if you two ever need anything,” you offered, brimming with confidence. Steve nodded, and the conversation inevitably trailed off to some other topic. Bucky was just a casual discussion, one with too many questions and too few answers. You’d both gravely underestimated his recovery, a process that everyone else knew would be difficult. If anyone were to expect miracles in Bucky’s name, it was bound to be Steve and you.

You’d always felt like you’d known Bucky before he came home. The minute Steve found out he was still alive, you’d been the one he confided in, sharing his stories. The countless memories spilled from his lips with intricate details, coming to life before your eyes. He spoke and you could taste the cotton candy of Coney Island, see the wonders of the 1943 Stark Expo, and even smell the bloody battered war.

A part of you was aware Bucky wouldn’t be the same, and Steve had always been prepared for some version of that reality. When he was younger, though, his earlier doubts revolved around war-related PTSD or combat stress reaction, as he called it. Bucky had gone through much worse -- seventy years of torture and an unending abyss of pain.

He didn’t walk into the facility with a suave wink or smooth-as-butter Brooklyn tone. You weren’t disappointed, even as pre-war Bucky dissolved right before your eyes, leaving a hardened man in his place. You just convinced yourself this was like Steve. He was no longer a sick, scrawny boy, right? But Steve was the same, in many ways. His mannerisms and language were stuck in another century, and when he laughed, the insecure sound of a young kid squeaked out. He’d been Captain America for so long, but still hit his head on short doorframes and bought clothes a few sizes too small, always remaining shocked when they didn’t fit.

Bucky was not the same. He didn’t flirt or dance. He didn’t laugh, joke, drink, or brawl, and you failed to imagine how this was the same man that tried talking the red dress off of a young Peggy Carter. Finally, it had hit you that Bucky’s early life was long gone and no years of healing would bring it back.

Even now, curled up on your couch, you can’t fool yourself into thinking he could ever truly be fixed. There would always be more levels of healing to endure, more coping mechanisms to learn, further ways to grow. Sometimes, he didn’t seem driven to take any steps toward bettering himself, content with his internal and external scars being all he had to show for his trauma. He was determined though -- had made it all of these years somehow. Even if his stubbornness worked against him, it had to count for something.

You’re about to let yourself wallow over him once more when a thump echoes loudly through your apartment, rattling the walls with its intensity. You will yourself off the couch, leaving behind a half-eaten bowl of pasta, and glance out the back window, seeing nothing but sleet-streaked streets. It takes an admittedly long time to realize someone’s knocking at your door, but you don’t need to look at the clock to know it’s way too late for visitors. Some animalistic instinct warns you to be cautious, but you have little confidence in whatever criminal has decided to pay you a visit in the pouring rain.

You unlock the door with a sigh and swing it open, cold air chilling the tip of your nose instantly.

“Bucky?”

The immediate sight of him evokes a nauseating sense of deja vu; hair slick against his forehead, lips nearing a shade of purple. When he awkwardly shifts his weight, you hear the telltale squeak of his wet boots and it lets you know he’s nervous since you wouldn’t hear him otherwise.

He exhales in obvious relief. “You’re still here.”

You’re thankful the overhang blocks the rain from reaching him since you don’t feel too inclined to welcome him in. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask, but barely listen for his answer as you take in his exhausted expression. His chest is heaving, and you glance out to the road expecting to see his motorcycle in the distance, but the street is bare.

“I thought…” He must think better of whatever assumption he’s brewing since he quickly shakes his head. You flinch at the cold water that speckles your skin. “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you.”

He must be stupid to not realize he’s the reason you left. You need to be away from him and inviting him inside your otherwise isolated apartment is far from the best idea. “What is it?” you ask, not budging. “Is everyone okay?”

It’s clear he’s expecting a different answer, though you can’t entirely blame him. If he’d shown up any day prior to now, you’d be laying out a red carpet. Instead, his features melt into confusion, and it’s one of the few expressions you’re still not used to seeing; his brows soft, lips plump with a heavy sigh. “You had that date tonight,” he answers, and you’re too distracted by his mouth for the words to register.

When they do, you’re confused. “Wh-”

“I was gonna stop you from going.”

The rest of your question catches in your throat, words lodged in your airpipe. The night of the party fills your head and you breathe in the smell of alcohol and heartbreak. “Tom?” you ask, racking your brain for his name. The single utterance results in a sour expression from Bucky, one that you mirror quickly. “Jesus, Bucky. Did you really think I’d go out with that douche?”

He goes to speak, but you cut him off, irritated. “Even if I did, how the fuck does that have anything to do with you showing up here? Christ, did you walk here? You’re soaked.”

“Ran, actually,” Bucky corrects, and your heart skips a beat. “Can I come in?”

The sane and logical answer would be to slam the door in his face, so you open it wider and step aside. You have to know why he ran in the middle of a storm to check on you, even if a hopeful inkling deep in your heart has already come up with a reason. You probably just worried Steve by running off, but your curiosity gets the best of you. “Alright…”

The second Bucky steps inside, your carpets are soaked with dark boot marks. “Fuck,” you curse, cringing at the sight. “Let me get a towel.” You can’t stand to be next to him for another second anyway, so you race down the hall before he can argue. When you catch a glance of yourself in the bathroom mirror, your nerves are more than visible; your skin losing color by the second, eyes strained with overthinking.

It’s easy to start coddling him once you return, patting away the water on his face before sandwiching his hair between the folded towel and squeezing the strands dry. “I know you do a lot of stupid shit, but running through New York City during a storm has to be one of your worst ideas yet,” you scold, but your touch is gentle and, for once, he allows it. “And I know you hate cellphones but could you really not call? Or get a taxi, at least?”

You know you’re rambling, but you’re keenly aware that if you don’t talk, neither of you will, and that silence will make you spiral. Chest pounding, you start to talk again, before realizing Bucky is gripping your wrist, pulling you from him softly. “Doll,” he murmurs, and this time you’re too nervous to correct him. “It’s okay.” With a slight tug, you yank yourself from his grasp, shaky fingers digging into the wet towel. You use the last dry corner to pat his damp palms, ignoring how large and rough his hands are against yours.

“I told you to stop doing this,” Bucky reminds you softly but doesn’t interfere. “You’re always trying to fix people… patch them up. You gotta take care of yourself, too.” Still, he lets you finish his other hand before he steps back, and you glance at him.

“No offense, Buck, but me coming here -- alone -- was kind of my attempt at that,” you tell him, frowning.

“I… I know, I’m sorry-”

“Bucky.” You’re not sure you can take another second. “What are you really doing here?”

He inhales sharply, and when he begins, you can immediately tell he’s not going to answer your question right away. Knowing he’s a man of very few words, you latch onto the way he seems to be opening up. “Every day, it’s like…” He shakes his head, trembling. “I don’t know who I am or if any of this is even real. It feels like every day is my last and everything is catching up to me all at once. I didn’t want you to be stuck in that, too.”

Bucky glances at you and his eyes soften; white ice cracking to reveal soft blue water underneath. When he reaches for your hand again, you’re in too much shock to deny him, even when he’s squeezing so tightly it hurts. He’s not just scared you’ll be taken from him, he’s scared you’ll willingly leave.

“You deserve better than that, doll.” His voice cracks around the nickname this time and you can hardly believe what’s happening. “I… I won’t ever be able to give you what you deserve.” Your fingernails leave crescents in his palm, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to hold him closer or scare him away. “I just can’t go another day without you gone,” he finally admits, and you gasp.

“Bucky… I don’t-”

He inches closer, face flush with insecurity. “I know. I fucked up -- I fucked up so bad. I don’t blame you if you don’t want this… If you don’t want me, I understand. I just -- you deserve to know how I really feel. I can give you that much, at least.” His grip finally loosens, and you realize he’s shaking, but not from nerves.

Your lips part, and his eyes glimmer with hope. “You’re freezing,” you finally say, and he visibly deflates. “You need to -- um, just sit down for a second.”

“...I’m fine.”

“Please? For me?” The second his chin tilts in a hesitant nod, you’re stalking off toward the bathroom with him in tow. You throw the dirtied towel in the hamper and rustle through the cupboard for a few more. Your bathroom is small, and when Bucky squeezes in behind you, his damp chest presses against your back for a second too long.

When you turn to face him, your noses practically touch. “T-these should be enough,” you stutter, clearing your throat and handing him the fresh towels. “You can hang your clothes up on the towel rod,” you tell him, inching back. He raises a brow and you quickly answer his silent question. “I have some spare stuff you can wear, I think.” And, before he can ask anything else, you push past him, shutting the door behind you.

You have mere seconds to contain yourself, so you rush to your room, mind racing. As you search through your spare drawer, a million questions run through your head. Is Bucky saying he wants to be with you? Does he even know that’s what he’s saying? Is he here on his own accord, or did Steve and Tony send him to ease your heartbreak and lure you home?

You can hear him rustling through the wall and you blindly grab at the only t-shirt and sweats you think could fit; extras left behind by one of the other guys. Hopefully, they’ll work long enough for you to dry Bucky’s clothes and kick him out. He can’t just decide he’s ready, especially not after how he turned you down. You’ll do the polite thing and let him stay until the storm ends, but then he needs to leave.

The bathroom door creaks open the second you step in front of it, Bucky peering out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Just like the last time he was shirtless in front of you, you will your eyes to stay above his neck. Still, you can’t ignore the fact that now he’s allowing himself to be in this state with you, completely vulnerable.

“I found these,” you squeak, handing the carefully folded clothes to him.

He doesn’t take them. “Whose are these?” Silent envy drips from his tongue and you shiver at the thought of it; Bucky being possessive of you, yearning to fill the small drawer in your wardrobe. Swallowing heavily, you rustle the shirt to see the tag.

“Steve, probably? Maybe Clint…” You spot the letters and shake your head. “No, it’s an extra large. But the sweats are definitely Clint’s. Steve never wears them.” Bucky listens amusedly to your rambling, and you quickly clamp your mouth shut. You practically shove the clothes into his hands, stumbling backward. “I’ll just be in the living room.” The door doesn’t click shut until you’re out of view.

It’s hard not to collapse on the couch the second you reach it, overwhelmed with a sense of relief of a wall separating you two. Try as you might, you still can’t comprehend what’s currently happening. As much as you want to kick Bucky out and never see him again, pure delight has started clawing at the inside of your chest, eager to be let out. If he confesses to you once more, you don’t think you’ll be able to turn him down.

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom, your heart pangs at the sight of him. He sinks into the chair across from you with an air of domesticity, like he’s always meant to be here. It’s like you bought that chair with him in mind because it fits him perfectly, and he fills it just the right amount.

“You look better already,” you comment, with a shy smile.

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, glancing up at you from between falling strands of hair, and he’s never seemed more beautiful than in this moment. “I feel better,” he admits. “I’m not a big fan of-”

“The cold,” you finish for him. He blinks in disbelief and you sputter out an excuse. “Sorry. Steve told me.” Then, deciding against putting all of the blame on the one who’s kept you sane this whole time, you continue. “I mean, I’d already kind of guessed so because of that night in the kitchen. He told me later.”

“I don’t remember much from that night,” Bucky confesses, sheepishly; not embarrassed, ashamed.

You’re not sure if it will make him feel any better, but you agree: “I don’t either, actually.” Surprisingly, you mean it. A few days ago you could’ve recalled every small detail from that memory. Now it’s just a dream inside a dream or a  blurry image, abroad a ship, stuffed deep in the bottleneck of your glass brain.

Bucky showed up on your doorstep and it’s like he’s never left.

It’s a slightly unconscious action, but when you shift to make more space on the couch, Bucky takes the silent invitation. His gait is wide, a few silent steps until he’s lowering himself beside you. The line between cushions acts as a border. Even next to you, he’s like an opposing magnet, slowly inching further and further away. He’s toeing over the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to let him fall or tug him back into your desperate arms.

“Bucky-”

“Can I touch you?” His words overlap yours, which isn’t hard considering you’re choking on a whisper, and he’s finally letting the depths of his soul speak without reservation. There’s no context for his question, no way for you to decipher what he’s insinuating. You don’t care. You decide to step off the ledge with him.

“Yes.”

His fingers are grazing your chin, calloused tips warm and rough and gentle. Your pulse thrums against the thin skin of your throat, a lump of emotion gathered in a swallow you can’t force down because Bucky is staring, seeing you for the first time. You don’t blink, and neither does he, blue eyes dew with the first rainfall of spring. You watch winter melt away beneath his fluttering lashes.

“You are so soft,” he murmurs, and you know he doesn’t mean just physically, even when his palms are like sandpaper against your jaw. His grit flattens the rest of your apprehension, and your hands find the sharp angle of his scruff-peppered chin. When your thumb strokes the indentation below his lips, his mouth parts just barely, enough for you to feel the shaky hot exhale he sighs in silent relief.

When he begins to lean in, you don’t budge; not until he’s a hair width away and you feel the tips of his fingers shaking, one hand ice cold, the other burning hot. Then, you close the gap, hungry for the taste of his bleeding heart. The kiss is desperate in its own way, lustful for vulnerability and the satisfaction of finally.

Bucky is the one to press harder, nose harshly digging into your own as his face tilts to fit into the curves of your features like a missing puzzle piece; knocked haphazardly onto the floor when the box is first opened. You can feel his hair, still damp, against your forehead. His metal arm clicks into place, fingers adjusting their grip, and an unfamiliar sensation shoots up your spine. Fear.

He’s never been so close. His hand could easily wrap around your throat and take you out, without him even sparing a second glance. A moment of desperation and your lack of resistance would be all he needed. One kiss is all it would take.

Instead, he pulls away, though not without leaving one last sweet peck on your pursed lips. When your eyes flutter open, he’s blinking in the sight of you with a genuine smile painted on his face; tongue quickly darting between his teeth and catching the last taste of you on his mouth. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, a stifled chuckle that’s just enough to have you joining him, until your cheeks burn from grinning.

“Did --  was that okay?” Bucky asks, lines around his lips deepening. “I thought you were gonna pull away for a moment there.”

“No!” you answer quickly, feeling your skin flush at the admission. “It was… nice. Very nice.” He’s clearly enjoying the way you stumble over your words, especially when he strokes your cheek to further fluster you. “G-great, really.”

“Great,” he echoes. “I haven’t kissed anyone since 1945.”

You can’t help but laugh at his secret. He’s kissing you and only worried he wasn’t good enough. Bucky, the playboy, Barnes, is worried some seventy years of inexperience could stop him from stealing your breath with a single touch. Thankfully, he knows your reaction isn’t out of dismissal or jest, and soon his face is red with cheerful exertion.

“Can I ask you something?” He questions, quieting down but not losing any of his warmth. “Will you come back? To the facility, I mean.”

“No,” you start, watching his face fall before you can finish. “But only because I bought enough groceries to last me the whole weekend and I don’t want them to go to waste. But you can stay with me if you want.” His eyes are wide, brows raised. “My place is big enough and I think I have more of Steve’s clothes lying around…”

“You’d…” He swallows the lump growing in his throat. “You’d actually be okay with that?”

You let out a soft sigh. “Of course.” You force yourself not to backtrack or shy away. Not now. “We could rent some movies? It’ll probably storm the next couple of days so there’s really no point in heading out. Unless you want to?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. I don’t… I’d want to stay in if I stay. I want to stay. Can I?”

“Yes.” You grab his hand in yours and squeeze. “Yes, Bucky. Stay with me.”

The air settles but you see an unanswered question lingering on his mind. You’re about to press, but then he’s asking, shyly: “Will you let me kiss you again?”

It’s such an easy question, so effortless, and yet it holds the weight of months spent alone. You wonder if he has suffered the same aching coldness as you, desperate for someone else’s warmth. You want to tell him he can kiss you forever, until forever, after forever. “You can kiss me whenever,” are the words you finally settle on, and it’s clear they appease him.

“I’ll take the couch, tonight,” Bucky says a moment later. A small relief, since it’s too soon for anything like that. Personal space is something you’ll need to work on. Not tonight.

But you’re still curious: “What if you have a nightmare?”

He huffs, albeit with the ghost of a smile. “If you don’t hear me, I’ll wake you up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Later, after so many bowls of pasta you realize you’ll have to order takeout eventually, Bucky sinks into the couch; toes pressed against the arm, a thick blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. You excuse yourself for a moment to go turn on the heater, setting it a few degrees higher than usual so he doesn’t get cold. Your phone beeps softly from the pocket of your pajama pants. It’s Steve.

“I told you he’d notice.”

When you hear the tell-tale sigh of a snore, and realize Bucky has drifted off, lights still on and arm dropped off the side of the couch, you have to smile.

“Took him long enough.”

---

bucky tag list: @queens-rose-garden @eunoia-kth @zhangyixingxing1 @augustvandyne @fairydxll @justreadingficsdontmindme @interwebseriesfan24

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Training

The Lan juniors are practicing archery when Wei Ying stumbles upon the Cloud Recesses' training grounds in his aimless walk around the place. He observes for a bit, at first.

Sizhui's stance is nearly perfect, he recognizes and corrects his own mistakes easily and does not seem bothered about missing shots. Lan Zhan's hand is so obvious that Wei Ying finds it endearing.

Lan Jingyi, however, is growing increasingly frustrated. His shots are powerful and quick but he doesn't score as many points as he would like, muttering to himself about whatever he could be doing wrong. He seems more focused on the target rather than his stance and it shows the more he misses.

"Straighten your shoulders, Jingyi." Wei Ying intervenes, "And lower your elbow a little, you'll shoot too low."

He picks up a bow and arrow - how nostalgic, he thinks - and demonstrates the correct stance, smiling to himself as he releases the bow string and hits bullseye.

"Wow..."

"Why do you look so surprised? Don't you know I won the archery competition at the last discussion conference in Qishan? I even beat Hanguang-Jun and Zewu-Jun!"

"Hanguang-Jun told us once, he said you were the best archer of your generation." Sizhui says, and Wei Ying can't help a laugh.

"Lan Zhan thinks I'm the best in everything, and I think he is. We have this back and forth constantly and we've made zero progress on it."

"Uncle Wen Ning said he used to do archery as well."

"Yup! Honestly I think he was among the best, he just never got the chance to shine..."

It's bittersweet to remember - Wen Ning, young and alive, so incredibly skilled but just as anxious. If Wen Chao had minded his business, everyone would have been able to see the true potential that lay within the shy boy. It all went to hell far too soon for Wen Ning to garner the respect and admiration he deserved.

"Anyway," Wei Ying continues, "what are you guys training for?"

"Our own archery competition!" Sizhui responds, eagerly. "The invitation to the discussion conference mentioned they'll hold one this year and Zewu-Jun picked us as representatives for the Lan sect!"

Nie Huaisang always seemed to like watching archery, Wei Ying thought to himself. I wonder why.

"So what's the prize?"

"A war fan."

"A war fan?"

"Yeah!" Jingyi gesticulates at about half his height and opens his arms wide. "It's about this big, and you can fly on it and stuff."

"I didn't even know such things existed..." Wei Ying replied. "Much less that the Nie would have them. But then again... a very surprising sect if I've seen one!"

Lan Jingyi picked up his bow again. "I wanna win it so I can fan Jin Ling away when he's being annoying."

Wei Ying chuckles at the image. "He won't be participating, right? Since he's a sect leader now."

"No, but he would have stood no chance anyway." And Lan Jingyi pointedly misses the target when he tries shooting an arrow all arrogantly. Wei Ying barely holds in his laugh and Sizhui sighs fondly before hitting his own target right in the middle.

"Say, Sizhui," Jingyi begins, pleadingly, "if you win, will you give me the fan?"

"Remember what Hanguang-Jun told us, do not receive praise for deeds you haven't done yourself-"

"-and do not accept criticism you do not deserve." Jingyi completed. "But I don't want the praise, I just want the fan!"

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 3 replay, Ex-Cerberus Scientists:

-The hide out is a turian world that’s levo. Gellix. Pretty good hiding spot – everyone forgets it exists.

-Jacob gets quite the heroic opening, putting himself in danger.

Except for the part where all the scientists die anyway. They couldn’t have let him save even one?

-Jacob and Liara greet each other like they know the other well, which is odd. They barely met in Mass Effect 2.

Jack, by comparison, commented on barely knowing Liara in the Grissom Academy mission and saved all her students.

Poor Jacob is getting the short end of the stick. As usual.

-Brynn casually mentions that she was researching technology from the Collector Base.

Shepard says nothing about this despite the fact that they destroyed the base. You’d think that would at least warrant a question on what the hell Brynn is studying.

-Cerberus killing scientists after they make a breakthrough is peak stupidity. Did they not expect the scientists to put two and two together?

Also, it’s just dumb in general. It’s not like there’s a limit on how much one scientist can accomplish. They could have had the scientists achieve more breakthroughs.

The indoctrination is starting to get to TIM.

-If you go renegade, Archer says David was all he had left.

From what? We never did get their backstory or why David was with Archer.

I think the implication is that their parents are dead, but it’d be nice to learn some details.

-I do think Archer is sincere in his regrets.

The part where if you go renegade he kills himself on the spot helps clarify it.

There’s not even an option for a paragon interrupt to save him!

-If you go paragon, you learn TIM insisted on replacing David with someone else with his abilities.

This is the problem with those “rogue cells”. They’re still doing what TIM wants. He just prefers not needing to explicitly order it.

-Archer claims he destroyed all his research so Project Overlord is over.

Were there no backups? TIM seriously lets his scientists work without requiring them to upload documents to a system he controls?

That’s terrible document management. He deserves to lose all the research he paid for.

-Brynn says there are 43 scientists.

I’d like to remind everyone that in Mass Effect 2 Cerberus was a small organization. Now there are 43 rogue scientists, some scientists have already been killed, and there’s an endless horde of troops and ships.

Cerberus in Mass Effect 3 is ridiculous. They’re less believable than the Reapers.

-I read somewhere that in Mass Effect 3 the original intention was that you would have a mission with each of your prior companions.

If so, Jacob was obviously the intended companion for this mission. The writing builds up like he’ll join you, then out of nowhere he decides he’s too injured to do so after all.

-It was sensible for the scientists to take their loved ones when they ran. Cerberus could easily have used them as hostages.

-It’s implied that the research the scientists were working on were the implants that indoctrinate Cerberus troops.

A bit ironic that the troops they’re responsible for indoctrinating are now out to kill them. You reap what you sow.

-Speaking of, someone here worked on a poison tailored to turians. I’d like to have some words with them about what they thought that would be used for.

-One scientists says they should have gone to Sanctuary.

Hmm. So even within Cerberus the truth about Sanctuary is restricted.

Logical enough – Cerberus is supposed to operate in cells. Sanctuary should be strictly need to know.

You’d think ex-Cerberus scientists would be more skeptical about a place that sounds too good to be true, though.

Apparently only Volus can recognize scams in the Mass Effect universe.

-I think the Jacob/Brynn relationship would be treated more warmly if it couldn’t result in Jacob cheating on Shepard. It’s rather sweet.

(Jacob’s known Brynn for a year. It’s been about six months since ME2. If Jacob hooked up with Shepard in ME2, he could already have been emotionally involved with Brynn. Is the exact timeline ever clarified…?)

-If you ask about his father, all Jacob says it haunts him.

Brynn deserves a reward for making this man open up. An entire game later, and Jacob still provides barely enough personal informtation to Shepard.

Meanwhile, Jack’s stabilized and adopted a bunch of children.

Figures Jack hordes the character development and Jacob gets barely any. He didn’t have a mission to force him to grow.

-Jacob says Tim became obsessed with indoctrination.

Who else was obsessed with indoctrination? Saren. He had a whole facility dedicated to researching it.

Is TIM having the same creeping doubts that he may be indoctrinated as well?

Even if he won’t admit it, that may be why he’s so focused on learning how indoctrination works.

-Jacob gets another heroic moment at that end. He even gets to save people this time.

Did the writers forget he’s biotic? All he uses is his gun.

-Jacob keeps promising drinks but never delivers.

Even on the Citadel, you just meet him in the hospital.

They animated a whole ass bar. Let Jacob buy me a drink!

Normandy

-Kaidan has better content than Ashley in ME3.

It makes me feel bad for Ashley - in ME3 she mostly just drinks and stays in Starboard Observation.

Kaidan has conversations with other characters and struggles with philosophical questions.

Ashley deserved better.

-Of course Kaidan wonders about what other good people may be trying to break away from Cerberus and what can be done for them. Paragon of paragons who wants to help everyone.

-He also asks if TIM was ever a good person and if Shepard every saw this coming.

Shepard says no, they did not.

Also, if you go paragon Shepard says he got progressively worse.

Shepard, Kaidan, have you both blanked on everything you learned in ME1? Cerberus murdered a colony. If TIM was ever good, it was long before the games started.

-The Garrus – James shit talk is excellent. You can tell the writers had fun with it.

Citadel

-Brynn wants to name the baby after Shepard. As in, Shepard’s last name – not their first.

Obvious reasons are obvious, but it is funny to see the writers poking at no one using Shepard’s first name for them.

-I never get an email for Miranda’s third meeting. I just see her name on the map and go find her.

-Why can’t Miranda tell Shepard why she needs Alliance resources?

Giving her resources without an explanation is pushing it. She was a formerly high ranking Cerberus agent and Cerberus just attempted a coup on the Citadel. It’s a lot of trust to give her anything.

Even if you trust her change of heart - what if Cerberus was blackmailing her? Oriana’s safety for Alliance resources? Which would Miranda choose?

I’m not sure she wouldn’t give the resources to Cerberus. For Oriana, there’s very little Miranda wouldn’t do.

-I dislike that the game doesn’t let you choose how to respond to Miranda wanting to install a control chip in you.

Even if you go renegade, you reassure her it’s okay.

You should be able to be angry or agree at Miranda’s hypocrisy.

It’s just another example of ME3’s railroading of Shepard.

-The timing here is also interesting. This is the start of the Rannoch arc.

In ME2, Admiral Xen wanted to regain control over the geth.

Here, Miranda speaks about how she rebelled against her father’s control over her and how she regrets attempting to control Shepard with a control chip.

Unfortunately, Xen’s whole “control the geth” agenda is dropped in ME3 so the potential parallels are lost. The comparison of controlling synthetics by rewriting them and organics via a chip could have created some compelling contrasts. Hell, throw the indoctrinated Cerberus troops in there too.

Shepard says they would rather be dead than the controlled. How do the geth feel?

They choose the Reapers over death. Then they choose to rebel against the Reapers control and fight them too – assuming they survive.

I think something interesting could have been done with all this, and it’s a shame we never got it.

[mercurytrinemoon]

THE GRAMMYS AKA IT'S SAGI SEASON, I GUESS?

With Moon transiting Sagittarius during the night of the Grammy awards, all the archers in the room sweeped their awards and stole the show… for good and for bad. That night Mercury ingressed into Aquarius, making its conjunction with Pluto so the drama has to be present and it's still an active discourse on social media.

Miley's first Grammy

This year Miley won her first Grammy (two, actually). The massive delay in her receiving an award might be linked to her having Saturn in the 10th house natally. Her Saturn return ended a year ago so it only fits that now's the time for her to solidify her work and have an offical stamp of approval.

Let's look at her transits for the night. She's in her Jupiter-ruled profection year so Jupiter transits will be crucial for her. The planet of luck is currently transiting Taurus - her 1st whole sign house and the house of her natal lot of fortune. It's in a relatively close degree to her Capricorn Venus, making a supportive trine. On top of that, she actually just went through her Venus return in the 9th house so we get somewhat of a double whammy for her.

This is what Billie was made for...

Now let's look at Billie Eilish, who's been sweeping awards pretty much since she released her first album but her chart is worth looking at as well. First of all, her having both Sun and Venus in her 10th house next to the MC should already tell us that she has, in fact, very high chances of being recognized by people in authority - so, the music academy as well - and just being generally liked and positively received. And speaking of the 10th house, last year she went through her 10th house profection year in Sagittarius, ruled by Jupiter in her natal 5th. And during this time she created something that will be remembered by a lot of people. Pretty neat.

Currently she's in her 11th house profection year. She has Mercury in that house in Capricorn so transiting Jupiter is trining it by sign. And, just like Miley, Billie has her lot of fortune in Taurus as well. Very interesting. Look out for Jupiter transiting the sign of your lot of fortune then!

In terms of the song itself. The general story was that she felt a massive creative block and she was afraid she won't write anything interesting ever again but then her and Finneas forced themselves to sit on a Barbie song and it came out just like that. Now, I've managed to catch an ig story from her, celebrating an anniversary of when they wrote it: it was January 16-17th 2023, only one day before Mercury stationed direct and a few days after Mars stationed direct. That should speak for itself when it comes to any type of a creative block as retrograde planets can often make you feel stuck.

I think no matter what, her Venus on the MC will always shine through and she will keep on presenting that venusian grace and beauty through her craft. Creative blocks should be no enemy for her as this is what she was made for.

Taylor wins an award but looses in the eyes of people

Taylor Swift won album of the year. She seems to win almost every time she's nominated so she's clearly one of the Grammy favorites. But what is interesting is that, just like Miley and Billie, she has her lot of fortune in… you've guessed it, Taurus! I think just having the lot being ruled by a benefic planet is the first step to success.

She also has a Capricorn inner planet and that is Mercury at 8° - so again, Jupiter is currently making a trine. And on top of that, Mercury is her time lord for the year since she's in her 11th house profection in Virgo. She's also receiving a very supportive trine from Saturn to her natal Jupiter, which generally supports her being recognized during this time.

BUT. I've mentioned that the night of the ceremony Mercury entered Aquarius and got dangerously close to Pluto. This was the first and one of the many coming hits of Pluto charged with other planets to Taylor's natal Venus, which sits right at the very beginning of the sign. And there was drama and the drama will continue and I do believe this it the beginning of something bigger for her. Pluto can bring polarities, it can bring massive success and clout but it can also bring a huge downfall. I honestly doubt someone who sells out stadiums would suddenly loose their popularity but as many people have said since the Grammys, some sort of veil has been lifted and I'm suspecting more and more people will start point fingers at her and her actions: from acting inappropriate and being egocentric to things like contributing to carbon footprint or being silent when it comes to global and socio-political issues. So sure, Pluto on her Venus might make her even more rich (I know she still has the european leg of the tour left) but she may as well loose face at the same time.

Mercury in Sagittarius is strong with Jay-Z

Now another Sagittarius I wanted to tackle is Jay-Z, who, in his Sagi Mercury fashion, said what everyone wanted to say and threw a massive shade at the Grammy voting system and just... them being shite in general. We're not 100% sure of his birth time and his transits don't necessary scream "WINNER!" at this time BUT: if he is, in fact, a Virgo rising, his time lord for the year is Jupiter and currently Jupiter would transit his 9th house, where his Saturn is in Taurus. That is still very supportive as 9th house is one of the houses of the greats and Jupiter transiting over Saturn honors the legacy and achievements - and that is what he was recognized for with the Dr. Dre Global Impact Award.

Let's quickly discuss some other non-Sagi winners

Victoria Monét won in a cuple of categories. She's a Leo rising with Sun in… Taurus in the 10th house. So, once again, Jupiter did its thing.

SZA was also among the winners. She has quite a few planets in her 10t house so I feel like either way success is guaranteed for her. When it comes to transits, Jupiter did influence her as well: trining Capricorn Venus and Saturn, opposing her Scorpio placements and sextiling her Moon and Jupiter. She is also in a Jupiter-ruled profection year. Interestingly, she debuted a new song titled "Saturn". Very fitting for an Aquarius rising.

Jack Antonoff being the goat

Actually he's a double ram but his Jupiter is… up on the highest heights of MC in Capricorn. So, a literal goat as well… slowly climbing to success.

His chart does scream "CREATIVITY!!!!" (an exalted Venus? A cardinal rising? An Aries stellium? Being born on a New Moon? What else do you need?). His chart is also very strong- and stable-looking. He's been awarded for quite a few things over the years, which, with planetary placements like these, it makes total sense for him to be one of the favorites. This year, the supportive trine from Jupiter to his natal Jupiter was just an extra dose of help in receiving a Grammy. This, as well as a transiting stellium through his 10th house.

The snub of the night?

Considering the amount of nominations for this year's awards, the biggest snub seems to be Olivia Rodrigo. So let's take a look at her chart. Interestingly - and at this point I am no longer surprised - her lot of fortune is also in Taurus with the ruler Venus in Capricorn. Her time lord for the year is Mercury and her natal Mercury is in Aquarius - currently squared by Jupiter. In her case, that square from a benefic can cause more harm than good, since she has a natal oppositions of thse two planets. This tense transit can actually unleash unnecessary hate and preachiness towards her. Saturn is still hanging near her Sun, which obviously can dampen things a lot. So, she seemed to have a great 2023 but some things are not quite perfect after all.

Let's compare it to 2022's Grammys to see transits for her big wins that year. Jupiter was still in Pisces, where her natal Sun is and that Sun was her time lord, which is very important here. She also had Saturn trining her natal Saturn, which helps being supported and recognized by those with authority. A great transit to sweep these awards.

[acourtofquestions]

Okay okay, so... who, out of everyone you know about rn is your favorite? (Fleetfoot is included, Fleetwood is adorable)

Thank you for such a great question!

I love a lot of things about so many characters, & am really enjoying getting to know them in my first read of the Throne of Glass series (so it changes a lot)… Honestly, Fleetfoot might be my most consistent😂favorite😊, I don’t think any character can ever be better🥹???

— Especially as in a world of such prejudice Fleetfoot loves every person for who they are (including Archer; who she does not love; because who he is sucks🤣). — She doesn't care that Dorian has magic she stays with him until Celaena can come back, she follows Celaena into the woods on the 10 year marker of "Aelin's dark day" just to sit with her. — She also defends Celaena from the monster even while injured herself she wouldn't let them hurt her person.

She was the outcast of the litter, the "underdog" and became the bravest hulking wolf of them all.

Fleetfoot serves as the “save the cat” for both Celaena in showing her disgust at the idea of calling a dog a burden to be rid of because of a shy temper and at not liking humans after they stole it from its mother (which also speaks a lot to her, as if Fleetfoot is her Abraxos style “spirit animal”) while showing even the Assassin has moral lines. While also giving Dorian the chance to “save the cat” or in this case the dog. She even heavily serves as a plot telling device such as recognizing Nehemia from beyond the veil. More than that she becomes a beloved by all character… as you can see by this very dramatic explanation. Also I’m just a sucker for dogs & golden retrievers😂

Otherwise (sry this is gonna ramble😂): if ya want more

+ I’d love to hear yours if you want to share: so, who are your favs/fav?😃

I really want to learn more about Aedion because his relationship to Celaena thus far in HoF heavily reminds me of my siblings (and normally makes me cry because of it). I want Celaena to come to know that kind of love, and I already love Aedion for it.

Dorian really astounds me in his character — I mean that word literally & in phrase — he is a good man, he consistently shows it, and I give him props for being such a healthy emotional male character in a YA series.

Of course I have to mention our main gal Celaena / Aelin; there’s a lot to love. First I’d say the tropes she breaks (reminding me of a Nesta/Feyre mix of leading female perspective book traits) which I really appreciate. — She is tough, she is a warrior, she is not a damsel; she also loves makeup, and fancy dresses, and wishes to dance; she can be entranced by the romantic fantasy of just being normal. She is not equated to her love interests alone but she does love many and remains quite a loveable character within her resilience; as most of them come to say & bring to further light as well. She is fiery in all she does, there is something beautifully magically brave & empowering in that.

Sam Cortland will always get a shoutout because I will always love him.

Chaol used to be on this list and still isn’t off it but it’s complicated; I can say though I wish he didn’t take pieces of what he dreams people to be and try to make them fit that mold, he does apologize from it come to recognize it learn and try to do better. I genuinely believe he loves Dorian and Celaena (which doesn’t fix everything but does mean something); that he is a good man who just wants to do the right thing; he’s still a young kid. And so, he hasn’t lost me yet.

Rowan has entered where he will stay in the list of favs forever & ever “to whatever end”.

Emrys right now (& probably always) has my heart; I love a good loving character who makes everyone soup and tells stories. Give me a Hagrid, Chiron, kinda character any day. One that makes them feel at home; strangers, friends, foes, legends alike. Calls them out when they’re an idiot, and welcomes them with open arms after every exhausting day… He’s just good and kind.

And after a recent HoF chapter (some might say THE HoF chapter) Lady Marion deserves a mention & round of applause; mad respect, absolute adoration; the true hero; a mothers love. The way it made me cry at the love of a mother, the way I love my littles, etc.

P.S. for ACOTAR it’s probably Feyre, Nesta, Gwyn, Rhys, Azriel… also the house if it counts? lol 😂

[swiftie-as-a-coursing-river]

Hi! Heard you are Nikolai Lantsov's no ! stan. I love that man. What songs do you think would associate with him?

LMAO I LOVE THIS ASK SO MUCH OMG.

I actually have so many I associate with him, it’s a little crazy, but I’ll list some of my top ones (they’re all Taylor swift lmao)

*apologies for how long this is and how bad I am at explaining things LMAOOOO

1. Castles Crumbling by Taylor Swift- I could write PAGES UPON PAGES about this. The whole song is him but that BRIDGE?

“Smoke billows from my ships in the harbor/People look at me like I’m a monster”

TELL ME THAT WASNT WRITTEN ABT HIM?!

2. The Archer by Taylor Swift- Don’t even get me started. I’ve seen so many edits of him to this song (and I made one myself but it’s not on my edits tumblr yet). Once again, the BRIDGE of that song?!

“They see right through me”

“All the kings horses and all the kings men couldn’t put me together again”

“Cause all of my enemies started off friends”

But also a lot of the lyrics outside of the bridge

“I never grew up, it’s getting so old”

“I wake in the night/I pace like a ghost/the room is on fire/invisible smoke”

This song is insanely Nikolai coded.

3. Mirrorball by Taylor Swift- I saw the most insane edit to this months ago that lowkey changed my life. It was to the speech from the long pond studio sessions film where she discusses the song, saying:

“We have mirrorballs in the middle of a dance floor because they reflect light, they are broken a million times and that's what makes them so shiny, we have people like that in society, too. They hang there and every time they break it entertains us. And when you shine a light on them it's this glittering, fantastic thing, but then a lot of the time when the spotlight isn't on them they're just still there on a pedestal but nobody's watching them”

If this is not Nikolai I don’t know what is. Some other lyrics I connect with him are:

“I can change everything about me to fit in”

Really reminds me of how he kinda completely changed himself and his various identities to match what others wanted

“I'm still a believer but I don't know why”

“I’ve never been a natural all I do is try try try”

“I’m still on that trapeze/I’m still trying everything to keep you looking at me”

4. Dear Reader- Taylor Swift

This song has always been a Kaz song for me but is insanely Nikolai.

“Dear Reader, get out your map/pick somewhere and just run”

“Dear Reader, burn all the files/desert all your past lives”

“And if you don’t recognize yourself/that means you did it right”

All of these make me think of how Nikolai grapples with self image and identities throughout the books. The second part makes me think of Sturmhond, the demon, and also lowkey Isaak.

And then the BRIDGE?

“So I wandered through these nights/I prefer hiding in plain sight”

“These desperate prayers of a cursed man”

“You wouldn’t take my word for it if you knew who was talking”

“To a house not a home all alone cause nobody’s there”

“No one sees you lose when you’re playing solitaire”

That’s all I’ll be talking abt for now but there are so many more. Some honorable mentions are:

The Lucky One

The last great American dynasty

You’re on Your Own, Kid

Bejeweled

Anti Hero

epiphany

And so many more. I’ve actually made edits to a lot of these at @to-assess-the-equation-of-you and on tiktok @cassles.dazzles! I could talk about this all day and sorry for how long this was 😭

[swallowerofdharma]

Hi! Your top 5 characters and top 5 ships?. I'm really curious.

Hello! This is difficult lol because it a very open question. I presume we are talking animanga, so let’s see, because I actually don’t necessarily have charts readily on my mind and I also don’t read that many titles anymore. Some of the most popular manga talked about recently are aimed at a younger audience than me or are very similar to things I have already read, so they don’t hold my interest. And if I think of characters that have meant a lot to me at different times in my life, I probably will end up talking about stories that are quite forgotten now or not exciting for anyone else, because more connected to my own circumstances and life experiences. So if you don’t mind I will give you only three, but I will give an explanation of my choices so that it is easy to see how I could have mentioned other very similar characters from different manga for very similar reasons. But these three I have a visceral and deep connection with, and maybe I also projected a lot, so they stand out to me and came organically to my mind after reading your ask:

Yashiro, from Saezuru Tori wa Habatakanai. Obvious choice to begin with, but I genuinely like characters that can’t conform to other people’s expectations and can’t be “toned down” or “domesticated” because they can’t discard the wild side of their loneliness, rooted in childhood trauma or neglect and lack of basic social support and meaningful connections when it mattered most. And yet, Yashiro faces reality directly because of that. And disillusionment is another trait I like about a character. And I like stories that have darker themes and don’t glimpse over the horrors humanity is capable of, and I like realism too. And Yashiro is a real “queer” character, one that can’t escape “otherness” in a world that isn’t fantastical and where the monstrous isn’t metaphorical.

Griffith, from Berserk. Because he has quite no other choice but to become the monstrous, for the same reasons I indicated above, including queerness, otherness, loneliness and failure to connect or be recognized as human, he can’t exist without provoking a conflict in others, part his own choice of challenging the order seen as “natural”, part because he has to fail in order to set up Guts’s story and fulfill the “destiny of tragic beauty”. This time the world building is very different and the story that starts on the human and historical plane and with a certain amount of realism ends tangled in a bigger picture and bigger narrative threads. He is such an iconic figure, coming to look similar to a whole lot of mythical types and other characters with similar functions in manga and yet avoiding being a simple replacement or repetition and being his own authentically and unique character.

Kikyo, from Inuyasha. I was such an avid reader of Rumiko Takahashi’s stories. I think what I liked most was their settings, the glimpses into a Japanese reality, being the contemporary world of high schoolers involved in quirky adventures or the fantastic past of the Sengoku period full of creatures and specters from a mythical and horror tradition that I got to know this way. Kikyo’s long black hair, her outfit of shrine priestess, with the iconic red and white colors, her ability as an archer: she stands out in my memory, I was in love with her. She was a ghost of herself with only certainty emotions surviving: the fascination with the unresolved. She was angry and vengeful, and yet her love too survived, just darkened. And I like the conflict between her spiritual role and strength and her relationship and connection with Inuyasha, destined both to be outsiders, two loneliness that met, defying the rules. And I think that I quite liked that at the center of her story was learning to let go.

As for shipping… I don’t know if I am even capable of it. I failed repeatedly to commit to it. I see the potential, but sometimes it is more delicious when that potential isn’t fulfilled in the literal sense. Maybe I just enjoy more the tension, than the resolution, the angst more than any “happy ending”: a sense of love as something to bring along and not renounce, even when potentially destructive, but never quite the end goal or only purpose in living. But I like fan theories, fan art and some fanfics, the angsty ones of course. The only pairing I am irrationally committed to might surprise everyone after my little list. But these two characters I have seen together since the beginning and that hasn’t changed and I am still very attached to them as a couple, and my favorite childhood friends becoming lovers proper ship, they are so well suited for each other in my eyes, without being boring together: Kuroo and Kenma from Haikyuu! Surprised?

Sorry for answering so vaguely, but I truly enjoy being open and flexible and I don’t commit truly to some fandom things like lists, ships, or being able to always have a strong opinions about everything. But thank you for asking!

[jennawynn]

Chronotrek: Strange New Worlds Part 1

I've now finished Enterprise and Discover seasons 1 and 2, as well as all the Short Treks up to Children of Mars.

For those of you who are just finding this (sorry for invading your SNW tag), when I started this 'project', I had only seen a handful of episodes of ANY Trek content and the JJ Abrams movies. I decided to watch all the Star Trek canon in in-universe chronological order. Well, simplified. I watch typically while I'm working, so not only might I miss a few things when I get focused, but I also can't just switch episodes on the fly, so I'm only switching at the ends of seasons. No "this episode had time travel and they went back 300 years, so it should be between these two episodes of a different show" stuff. But I am splitting Disco at the end of season 2 so I've finished Season 2 and will pick up 3 after I finish ALL THE REST OF TREK :scream:

You can follow me on this journey (or block it) with the tag #chronotrek.

Ok! On to Strange New Worlds Season 1!

Interesting intro... retro but modern, very colorful (like they said their uniforms were when Pike was introduced on Disco 2x1 :joy:)

Tell me Number One never has a name. I think that was an excellent running gag.

Pike looks like Chris Pine with that beard. I thought that was the former Admiral Cromwell until they showed her face, like it was a flashback. I don't actually know what the dates of everything are, so the date flashing on the screen means nothing. lol

I thought she looked a little familiar, but did not recognize Melanie Scrofano.

At first I thought it was flashing all the way back to Archer's dad and the warp engine. That was in Montana too, right? Were Pike and Archer both horse guys from Montana or am I confusing the two?

Aww Spock guessed right, her name IS Una. Which... is number one :Joy: omg I thought I wouldn't like her being named but the name is a PUN?? I take it back.

Shuttle Stamets?? They named a shuttle after him?

So I guess they retconned the last tiny bit of Disco season 2? Where Spock shows up without a beard and they go off doing things.

And a ship named for Archer.

Mentions of Lt Kirk along with Uhura on the bridge... I know those names.

That should be 'you have the conn' not the comm. >.>

So Pike is scared of what he saw in the time crystal. Not issues with the Discovery 'disappearance.'

Jumping right to the 'another civilization is following the same kind of historical story beats' so we're going down to Alien!World War II or Alien!Civil War Part 2.

Spock looks like Cumberbatch :joy:

lmao using footage from Jan 6 as documentation of the beginning of WW3.

Now there's black side panels to the women's uniforms that look like dress tunics instead of shirts? And Kirk is Samuel, not Jim? idk who Sam is.

Episode 2 Children of the Comet

Shades of Hoshi Sato there- the comms officer who knows way too many languages and is afraid of away missions. It's weird because I know that Uhura is an OG character, so Hoshi came after her, but this show is after Enterprise (and I haven't seen OG Trek) so to me, she's Sato II not the other way around.

Why would you take a man's helmet off after a blow? One, you're wearing the helmets for a reason. Can you breathe? Two, if he had a head or neck injury the helmet could be the only thing keeping him from getting injured even worse.

She has a pretty voice.

I mean... the comet _let them go_ shouldn't the Shepherds respect that?

There is a reason things like 150 and 180 are said 'one-five-oh' or 'one-eight-zero' and not one-fifty or one-eighty. It could cause miscommunication, confusing it for 115/118.

"Maybe don't judge our faith next time." Pike's smirk saying 'we made your god change its mind.' ...so then they explain how the comet is precognitive? It is fate and not science? That seems antithetical to Trek? I thought science was the god Trek worshipped.

I don't like Spock's little curls on the ends of his sideburns.

Episode 3

Yet another reason that the highest level officers shouldn't be on away teams- when someone gets infected with something at impairs their decision making and such who is in charge of the ship, bad things can happen.

Oooh what's M'benga hiding?

Number One has a last name too? And not just one but two!

She just fuckin' carries a full grown man over her shoulder like it's nothing. That's a dummy :joy: Why she so strong? Oh, the strength is even remarked on by the nurse. It's A Thing. She's not human? And nobody knew that? I feel like that would have been a thing noticed in all the many times Starfleet surely scans you. Like... species _has_ to be a thing that they know for medical reasons.

Rukiya means 'she rises up' in Swahili. I used that name for an NPC trans princess in my D&D game. She's The Chosen One.

[adlernauseam]

paleolithic. i looked it up. | clint + oliver

@justlikethenamesays

He knew that there was only so long he'd be allowed to actively live in a fuck it all stage. When the Brooklyn Boys and Rhodey became staples in his life, he knew shit was about to get real different from it being Nat. But pure silence from who was supposed to be his best friend, when he knew she was talking to people around him? Nah, he wasn't waiting around.

When Bucky had talked to him about the archer over in Gotham, he hadn't even had to think about it. Rhodey was encouraging about it, and it soothed something rough in him. It would be nice to be around someone who understood the arrow thing and didn't just humor it.

Gotham was an absolute shithole and he fuckin' loved it as he made his way to the location Bucky'd given him. Looking around the streets around the gym, he was careful, even if the guy was trusted. Slipping into the gym, he automatically drew his bow at the creak of the board across the space. "Sup, dude?"

--

Oliver was glad to have Felicity and the Justice League here on this strange Earth, but he was having to face some hard truths about his team. Dinah was too much of an unknown quantity, Roy wasn't Roy, and it didn't look like Dig or Thea were turning up any time soon. He didn't enjoy working with the Bats, too used to running his own team in his own city, and while he respected what they did, it wasn't the same as wanting to be part of it. If Team Arrow had a chance here, then he needed some new people.

He liked working with Bucky whenever he and Steve passed through Gotham. The guy had a similar sense of humor to his, and his skillset was impressive, even for Oliver whose default setting was Not Impressed. Steve enjoyed staying behind with Felicity, and their two tactical brains together was enough to make his own start to overheat at times. He'd come to trust them both, but they had their hands full back in New York with the Avengers. Gotham was like a vacation for them. He needed someone more permanent.

He trusted Bucky enough to take a recommendation from him, and he could admit he was intrigued by the idea of another archer. The gym had become a kind of haven, even if Felicity insisted he was too mean as an instructor. Diana's all-women class was certainly a hit. He raised his hands, free of weapons, when the guy he assumed was Clint pulled his bow. Oliver didn't have his on him in what he considered his home, but he knew where every weapon in the room was stashed. "Not a trial by fire." The corner of his mouth pulled up in amusement. "I take it you're Clint?"

--

His eyes quickly catalogued the man in the space with him, recognizing the build that came with the constant use of a bow plus the extra work that just came with the secret identity. The corner of his lips quirked up in a grin and he shrugged a shoulder, loosening his draw and tucking the arrow back into his quiver. "Nah, but after running the roofs of the glorious shithole that is Gotham, do you blame me?"

He laughed as he slung his bow to his back. "But yeah, I'm Clint. Hawkeye, in the Avengers book of ridiculous codenames, but to be fair, I gave myself my own a long time before that," he grinned easily at him. "Nice to meet you, Oliver. Good spot you got here, but I've gotta ask... what kinda masochist is a vigilante by night and gym trainer by day? Do you never veg and just eat pizza all day?" The look on his face was clearly teasing, even if his face said truly appalled, because it really was both.

--

"Now that you mention it, *that* might have been the trial by fire. Believe it or not, it's actually a little worse on this Earth." He chuckled softly. One of the quickest ways to get in Oliver's good graces was to hate Gotham as much as he did, so it was safe to say Clint made an immediate good impression. He was surprised by how much it set him at ease just to see another archer who obviously knew what he was doing. His build, his stance, the way the bow was basically an extension of his arm. He ignored the familiar tug of missing Thea and their Roy.

"Oliver. Nice to meet you." He gave a nod instead of offering a hand in case he wanted to keep his distance until they were more sure of each other. Oliver wasn't quite that paranoid, but he fully understood and respected people who were. "My city named me the Green Arrow, so I can't really make fun of anyone's codenames. It's a little on the nose, but it's not as bad as Elongated Man or Captain Boomerang."

He shook his head as he glanced around the space. It was starting to feel more like home, but it was a work in progress compared to their headquarters at home. "Honestly? It wasn't really a calculated career move. We needed a base, and there's no record of this place having a basement. You'd have to really be looking for it. And the go-to fast food in Gotham is Big Belly Burger." He grinned, tipping his head toward the back of the gym. All the truly interesting stuff was downstairs.

--

Laughing easily, he nodded, "I mean, it's a good trial. Gotta avoid a few gunshots, really shitty building because holy hell those are some weak roofs in some places, but like... the rest of the building's good." It was a whole different thing than New York City, and he didn't go near Metropolis often. He stood out in a place that shiny.

Paranoia wasn't something he was really big on and he stepped closer, offering his hand properly. If they were going to work together, better to start now, and he trusted Bucky's judgement on this. "Hey, it's cool that your city named you though," he pointed out. "Elongated Man? That just sounds...." He trailed off and shuddered in disgust at the imagery conjured up from it.

He didn't mind the vibe of the place, really, and thought it was better than any S.H.I.E.L.D. gym because it at least had some character. "Nice! Oooooh Big Belly Burger sounds right up my alley. I passed a few on the way here and had to tell myself to wait. I had pizza on the way outta New York." He gestured for him to lead the way with a grin. "Good ole basement headquarters, I love it. My old crew ran outta a shiny ass tower and then a shiny big complex. Too lofty for me."

--

"No joke. I couldn't design a worse obstacle course. This city is a shithole on every Earth. Mine's under water though, so Gotham it is." He shook his head, a grim set to his mouth. He'd never love it here like he loved Star City, but he thought he and Felicity could do the most good here. If it was bad enough for Bruce to extend an invitation, it was bad.

He gave his hand a firm shake, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a smile. "It's as gross as it sounds," he confirmed. It was also, tragically, on the nose, and he'd never be able to unsee it. "Then we'll celebrate after our first mission." He often picked up food for Felicity on the way home, knowing she usually stayed up until he got in even when she wasn't working as Overwatch.

"That's Stark Tower, right? The big ugly one in New York City?" Felicity was right. All the billionaires and their towers. It was a whole thing. "Sounds organized though. Is that a good or a bad thing?" Oliver could admire the Justice League's organization and also be eternally glad he wasn't in charge of it. Running his team was more than enough for him. He led the way downstairs, which had far better equipment than the upstairs with Felicity's bank of computers and whatever training equipment he'd managed to find, including the salmon ladder at her insistence.

--

He winced at the idea of his favorite place being underwater and shook his head. "I mean, if you can't save the city you want to, going for the city that needs it most is probably the next best option," he shrugged. He'd never been particular on one city or another, never had a reason to be if he was honest.

After the heads up that Bucky had given him, that smile made him feel a little smug and proud of himself. It was also the first clue that he could actually fit well here, with this team, and not feel like he was on the outside of a glass wall. "Sounds like a good plan to me. But then, any plan involving food usually does, if I'm being honest," he chuckled.

"Yep, that's the one, and this one isn't as bad as the one I'm used to," he snickered, shaking his head at the memory. "Depends on what part you think was organized. Central location to train together or meet up? Yeah, that was organized. Actually working well on a regular basis together?" He pulled a face that said all that needed to be said on that subject. As they made their way downstairs, he grinned at the sight. "Now this is a secret base! I dig it!"

--

"We tried walking away from it. Didn't take." There were times, especially since they'd gotten here, that he second-guessed that decision, but this world seemed to need heroes even more than theirs did. Oliver couldn't sit by and watch his friends in the League fight it out and not be part of it. It was also the closest eye they could keep on getting back home, and he still hadn't completely lost hope for that.

"Noted." Oliver might be the furthest thing from a soft touch, but he cared about what mattered to his teammates. If Clint was motivated by food, they could work with that. He was more for takeout, but he liked cooking with Felicity. "Is it a lot different, where you're from?" He wasn't clear on whether it was the same Earth as Steve and Bucky's or just similar to it. The Avengers sounded more fractured than the Justice League, and that would definitely do it.

"It's a work in progress. Better gear at home." He shook his head, only mildly irritated by the differences at this point. "Gotham's got a lot of rogues. Too many to keep up with, if we're being honest. But we can go over some of the main ones we know are here, places you'd never want to walk into without backup. They've been keeping to themselves for the most part, and I don't usually bother them unless they're actively hurting people." He didn't care if Harley Quinn wanted to blow up a fucking Starbucks, as long as no one was inside.

--

A soft huff of understanding laughter escaped him and he nodded his head, "Oh I get it." On his own Earth, he'd never really had a reason to consider it, but here? He'd considered walking away from all of it, more than once. This was the first night going out into any city that he'd felt like maybe he wouldn't be entirely useless here.

"I'm easily swayed by pizza or greasy burgers, just ask my partner," he snickered lightly. Neither of them did much cooking, but when they did they made it count. The question made him hum softly to himself as he worked through all the weirdness of it in his head. "It's slightly less environmentally apocalyptic, but no less full of shit to deal with, which is really saying something. And the Avengers... well..."

"Makes sense. The best gear and setups come with more time than a lot of us have had here, which is weird." The differences didn't really bother him so much, which probably made no sense to most people. It's just how it was when you weren't overly attached to much. "Sounds good to me. I'd rather know where I won't walk out of if I'm alone and not careful."

--

Clint would be far from useless if this worked out. Oliver wasn't an optimistic sort of person, but he was cautiously hopeful about this. He'd gone from insisting on working alone to needing the backup badly, and he knew it would be a weight off his and Felicity's shoulders if he wasn't out there alone every night.

"You'll have to bring them down sometime. I'm sure Felicity would like to have you both over for dinner." She'd taken easily to the League and the Avengers they knew, and he had no doubt she'd take to the rest of them. At its best, Team Arrow was a family. It wasn't easy to forge those bonds, by any means, but it was worth it. If he was going to trust people at his back, he obviously wanted them around in their downtime too.

"Ours too." He nodded. The flooding had been a gut punch. Still was, in some ways. "Not yours?" He'd had his own issues with that, hence the reaching out to other teams. "There's Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Penitentiary. Self-explanatory. Iceberg Lounge is really the main one. It's a known haven for rogues. Anything with Wayne on it is probably safe enough. They're big philanthropists. Not sure Gotham would even be standing if it weren't for them."

--

There was something to be said for the comfort of having someone you trusted watching your back. He didn't often have that, but when he did, it was always something. There was something he liked about knowing he was protecting people who would protect him in turn. If this worked out, he could have that far more often.

He hummed at the offer and smiled, thinking about Rhodey in Gotham at all. He knew that he would come if he asked, made the offer. "I'll let him know. I'm sure he'd be happy to." That was the thing with Rhodey, he'd been nothing but supportive of him finding a place to fit. He'd support him through it.

He shrugged, "Some of them. But it's always been... complicated." That much was true with his time in any team of the Avengers he had been a part of. He reached up to fiddle with his aid, adjusting for the hum that always came with a space full of technology. "Alright, those make sense. So Gotham has it's like... daily villains?" The idea of it made him chuckle a little bit. "Yeah, I saw the Wayne name quite a bit on my way through."

--

"That's one word for it when you're a human fighting metas and aliens." He had a feeling a fellow archer could relate. It was a specific kind of pressure, trying to hold his own in the League alongside gods and other powered people. Oliver hadn't set out to save the whole world. It had been one thing, fighting white collar crime and ordinary criminals in Star City, but the threats only got bigger.

"Yeah, it's something." He shook his head. He got his share of weirdos in his city, but Gotham seemed to attract a specific brand. He leaned over the bank of monitors and pulled up some of the files on known rogues. He was no Felicity when it came to computers, but he knew his way around technology. It had saved his life more times than he could count. He gestured to the left side screens, where there were images of Catwoman, Harley, Penguin, among others. "These are some we know are in Gotham, but they've been pretty quiet, all things considered. The ones on the right are ones we're keeping an eye out for." Even Oliver knew it would be bad news if the Joker or the Riddler showed up.

--

He snorted lightly, "And Gods, don't forget those. Done all of the above." He fought alongside super soldiers, geniuses, gods, master spies (though technically he fell in that category himself). It had never been about saving the world, always about saving himself, until it hadn't been any more. Everything had grown from the moment aliens had become a part of the picture.

Leaning on the back of a chair, he let his eyes drift over the images that Oliver pulled up for him to see. Humming lightly in consideration, he shook his head slowly. "It's not usually a good thing when they're quiet for too long," he mused carefully. His eyes narrowed at the ones on the right, drifting over to look properly at them.

--

"Our token goddess is usually on our side, but never say never." The corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. Oliver didn't think he'd ever had cause to fight Diana. Her moral compass was far more reliable than his own, but if there was a daughter of Zeus out there, surely there were more gods and goddesses in the world. As long as they'd stayed out of Star City, he'd never cared that much.

"For some reason, they've been focusing most of their energy on Starbucks. I won't pretend to understand it, but saving corporations isn't really in my skillset." He shook his head. Oliver didn't give a shit if Harley Quinn wanted to blow one up, as long as no one got hurt. Starbucks could fight their own battles. "There's plenty of petty crime in Gotham to keep us busy though."

[percontaion-points]

Today’s review might be difficult for some; reader discretion is advised

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descrptions

Chapter 9

As he speaks, he reaches over, slides the scalpel from my pocket and turns, flinging the metal across the cave. 

I gasp with surprise and confusion. Then I see the scalpel embedded in the throat of an intruder.

[...]

Screw Killian’s order to stay here. Kids just like me are being hunted.

Killian himself took care of somebody who had come into the cave in search of escaped inmates. He must know that remaining in the cave is a stupid idea. 

A guy I don’t recognize steps into the clearing, both of his hands lifted, palms out. A sign of surrender. His hair is the color of spun gold, and he’s impossibly handsome. He has the kind of face you’d see on a magazine. World’s Sexiest Male. 

He is the saint to Killian’s sinner. 

I don’t know why the book decided to meander through the entire “Archer is Bow” subplot. Especially if it was only going to end up like this, in the most boring, predictable way possible. 

Can no one like me just because I’m me? Will I always be a commodity to win rather than a person to love?

Chapter 9 summary: Ten wants to leave the cave, but Killian drugs her and she falls as she’s trying to leave. She wakes up 6 hours later, and yes, she does feel better. But that’s no excuse to simply drug people like that, JFC. Killian tells her to stay in the cave, but not even two seconds later, he uses the scalpel to kill a guard who wandered into the cave. 

After he leaves, Ten takes the dead guard’s winter gear. But what’s better is that there’s these cool vision goggles that tell her which way Killian went. She goes in the opposite direction. But then she’s set upon by invisible-to-her guardians who are like “You’re going to die if you keep going that way! Turn back!! TURN BACK!!!”

She ignores them, and they stop after a while. She counts random things to keep her mind occupied as she walks. (Counting is her obsession, if I haven’t mentioned it.) She then realises that the goggles have connected her to the other guards, who warn not to approach “the girl”. She thinks that it can’t possibly be her, but begins to have her doubts either way. 

She comes across a dead inmate, who died from exposure. Then she runs into her old friend Clay, who had been an inmate, but escaped. He explains now about how he’d been caught, and then put into the training facility under the prison as punishment. 

They come across Sloan, who is clinging to life. Ten asks Archer for help, in the hopes that he’d been hanging around like Killian had warned. He comes over, and now he’s super hot. He uses MAGI- I mean, TECHNOLOGY to make a room around them that’s super heated. 

But then he starts to use the info he’d gained during his brief stint as Bow against Ten in order to convince her to join Troika. And Ten is pissed off about that.

[umanta]

okay but like, what if?

Carver is 18, and a burden to his family. They don't need him. They have Hawke, his perfect elder sibling who stepped up when Father died. It's hard enough with three mouths to feed, and it's not like he can't send coin back, when he makes it.

besides, he's always wanted to feel a part of something. something bigger than just him, or his family, or lothering. something Meaningful

so when Duncan of the Grey Wardens walks up to him after training and offers him a spot in the Wardens (the wardens! an ancient, respected order of skilled warriors! bonds of brotherhood, repelling the foul darkspawn that threaten to invade ferelden!) he says yes

i have to assume the grey wardens have. some kind of compensatory plan, for those who join voluntarily. especially in these desperate times. Carver send the money back home, more than he was making as a soldier (king cailan is generous with the wardens), and doesn't explain why

there are other potential recruits. a thief named daveth, from denerim, who tries to teach him to pick pockets but quickly gives it up as a lost cause. and a knight named jory.

he has a wife. a kid. duncan had mentioned, when carver jumped at the offer, that the life of a warden is a short one. maybe he's just touchy about fathers, but he finds he respects jory a little less, now

there's no time for duncan to travel the nation for more recruits. they proceed with the joining. carver rescues a mabari and thinks of their dog, back in lothering. they run into an apostate (the witch of the korcari wilds, he's heard the stories), and he's the only one keeping it together enough to thank them for the help

daveth dies. jory runs. carver thinks, what the fuck have i gotten myself into, and drinks.

teryn loghain is a hero of ferelden, but carver can't help but wonder if maybe he's paranoid. King Cailan is right, after all. The wardens are legendary.

(he'd still like to get in a little more training before an archdemon shows up, though, thank you)

Cailan is wrong. the wardens fall. there won't be another paycheck to send home, he realizes.

alistair doesn't want to lead. he wants to be out of sight, in the same shadows carver has longed to escape his whole life. here is his chance. it doesn't feel like he thought it would

coming back home is a punch in the gut. everyone recognizes him, waving and smiling and asking him if the news is true, if the grey wardens really are traitors.

he says no. but words have never been his thing.

he needs to see his family. he needs to apologize to bethany. the others peel off to the inn, and he goes to tell his family that the darkspawn will be coming soon

"if you're a grey warden, you can protect us from the darkspawn, can't you, carver? must we leave?" asks leandra. he says he can't stay. he has bigger responsibilities now. hawke says, "more important than your family?". carver says, "yes."

mother accuses him of betraying them, abandoning them, and hawke stands by her, arms crossed, and tells him he needs to grow up and he can't go off chasing adventures right now. he leaves.

bethany catches him outside the door. she's never liked rocking the boat, but he wishes she would have, just this once. the last time he might see them.

she tells him he's brave. that she'll miss him. that mother and hawke will come around, in time. that they're just stressed. and he'd better stay alive to come back in time for the next harvest.

then she goes back in to play mediator

alistair and morrigan say they've found an archer to join their ranks. it's the chantry sister carver's had the biggest crush on. the day is an emotional rollercoaster

there's a qunari in a cage by the village outskirts. carver knows the families he killed. he doesn't unlock the cage

(unless, perhaps, morrigan convinces him to. tells him that the pragmatic thing to do is to recruit whomever they can. have someone on their side who might actually have a chance against an ogre. and didn't duncan recruit a thief? and didn't hawke tell him to grow up? he asks the revered mother for the key)

they leave lothering, heading for redcliffe, the closest. alistair's half-brother is sick. he needs a mage. by the time they extract themselves from the circle, having defeated the demons and recruited another mage, lothering has been overrun.

carver tries not to think about it. with the help of a sexy rougueish elf named zevran, he brokers a peace between the dalish elves and the werewolves.

he isn't sure what he's doing, meddling in orzammar politics, but there's rumours that bhelen killed his elder brother, and he can't help but think of his own family. he sides with harrowmont.

then he sees dust town, and thinks of mother. thinks about how she refused to leave. thinks about how they could have all been in denerim by now if they'd left when he'd told them to. he decides to side with bhelen instead.

and then they're in the deep roads, and politics don't really matter. oghren is there, looking for his wife. they learn about broodmothers, and he pushes that knowledge away too, because if hawke was ever good at anything it was protecting their family.

they emerge, bloodstained, from the deep roads, the anvil destroyed. bhelen is crowned. oghren joins them on the road.

andraste was real, apparently. like, real enough to have ashes. magical healing ashes. he owes bethany a sovereign. the thought aches

he very much definitely does NOT have sex with a pirate captain and zevran (it is very much NOT the same thing his elder sibling will do at some point in the future)

alistair's half-sister tells him to fuck off (seriously, alistair has more trouble with his siblings than carver ever did). carver tells him to give her time. he gets feeling abandoned by a sibling and a parent.

alistair wants loghain dead. it's loghains fault that duncan isn't with them anymore. it's loghains fault that the darkspawn advanced past ostagar, to lothering. He doesn't stop alistair from duelling loghain. he does tell alistair to either accept anora as a capable queen, or rule himself.

riordan tells them the real cost of killing the archdemon. despite the allies they've collected, there are only three wardens, and only one carver is at all okay with sacrificing.

morrigan comes to him one night with an idea. a ritual. a dark ritual, really. blood magic.

malcolm always warned them not to mess with blood magic, but malcolm spent the better part of Carver's childhood in a back room, teaching bethany, and only bethany, about magic (the one thing he and hawke have in common is the way they remember their father, he knows)

carver does the ritual. it's awkward, because they're both nineteen (ish) and also because having circles drawn in blood across the floor is drastically different from a hay bale in a convenient corner of a barn

they make it. they make it through the battle. everyone lives.

i haven't played awakening, but i imagine we see the same attitude that warden carver has in da2. he's the commander of the grey wardens now, at 20 or younger. he doesn't think about proving himself anymore, or about showing hawke what he can do. he looks for them, of course, but none of the people they know can direct him. and he's busy, with the new recruits and amaranthine and everything else.

and somewhere in the middle, he learns that mother has a brother in kirkwall, so he writes.

kirkwall, bethany says, is a bit grungy, and overcrowded, and dangerous. but it's home, and they're doing well. mother is happy

kirkwall, hawke tells him, has the most fanatical circle of them all. mother is so tied to it that she refuese to leave, despite the way refugees are treated. they should have, hawke admits, listened to carver earlier. it shocks him so badly, getting an apology from his elder sibling, that anders asks him what's wrong, and carver tells him.

and later, when anders and justice are building their sanctum in darktown, and two familiar strangers walk in, he helps them, no questions asked. Of course he does – they’re his commander’s family. And later, in the deep roads, with Bethany held up between himself and hawke, quickly fading, anders draws on his memory, on his letters with carver, and facilitates the most unhappy sibling reunion in thedas.

#what if the warden was Carver and the reason carver 'died' in the backstory is that#he and Hawke had a huge blow out fight right before the fam fled lothering#because he returned from Ostgard a Warden with duties that took him elsewhere?

@sciencemyfiction you can't leave this genius idea in the tags of that other post it must be explored